The sweet smell of the brand new morning of a new country.
Out of the airport after convincing the immigration that I’m here just out of love for their country and not definitely to blow shit up. (Seriously people! Stop blowing shit up.)
Getting to the first thing on my to-do – load up on euros and stash the dollar bills away to be not seen for the next 10 days.
Very familiar alphabets in unfamiliar sequences and combinations.
Those puzzled few moments staring at the tram – do I take the tickets before boarding or after, cash or credit, may be I should ask the hot blonde on platform# 49b for help or the old man, who seem to be commuting on the same tram at the same time for at least 2 decades.
That regretful newbie moment when you are not really sure if you are walking on the car lane or the pedestrian lane or the bicycle lane until the woman on her bicycle in her morning rush to work putting a real good effort to not knock you down, lets you know with such a disdain look on her face.
Getting into random streets looking for a breakfast cafe – walking by the brothel whose windows are yet to be filled behind by seductive women (I’m sure 7 AM is pretty early for business), which is followed by a kid’s day care (yea, this is Amsterdam), followed by the gorgeous smell of croissants from a french cafe.
Pretty girl on her bicycle riding on a bridge over the canals, young amateur violinist by the roadside trying to pull a Beethoven, the church bells chiming to wake those up who still haven’t realized it’s a pretty morning out there – yea, just like the opening scene of the Europe for a flashback story in an Indian movie.
Having just landed after a 6 hour flight and yet to find a place to dump my backpack, I might be a bit tired but I don’t think I’m resting yet.
Ah.. The sweet smell of the brand new morning of a new country.