The One Thing You Can't Buy Is Time

If you go to Holland, you take a picture with a Dutch windmill. It's what you do to prove your YOLO attitude and show that #FOMO has no power over you.

But there's no proof of my experience with a Dutch windmill. No Twitter post and certainly no Instagram photo. Still, it's the one story from my inaugural trip to Amsterdam I'm always asked to repeat:

It was a warm afternoon by Holland standards. Slightly above 70 degrees and heavy with humidity from a passing rainfall. Yet my Dutch CouchSurfing hosts were undeterred, pedaling ahead as we biked to Amsterdam's Gay Pride Parade.

With decorated boats parading through the central city's canals, this marquee event gave true meaning to the word "float." As the first barge set sail from a distance, the day's revelry was overtaken by a pristine recording of Puccini's "Un bel dì vedremo," accented by thousands of clapping hands. When this lead float reached me, twenty somber passengers stood hand-to-heart alongside the words "Remembering our colleagues on MH17." Covered in giant red ribbons, this memorial highlighted that it was not just 193 Dutch citizens lost on a flight shot down over Ukraine days earlier, but also the knowledge they were taking to an international AIDS conference.

For a community used to balancing tragedy with joy, this float gave way to barges celebrating the advancement of LGBT rights in the Netherlands--the first country to legalize same-sex marriage.

Soaking in that pride, I was delighted when an extremely handsome man came and stood behind me (though slightly less happy when his girlfriend arrived ten minutes later).

"You totally hit on my boyfriend," the girl inquired once I told her I was in Amsterdam due to an affinity for tall, blonde men. "You chose a good one though," she said after finishing her giant beer can. "He has a huge penis. He's a grower AND a shower. He's always whipping it out and making windmills."

"Interesting," I replied. "Ya know, I'm only in Holland for three days, and it sure would be a shame if I left your country without seeing a Dutch windmill."

Her eyes widened as her face burst into a smile.

"Show him your penis!" she shouted as she turned to her boyfriend and began unbuckling his pants.

Restraining my new friends from breaking any Dutch decency laws, I politely requested we delay the process long enough to form a shielding circle.

Moments later, with no Facebook proof allowed and drops of rain returning from the sky, I saw my first Dutch windmill.