It's only my second day in Germany, so not much has happened yet. My layover in the Netherlands was disproportionately long, but I planned it that way. I wanted to spend the day being glamorous and tourist-y in Amsterdam.

An interesting place, Amsterdam. According to my nifty guidebook, the city lies on the Merkersee, off of the Nordsee. And it's true; there was water everywhere. The minute I stepped off the train, boatsmen offered to take me around the quaint little water alleys, and show me (for a fee) things that I'd never seen before. With a sales pitch like that, how could I... er...

Actually, I did refuse. I preferred to walk around on my own. I bought one of those cheap disposable cameras, and clicked away for about four hours. Of course, I don't actually remember the names of any of the places I visited... and because I am terrified of getting lost in a city that allows and possibly even encourages walk-in organ transplants, I didn't stray too far. I did, however, explore the historic center, the multicultural (i.e. shady) streets, and a souvenir shop or two.

At the risk of sounding like a textbook, Amsterdam really is a mix of the traditional and the modern. The cobbled little alleys, the charming houses with shutters and low ceilings, the little wooden signs above the bakery, or butchery, or cheese maker's, the barrels of tulips, the great big wheels of cheese sitting behind glass at dairy shops... at times, I felt like I was standing in the sixteenth century. But then I smelled the marijuana, and all warm and fuzzy feelings dissipated. Sorry. Non-smoker here.

Secondly, for all of you who've ever wondered, the wooden shoes are not a myth. In Amsterdam, they are legit footwear. Not surprisingly, they are also quite a tourist attraction, tempting innocent foreigners like myself to frequent stores that one normally avoids. A sex shop I passed featured a full-size ad of two naked men wearing colorful wooden shoes, holding hands, and smiling beguilingly at the passerby. And, ashamed though I am to confess it, I peeked. (Into the store, you sillies. God. You people have minds like sewers.)

Last but not least, I would like to describe to you the Dutch language. Imagine a grown man, quite serious and self important, standing in front of you. Now see him hacking, reswallowing, and gargling in your face. He's just said hello. How do you feel?

Written Dutch is quite a different story. The words on signs and labels looked like prettier, more interesting, more imaginative varieties of their German counterparts. If I squinted and pondered a bit, I found that I could recognize almost all the tables and signs. It was quite nice--I felt as if this strange, foreign country was helping me along, putting up familiar words just so I could understand where I was going and which train I needed to take. So, for awhile, I felt this overwhelming sense of gratitude to the Dutch, for... well, for being such helpful, obliging, swell people. Needless to say, the feeling withered in the face of my first nine-word billboard. Oh, well. Serves me right for being so fickle. In the end, it didn't matter, since everybody, from the boatman to the pot dealer, spoke fluent English.