all over the place

Here’s a tip: don’t go to Amsterdam if you’re not prepared to fall in love.

Luckily — as we’ve learned from my previous escapades — I’m always prepared. And yet, I wasn’t at all.

I dropped my bags at the Elephant Hostel in Amsterdam’s Jewish quarter on May 2 hoping for a good view at the Billie Eilish concert (around which this entire trip revolved), to smoke some spliffs and to learn a little Dutch.

I arrived at the Amsterdam airport on May 9 with the word “gezellig” tattooed on my right wrist, documentary-worthy Billie footage in my camera roll, an insatiable urge to move to the Netherlands, and a Dutch lover (who I had to unfortunately leave behind in the Netherlands, but more on that later?)

The 48 hours in Amsterdam with my sister and cousin before I met this lover were a whirlwind. We biked, of course. I bruised, of course. We dangled off the side of a high-rise, of course. We frequented innumerable coffee shops…of course?! The Dutch sights were scintillating (of course) but I was ready to start my solo adventure.

Because I must admit, I get into some shit when I’m solo.

May 4th was the Billie concert. I’d chosen floor admission so I could at least have the opportunity to mingle with other concertgoers, but I wasn’t trying or expecting to meet anyone. I just wanted to vibe with my wife (Billie). But then I was gushing to this guy next to me about how crazy it was that we were so close to the stage. We spent the next two hours screaming every lyric. After the concert he got my Instagram and suggested we meet up again before I left.

The next morning, he invited me to join him and his friends in Haarlem for its annual free Liberation Day party.

I savored my last bite of Winkel’s pie, washed it down with a swig of cava and typed my reply.

It was time to be a yes man.

Leaning into the discomfort of the unknown when I travel solo is my secret sauce. It unlocks life-changing experiences.

I slapped a new layer of makeup over the residue of last night’s concert look and headed toward Haarlem. I’d check out the festival for a couple hours and then keep a date with my hostel bed for some much-needed rest.

Alas, my hostel bed laid cold, dark and empty for the next two days.

The Haarlem address T sent me (this is what we’ll call him from now on) had a large front window peering out to the canal. There was a guy at a DJ stand in the corner of the room and T, waving enthusiastically at me through the glass.

I met his friends. We bonded over the beats bouncing in our eardrums and a shared international pastime (drinking), then we ambled along canals and through thronging crowds in the streets toward Bevrijdingsfeest.

Dutch locals know how to get down. Or I should say, up. A panoply of performers roused the crowd with traditional Dutch folk music, and the ground trembled under us with each hop, jump and twirl.

I was a bit possessed myself — levitated by the purity of the moment.

An older Dutch woman tapped my shoulder.

“English?”

“Yes, I’m American,” I admitted.

She looked at me, smiled.

“You’re a natural.”

Interactions like these light up my soul. They’re like a warm hug, two humans reaching across culture and shaking hands.

T and his friends beamed at me approvingly. I was accepted here.

Naturally, we partied for the rest of the night. T and I were magnetic. We talked like old friends, shared stories of grief and flirted like teenagers. He kissed me.

The next day T and I agreed we had to see each other again, so we made a date for later that night in Amsterdam.

I took him to a kitschy bar in the Red Light District. We relaxed in the soft shadows and each others’ energies. When I touched him, I felt giddy. My phone nearly took a swim when we kissed over the canal. The wind numbed my face when he wheeled me around Holland on a moped toward the dunes of Zandvoort.

The next morning, we stood leaning against each other at the bus stop, unsure how to say goodbye.

He stayed looking at me through the bus’s windows until the distance finally separated us.

5,438 miles, to be exact.

Are T and I still in contact? Will I ever see him again? Will we end up together? That’s for us to know. But I’ll say this: fate is funny. It can be frustratingly unexpected and ambiguous, but the trick is deciding to trust it.

Winkel 43 Popular for a reason. I recommend cozying up at one of the shared tables, grabbing a slice and a newspaper and melting into the atmosphere.

Bevrijdingsfeest If you’re lucky (like me) and visit the Netherlands in May, you can catch Haarlem’s Liberation Day festival. Free entry, all-day. Many true Dutch locals flock to this party instead of those in Amsterdam. Haarlem is like a mini Amsterdam but with cooler architecture (in my opinion) and a more “gezellig” vibe.

A’DAM Lookout Completely touristy, but worth it. Giant, motorized, metal swings 100 meters high in the sky. Final destination? Perhaps, but at least death will be fun!

Kissing Dutch people They’re just good at it.