Little burbling baby? The only people in Amsterdam who are awake and happy at 3:30 a.m. are high or cavorting with prostitutes. Go to bed, kid.

We head back to Amsterdam Tuesday. On our last visit I was oblivious to my new state of pregnancy, which made me very moody (you may recall the Midget Busker Incident). I’m hoping the entire city won’t seem so vaguely uncomfortable this time around. Of course, this time we’ll have a baby with us, so perhaps that’s wishful thinking. Speaking of which, comments on taking international flights with infants and “Amsterdam with a baby” ideas would be much appreciated.

Originally uploaded by MaggieMason.

Bryan left me at a cafe while he went to make photocopies. I didn’t have a book with me, so I took photos of all the bikers who passed.

Bird Sticker

Originally uploaded by MaggieMason.

A few firsts I experienced in Amsterdam:

Small bird stickers on the huge train station windows keep birds from smacking into them.
Raw sausages
Lights go from red to yellow to green.
Bitterballen, a bar snack that tastes like deep-fried gravy with bits of meat.
Soap dispensers that sprayed soap in a fine mist.
Soft and salty licorice.
Brie with a big hole in the middle of the wheel, making for easy slicing.
Sex with a prostitute. (Okay, three prostitutes.)

Between jet lag and three days of 24-hour sun in Iceland, we roll out of bed on our first day in Amsterdam at around 1:30 p.m.

This same afternoon Bryan needs to look at the theater where Adaptive Path is holding its workshop, so we set out together. We are groggy, hungry, cranky, and mildly disoriented. It’s times like this when Bryan decides to be wrong about everything.

We bicker all the way to our destination, where I decide to leave him to his work and have breakfast without him, as I have obviously married an insane person and need some time alone to think about what Jennifer Connolly would do in my situation.

I mope my way over to a quiet table at a restaurant situated on a cobblestone square. I order, open my magazine, and settle in to nurse my wounds over a long, peaceful article about scandal in the world of ornithology.

At just this moment, a guitar player stops in front of me. He begins to strum. I press my lips until they are perfectly horizontal with distaste. He strums louder. I glower at him from under my eyebrows and furrow my forehead. He moves a few steps closer.

He is strumming a Beatles tune. Such a familiar one that it’s difficult to concentrate over the noise. I hold my magazine in front of my face and begin to count backwards from ten.

Then, a singing midget strolls from the square to join him.

You heard me.

This, of course, is a personal insult from the universe delivered with a small white card on which my name is inscribed. It is the perfect storm of busking. As the little person launches into her version of “Crazy Little thing Called Love,” I slouch deeper into my chair and begin to whimper.

By contrast, the couple at the next table gives out a whoop and claps in time, bouncing in their chairs. What is this crazy thing, they wonder? This crazy little thing called love? As it turns out, my psychic powers are not strong enough to cause them to spontaneously combust.

As each song ends, I will it to be the last. Instead, the midget waxes philosophical about love, smoothly transitioning into the next ditty. “Ladies and gentleman, while it’s true that money can’t buy me love, it’s something each and every one of us needs. After all, without love where would we be now?”

My breakfast finally arrives, and I fume over my eggs, as they croon two more Beatles songs, “Eternal Flame,” and several Doobie Brothers classics.

At each new song, the couple next to me whoops anew. They have begun to sing along. I contemplate throwing my knife at them, and decide it would be too risky. I contemplate throwing my fork at them. Finally, things seem to be wrapping up.

“And we thank you, ladies and gentlemen for ‘listenin’ to the music,’ and we ask you, isn’t it a ‘wonderful world’?”

Midway through the song, just as you can hear Louis Armstrong moaning softly from his grave, Bryan arrives. Comforting, sweet, mobile Bryan. “Wow,” he says. “You lucked out.” I sigh heavily, drop my head to his shoulder, and reach for the bill.