“This is Amsterdam?” I asked the cabdriver. “Yes and no,” he answered.
“Amsterdam is like the rings of a tree: It gets older as you get closer to the center.”
It happened all at once: We exited the highway and there were the row houses of my imagination
leaning precariously toward canals, ubiquitous bicycles, and coffeeshops advertising LARGE SMOKING ROOM.
We drove over a canal and from atop the bridge I could see dozens of houseboats moored along the water.
It looked nothing like America. It looked like an old painting, but real—everything achingly idyllic in the morning light—
and I thought about how wonderfully strange it would be to live in a place where almost everything had been built by the dead.
Are these houses very old?” asked my mom. “Many of the canal houses date from the Golden Age, the seventeenth century,” he said.
Our city has a rich history, even though many tourists are only wanting to see the Red Light District.
He paused. “Some tourists think Amsterdam is a city of sin, but in truth it is a city of freedom.
And in freedom, most people find sin.” All the rooms in the Hotel Filosoof were named after filosoofers:
Mom and I were staying on the ground floor in the Kierkegaard; Augustus was on the floor above us, in the Heidegger.
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