It was 5 a.m. in Amsterdam, and I couldn’t sleep.
After hours spent staring at the ceiling, I swung my legs over the side of my hostel bunk and tried to make myself look presentable. I then headed down to the reception area, where I rented a bicycle from the sleepy-looking overnight attendant.
As I started riding, rays of sun illuminated the city, turning the buildings I passed first a grayish blue, then a warm orange-brown. From under cover of darkness, Amsterdam emerged even prettier than in pictures: red brick townhomes with window gardens; houseboats with flags dancing in the breeze. It was the first time I’d ever been out and about so early in a new city, and I realized then that in every place I’d visited before, I’d missed something fundamental.
The city slept soundly, and I relished having it all to myself. No one crossed my path (and thank god, because I definitely mistimed some red lights); no one witnessed how objectively disgusting I looked. I simply glided in silence, slower and slower as the streets became narrower, dense with shops and restaurants still littered with trash from a wild Friday night. I felt a sense of ownership over this city I knew next to nothing about, for no other reason than that I was the only one awake in it. The day and the city both burst with possibilities, and I opened myself up to all of them.
