As Amsterdam slowly unfolds...

18 days. 18,000 kilometers. 18 extra kilos of luggage that somehow carried more questions than clothes.

This was the longest work trip I’ve ever taken, both in distance and in weight. Not just the kind measured by flight hours and baggage allowances, but the kind that settles into your bones. It was a blur of airports that all started to look the same, meetings that bled into one another, conferences where time zones dissolved and coffee became a survival tool. Somewhere between security checks and boarding calls, there were moments when I’d stare at departure screens and feel an odd dislocation—physically present, mentally suspended between where I had been and where I was headed next.

Balancing federation work and my home association’s responsibilities felt like juggling knives midair. One misstep and something—or someone—would get hurt. There were emails sent half-awake, calls taken in unfamiliar hotel corridors, decisions made while my body begged for rest. And then there were the quieter moments: the long walks through terminals at ungodly hours, the sudden heaviness that creeps in when the adrenaline wears off. Travel has a way of stripping you bare like that. It removes your routines, your comforts, your illusions of control, and then rebuilds you in ways you didn’t ask for—but probably needed.

Now that I’m back in ops, surrounded by radar screens, familiar frequencies, and the steady rhythm of routine, I find myself strangely grateful. Grateful for the fatigue that proved I pushed past my limits. Grateful for the chaos that forced clarity. Grateful for the conversations—some planned, some accidental—that quietly rearranged the way I see the world and my place in it.

Amsterdam was my third stop after Hong Kong and Macau, and it greeted me not with postcard romance but with a three-day hangover called jet lag. My body was convinced it was still somewhere over the South China Sea. Running on three hours of sleep and borrowed alertness, I tried to sound coherent in meetings that demanded focus, diplomacy, and a functioning brain—none of which I reliably had. Words came out slower than usual, thoughts slightly delayed, as if my mind was buffering.

So I did what any traveler worth his salt would do.

I wandered.

The city doesn’t reveal itself all at once. Amsterdam unfolds slowly, like a stranger you’re not sure you trust yet. You walk its streets cautiously at first, observing, taking mental notes, letting it decide when you’ve earned familiarity. The buildings are narrow, crooked, leaning into each other as if conspiring. They don’t pretend to be perfect. They stand as a reminder that beauty isn’t symmetry. Built on mud, on reclaimed land, on foundations that by all logic shouldn’t last, these structures have survived centuries of wind, rain, wars, and relentless progress. Imperfect foundations. Imperfect lives. Still standing. There’s poetry in that—quiet, unpretentious, and deeply human.

Walking along the canals, I found myself slowing down, not because I was tired—though I was—but because the city invites pause. Bicycles whizzed past with casual precision. Trams cut through intersections like they owned the place. Life moved efficiently, but not urgently. There was no performance here, no need to impress. Just people going about their days with a calm confidence that felt earned.

And the people… God, the people.

Amsterdam breathes freedom in a way that feels almost defiant. Not loud, not performative—just present. Here, you can be anyone, love anyone, exist however you choose, and no one bats an eye. The Dutch have mastered the art of letting others live. There’s a maturity to that kind of freedom, an understanding that individuality isn’t a threat—it’s a given. Like tulips in spring, self-expression here isn’t ornamental. It’s not for show. It’s about survival. You don’t thrive by blending in; you thrive by being exactly who you are.

The weather was moody, as if it couldn’t quite make up its mind. Gusts strong enough to knock you off your bike. Rain that appeared out of nowhere, unannounced and unapologetic. Gray skies that softened the light, making the city feel introspective. But Amsterdam doesn’t care if you’re comfortable. It’s not a city built to please. It humbles you. Grounds you. Forces you to meet it on its own terms.

And maybe that’s why it stayed with me.

Because in that way, it reminded me of travel itself. Unpredictable. Inconvenient. Occasionally exhausting. But always, always worth it. Travel doesn’t promise ease—it promises perspective. And somewhere between jet lag, leaning buildings, and wind-swept streets, I was reminded that growth rarely happens when everything feels stable. Sometimes, it takes being unrooted to understand where you truly stand.