Wandering

Amsterdam. The city. Only, it doesn't feel like a city. Or rather, it feels like a city in the same sense that Reykjavík feels like a city. It feels like a small town that somebody has forced into being a city. A small-tow-cum-city in every respect; the narrow streets, the relaxed atmosphere, the not-quite-small-town-mentality. The feeling that even if you lived here all your life, you still wouldn't know all its secrets, that on the very last day of your existence you'd discover something wonderful.
The fact that I'm writing this from a room two floors above street level doesn't seem to detract from the experience. I can still hear the sounds of it. The boats passing on the canal, the laughter of tourists, locals, travelers. The sound of a loud, slightly shrill saw passing through a metal tube. Somehow I know it's a tube, not a sheet or rod. It's the slight echo of the hollow inside. It's subtle, but I can hear it.

Yesterday I went out for a walk. I consulted the map a few times, just to make sure, but I needn't have. I already knew where I was going. I got there, rang the bell, and was told that the person I'd some to see was not there. I did not feel dejected, but rather...hopeful. I had the whole day to myself. The only thing pulling my spirits down from the heavens was the fact that I had very limited funds, and my stomach was growling. I stumbled upon a tiny café and bought a tosti. It was tiny, but it did wonders for my hunger, as well as my mood. After that I wandered around the Leidseplein for a while, admiring the displays of the numerous galleries that line the streets in the area. I stumbled upon the Rembrandtplein, and took a few moments to smirk condescendingly at the tourists taking the prerequisite photos. Look, I'm holding an umbrella over his head. Look, it's like I'm one of the statues. Take a picture. Take a picture. I didn't take a picture, but rather wandered on, hopping into a coffeeshop to buy a joint. I ambled along the canals, admiring the view, wishing I could stay longer. Perhaps I can.
On the way back to Keizersgracht I passed an elderly couple coming out of their house. The man: short, wizened, frail. He was wearing a brown fedora and picking at his brown-stained teeth whilst his wife locked the door with a copper key. Her hair was dyed a magnificent orange. It was almost blinding in its brightness, and I wanted to take a picture, but I didn't. They walked off, hand in hand, as I stared. I shook it off. I only wish that if I get to her age, I'll have the courage to dye my hair any colour I want. I wish I lived here. This town - for I cannot bring myself to refer to it as a city again- is everything Reykjavík could be if it let itself. If we let it . Perhaps when I come home I'll devote myself to turning Reykjavík around. Showing it the error of its ways. More likely, though, I'll sink back into my chair, stare at the ceiling and think about Amsterdam.

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