Amsterdam.

From London I went to Amsterdam, and from Amsterdam I'd intended to return to Great Britain. Instead I was checked for fleas and likelihood of consorting with dangerous agrarian types by the border guards, who sent me back to Amsterdam feeling completely disheartened. Of all of the places in the world to have been stranded while waiting on word from the consulate, however, Amsterdam has to rank among the best.

The city moves in rings, between pretty canals. The bridges arch gently, and it is not uncommon for people to live on their boats. The buildings are tall but very narrow. There have to be more bicycles than people in this town: they're chained to every available railing and post, hundreds of them lined up in lots and parks, new ones, accessorised and painted ones, some stolen, some beginning to rust. Businessmen and the elderly ride them. Mothers of young children ride bikes that boast barrows for the carrying of one's young, or allow their children, possessing the ability to balance on two wheels since the second trimester, to sit lightly on a plank affixed over the back wheel, or to cling to the handlebars. Women ride them easily in formal wear and devastatingly attractive shoes, or in all their autumnal glory: full skirts, layered and frilled, knitted things, scarves that flow dangerously but never get caught in a wheel or on a spoke.

I've been living in a flat on Fredrick Hendrickstraat. The streets are lined with Turkish fruit stands, and the bakeries produce delights, fanciful things that look like hats and cost next to nothing. I eat desert for breakfast nearly every day before wandering the canals, exploring the shops or a museum before finding a bench or a cafe where I can read.

Amsterdam is a lovely city. I was speaking to a gentleman working in a shop one morning when he asked me what I thought of the place. It's quiet, I told him, and gentle. It's pleasantly slow. "Really?" he asked, shocked, "You think it's slow?"

"Well, yes," I admitted, a bit sheepish, afraid he'd interpreted me incorrectly and that I'd insulted the town, "compared to where I'm from, at least."

"Oh. I think it seems very fast."

"Yes? Well, where are you from?"

"Tibet."

I laughed out loud. I couldn't help it. "Well I guess it would, then, wouldn't it?"

I have two favourite chocolate shops in this town: I prefer Pompadour for its candied fruits and the fantastic décor in its tea room, imported from Antwerp; and Puccini Bomboni for its daring: one could get chocolates flavoured with thyme, lemongrass, spices, intriguing liquors, and more conventional but equally delicious little sins.

I ate recently in a lovely little North African restaurant. I sat outside in the sun at a low gold table. I had couscous and spiced potatoes, and courgettes and aubergines roasted in a small pumpkin topped with a block of feta cheese and two prunes. I'd only just picked up a copy of Gentlemen of the Road at the American Book Centre, and it suited the meal perfectly.

I found a Japanese antique shop. The kimonos were elegant yet strangely low priced, and the girl working there taught me the complicated knots and folds required to wear it correctly.

There are flea markets like gypsy caravans, each with their day of the week, and their street, their speciality, their regular purveyors, and usual hunter-gatherers. There are used and antiquarian book markets, organic food markets, antique markets, places to find good street food and cheap fabric, used clothing and miscellany.

Our Lady of Amusing Acts of Violence, pray for us.

The rest of my time in London was spent with one of my dearest friends, a clever and attractive young gentleman named Finn whom I'd not seen in person in far too long. At the same time that he kept me off my guard by oscillating suddenly between being strangely silent and devastatingly articulate, we ate at some excellent restaurants, visited a great many museums, and attended a show that managed simultaneously to be a charity event for breast cancer awareness, a life drawing lesson, and a rather spectacular burlesque show. Many of the museums were places that blended antique medical instruments from the West with other, no less exotic folk traditions from various interesting nations and tribes. My favourite was a Mexican painting of the genre favoured by Frida Kahlo: a prayer was uttered, and if granted, it was traditional to create a representation of the miracle. A piece might present a soldier with a wounded and bleeding leg on the left, and whole again on the right. The Virgin meanwhile looked down from her perch on the moon, her granting his wish represented by lasers shooting out of her fingers, lightly pressed together in her constant meditations. The specimen of this type that I enjoyed so much was, I believe, meant to indicate a recovery from a head injury. What it looked like, however, was a picture of Our Lady dropping a flower pot on the head of some poor man, who bled profusely while an onlooker rushed to his aid.

Brick Lane.

I ought, I think, to apologise for disappearing. As you may have heard, I ran into a spot of trouble. Having been kicked out of Cardiff, of all places, for threatening to conspire with bees might do wonders for self mythologisation, but it wasn't the best thing for my writing. So, at the behest of my infinitely kind and wise mother, I will do what I can to summarise my adventures of the past month.

