Amsterdam.

I exit Centraal Station

and walk the length of Utrechtsestraat.

White stripes and stick figures on the busy cement

guide bikes on one path,

motorists on another.

I've arrived by train

and sunk into this beautiful mess

of cyclists. Swimming together

in countless schools,

their numbers cause the streets sea

level to rise.

Right-of-way belongs

to the two wheeled travelers

who trek to work, the store

and the city centre.

It always has.

In the heart of the city

a 3 tier garage overflows with a river

of yellowed handle bars, cracked milk crate baskets,

torn canvas saddle bags and tired spokes,

chained and waiting for their owners.

Women in broomskirts and worn leather,

coast with their lists;

french bread, fresh milk, green apples,

and cheese from the corner shop.

All placed firmly in their wicker baskets.

They pedal home.

The men have no shame.

Even in their suits they commute.

And when the day is over,

they ride home in the rain,

with their umbrella firmly overhead

to see their wives.

Joined by no others,

on foot, I continue to Dwaze Zaken.

staying off the specified path

paved for those who don't drive or walk –

I try not to get run over

by the Dutch.

I am a foreigner here.