Seeing Liam Brady in Terminal 2 on the way over, he carrying his suit from the previous night's broadcast and looking efficient with the world.
Chatting with her da about the Irish Times iPad application, while she and her mam went off in search of airport things, after a breakfast of rashers that were crispy enough.
Landing at Schiphol, led this way and that.
The bikes. Jesus Christ, the bikes. I would learn later there are nearly as many as there are people, and figured it would be ironic if one ran me over in Dublin.
The cheese. Jesus Christ, the cheese. Everywhere in free chunks with cocktail sticks and sometimes wine too.
Having no interest in the coffee shops, though I wanted to go in and just order a coffee.
Counting tulips in Keukenhof. There were seven million and six. I was tired afterwards.
The Movenpick Hotel, where they'd run out of ice cream.
The big wheel in Dam Square, my nausea, and her hand.
The tram driver who told us not to forget to beep off. "If you forget, your card will explode in your pocket."
The lobby of the Victoria Hotel, where we pretended to be paying guests, just to have somewhere to sit.
Our actual hotel, seven different themes going on at once, and walking from the lobby straight into the bathroom.
"For a €4 entrance fee, how good can the sex museum actually be?"
The Anne Frank house, steep stairs, and that picture of Otto returning to the attic.
The shout of baseball hats in the Van Gogh museum.
Being a tourist, getting annoyed at tourists.
Croissants with Nutella.
So many Porsches doing a circuit on Friday night that she lost count. She loved the noise of them, and was a little bit drunk.
Two bottles of Duvel before an awards show, and very rude women who wouldn't shut up.
Looking to my left, seeing the red lights.
Waffles with chocolate sauce.
The cloying nature of Ron and Nel, fictitious canal trip guides.
Sharing the front of the cabin with Jedward on the way home. They bought perfume, presumably for their mam, and were none too pleased when the Sky Clown shortchanged them.