The Last Train to Amsterdam

That last time she asked me to leave, she was so adamant and pragmatic that even a real thundering storm couldn't change her mind. It was pouring out there; the lightning was ripping the sky open. Its mighty sound tore apart all ties that bind. Her once warm and caring blue eyes were not only cold, but also insensitive, now blinking mechanical. Her face beamed healthy and innocent, as she wished me a good life. 

Standing at her doorstep, already soaking wet, I had less than a half hour to catch the last train to Amsterdam. 

I'd never imagined spending almost two months there, born again at a railway station crisscrossed by so many different walks of life. 

While making enough money for food and other essentials by singing on trains, in front of museums or libraries or cathedrals or any place that allowed enough space to sing and have one of my passing friends pass the hat to collect coins, I encounter the aspects that make Amsterdam so different than the rest of the world, a microcosm of hideaways and drugs and peoples who have run away form other countries bringing with them little but foreign tongues.