I started believing in God on my second day in Amsterdam.
Consumed by a familiar sense of restlessness, I left everyone in the house and decided to re-learn how to ride a bike. I borrowed a bicycle that was slightly large for me, making it difficult to maneuver and, more importantly, brake, but I decided to circle the block anyways.
Feeling confident of my newfound (re-discovered) abilities, I decided to be adventurous and circled the next block, as well. In less than 5 minutes, I was hopelessly lost. I almost ran over an old man, and the wind almost knocked me into a parked car. The streets mirrored each other, and each Dutch house was unfortunately as charming as the next. I rode around their area for what seemed like hours, and finally, when I saw "BOEKIJLAAN" for the 5th time, I started praying.
I chanted a Buddhist chant I had learned as a child, one which held little meaning for me, but which I would automatically recite whenever I was scared or nervous. I wondered how long it would be until my parents would send out a search party, whether I should keep riding around the Dutch version of "the Lawns" or stay in one spot until someone would come for me. I needed saving.
I finally got off the bicycle, and started walking slowly along the sidewalk, almost in tears, scared of the perfectly square houses and the amalgamation of consonants on the street signs and the little blond children riding on scooters.
And just when I had lost all hope, I heard a soft voice behind me. "Are you alright?"
It was the boy from whom I had borrowed the bicycle. He was my father's friend's son, though at that moment I saw him as some divine reincarnation.
I began gushing, and he simply smiled and led the way home--which was about two feet away from where I had given up in despair.
Everyone was waiting for me at home, laughing at me as I trudged into the dining room.
"I got lost."
"We know." And my mother continued singing in the kitchen, my sister started taking photographs of my embarrassed face, and my aunt handed me potato chips. Subsumed by the immediacy of the moment, my religious convictions were dispelled. I rubbed the bleeding spots on the back of my ankles struck by the pedals, while I waited for dinner.
Consumed by a familiar sense of restlessness, I left everyone in the house and decided to re-learn how to ride a bike. I borrowed a bicycle that was slightly large for me, making it difficult to maneuver and, more importantly, brake, but I decided to circle the block anyways.
Feeling confident of my newfound (re-discovered) abilities, I decided to be adventurous and circled the next block, as well. In less than 5 minutes, I was hopelessly lost. I almost ran over an old man, and the wind almost knocked me into a parked car. The streets mirrored each other, and each Dutch house was unfortunately as charming as the next. I rode around their area for what seemed like hours, and finally, when I saw "BOEKIJLAAN" for the 5th time, I started praying.
I chanted a Buddhist chant I had learned as a child, one which held little meaning for me, but which I would automatically recite whenever I was scared or nervous. I wondered how long it would be until my parents would send out a search party, whether I should keep riding around the Dutch version of "the Lawns" or stay in one spot until someone would come for me. I needed saving.
I finally got off the bicycle, and started walking slowly along the sidewalk, almost in tears, scared of the perfectly square houses and the amalgamation of consonants on the street signs and the little blond children riding on scooters.
And just when I had lost all hope, I heard a soft voice behind me. "Are you alright?"
It was the boy from whom I had borrowed the bicycle. He was my father's friend's son, though at that moment I saw him as some divine reincarnation.
I began gushing, and he simply smiled and led the way home--which was about two feet away from where I had given up in despair.
Everyone was waiting for me at home, laughing at me as I trudged into the dining room.
"I got lost."
"We know." And my mother continued singing in the kitchen, my sister started taking photographs of my embarrassed face, and my aunt handed me potato chips. Subsumed by the immediacy of the moment, my religious convictions were dispelled. I rubbed the bleeding spots on the back of my ankles struck by the pedals, while I waited for dinner.
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