Worn Out Boots.

06/02/2015 – 14/02/2015

This is a tale of travel.

The idea of backpacking solo in itself is so exhilarating and romantic to me. Actually being there and experiencing it by myself is something which cannot be accurately put into words. It’s something like the feeling of ice-water running down your throat after a sweaty trek in the sun. The feeling adrenaline-junkies get when the roller-coaster drops. Pure bliss.


Amsterdam has for long been known as the city of sins. This is not an exaggerated title as one can smell the wafting fumes of burning marijuana in most parts of this canal city. It’s not just the drugs; walk through the Red Light District and see sex workers wink and wave at you from behind glass doors and you’ll know what I am talking about. It is interesting to note that selling coffee is the primary purpose of neither coffee shops (marijuana parlours) nor cafés (bars).

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However, there is another side to Amsterdam which tourists may give a miss.
Cruising down the beautiful and elaborate canal network in a boat or just walking by them whistling a song for that matter. Staring in awe when you understand what Vincent Van Gogh was trying to express through his paintings and even coming up with personal interpretations. Indulging in typically Dutch cuisine sold by food stalls at the Albert Cuyp Street Market. Sitting in the best seats of one of the most magnificent Orchestra Houses of the world and listening to a touring Orchestra, awestruck.






Also, how can I forget the peach pancakes, apple tarts and chocolate brownies: Pure brilliance packed into every bite of these heavenly creations.


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Amsterdam is a city of liberalism, fun and happiness.


Oh, Paris.

From the very top of the Eiffel tower to the endless galleries of the Louvre. From the elaborate sculptures of the Notre Dame Cathedral to the majestic Arc de Triomphe. From the eerie ossuary of Les Catacombes to the grand Opera House of Bastille. From the cosy cafés to the bustling metro lines. I loved every single bit of this city. I truly did.


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Sharing a room and experiences with travellers from around the world. When you’re at a hostel, you are exposed to different perspectives and cultures. All this, over breakfast.

The cuisine is a story in itself. Snails, Steak and Shallops. Crêpes, Tarts and Mousse. Of course, the world famous wine. My taste buds were erupting with orgasmic ecstasy.


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Sitting outside a breakfast café, sipping warm coffee on a cold morning and watching people make their way to work by the hundreds. I was there, a nobody, sitting at a table on the pavement where two roads met. A nobody to the crowd of people who passed by. They, in turn, were just passing faces to me. That humbles you in ways you cannot imagine. That’s the beauty of it. That’s the part that I love.


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Walking down an unknown street, watching a whole world go past you. Trekking up towers and going down stairs to unused quarries. Crawling through sprawling museum galleries. Running to make it in just before the metro door shuts.
Eventually it was time to leave for home. After reaching, physically tired but psychologically enriched like never before, I sat down on a chair and bent down to untie the laces of my boots. My thick, warm and now slightly worn out boots.









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