Michael checked his email in the morning. Sterre had not sent a message and he forlornly made breakfast. He worked on an index into the early hours of the afternoon before eating a sandwich and leaving his apartment. He cycled to the Greenhouse because his dugout was all but empty and he was out of cannabis. Once there, he stood in a short line waiting to be served. He felt impatient as two Moroccan youths wasted time combating with the equally young but ethnically indeterminate ganja jockey behind the counter. After a long and boring wait, he bought three grams of Bubba Kush, a gram of Amnesia Haze, and a gram of Bubble Mania hash. Michael watched as the GJ weighted the weed. The crystals were plentiful on the BK and had a loud scent. The Amnesia didn't look or smell quite as pleasing, but it was a strain Michael hadn't smoked. The Bubble Mania was 65 Euros per gram, but he recalled such a sweet high from smoking it in the past that the cost was not a consideration for him. It melted smoothly as well.
Michael didn’t try to rationalize the purchase; he simply made the decision based on what he wanted. The choice was not made impulsively, but from self-assurance, a quality he had been both consciously and inadvertently developing for months. Long gone was his sense of uncertainty in relation to whether or not he deserved to feel pleasure; his sense of what he wanted had become second nature and he no longer hesitated to act on his intuitions. He did not succumb to doubt and had become able to trust others to a greater degree than he ever had before precisely because he trusted himself. As he changed he was aware of who he was becoming, building a strong relationship between self and self-understanding. This greater self-knowledge was not something he described to himself through language. He simply knew these things without having to think about them, so in tune was his grasp of his senses, emotions, and values as they were and as they changed.
Once the purchase had been made, Michael took a seat near the back of the coffeeshop and broke up the Amnesia Haze to refill his dugout. Having done so, he broke off a small amount from the stick of hash and loaded it in the bat. Michael preferred smoking hash from his bat rather than from a specialized pipe. Keeping it lit was easy and drawing satisfying inhalations was pleasing. The social atmosphere of the Greenhouse was laid back. On the corner couches on the far southeast wall sat three young black men with dreadlocks passing a blunt between them.
Michael was sitting at a table in a chair opposite, hazily watching them with detached interest. He wondered about the word “dreadlocks.” Why use that word to describe that hair style? Locks of dread? Had a person felt a sense of dread in the presence of such locks? Michael amused himself with such thoughts, even playing with the idea that men and women chose the hair style in order to have greater access to feelings of dread, as if that particular hair style had a special magic that allowed those who adopted it to feel the totality of dread, a unique quality of existence that surpassed in its entirety all other ways of being. “Perhaps that’s why they are so relaxed all the time; nothing in the world is more dreadful than their hair and therefore they fear nothing but their hair. Once they’ve overcome the fear of their hair they have nothing left to fear.”
As Michael took another hit from his bat, he thought it seemed entirely silly that people concerned themselves about hair styles. While he knew little formally about Buddhist monks, he thought they were onto something with their shaved and buzzed scalps. “Why not just take clippers and shear it all off?” Michael had done just that a month earlier. His hair was now growing out somewhat, but it was still short enough that it was impossible to become messed up. Not having to concern himself with how his hair looked before leaving his apartment for any reason satisfied something within him.
Because he was developing a greater degree of self-love almost daily, he cared less and less about what others thought of him. Not always and not completely, but significantly less than in the past, enough that he noticed the difference and realized how foolish he had been for wasting time concerning himself with what others thought about him. They didn’t live in his body, he thought, so why would he give others so much power over how he managed it? Increasingly, he did not, though the process was slower than he desired. It was sometimes lost on him how radically he had changed in a matter of months. He adapted so seamlessly to constant change through his practice of shrooming that he sometimes felt frustrated for struggling with any particular issue. He was, however, becoming less judgmental of himself and his shortcomings, although when he became aware of particular limitations he focused like a laser to find a way to overcome it, eliminate it, or turn it into a strength.
Michael did not typically think of things in these ways. He was busy living his life and when he made discoveries, he either accepted and developed them or he rejected them. He didn’t try to place his life in context on a regular basis. There was no point. To whom would he report progress or regression? He had decided there was no God or Great Other that existed beyond him to whom he had to give account and no one in the world seemed to care one way or the other whether he did this or that. The loss of God and the absence of a moral community that judged social behavior did not fill him with anguish or leave him feeling alienated. If anything, he felt liberated. His task now was merely unraveling and dismantling harmful concepts and rules within the worldview that had developed over his lifetime frameworks for understanding himself and the world. That was why he chose shrooms as the engine for what he described as his vision quest.
