Number by number we puzzle our way down the canal-lined street, wondering why we don't see our hotel's grand façade and big, glassy revolving door. Have we missed it? We check the itinerary again: 384. We are just single digits away, but cannot see it yet.
We make these kinds of mistakes, we think to ourselves.
We're new here.
In the course of an instant, the private, gated courtyard of the Dylan winks out from a crack in the architecturally impenetrable streets of Amsterdam, a pinhole in the endless procession of prim and tidy townhouses which tower along the Keizersgracht like spines on a densely-packed bookshelf. Two silver-haired porters in smart, dark suits graciously relieve us of our bags and welcome us with a humanizing dignity that is so often lacking in the anonymous life of a traveler. The swell of relief only grows—a process expertly-designed, it seems—as we explore the grand structure and its comforts more deeply.
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