There are these moments, innocent, never planned, that remind us
in the clearest way, why we yearned to return. Moments that, despite their
very simplicity, turn our stomachs aflutter. Moments when we realize
we had been searching for the taste that would fill us
with a certain kind of joy,
the kind only to be had from the first bite of ontbijtkoek,
the first dip of our vlaamse frites in mayonaise
or dropping that first fatty haring on our tongues.
And then there are moments that make us smile a bit mischievously to ourselves,
filling us with girlish laughter inside. Like being ferried across town by fiets,
our lovely friend pedaling from one gracht to the next over its arched bridges,
we riding in back, sitting sideways, ankles crossed,
clutch clasped casually under our arm,
while our hair plays a minuet in the cool evening breeze.
Rider and passenger each clad in 4 inch heels.
This must be the place.