After a time, Michael felt ready to leave the Greenhouse. He was pleasantly high and he had been thinking of nothing at all, just enjoying the sensations that accompanied the hash. He abandoned the dreadlocked men who had been speaking a foreign tongue, giving them a gentle nod as he left. They nodded in return before resuming their quiet conversation. The temperature outside was moderate, almost no wind, and the sky was gray. Michael unlocked his bike and crossed the Blauwbrug while appreciating the beautiful view of the curving river to the north.
Some of the buds on the trees were starting to sprout. The long white tour boats were out as well. Michael had forgotten about them. They had been dormant in the winter months, but with the warmer temperatures they were coming out of their hibernation. Michael didn’t mind the huge tour boats during the day, but he cursed their spotlights at night because of their insulting, violent light. Tourist’s desires to see the sights within the Grachtengordel and the Amstel at night were understandable, but Michael thought the city government had made a grievous mistake allowing those visual atrocities to shine such ghastly lights. He couldn’t imagine how awful it would be to live in an apartment, condo, or mansion along the Keizersgracht or Herengracht in the spring, summer, or fall, always having to cope with blinding spot lights flooding living rooms and bedrooms every ten or fifteen minutes for hours night after night. There were smaller tour boats that weren’t so garish and did not blind pedestrians, cyclists, and residents. Michael thought they were to be commended for preserving the ambiance of the canals at night.
After crossing the Blauwbrug, Michael rode along Amstelstraat to the west. Tram tracks occupied the right-hand side of the road while the cyclists rode along or between them. Michael was riding in the middle of the tracks and as he neared Rembrandtplein the tram tracks split and curved to his left to form another line. He leaned back and pulled up on the handlebars in an attempt to pop his front wheel over the curve of the tracks, but he didn’t time his jump properly and the front wheel of his bicycle caught in the curve of the tracks. He went flying over the handlebars, bracing his fall with his hands and forearms, his nose coming as close as a few centimeters from the pavement.
It happened so fast he had no time to think. Michael was splayed out on the ground for a few moments wondering where he was and what had happened. His forearms suddenly hurt like hell and his palms were scratched up. A shopkeeper whose face was filled with worry ran over to him and helped him up. As the ethnic gentleman softly asked questions in Dutch, Michael took inventory of his body. His disorientation was lessening, although the shock had not worn off. There were no broken bones or torn ligaments that he could detect. He noticed several pedestrians of different ages, both men and women, with concerned looks on their faces milling around him.
Michael managed a nervous smile and said he was fine. He thanked the older shopkeeper who had helped him, a shorter but stocky man with kind eyes who spoke English with an eastern European accent. Michael could feel his face turning red. The worst injury appeared to be to his pride, but he managed to laugh at himself even though he was embarrassed. With everyone around him responding with care and concern he felt humbled. Being treated well by others was not something Michael took for granted. For much of his life his wellbeing was of little concern to others and he had encountered many who enjoyed witnessing or causing the suffering of others. Had such a tumble occurred while he was living in Arizona, he felt sure that he would have been ridiculed or ignored.
Michael checked his bike to see if it was damaged. The handlebars were crooked, but he found he could straighten and tighten them with relative ease. The wheel wasn’t bent at all. With his body, mind, and bike in check, Michael mounted and rode off while thanking those who were still lingering. He cut down a narrow bike and pedestrian path between buildings until he came to the Amstel. He decided to turn right to head back toward his apartment even though he had intended to roam through the Oude Zijde. He needed to wash the dirt and grit from the scrapes on his hands. Even though his forearms were scratched and bruised, his Boss jacket sustained no damage. He was impressed, yet again, with its quality and durability.
