You don't visit Amsterdam so much as you fall into its current. The whole city is organised around water and bicycles, and within a day you either learn to move with both or you spend the trip flinching at bells.
I rented a bike that was a little too tall for me and rode it badly along the canals, which is, I'm told, the authentic experience. The trick is to stop apologising and start ringing your own bell with confidence you have not earned.
The hour the canals turn gold
Everyone tells you about the museums, and they're right — but the thing I keep returning to is the light. Late afternoon, the low sun gets into the canals and the whole city goes the colour of weak tea and old brass. The narrow houses lean toward the water like they're trying to read their own reflection. Cyclists become silhouettes. Someone, somewhere, is always carrying flowers.
Small kindnesses, again
A man at a herring stand corrected my order, then gave me the better thing anyway and refused the difference. A bookseller spent ten minutes finding me an English paperback he clearly thought I should read instead of the one I asked for. He was right.
I keep a private theory that you can measure a city by how it treats a lost, slightly damp foreigner on a too-tall bicycle. Amsterdam scored extremely well.
What I'd do again
- Skip one museum. Spend that time on a bench by a quieter canal.
- Eat the herring. Trust the man at the stand.
- Get lost on purpose in the Jordaan, just before sunset.
New York City, ridden to the end of every line
No itinerary, one transit card, and a plan to take whichever train looked most interesting.
San Diego, where the sea lions taught me to do nothing
A slow afternoon on the La Jolla coast, watching sea lions sunbathe with a conviction I can only aspire to.