There is no escaping the fog tonight. Walking outside, I enter a painting. The city is rendered in dazzling hues and chiaroscuro shades by the oldest of Old Masters, Nature herself.
Whoever ventures outside is disoriented, but those paying attention know this bewilderment is a gift – a second sight that allows us to see the city as if for the first time, wandering the maze of streets with rapt gazes, rediscovering the landmarks we thought we knew by heart. We are immersed in a new Amsterdam, an Amsterdam of shadow and mystery, where quiet dramas play out by pastel reflecting pools and neon lights. The silence is interrupted by tram bells ringing in the distance.
Identifying characteristics have vanished, and the city becomes a glowing archetype, a dreamscape metropolis fashioned from vintage film noir sets. I am lost, but I don’t mind. What we lose in distance and detail, we gain in atmosphere – where once stood solid buildings and bridges, there is only a forest of unfamiliar shapes looming in the fog.
We need not worry if we can find our way back home – old Amsterdam will still be there, waiting for us, when the fog lifts with the morning light.
