It took a day or two for these grubby backpackers to recalibrate to civilization, especially in a city as cosmopolitan as Amsterdam. However, we eventually caught our groove. Here are a few vignettes to remember our time:

The heavy beat of dance music shakes the floors of our hostel. It somehow turns out that every Spanish teenager has picked THIS week and THIS hostel for their summer holiday. As we brush our teeth in pajamas, we watch our 16 year old flatmates put on mascara, spritz themselves liberally with coconut perfume, and roll spliffs. Like uncool parents, we ask: “So, where are you headed tonight?” They are, of course, going to “da club.” At 4 am, they’ll be back to leave thongs in the shower room and eyelashes on the sink. We are so out of place.

Evan and I whizz around a sand dune on a clunky tandem bike, squealing to a stop when we spot a wild highland cow grazing just a few yards away. We’re sun baked from the beach and full from a lunch of raw herring and fried kippling. We have somehow commandeered the ghastly bike on a 40 mile loop that left the bike shop owner bewildered. “Bro! No one rides the tandems far,” he’d warned. With backside aching, I could tell why. At least we’d gotten chuckles, amused stares, and even a few photos taken of us by the locals. I only crashed us once and our relationship had survived the power struggle between a captain and stoker. The cow looks on with a judgy expression as we pedal off into the shrubby arid landscape (really, where on earth are we?) and shout to synchronize a standing butt break.

“So what do you want to do for the rest of the day?” Morgan asks me. I glance down at my watch. It’s 8:45 pm. “Go to sleep, I guess.” I respond stifling a yawn as best I can.

Brrring! Brrring! Brrring! I’m balancing on the back of a city bike, one half of my foot on the frame and a hand gripping the underside of the seat. Brring! Tourists jump out of the way! _Brrring!_That tiny car just got uncomfortably close. Brrring! Bikes flow around us, curving with the canal. Everyone in their right mind is headed to Vondelpark and man, is this the way to get there! Brrrring! Evan is joyously employing the bike bell and making sure that everyone in the city gets a good look at the shenanigans we’re up to again.

“Do you happen to have a little sugar for my latte?” Evan inquires. The temperature in the room drops. We see the barista’s face turn stormy. He points to the Specialty Coffee sign. “Never never never, in specialty coffee” he roars, “Go to Starbucks!”

Golden hour settles upon Vondelpark with familiarity. It seems as if every detail of the landscape was designed for this very afternoon stroll. Each languid sensation oozes amber. A heron perches peacefully above a lily pad-lined pond of still water. Dappled sun filters through willow trees. The scent of roses floats on the breeze. Blades of grass appear to shimmer in the warmth and nearly insist to be picnicked upon. Somewhere, a flutist picks up a mysterious tune, drawing us into the trees. It’s a magic forest, a park, a fever dream, and an impressionist painting all at once.