The next seventeen hours of life begin with a wet, bone-chilling gust, and the prospects are none too bright. It’s dark. It’s raining. We’re two hours early. I walk on, teeth clenched, struggling to push air into my lungs. ‘See, I’m already breathless for you,’ I think with a trembling smile and glue my eyes to the huge, warm, brightly lit station building ahead. The humor still tastes rusty. I’m too cold, sleepy, and disoriented to be excited. A train, six subway stops, an overnight bus. And now it’s subway again. Line M51. I check the destination one more time and sit down, clutching to my backpack and shivering when the wet collar of the jacket touches my neck. Some ten minutes ago, everything came down to a simple, logistical sequence, but now the world is expanding, and I notice the language from the speakers, the fact that we’re not underground most of the way, the semi-automatic doors with buttons that you must press to exit. It’s all yet foreign. Minutes pass, and then there is my stop. I linger for a moment to dig my transport card out of the inner pocket — in Ukraine, you never need to check out of the subway, and it’s in my reflexes to simply walk ahead, waiting for the door to open. I take the stairs, and there is suddenly everything at once: a tall Gothic church in the distance, uneven rows of houses along the channel, no two the same color. Small boats — new ones, old ones, half-sunk ones — wobble on the water. The station itself has this signature reddish exterior, bordering on modern but still elegantly fancy, almost minimalistic somehow. It’s the widest building in the vicinity. I spin around, taking it all in. ‘I’m in Amsterdam,’ it hits me. I’ve made it. I’m in Amsterdam. And the next seventeen hours of life start running out, faster than oh-just-five-more minutes of sleep after hitting the snooze button. Before I can blink, it’s 11:00 AM already, and I’m on a walking tour, looking around, listening about the history, and the church, and the prostitution. About how practical and non-interfering the Dutch are with their straightforward street names, tolerance, and simple plain cuisine. Everything is unfamiliar, from rainbow flags hanging casually from many windows to the smell of marijuana, floating in smoky bubbles around every coffeeshop we pass. “The Dutch became very particular about their freedom after the Second World War,” Willem, our guide, reveals. “We got tired of people telling us who to worship, how to live, who to share the bedroom with.” There. For all the unknown around, this place feels more and more like a home I’ve always craved. People who have made freedom their unspoken policy and their greatest treasure would make magnificent neighbors. I push through the wind, smile at it briefly, as if it’s become a little private joke between me and this city, and catch up to Willem for a chat. “So, where are you from?” he asks. “Ukraine. I’m staying in Paris for a month now, though.” “What are you doing there?” “Babysitting.” His eyebrows shoot up, he chuckles. “My cousin offered the job two months ago, for housing and meals,” I add, “I agreed that same evening.” “You’re here for one day, then?” “Yep.” “Good for you, man,” he grins. “Take every opportunity you can.” When my bus arrives, eleven hours later, none of the morning’s turmoil burns through my heart. There’s slight buzzing in my chest when I look at the huge “Amsterdam Sloterdijk” sign on top of the station: I’ve grown unspeakably fond of this city during this short day. I get in, find my seat, and fish my headphones out of the backpack. “We love them,” I remember Willem saying about those violent Dutch winds. “They make our windmills turn.” I lean against the cool glass and think back to the fear, the discomfort, to how recognition of something inherently mine settled warmly in my chest at the sight of the tall narrow houses. To how easy it was to say “yes” to Amsterdam after saying “yes” to Paris. And how frightening it was, years ago, to embark alone on a one-day trip, some 200 kilometers from my city. The bus starts crawling forward, completing another wild, spontaneous loop in my life.