I'll continue where I left off, in London:

We felt as if we ought to go to the British Museum or the Victoria and Albert, but Gareth insisted that we go to Brick Lane. "Where are we going," the German boys kept asking, "and why?"

"We think they're shops?" Corinne half explained from our seat at the top and front of the bus. "We aren't sure. Gareth just said it was the one thing he recommended we do."

We found our way there through that combination of the kindness of strangers and blind luck on which travellers manage to get anywhere. First we found a collection of restaurants all bearing declarations of the receipt of multiple awards. One boasted of having the best curry on the street in 2003 and the best chef in 2007. But the commendations didn't seem particularly exciting, as all of the shops on that block made such claims, shuffling the awards between one another with each passing year. I enjoyed the conceit greatly. Men stood in the doors, waiting for us to slow down slightly, pouncing on us and offering a cheaper meal than we could find at one of their competitors if we did. All of the restaurants offered much the same lunch, and the same discounted price.

Once inside the market, however, we found that we'd arrived on the correct day. First there was food. The first half of the large hall was packed, every bit of space filled with exotic chefs and their wares, usually not only foreign but actually thoroughly unfamiliar. All of it was colourful and cheap. We explored every stall before making our selections and then gathered outside to sit on the curb with the rest of the mob while we ate. I'm still not sure what kind of food it was that I enjoyed so much, only that it was excellent, that there was a lot of it, and that it barely cost anything, a rarity for that city.

The back half of the hall and the roads and alleyways that snaked away from it were filled with more stalls, and the stalls with art, vintage clothing, and other interesting little objects. And the people there were gorgeous. I've never seen so many cravats in one room in my life. I've certainly never seen them worn well by anyone, let alone a few dozen attractive creatures, in their twenties. Friends in Philadelphia, I believe I mentioned that the world does not dress up as we do. Brick Lane was a clear exception to this rule. I considered attempting to create diplomatic alliances between them and us. These were people who understood the importance of the waistcoat. Corinne laughed as I found what was apparently my homeland: strangers asked to take my picture, including one with an appropriately important looking camera who claimed to be taking it for a Japanese street fashion magazine. The owner of a stall selling clothing he'd designed asked me if I'd model his work. That I was aware that the attention was more than a little absurd didn't stop me from enjoying it immensely.

I believe that was the night that Corinne and I decided to make a vegetable pie from scratch, severely underestimating exactly how much time this might take. We laughed a lot, pounding flour and butter together and chopping vegetables. We thought the process great fun, even if everyone else eventually gave up and found something else to eat. She's an academic. I enjoyed having one around to talk to again immensely, especially one who cares about much of the same theory I do, tangles of gender and class and race. We talked a great deal, and ate a fantastic pie just before one in the morning.

I recommend Laibach's cover of "Jesus Christ, Superstar".

The house was covered in little prayers and kitsch Jesus paraphernalia. Corinne somehow hadn't noticed and felt a bit bad about the conversation we'd had earlier about her secular Jewishness and her recent travels in Israel. We'd spoken, not dismissively, but critically of faith while half a dozen of us attempted to make breakfast at once.

Gareth's mother is Greek and seems to return often. She was there while we were visiting, in fact, so we never met her. His older sister stopped by for a moment to flounder, confused and mostly ineffective, in an attempt to gather some vegetables and fresh herbs from their mother's impressive garden and then figure out how to cook them for a Sunday dinner. Although she was a perfect clone of the pictures we'd seen in the house of their mother, she shared Gareth's London accent, thick and a touch rough. Although I'm afraid I make her sound a bit dim, I liked her. Her enthusiasm was earnest, and she gave the impression that she was truly listening when you spoke. She was impressed with us for travelling. She'd lived in both the UK and Greece, but they were both places she knew well, and she was terrified at the prospect of being far from home in a place she didn't understand. I mentioned Corinne's experiences in Israel, and the nature of the conversation was transformed. "Well that's where Jesus was!" Her eyes grew wide and seemed to glow. "He was really there, wasn't he!" It was as if we'd seen some celebrity at a pub. She wasn't having a religious experience as much as she was star struck. Corinne and I dutifully omitted mention of our heathen ways while she carefully worded her answers about various places that she and Jesus both occupied at different times. "Jesus. Really. Aw, I wish I could go there one day." And she left, her dark eyes still shining.