Last night in Amsterdam

It's 22:12 and I'm sitting on the edge of my bed at Hotel Clemens, staring at the contents of my backpack spread across the room. Somehow everything expanded during my stay here. I've acquired a few small souvenirs—a miniature ceramic canal house and a handmade notebook with recycled paper that I couldn't resist. Now comes the tetris game of fitting it all back in.

This morning I walked through Vondelpark one last time. The century-old plane trees were swaying gently in the breeze, their leaves just beginning to hint at the coming autumn. I found myself counting steps between benches, between trash bins, between joggers passing by. Sixty-seven steps from the western entrance to the first major path intersection. Numbers have always been a comfort to me.

I sat for nearly an hour watching an elderly man feeding ducks. He had a system—toss three pieces, wait until they're eaten, toss three more. I wondered if he comes every day, if this is his ritual. Will he be here in 489 days when I'm back home in Kristiansand? Will I?

After the park, I treated myself to a fresh stroopwafel from a vendor near Leidseplein. The warm, gooey caramel center was perfect as I walked along Prinsengracht, studying the houseboats and imagining what life would be like living on Amsterdam's canals.

I spent nearly two hours in a quiet café near Oude Kerk this afternoon, scrolling through the 237 photos I've taken during my stay. It's strange how quickly a new place becomes familiar. Eleven days ago, I needed Google Maps to find my hotel. Today, I navigated the central canals without even thinking about it.

Somewhere between the stroopwafel and the coffee, I felt it—that familiar restlessness. The same feeling that pushed me to book this journey in the first place. The same feeling that made me change my departure date from September 6th to September 2nd because I couldn't wait any longer. It's time to move on.

I've been researching options for tomorrow. Berlin is calling to me—just a 6-hour train ride away. Or perhaps Brussels, even closer. Maybe I should head south toward Paris. The beauty of this journey is that I don't have to decide until I'm standing at the station tomorrow morning.

Eleven days down, 489 to go. Amsterdam was the perfect first stop—gentle enough to ease me in, but vibrant enough to remind me why I left home. As I look at my half-packed bag, I feel that mix of anticipation and uncertainty that I'm beginning to recognize as the emotional signature of this journey.

The church bells just rang in the distance. Ten chimes. I arrived in this city at night, and I'll leave in the morning. There's something poetic about that, though I can't quite put my finger on what.

Somewhere in the world, there's a place where I'll feel that pull to stay longer than a few days. I wonder where it will be, and what will make it special enough to pause this restlessness, even if just for a while.

Time to finish packing. Tomorrow brings new horizons.