After arriving back at his apartment and washing his wounds, Michael checked his email. A friend had written a response to an email he had sent over a week ago. He hadn’t remembered sending it, but he re-read his message and discovered that he had written about abstract thinking, how concepts clouded the mind, blocked attentiveness to sensation, and created the conditions for absurd beliefs and values. Without realizing it, Michael was becoming a phenomenologist, although he probably would have preferred to describe his perspectives as experientialist. Shrooming had led to a deeper connection with a multitude of ways of thinking and being, few of which Michael had studied in depth. In addition to phenomenology, he was discovering mysticism, existentialism, Zen Buddhism, and possibly Taoism. Again, he was doing so without attaching these labels to his thinking or experiences. Categorizing what was occurring seemed like a sure way to lose what he was learning. Michael thought that perhaps he would write about his experiences when his learning decelerated. It was a fleeting thought that came and went; he brushed it away whenever it arose because he didn’t want to be distracted from the living process he was developing. While he wrote notes occasionally, he had no interest in developing his writing except perhaps for the good of others. If no one found what he had learned useful or interesting then so be it. This was his journey and it was becoming obvious that each person wasn’t going to be able to look outside themselves for answers about how to live. Experience was the best teacher. External sources could be useful as supplements, though.
Michael remembered that movement had been his first critical discovery. Abandonment to movement took him out of his mind and returned him to his body. Escaping thought allowed new ways of thinking. Whenever movement ceased there were moments of reorientation and in those moments new ways of seeing the world occurred. The end of thought begat the possibility of the beginning of thought, a brief moment of infancy with the opportunity to develop new ways of perceiving self and the world.
These thoughts were shelved when Michael turned his attention to indexing. After an hour of work, he received an SMS. Daniel wanted to know if Michael would like to meet him for dinner at seven at Café van Kerkwijk on Nes. Michael responded that he would, but wondered if there was a special occasion. Daniel responded that there was no occasion. His girlfriend Sophia was the chef at van Kerkwijk and she had invited Daniel and Michael to dinner. Michael replied that he would meet him there.
Thinking of Nes reminded Michael of his mishap with Sterre. She hadn’t sent an email even though she said she would after returning from Berlin. Thinking of Sophia, on the other hand, reminded Michael of Piper and he wondered if she would be at van Kerkwijk. Michael knew nothing about the café so he looked it up online. The reviews indicated that the restaurant was well-regarded. It was late afternoon so Michael readied himself, dressing as well as his wardrobe allowed. He felt he had time to spare so he loaded a bowl with a bud of the Bubba Kush he had purchased earlier. After a couple tokes, Michael left.
As he cycled down Kerkstraat and turned onto Utrechtsestraat, Michael’s mind felt spacious. It was the Kush, which was also loosening up his body and easing the sting he still felt on his scraped palms. The street was busy with pedestrians, cars, cyclists, and trams so Michael skirted Rembrandtplein to the Amstel through the same narrow pathway he had taken hours earlier. The view across the river was beautiful from this stretch, with grand old buildings across the way. It was still light out, but because of the darker cloudy sky the lights of the buildings and street were brighter than they would have been. The Amstel was hopping and Michael felt a rush from breathing the open air, cruising along with other cyclists, being a part of the life parade in such a spectacular city. He nearly turned on to Halvemaansbrug, but remembered at the last second that he needed to merge with Rokin. His pace slowed as he focused more intently on the direction he was heading. His brief rush eased to a softer appreciation.
Shops, bars, eateries, and grocery marts lined this section of the Amstel, one after the other. Some were kitschy, a few dapper, all of them interesting to view while cycling. It was somewhat difficult, though, since there was two-way traffic on this street and the flow of cars was heavy. As Michael came upon the insanity of the Muntplein intersection he barely avoided a second bicycle accident as a woman had stopped riding abruptly just before the opening to the bicycle path. He braked as best he could and barely cut around the woman to the bike path away from street traffic. He was too surprised to yell and after he was safely past he breathed a sigh of relief.
Michael zoomed onward, looking across the narrowed Amstel at the stately and ornate Hotel De L’Europe. He crossed the Doelensluis and turned left onto Oude Turfmarkt. The street followed the north side of the curving Amstel while Rokin ran the length on the other side of the river. The benefit of riding on Turfmarkt was that traffic was light, almost nonexistent, whereas Rokin was a wild mess of every type of transportation the city had to offer. Because the ride was so easy, Michael was able to enjoy his high even more while watching the happenings across the river in relative peace. He thought it was interesting to see houseboats only on his side of the river and wondered if the busy traffic on Rokin was the reason.
As Michael’s mind wandered his pace slowed. He thought of the near-miss and laughed, thinking how silly it was that he should be a better cyclist while being high. He never noticed a dip in his ability to concentrate, but perhaps that was because he focused his attention so consciously every day. It had become a habit, a healthy habit, and to an extent cannabis helped relax the body enough to allow the mind to become sharper. Michael also thought that his moderate intake contributed as he rarely smoked to get stoned. He did not like feeling baked; he preferred a light, relaxing, and alert high. It was possible he was wired differently than others because he typically felt more energy from smoking cannabis rather than lethargy and dull-mindedness.
