Gina and I just returned from four nights in Amsterdam — our first visit — and the city defied nearly every expectation we arrived with.

Coming from Barcelona, the visual shift was jarring. Amsterdam runs in browns, grays, and beiges. Monochromatic in a way Barcelona never is. Then the weather piled on: mostly cloudy, cold, and windy, with rain showers scattered throughout — adding its own bleakness to the cityscape. And to our genuine surprise, the streets were dirty — trash scattered casually along the sidewalks. Colors, weather, trash — all of it in stark contrast to Barcelona’s colorful streets, Mediterranean light, and meticulous cleanliness. Everything costs significantly more here, too.

And yet — we loved it.

Unlike our Vienna and Salzburg trip, which left us feeling we’d wasted both time and money, Amsterdam delivered. The transit system was user-friendly. The old city is walkable in the best sense. And the city had secrets that revealed themselves slowly.

The best revelation came Sunday at Keukenhof Gardens — open only eight weeks per year, one of those rare places that earns every superlative thrown at it. We set our alarms early (6 am / 5 am on our body clock) to catch the first shuttle bus, which also happened to be the morning of the time change forward. We beat the tour and cruise bus crowds by almost two hours. For ninety blissful minutes, we had those gardens nearly to ourselves. FYI, no need to use photo clean-up or filters; this is an untouched photo.

Gina was in heaven. She kept saying, over and over, that whoever designed these gardens is a genius. She’s right. We walked to the back of the park and worked our way forward, so every iconic landmark was ours for the photographing — unobstructed, unhurried.

When we finally exited, the incoming lines stretched by the thousands. Our timing had been perfect.

Friday morning I was first in line at the Rijksmuseum. I’ve stood in front of great collections my whole traveling life — the Louvre, the Guggenheim, the Borghese, the Uffizi, the Accademia, the Met, the Art Institute of Chicago — and the Rijksmuseum ranks among my favorites. The Rembrandt collection alone would justify the visit. The Nightwatch dominates its room even from within its conservation enclosure — the museum is currently conducting a massive restoration, and watching conservators work on the painting in real time adds a layer of intimacy most museums never offer.

A Van Gogh self-portrait transfixed me. I love self-portraits — always have. To stand before Van Gogh examining himself, then turn and find Rembrandt doing the same across four centuries: that’s the kind of moment travel exists for.

The library gave me cold chills. I’ve been seeking out the world’s great libraries for years — the Peabody in Baltimore, the Bodleian in Oxford, the Austrian National Library in Vienna, the National Art Library in London, Poblet and Montserrat Monasteries, the García Márquez, Pública Arús, and the National Library of Catalunya here in Barcelona. The Rijksmuseum library belongs in that company. One unique feature: green velvet strips lining the tops of every bookcase, designed to catch lint before it settles on the books. Ingenious and beautiful at once.

That evening we took a ninety-minute canal cruise — wine, cheese, a guide who understood the rarest of gifts: when to talk and when to go quiet. We learned the history of the houseboat residences lining the canals, over 160 miles of waterways that divide the city into ninety islands. From the water at night, Amsterdam transformed. The city lit up after dark in ways daylight never revealed.

We drifted beneath the famous seven bridges (photo below), each one strung with lights and doubled in the black water below. The city that daylight had hidden came alive.

This city shines after dark.

We walked through the red light district. The alleyway was far narrower than I expected — the women in their windows barely a foot away, stunningly beautiful, scantily clad though not nude as I’d anticipated. One blonde kept beckoning to both Gina and me, mouthing that she could take us both. I hesitated, but Gina kept walking. We were warned not to take photos of the ladies; it is strictly forbidden, at the risk of our phones being confiscated.

We ate well at The Pantry, a warm, amber-lit brown café—Dutch sausages, traditional stew, La Trappe beer on the table, and oil paintings covering every wall.

We visited the Saturday market, stood still for the ancient carillon, and let its resonance move through us. We kept walking. We logged over 60,000 steps and fell into bed each night exhausted and glad.

By synchronicity — I prefer that word to coincidence — I was reading Elizabeth Gilbert’s The Signature of All Things throughout the trip, a fascinating novel that both opens and closes in Amsterdam. The book layered itself over everything I saw. That kind of alchemy can’t be planned.

Amsterdam is grayer than I like, more expensive than I expected, and dirtier than it should be.

I’d go back again.