The church is never as close as I think it is. I chase steeples through winding streets, cobbled and uneven. A light rain dusts my eyelids. I catch the scent of gluhwein and waffles, I think, 'this is what heaven smells like.'
Horses clop on side streets, swans shelter under canal bridges, a friendly cat graces my fingertips with his presence. Why are there no birds?
All the churches ask for money and play music to make us feel small.
The comic shop goes back and back and up and out; why can't I read Dutch? I take refuge from the cold in book shops and libraries. I still can't read Dutch.
I drink tea and mulled wine and cherry beer and hot chocolate with cream and strong coffee. I eat when I'm hungry and sleep too deeply to dream in bunks tattooed with the lives of people I will never meet.
A church bell sounds, and the sun has come out at last.
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