We have found ourselves amongst the bustle and clamour of the Albert Cuyp market. I can smell flowers and coffee, leather, and incense. A cacophony of voices, languages mingling until I can isolate only the occasional word and pluck it from the chaos.
We had left the hotel and crossed the bridge over the Amstel in search of breakfast and a guitar shop we understood to be at the far end of the De Pijp district, to the south of Amsterdam city centre. We negotiated our way through a seemingly infinite swarm of bicycles but, despite appearances, there is an order to everything here, it’s just we are yet to discover the rules.