First impressions

Leaving Centraal station, the familiar roar of city life comes first. Moving with the current of the crowd, I stop as a set of lights turn green. They signal not a stream of cars, but to a horde of brazen cyclists that quickly gains momentum: these athletic commuters as formidable as any car to the idle wanderer.

I trip on steel veins as creaking cables tremble overhead: the vessels of the trams, the circulation of this city. A bell sounds, curtly alerting us on foot or wheel that our path is about to be taken. The tram snakes past and comes to a silent halt as those reaching their destination trade places with those seeking a smooth ride across town.

So efficient.

Moving on - still waters of the canal to my left and open-front bars on my right. Against the glare of the weak setting sun, tall thin buildings lean on each other like old friends; their faces speckled with men and women, young and old, holding eye-contact as they clink and “proost” goblets of white beer on tiny, precarious balconies.

And the smells of this place: curious aromas, herbaceous and pungent. They seep enticingly from the alleys that channel from this broad and bustling street.

The path opens to a square. As the purposeful hurry by, the less so let their gaze upturn to an impressive, gothic, elegant building. Surely the big decisions are made here. Some eyes, like mine, are drawn to one man. He stands as a statue, brown trousers and a denim jacket.

Arms outstretched, he looks on passively as winged friends perch gratefully upon all surfaces he offers, forehead to finger-tip. His eyes disconnect from the curious stares of passers-by and the child who excitedly flusters the birds at his feet. No incentive or gain, no cap at his foot, no purpose other than the obscure and obvious.

And somehow he embodies the sense of this place: his active act of dormancy connecting monuments, man and an underlying equilibrium of diversity in perfect balance.

So alive.