One of the immense joys and intentions of an extended sojourn in a foreign city is engrossing ourselves in new daily rhythms. As inhabitants of the Valley well understand, no matter how fantastical of a place that one calls home, there is an inherent tendency to become lulled into complacency, into a spoiled drudgery borne of trodding the same paths day in and day out. It is, undoubtedly, a particularly personal failing, my wanderlust both indicative of a restless adventuring spirit and of some deep, crystallized flaws I have yet to mine.
Well aware that boredom is the catalyst, the workshop of creativity, I am nonetheless biologically repulsed by idleness, prefer to have my curly/wavy mop blown back by true hairiness than to sit in quiet contemplation. I am working on this physiological predilection, but I have a long way to go to the gentle, cabin-dwelling, white-bearded sage that is the eventual character to which I aspire. Until then, I am taking gulping breaths of the fickle gusts and terrifying gales of an unsettled life.
There is a reason that the Dutch countryside is awash in quaint old wooden windmills, why the offshore wind farms are sending electricity humming through the not-quite metropolis. Once things start blowing in Amsterdam, even opening your front door to greet the day is an ordeal, although, it being novel, not so onerous. Especially in the early morning, with the likely mist dewing upon your face, perhaps a glint of sun in your eye, it is an effective way to get those last bits of sleep out of mind.
Although the overnight rain beating against the window would normally make me roll over in a pillow cuddle, I am in new routines. I have set foot upon pavement in the early dawn of the northern latitude, amazed that the sun is already back up after its late curfew. Perhaps I am jogging off to run club in Vondelpark, or mounting the e-bike for the short commute to a track workout at De Schinkel, or heading out with the No Breakfast Cycling Club, or, in an inexpressible rapture, saddling up the racefiets for a long ride to the coast with my brother.
Refreshed and energized, but surrounded by multitudes of dope cafes and lovely baristas, I grab a caffeine fix in a spot of sunshine or sheltered from the rain, pick up two croissants for Violet, and return to our cozy temporary home, taking the five flights two stairs at a time. Snuggling up to my lovely little woman, a daily practice that I am holding onto until adolescence truly descends, I help her greet the day. I work as she slowly arises, no hurry necessary. Time really is the truest luxury.
Destinations are dependent on moods and weather and our whims, but we never walk, a means of conveyance anathema in a town with such pervasive bike infrastructure, a city where cycles have primacy over all. Seemingly everyone is on bikes – rusty claptraps immune to theft, steady Swapfiets, sleek electric Van Moofs and Cowboys and Velorettis, the bakfiets that are Holland’s answer to the family minivan, throttle-assist Phatfours, even motorscooters.
It is the Dutch ideal to never stop moving on a bike, even irksome to have to slow down, so this begets extremely aggressive behavior at crossings, which are myriad. At any given intersection, there are two bike lanes, crosswalks, tram tracks that can swallow tires, and cars as well. It is a beehive of activity, particularly at traditional rush hours. Pedestrians theoretically have precedence in crosswalks, but if they hesitate even slightly, the commuting peloton will thunder through. I do not like walking in Amsterdam.
Pedaling blissfully through the city, minding one’s own business, paying close attention to all details, it is easy to believe that you are invincible. But, never forget that you are in a real-life version of the video game Paperboy. A preteen riding with no hands and looking down at her phone comes out of your blind side, requiring instinctual evasive maneuvering. By the Rijksmuseum, a gawking tourist will step into the bike lane without a glance – at 28kph, a collision would be extremely unfortunate.
Or else, on an otherwise quiet stretch of smooth bike lane, the telltale putt-putt of a two-stroke will reach your ears, an irascible elderly person in a single-seat car will come within a centimeter of your back tire. Yes – these Lilliputian contraptions are allowed in the bike lane! Most scary of all – two teenage boys on a motorbike will come ripping the wrong way diagonally across the sidewalk hopped up on hormones and with no conception of braking. To deliver your proverbial paper under these conditions requires mastery and not a small amount of luck.
Counterpoised against this intensity are the slower moments, the respites, the opportunities for connection. We sit at an outdoor table sipping smoothies and playing cards, we wander through infinite museum hallways, we lay in the grass and giggle and read, we let the rain splash on our heads and give thanks for the opportunities. Rejoining the larger clan, we sit around the dinner table together or cruise the canals in a sloep, grateful to see this old village from a unique perspective.
I will not be sad to come home eventually, but neither am I in a hurry. This shift into city life, to intuiting the vibes of a new place, to intaking fresh inputs all feels critical to my happiness and development. To incorporate these lessons and experiences into my existence in Colorado is to expand myself, to instill a deeper appreciation for the larger world, my place within it, and the fortuity of living in a mountain hamlet chasing my family and friends around the trails.