DAM What A City

As you can tell from my entirely unique and creative title, I recently visited Amsterdam, and The Netherlands, for the first time. By “recently”, I mean months ago, and I’m slow to post things in a timely manner. I was meeting up with my name-twin, Meredith, and her two friends, Annette and Allison. After scouting an Airbnb in Jordaan, a lovely and comparatively quiet section of the city, we had all been so caught up in work that we didn’t plan out our short weekend visit. So upon arrival, we did what anyone would do: fuel up on Dutch cheese, bread, grapes, hummus, non-Dutch wine, and other snacks while we sketched a plan. Top to-dos were the Rijksmuseum, bicycling around, seeing and walking the canals, popping into the Red Light District, and the Stedelijk Museum of modern art. We did all of that and more, dodging the always-active bike lanes with the nimble legs of current and former New Yorkers who don’t want to die but also think they can make it across the street in time.

And in case anyone was wondering, the cheese was everything I had hoped it would be. In the airport on my way back, I bought an aged Dutch cheese that cost me an extortionate 23 euros, and I’m not even sorry. It was beyond delicious and worth every penny (as well as the boring but cheap meals at home I endured thereafter to compensate for this brazen purchase).

The gorgeous Rijksmuseum
Canal view
A carved prayer walnut which was unbelievably detailed and got us all wondering about work ethic and sun-less workshops in the Dark Ages.
Bitterballen, essentially a Dutch croquette. Obviously, I ate them too fast and burned my tongue and whole palate because self-control is not a thing that I do well.
A rich Dutch lady wore this monstrosity to her wedding. Pros: crowd control, knocking down people you don’t like but had to invite, avoid husband (?), Cons: movement, looks uncomfortable, will never wear again
Taking in some art

A Jaunt to Gib (and Spain)

For the Easter holiday, I was invited to an old family friend’s home in the south of Spain, in a town where I spent my summers as a child and teenager visiting with my family. The surroundings were therefore familiar, but I did something on this trip I’d never done as an adult – properly explored Gibraltar, the English-held colony on the tip of the Iberian peninsula. Normally, we flew into “Gib” and drove across La Linea, the literal line separating the territory from Spain, or otherwise flew into Malaga, bypassing Gibraltar port entirely.

Gibraltarians have their own culture and unique Spanglish dialect, able and inclined to flit seamlessly between the two. It feels like a little island apart from Spain and yet so ingrained in the local life that I came away thinking of it as entirely separate even from the UK. I certainly didn’t feel I was in London after hiking to the top of the Rock of Gibraltar via the switchbacks of the Mediterranean Steps and looking out over the 360-degree view of Gibraltar’s harbor and beyond to Morocco and the rest of the African continent.


The view from the top of the Rock of Gibraltar.


Billy forges ahead on the trail to the top.
Gib Harbour.


Aside from exploring Gib, we also spent some quality time on the long stretches of beach for which the Costa del Sol is famous.


Walking towards the Rock from Sotogrande.

With a larger group of family friends, I attended Semana Santa (Holy Week) processions in the nearby town of San Roque. Though we’d often referenced them, I hadn’t been to see the Semana Santa festivities since I was small, and hadn’t realized quite how much effort both in advance and on the day of goes into the celebration. Parishioners literally shouldered burdens to commemorate Jesus carrying the cross – in this case, those burdens were elaborately constructed floats that barely fit the tiny, hilly streets of San Roque. Carrying the floats is considered an honor and a penance for one’s own sins. It’s taken very seriously by the participants, who vary in age from about 6-7 years old (who don’t carry anything but candles) to teenagers and middle-aged men and women, separated by gender and arranged by height. Many of those who carried the floats appeared to be in significant pain or discomfort but didn’t utter a word of complaint.

They took a short break every 20 minutes or so…
…but then were back to the heavy lifting.
One of the ornate and heavy floats in the uphill parade.


After watching the parade for a while, we settled into some tapas at a nearby restaurant and did some catching up, sharing news and stories over croquettas, tortilla, olives, and Rioja. After snagging some churros from a stand in a nearby park, we called it a night. Those of us that live in London shuffled to Gib airport the next day, feeling reluctant to leave the sunshine and sea air behind. We stood on the airport’s balcony, leaning forward towards The Rock to feel the last rays of sun on our faces before we committed ourselves back to London’s rainy springtime skies. Hasta la proxima, España!