Michael also never got the munchies unless he smoked too much. The haze varieties caused more grogginess than the Kush, but Michael compensated by limiting his intake of the haze even more than the Kush. Spreading the puffs throughout the day also allowed the highs to remain steady and thus a certain tolerance had developed which allowed muscles to remain loose even through strenuous exercise. He had a muscular build and he’d had muscle tension and spasms daily throughout his adult life. The cannabis eased that tension and allowed him the energy to stretch. He was sharper while mildly high because the relaxed muscles eliminated physiologically-generated anxiety. He had also read studies indicating that cannabis dilated the bronchioles in the lungs allowing more oxygen into the blood which, in turn, meant more oxygen flow to the brain. It was unconscionable to him that cannabis should be made illegal anywhere in the world when its benefits were so well researched and well known.
Michael turned right onto Langebrugsteeg, a wonderfully narrow street traversed mostly by pedestrians and cyclists, although a scooter shot by him as he approached Kadinsky. The coffeeshop had a good reputation with travelers. The shop sold quality weed and usually had a good vibe. What struck Michael, though, was that there was a delightfully colorful shop for sweets and a bakery with inviting smells just across the street. A wise placement of shops given how many tourists and travelers liked to get stoned rather than high.
At the end of the short block Michael slowly turned to the left onto Nes, trying to weave around a large group of walkers who were hogging the entire street. The street was narrow which provided its back-alley charm, but it could be a bit of a challenge to bike when it got clogged. Once past the large group, he enjoyed cycling down the lane while passing by pedestrians and cyclists heading each way. This was the street where he had wildly rode a wheelie just a couple weeks earlier. To Michael, it seemed like a lifetime ago.
Because he wasn’t sure how far down the road the café was, Michael rode slowly, looking closely at each sign. As he passed the Tobacco Theater he wondered what types of shows were held there. Celebrations of tobacco plantations from centuries ago? Tributes to Philip Morris? Next he passed the Comedy Theater then Frascati. He realized the south end of Nes was a theater district. After Frascati he passed a few restaurants and cafes then the Hotel V. Still no Café van Kerkwijk. The narrowness of the street, though, made the walls of the buildings rising on either side of the road seem cozy and inviting. If he hadn’t agreed to meet Daniel at seven he probably would have gotten off his bike and walked so he could appreciate Nes as much as he would a fine wine: slowly and delicately with attentiveness to subtleties.
Michael passed by a large square, mostly empty, but bordered by a restaurant and the Hotel V—indeed, a very long building. There were several bicycle racks, not all of them filled. If this square was close to the café he planned to double back. Nes had few options for parking given how narrow the road and sidewalks were. Less than a block later, just past tiny cycling/pedestrian path that ran to the east, was the café. Daniel was out front smoking a cigarette; he turned to walk down the path, motioning for Michael to follow.
Michael slowed to a stop just around the corner and Daniel suggested locking the bikes together. “Hold on, I need a cigarette first.” Daniel said nothing and continued puffing. Michael dismounted and lit up a cigarette, asking Daniel if he’d been waiting long. “Nah, maybe five minutes.” Michael said, “Cool. Is Sophia here yet?” Daniel eyed Michael closely. “Are you being serious? I told you she’s the chef.
Michael had been under the impression that Sophia had invited them to eat with her … and possibly Piper. From Michael’s perspective, hopefully Piper. “I guess I misinterpreted what you meant.” Daniel remained stoic. Michael was used to Daniel’s cool demeanoer even though it wasn’t a constant. He could be lively and jocular as well and his easygoing manner suggested that his cool exterior wasn’t necessarily stoic at all. His face lit up even when he wasn't smiling. Nevertheless, Daniel remained a delightful mystery to Michael, a mystery Michael hoped would always remain no matter how much more he learned about Daniel.
When Michael was finished with his cigarette, he wrapped his chain through the front tires and the frame of both bikes then locked it. Daniel, meanwhile, used his lock on the back tires and frame. It was probably unnecessary to lock both the front and back, but since the bikes weren’t locked to an unmovable object it wasn’t an absurd caution. As they walked around the corner and into the café, they had to struggle to get past a number of people waiting for tables. There were no reservations at van Kerkwijk so Daniel suggested that they wait at the bar.
