I had 12 hours between flights in the Netherlands. It was still dark when we landed at Schiphol at 7am, so I hung around in the airport until it was daylight and then got a train into Amsterdam.
I like getting out into a city for a few hours between flights. It feels a bit risky, leaving your bags behind somewhere in the bowels of the airport, and trusting that you can get back in time for the next flight. And I always have the temptation of leaving everything behind anyway, ditching my luggage and my plans and starting a new life as a permanent traveller.
But I just went to Amsterdam. It was a cold grey December Sunday and everything was quiet at first, but later on the town centre filled up with Christmas shoppers. I wandered randomly, stopping for lots of coffees. At some point I passed a monument to the murdered Jews of the city. I thought back to the fake guns of Wai’an, 6,000 miles away, and thought about the unbelievably horrific scale of the second world war.
After a long wander through the grey streets, I headed back to the airport and flew to Paris. There I had a few more hours to kill but I’ve seen Paris enough times not to need to go there for a couple of hours on a dark winter’s evening, so I just waited for my Chile flight. 48 hours after I’d left Taipei, I was crossing the Andes and descending into Santiago.