My tail wouldn't stop wagging

The plane hit the ground hard, a thread of sunlight came through when they opened the door, and it felt like touching down, crossing myself, and running straight onto the field.

Someone truly local, no rush, just watching the street.

Landing in a country I'd never set foot in, where I couldn't understand a word of the language, had me a notch more on edge than usual. You're probably thinking "what a ridiculous thing to say," but new things tense me up a little at first. Then I relax. And I was right to, because nothing weird happened. If anything, I settled in within two minutes.

People moved through the airport at one steady speed, no rushing, no stumbling, like a video running at 0.5x. I relaxed pretty fast.

From the Tesla taking me to the hotel (yes, go ahead, make that little hand gesture, "a Tesla?", well, it's just the regular car lineup for regular humans there) I pictured myself as a local, cruising into the city on the highway, paying real attention to how the humidity, the trees, and the gray sky were handing me a landscape that made you want to open your eyes wider, all muted tones and deep saturated greens. I wanted to roll down the window and stick my face out like a dog catching pure wind and happiness. Car to car, you can catch little glimpses of how people talk, how they scratch their face or check their phone in those seconds when traffic stops them.

Once I'd settled in and scouted the area, I hit the street with that energy you only get on days full of good plans. I'd gone to bed the night before with that same feeling, like waiting for Christmas morning as a kid. A good plan meant, among other things, visiting the brewery with the green bottle and the little red star, grabbing something to eat, and hopping on a boat with a bunch of strangers. Freedom and wind on my face. If I'd turned into a dog right then, my tail wouldn't stop wagging.

The rest of the days I walked among people and played local: I'd walk into the grocery store like someone who already knows which aisle has the bread, cross at lights with the same rushed pace as everyone who actually lived there, stop checking the map because I'd already memorized every canal and where to cross them. I left behind the crowds, the cars, the bikes, walked the neighborhood, catching my own reflection in the windows of little bars I'd have visited if I'd had more days. Honestly, I wanted to visit every single one. Try every single one. I packed in with strangers to cross the street. I silently cursed every bike that came too close. I drifted through the canals like I was napping in a hammock, sun on my face, the smell of the air mixed with water, the view from a completely different angle.

I got lost staring at those permanently damp sidewalks, that faint cool moisture always in the air, water everywhere, like watching a movie with my own eyes in 4D or 5D, where you can actually feel the smells, the sounds in surround, and the park trees stacked like layers in Photoshop. You see bikes, you see little bars, you see people standing in doorways with a beer in hand, you see less rushing around, every person telling their own story, extras and main characters all at once.

Those couple of days felt like someone yanking you back by the hood of your jacket, making you realize the place was inviting you to walk it at a different pace. Every detail I'm still carrying from those days is already telling me to go back to Amsterdam.

J.