The café was cozy and intimate. It was also crowded. Michael looked around and saw that every table was filled. The tables were set very close together and each one had white linen clothes draped over them. The seating arrangement reminded Michael of cafés in France. The patrons were dressed well. The bar was full as well, but they found a space to stand. Sophia came out from the kitchen and quickly walked by the end of the bar. She looked intensely focused. She walked to a table, squatted next to it, and began talking with the man and woman dining. She was smiling as she spoke. Michael couldn’t make out what she was saying as there were people all around him at the bar. For Michael, it was strange seeing Sophia in a chef’s hat dressed all in white while running the show after clubbing with her less than a week ago.
Daniel, unsurprisingly, asked Michael about his night out with Sophia and Piper. “I had a good time. Plenty of dancing. Sophia is fun as hell. Piper is … I still don’t know how to describe her. We went back to her place afterward.” Daniel said that Sophia never mentioned going back to Piper’s. Michael clarified, “No, just me and Piper.” Daniel looked oddly at Michael. “Really? You and Piper?” Michael shook his head. “No, not like that. We just hung out.” Daniel’s momentarily intense curiosity disappeared and he got the bartender’s attention, ordering a beer. The bartender looked at Michael, who said, “The house red.”
Daniel and Michael continued their conversation. Not long after they received their drinks, Sophia walked by them with a big smile. She lingered just long enough to pat Michael’s shoulder and squeeze Daniel’s hand before walking to a table of four. She was out of earshot, but Michael watched her gestures and facial expressions. “Charismatic” was a word that came to mind. “Self-assured” was another. Everything about her presence said, “I am a culinary rock star.” Michael was pleased simply watching her performance, a presentation that, given what Michael knew of her, was genuine. She was the shit.
After Sophia disappeared back to the kitchen, the hostess took Daniel and Michael to a table. There were no menus—Sophia was the menu. Appropriate. It would have been a crime to hide her exclusively in the kitchen. This was her restaurant. Her dazzling animation was as much a part of the dining experience as the food and wine. When she walked up to Michael and Daniel she squatted, smiled with a twinkle in her eye, and made lingering, meaningful eye contact with each of them. Michael was surprised by how much more powerful her presence was when directed exclusively at him.
Sophia spoke with eloquence, grace, and amiable confidence. “I recommend the roast duck,” and she explained in detail the nuances of the dish, how it was prepared, and which wine to order with the meal before describing other possibilities. Michael felt like giving her a standing ovation. She had modified her natural gregariousness into a polished and professional display. She smiled and laughed easily without losing focus. Daniel said no to the duck even though Sophia said he would be missing out. Michael, on the other hand, enthusiastically ordered the roasted fowl. Sophia winked at Michael and patted his hand. “Good choice.” Daniel and Michael agreed on the recommended wine before Sophia stood up and walked back to the kitchen.
As Daniel and Michael conversed, a server brought their drinks and salads. A bit later, their meals arrived. The duck smelled divine. The meat slid from the bone after Michael merely brushed a fork against it. As he took a bite, flavors burst from the tender, succulent bird. Yams and crisp, spiced green beans accompanied. The chosen wine was an excellent complement to the duck. Michael ate slowly, savoring each bite, and as he ate it became evident to his senses that, yes, now a yam and now a bite of duck then water to cleanse the palate and now the wine followed by duck. Michael offered Daniel a bite of the duck and Daniel lit up just as Michael had after his first bite.
On and on the meal went, the aesthetic experience becoming ever more complex as greater subtleties within flavors became evident. Michael's surroundings did not cease to exist; rather, Daniel's presence, as well as that of the entire café, burst forth with more life. Sounds, smells, and sights came alive precisely because the food and wine delivered to the willing vessel the means to reach a higher plane, an experience available only to aesthetes capable of distinguishing, through extraordinary concentration, gradations of sensations.
Sophia came back to the table, squatted, and looked at Michael. With tears in his eyes, his expression communicated a surety that the duck had flown straight from heaven to van Kerkwijk. Sophia laughed upon seeing Michael in his state and said she was happy that he was enjoying the duck, a profound understatement. When she looked at Daniel, he gestured at Michael and smilingly said, “I should have ordered the duck.” She enthusiastically rubbed his face in it. “I tried to tell you!”
