Back in April, my daughter and I came to the Netherlands to visit her new school and search for a house. Our trip ended with a day in Amsterdam, a city that winds around the North Sea with countless canals threading through narrow streets. And yes, there are thousands of bikes, parked everywhere.
Honestly, I have no idea how anyone remembers where their own bike is. I do know that bikes get stolen here all the time. I suppose it’s a little Dutch “give and take” philosophy: I’ll take yours, but if you can find mine later, it’s yours too.
On a normal day, Amsterdam is already bustling with over a million people. But we happened to visit on Queen’s Day, the nationwide celebration of the royal family’s birthday. We took a train into the center, and my jaw nearly hit the tracks. First, no one told us orange was mandatory … every person, every hat, every outfit screamed orange pride. Second, the party… oh, the party. It made every festival I’ve ever been to look like a quiet Sunday stroll.
Beer flowed freely, vendors sold every imaginable trinket, children screamed with joy on carnival rides, and people were everywhere—on streets, canals, and I swear, hanging out of windows.
It was a day to celebrate like there’s no tomorrow. And yet, I had one more quest: to visit Anne Frank’s house.
The line was surprisingly short, but the moment we stepped inside, everything shifted. No photos. No chatter. Not a sound. My mind raced as I thought about the courage of this one little girl, writing down her deepest thoughts and prayers in the midst of unimaginable fear. Her father shared her story with the world, never knowing just how deeply it would resonate.
And there I stood, in this quiet room, surrounded by the weight of history. Outside, the streets were overflowing with laughter, music, and orange-clad revelers. Inside, silence. Heavy footsteps, hushed voices, reverent hearts. I couldn’t help but think about the cruel contrast—the chaos of life outside versus the tiny, constrained world Anne lived in. This was one story, one brave voice, but there were countless others that were never told.
Walking back into the streets of Amsterdam after that, the energy hit me differently. The music, the laughter, the celebration, all felt richer, knowing the history that lingered silently beneath the canals and cobblestones.
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