Follow the white rabbit Hello. My name is Kara C Lewis. I love to write about the adventure that is my life.

I have a deep affection for Amsterdam.
2013 was my second visit but first solo venture and I know it like the back of my hand.
‘Lost in Amsterdam’ the Aztec themed cafe where I would lie in the window surrounded by pillows, smoking hubbly bubbly, stroking the odd cat that wandered in. The owner of the psychedelic smoke shop with the huge alien smoking a joint out front that would high five me daily. The bicycle shop that almost charged me €600 after returning my bicycle late after falling off it earlier that week and flat out refusing to get back on it.
One day while trawling second hand shops for unique clothes and knick knacks, I decided I wanted a tattoo. I wandered down a cobblestoned alley and saw a sign saying Tattoo Parlour so I went in.
A gigantic, bearded, wild haired, shirtless man boisterously greeted me and my mouth dropped open. If in any parallel universe, Hagrid had a twin, here he was.
I'm always keen for interesting experiences and being completely fascinated by this guy, I walked up the stairs to the counter, where I saw a purring cat snuggled in a corner, posters of nude women on every wall and an entire cabinet covered in playing cards. All ace of spades. Ace of spades is MY card.
So I asked Amsterdam Hagrid why he had so many ace of spades cards and he cheerfully informed me that ace of spades is his card. Wow. I told him that ace of spades is my card and the story of the times I found card decks scattered around the streets of Sydney, and three times in succession I had picked up the ace of spades first time.
He then stretched up a sweaty layer of skin (he was a robust man) to show me a tattooed ace of spades on his chest, then pointed at his forehead and swept his long, bushy hair out of his eyes where he had a large black spade tattooed over his eyebrow. Kindred spirits on the spot!
So I sat down and requested my art, a peace sign on my ankle, as he animatedly ruffled my bright blue hair, patted (belted) me on the back, delicately removed my Converse hightop like I was some kind of psychedelic Cinderella and got to work, grunting and humming merrily the whole time.
It was a surreal experience. Here I was, in Amsterdam, city of dreams, in a dark, dingy tattoo parlour, Hagrid hunched over my foot, smoking a rollie with one hand, tattoo gun whirring in the other, a cat staring insolently at me from an ancient overstuffed armchair, being printed with something I’d wanted for as long as I could remember.
That was a day I’ll never forget.