Sophia then proceeded to go through dessert options. Daniel ordered crème brulee while Michael fell for the chocolate tart with a Bastogne biscuit base. Sophia nodded her head while looking at Daniel and jutting a thumb at Michael. Daniel chuckled and shrugged his shoulders. “He has good taste.” Sophia rose and walked to another table, leaving scents of vibrancy behind.
The desserts came shortly after the entrees were removed. The final course brought to the evening a peak experience for Michael and, possibly, for Daniel. They shared their desserts and Daniel acknowledged that Michael, once again, had made the better choice. Digestifs followed. They drank them slowly, relaxing in the soft afterglow of a wonderful meal. Once they had finished, they went to the bar and ordered more wine. The night was growing long as the two continued talking, laughing easily, and radiating goodness. Sophia stopped by occasionally as the cafe gradually emptied.
By midnight, the café had officially closed, the front doors locked by a server. The bartenders were cleaning up and Sophia came out of the kitchen to take an extended break with Daniel and Michael. She looked tired but happy. She poured herself a glass of wine from behind the bar. Michael noticed one of the bartenders had started on a beer himself and the other soon joined him. The five of them talked for half an hour while a couple servers cleaned tables. For Michael, it was a joy to be welcomed into yet another after-hours cafe scene. Being befriended by bartenders, servers, and gourmet chefs was, indeed, one of the greatest gifts Michael had received in Amsterdam. It was a unique and, to most, unknown club.
Sophia asked Michael about Piper. He evaded the question with some embarrassment. Sophia not so subtly encouraged Michael “to go for it." She continued on about how Piper was into him while slinging an arm around his shoulders. She squeezed his cheeks with her other hand while looking at Daniel, saying, “Who wouldn’t love this guy, huh?” After Michael's reddened cheeks resumed their natural color, he mentioned his bicycle accident. He had mentioned it to Daniel earlier, but he told the story again to the bartenders and Sophia. The tale amused the group and prompted Daniel to say, “You can’t officially be an Amsterdammer until you've had a bicycle accident. Everyone wipes out at some point.” Michael also brought up his encounter with the young Americans. After that, there was a round of crazy stories about visitors to Amsterdam. One of the bartenders said it was no different than falling off a bike: anyone living in Amsterdam for any time at all had come across visitors doing something bizarre or ridiculous.
Sophia indicated she and the bartenders needed to finish cleaning up. She kissed Daniel passionately and said, “I’ll see you around two or so.” Daniel then insisted on paying the bill even though Michael protested vociferously. Daniel said, “You always pay.” Michael shook his head in dismay, “Only at Bloem.” Daniel gesticulated and said, “Exactly.” After another minute of protest, Michael gave up, too fat and happy to argue for long.
When Michael and Daniel left, they smoked cigarettes next to their bikes. Daniel said to Michael, “If Sophia wasn’t coming over later I’d suggest going elsewhere for another drink.” Michael replied, “That's okay. Another night. I feel perfect right now, anyway. Thanks for inviting me--and treating me.” Daniel said, “I’m glad you came. It was a pleasure. You're always good company.” He smiled warmly as he continued, “Sophia’s the one to thank, for inviting us and for the delicious meal.” Michael replied, “Definitely. I thanked her, but I feel like I should carry her around the city for a month out of gratitude. Hell, she treated me at the club, too.” Daniel looked confused. Michael was about to mention the ecstasy, but a thought about Piper popped into his mind so he said, “What do you make of what Sophia said about Piper?” Daniel shrugged. “I don't know. You have good instincts. What do you think?”
Michael put out his cigarette then said, “For the life of me, I can’t read her. She’s a riddle in a bottle buried underneath the sands of Venus. I love that about her, but I’m completely befuddled about how to approach her. Sometimes she seems interested then indifferent then repulsed by me then interested again. I’d like to quit thinking about her, but I can’t.” Daniel seemed to find Michael's confusion thoroughly amusing as his grin had grown wider and wider as Michael spoke. He patted Michael on the shoulder and said, reassuringly, "I wouldn’t worry about it too much. You’ll make it worse fretting. Whatever happens, happens. It’s not like your options are limited. You’re in Amsterdam.” Michael thanked Daniel. He had always been supportive of Michael and consistently provided him with sage advice.
With that, Daniel and Michael hopped on their respective bikes and rode away, Daniel to the north and Michael to the south.
