I have only a couple hours until I'm back in Amsterdam. I've spent the past four days enjoying Vienna, Austria with a friend of mine. This is my second trip here.
I could easily spend my retired days in this town, roaming neighborhoods, drinking coffee, reading newspapers, and snacking on desserts. Some of my favorite artists lived in Vienna and I've read so much about Klimt and Schiele that I feel an inauthentic and superficial connection to the city, as one often does when wandering for a while I've noticed.
Having spent several months in Amsterdam, I'm really enjoying the messiness of Vienna. No perfectly planned routes, no carefully commissioned front doors, no perfectly coiffed humans (well . . . only a few) and lots of unruly nightlife. I didn't realize it until a day ago or so, but the style in Amsterdam, though absolutely beautiful, has become quite predictable at this point.
I'm sitting at Phil's. A little cafe that is very similar to one of my regular spots in the district, Tryst. I worked the graveyard shift for two years next door to Tryst at the Diner and spent hours and hours reading and drinking there, that Phil's feels very much like home to me, right down to the nearly invisible wait staff.
And what I love most about my new sweets, is the name. Phil. As in bibliophil, audiophil, cinephil, altrabergutphil . . .
Alright . . . plane. Amsterdam.