... and Pratim makes three!

In the morning, I dreaded rising early after a late night, but I was very excited to greet Pratim at Schiphol. He was waiting already by the Burger King by the time I arrived, and we took the train back to Amsterdam. We stopped at the Hema, where we took a few pictures, since his mother is also named Hema (not pronounced hay-ma but hem-ma).

We had stroopwafel and tea in the apartment while Joe and Tony continued to sleep. They declined going out for breakfast, so we found this amazing nook just around the corner from the duck place. The ceiling was cluttered with old lamps and chandeliers, which illuminated the cozy space with the perfect amount of light for a relaxing breakfast. We sat upstairs in the corner, separated from the other tables by a bookshelf with more lamps on it, but none were lit. The cloudy sky was visible through a window in the ceiling above us, but didn’t overpower the warm glow in our little corner of Amsterdam; we enjoyed uitsmeijters (ham and egg sandwiches) and fresh orange juice.

Back at the apartment, I was a little shocked to find that Joe and Tony were still sleeping. They again declined an outing, and so Pratim and I walked up the Damrak, to the Spui and went to the American Book Center, where we found baskets of very clever toys. In particular, I coveted this stuffed white blood cell. I would have liked to give it to Doctor Kari as a gift, but it was very unreasonably priced, and remained in the book store.

That night, Vida and Maggie took the train in from Utrecht for dinner, drinks and dancing, and a sleepover. We ate at an Indian restaurant run by Afghani men. Tony discovered it was cheaper to drink alcohol in Europe than to drink water; he submitted and ordered a large beer. Joe and I discovered the deliciousness of ‘butter chicken,’ and we all got in some good chatting over dinner. At the Bulldog, we played truth or dare and danced, but had to call it a night when karaoke night started getting old. Maggie had a great idea to stop at the Burger King before catching our cab.

I tucked my leather gloves in my back pocket, ordered my fries and ate them excitedly. We squished into the cab, got to the apartment, and I promptly went to bed.

The next day, I couldn’t find my gloves, and realized with regret that they probably slipped out my back pocket in the taxi. Dad had given those gloves to Mom probably eight years ago for Christmas when we still lived in West Chester. They were too small for her hands so I inherited them, and now they were gone. For shame. I lamented this loss for a week.