The faces of Amsterdam

Paul drew us along in his wake as he strode through the streets and over the bridges of Amsterdam. Given the constant threat of being run over by bicycles, trams, and cars bearing down from all directions, none of which give pedestrians the right of way, this was an excellent way to tour.

Proprietor of a local coffee shop, a place that oozed 1960s Cambridge, MA, charm and played my favorite sappy Dan Fogelberg song 

Paul fell into many pensive moments during the day. He both played the tourist while with us and escaped his day-to-day stresses.

Pic of happier man taking selfie in front of a house whose number matched his age. I won't tell.

Everyday restaurant scenes in Amsterdam take on the light of  Vermeers.

While the buildings may reveal three-story Banksy street art.

We in Florida have perhaps a handful of houseboats. These have their own addresses and roof gardens.

At one point Paul stopped at one of Amsterdam's many open doorways and said, "Look how narrow and deep these houses are, how far back they go."  Sabrina, an elvish Teutonic woman in a severe uniform, came to greet us, inviting us back to see her garden. This was not her home, but the home base of SCIP, an organization dedicated to helping the disabled learn web design and other skills. What brought her here from her home in Berlin, I asked. Tearing up that someone cared to ask, she said that Amsterdam was the only place where she could pursue Postmodern dance, despite her father's refusal to support her doing so. She made her own way here, and still dances today, though in a much older form, leading a Renaissance dance group. "Ah," I said, "that would be the stately pavane and the sprightly galliard!" Astounded, she favored us with an impromptu galliard, but stopped short of the high-leaping volta.

Thomas, a fiercely clean Egyptian bartender, whose thorough glass-washing technique earned my respect. The next Egyptian whom we met, a waiter at an Argentinian restaurant near Dam Square, chuckled, "I know this guy!" when I showed him this picture.

Many Amsterdam faces utter excellent English. No wonder that Natalia, of Brazilian origin, does. The young lady, who works two jobs at a weed cafe and at a more staid Dutch restaurant, married an American from Paterson, NJ, "a very poor town," she admits.

Young man on holiday from Copenhagen. Unaccountably, he is a Green Bay cheesehead.

Marcus, a fine young man from the Midlands, with whom we shared an ottoman in a coffee shop.  He regaled us with stories of his da, who backpacked Morocco in the sixties, befriending millionaire architect George Schwarz, who at 77 looks like a 20-year-old, lives in a shack in Albuquerque, and rides a motorbike. 

Last but not least, the stalwart Slavisha, newly arrived Serbian concierge at our Zwanenburg guesthouse, who taxied us about, hauled our overstuffed luggage without complaint up the narrow stairway to our room, and acted as physician's aid when a devious curb twisted my ankle and left me busted up for a whole day, icing and elevating.