Two African American women on a weekend holiday from Paris to Amsterdam.
All I wanted to do was look at the architecture and breath air with at least a bit of salt (having been landlocked in Paris for too long).
And eat. Definitely eat. My list included Dutch Pancakes, Hot Fries with Hannibal Sauce, and Malaysian food.
We stood in line for 45 minutes to eat the best crepes and pancakes I ever had. The food was so good, I am mad I don't live there so I can enjoy it every week.
The diversity of the city pleased me and began to think of my former life in New York City, once known as New Amsterdam. I saw many people whose ancestors, like mine, had likely been exploited by the colonization and slave trade that helped Amsterdam (and the other European Union capitals) grow fat with people and commerce. Some folks around me might have been apart of Amsterdam society for a generation or more. Others appeared to be recent migrants, perhaps even participants of the exodus from Syria and other crisis areas in the Middle East and Africa.
But they were all here. Bustling. Living. And, staking their claim in the Dutch dream.