amsterdam.

A friend of a friend of Bonne's ex-boyfriend had passed on advice about where to go for "the best sandwiches in Amsterdam," and we wasted no time in locating the address. Our subsequent sighs and squeals of ecstasy as we wolfed down the salami cheese and rye, along with hearty pitchers of beer, were due largely to our belief in how good these sandwiches were; for all we knew, any corner shop or even gas station had a better offer. 

But we never took the time to find out; so great an impression was made that day by those sandwiches, those hot layers of salami amidst melting cheese and dark, crisp bread, the mid-day sun beaming down at us, the Heineken dancing merrily on our tongue, all of Amsterdam at our disposal... that on each preceding afternoon of our stay, varying levels of blood sugar and states of inebriation would find us pedaling our rented bikes wildly across the city,  desperate to reach the shop before it closed. We always made it in time, and the sandwiches were always hot and delicious, but they never quite managed to re-create the feelings of the first day; that hazy, heavy, hauntingly blissful feast.