We biked towards a village called Nieuwendammerdijk but ended up in a forest that smelled like nutmeg and rain. I made the obligatory road less travelled joke, and the four of us sat on fallen logs, split a joint. Light passed through the trees—a harlequin green canopy—in the thinnest of streaks, landing like diamonds on the half-baked marshland beneath our feet. It was the kind of place that reminded you of your mortality. Something about watching ants pick through decaying leaves as a mallard led her ducklings into the water. I can’t remember what we talked about or who sat next to me on the log. What I remember: a muddy golden retriever streaking past, the ducks scattering in a tangle of feathers. And, a minute later, a little boy in purple Converse sneakers chasing after him, yelling something in Dutch that sounded like an apology.
Photo By: jahe
