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    Netherlands, almost without Amsterdam

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    And enthusiastically climbed up and down in a cute windmill, this one is in Nijmegen and looks a little over the little town that was once mistakenly bombed by our American friends, they actually have enough experience with bombing, they should be able to do that to some extent Have a handle like the Dutch do with their windmills.

    Cute, extremely organic, because I forgot to say, I'm in one that's still milling. And it has delightfully nice owners, but how can you not be nice in the cutest country in the world, in an emergency you can go to the next one

    Coffee shop


    By the way, it's extremely pleasant to get out of Amsterdam, even if it's more than a protest against the outrageous hotel and hostel prices, with 10 other fools who pay for it for 30 or 40 euros a night in a dormitory, you don't have to be mindful for that be born to boycott it a little.

    The only recommendation that a guide can give against such exorbitant prices, which one should only excuse with the excessive tourism that they then complain about but whose money they seem to love, would be couch surfing, but that also has to be organized months in advance.

    The windmill, yes, in a city with a green mayor, honestly, that has to be praised, stable anarcho scene, that also kicks a bit and a wide river, but if you have just been to the Rhine and love the Tejo, then you forget its name but too easy. 

    And next to the windmill there is a petting zoo and my host girl tells us that we live in a pit. A former wolf den in which the Romans kept underfed wolves captive in order to feed them unpleasant people or, of course, one or two ruffians or ne'er-do-wells.  


    Wolfskui


    it's called in the cutest language for the cutest country in the world. Some even cute islands or principalities are not yet countries, that has to be said. And the language also plays a role, which is why I have been coming back again and again for 30 years. I have no idea and barely understand a word, but I kind of like not understanding them. That keeps the magic going.

    And according to a smart, cheerful, exemplary professor of ancient cultures that I chatted to on the train to Utrecht, his students learned it easily in three months, which I find so cute. It's as if French, but mainly English and German, were constantly trying to translate themselves. And at some point no one thinks anymore about why or why. Your neighbor does it too.

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