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.