Before I leave in the morning, I wear more layers than Tammy Faye.
Like a knife through overcooked zucchini, I slice through traffic on my trusty bike, dodging tourists, cars, scooters, trams, and tough, street-wise pigeons.
No matter which direction I'm heading, somehow the wind is in my face.
I wash my hands in cold water only, not by choice - because there is no choice - but via long-standing Calvinist frugality.
I walk up to the server to pay my bill, thanking him/her for the privilege of being their customer.
I'm hurdling dog turd so often that I've invented a new sport - turdling.
I have my choice of a thousand cool cafes, restaurants, festivals, pastry shops, outdoor markets and bars.
I take a whiz outside at one of those green stalls, just because I can.
I go for a run and pass fellow joggers who are wearing jean jackets and cardigans.
I go to the gym and see that the spandex industry continues to thrive.
It's 20 degrees in the sun, but it drops to 2 when I step into the shade.
I meet the friendliest person I've ever met and then the rudest person I've ever met, both in the same cafe.
I speak four languages in the same day and hear four more that I want to learn.
I graciously donate my sunglasses to the canal when I bend over to lock my fiets.
I cycle past endless canals, dappled with sun during the day and framed by impossibly romantic lighting at night.
At 4am, I awaken to a huge cat fight (not the sexy kind) just outside my wafer-thin window.
I (mostly) look forward to repeating it all the next day.
Today, I am an Amsterdammer.