I’m writing these lines from carriage 13 of the Eurostar n°9381, seat number 31, nestled comfortably in the red velvet that still holds a trace of the day’s warmth. The train has just slipped out of Gare du Nord, gliding gently away from Paris—like a final glance cast toward the city before it fades from view. Just a few hours earlier, we had left Bordeaux beneath a slate-colored sky, aboard the 2:42 pm TGV bound for Montparnasse. A one-way trip. Or perhaps, a return to the beginning—to where it all started. We’re moving back to Amsterdam.

A few weeks ago, we found an apartment on the Amstel—that quiet river that threads through Amsterdam, curving here and there to blend with the canals as though it’s trying to dissolve into them. The apartment is modest in size, just enough for the two of us but bathed in a light so unreal it feels like a secret. It’s tucked away on the second floor of a red-brick building, typical of Amsterdam, built—if my research is correct—in 1912. Each floor holds only one apartment, lending the place a particular charm. The staircase is so narrow we had to hire a moving lifting to move in and obtain a special permit from the city to block off the road, which looks more like a bike lane. A completely ordinary scene here, yet one that makes me smile—a logistical detail turned almost poetic.

In this building, some of the decorative elements don’t lie: they unmistakably echo the Art Nouveau movement—or Nieuwe Kunst, as it’s called here in the Netherlands. Just before stepping inside, if you look up, your eyes will catch a rectangular stained-glass panel: a harmonious arrangement of geometric shapes where ornament meets precision. Vertical and arched lines rise like stylized floral stems, crowned by warm-toned diamonds—magenta, amber, garnet, pale lavender… hues that capture the light like opalescent jewels. In the entrance hall, this stained glass creates a diffused, almost liquid glow that stretches softly across the walls, casting rippling shadows. Suspended at the center of this haze hangs a green glass lantern, simple and angular, descending from a weathered brass hook. It feels faintly medieval, with its four caged panels; its deep green recalls the color of old apothecary bottles.

From the moment you enter, you’re welcomed by a composition of glazed ceramic tiles, typical of Dutch Art Nouveau. Arranged in narrow, symmetrical friezes, they resemble a kind of visual music that carries you to the end of the vestibule. On the side bands, a stylized flower—perhaps a fuchsia—repeats in a round medallion outlined by a fine border. The deep green of the tiles, crazed by time, evokes moss, damp undergrowth… lending the whole a texture that feels almost vegetal. Between these friezes unfurls a wide central band of abstract geometric motifs: interlaced arches, arabesques, stylized foliage in soft hues of blue, almond green, and powdered rose, punctuated by tiny four-petaled flowers. The whole composition is crowned by a carved brown frieze, its ridges shaped like gutters, delicately marking the threshold between nature and architecture—between two worlds.

And if one takes the time—a rare, necessary luxury—to raise one’s eyes to the ceiling, on either side of the vestibule, two tile murals face each other like pages of the same story. One might think the artist placed them not for those who pass by, but for those who pause. On the left, the scene Wielerwedstrijd in 1817—a bicycle race from another era. A bustling village, lined with gabled houses, teeming with figures in tailcoats and top hats, ladies in empire gowns, children darting about. At the center, riders mount draisiennes, those pedal-less bicycle ancestors, in a scene both comical and jubilant.

To the right, Wielersport in 1912 brings that same pastime into a bucolic and modern Dutch setting. Bike paths hug the canals, winding past windmills and suburban homes. Cycling has become an elegant, popular leisure. Women in dresses and hats, upright men, laughing children… In the distance, a zeppelin and a biplane graze the sky—discreet witnesses to the era’s technological bloom. These two murals, subtle and alive, mirror the shift from one world to another—from invention to shared modernity. They weave together social memory, artistic movement, and Dutch history, softly whispering a date: the year this building was erected—1912.

One hundred and thirteen years later, the Dutch love for cycling endures—perhaps it has even deepened. Those antique models are now electrified, carrying heavier loads, slowly replacing delivery trucks, school buses, and other motor vehicles. In Amsterdam, cars vanish from the streets, displaced by this elegant utility on two wheels.

It’s funny—my own story could be told in two murals. The first, in October 2020, when I first arrived in Amsterdam. I came with few expectations, convinced it would be no more than a one-year interlude. And now, in April 2025, I return—this time, with a different spirit. The desire to stay. To learn the language, to understand the culture, to make friends. As though one doesn’t truly live in a place until the heart has decided to put down roots.

I sometimes wonder: if the artist of the vestibule murals were alive today, what would he paint to capture our time? An electric bike, perhaps. Or a computer. An iPhone, an Instagram story, an algorithm. A 3D printer, a telescope, a rocket, an android, artificial intelligence? Or perhaps a man, a woman, whose mind is enhanced by a chip beneath the skin.

Standing before these 1912 frescoes—a vision of a world both distant and familiar—I feel a strange vertigo. A hundred years, barely three generations, and yet a chasm. It’s not that I long for a time I never knew, but sometimes… faced with the relentless acceleration of our era, I catch myself wishing time would stop. Just for a moment. Simply to savor the stillness.

Science advances, and with it, the world loses some of its enchantment. Aesthetics seem to have become a forgotten luxury. Just look at modern buildings: where are the red brick facades, the tiled vestibules, the colored glass, the careful details that once bore witness to craft, care, soul? Modernity now seems to favor reason over emotion, function over beauty, standardization over originality, profit over humanism.

But as my mind wanders through these thoughts, it gradually softens—lulled by the creak of wood beneath my steps, muffled by the dark carpet of the stairs. I climb. Slowly. The Amsterdam building is becoming, bit by bit, my new home.

The tile frieze glimpsed earlier follows me up the stairs, like a silent Ariadne’s thread, an invisible hand reaching out to welcome me. The steps are so steep and narrow I instinctively grasp the sculpted wooden handrail—it’s not there for decoration alone. It coils along the tiled wall with the grace of a calligraphic stroke, drawing elegant curves that embrace the angles without ever colliding. A single piece of wood, conceived as sculpture, bent by some technique I cannot fathom, yet one that commands admiration.

I keep climbing. The rail, slender and shaped, winds like a tamed vine along the stair’s twists. At the base, it curls into a timid scroll—almost a signature. At the top, it flares slightly and disappears into the wall, vanishing into the quiet of the landing.

That railing—its beauty almost makes me forget the staircase’s state of disrepair. The walls, cracked like veins on pale skin; the brush marks of a hurried paint job; the fissures at the ceiling joints… I wonder how the building still stands. And yet, with each step, I feel the stairs supporting me. They absorb weight, absorb sound. They breathe. They are alive. And here I am—second floor. My new home.

The moment you step through the door, the view strikes you, takes your breath away. You enter directly into the main room—an open space filled with light, living room, dining room, and kitchen all in one. Before me, five tall windows, each two meters high, look out over a soothing panorama: the Amstel, wide and serene, undulates softly beneath April’s light. You must step to the edge to glimpse the opposite bank—so immediate is the illusion of floating on water, it’s almost disorienting. The river’s bed is so wide that the buildings across the way are barely visible through the lacy foliage of trees lining the shore. The same trees I used to watch daily, five years ago, from the windows of my very first Amsterdam apartment, on Kloveniersburgwal.

Spring is here, unmistakably. Yellow blossoms have opened in the branches, and young green leaves tremble in the breeze. The air still holds the faint smell of fresh paint—chalky and pungent—mingled with that of newly laid oak floors: a scent of blond sawdust, sap, toasted grain—an earthy, almost living perfume that reminds me of the wooden chalets of my native Haute-Savoie. Reassuring. Familiar. Enveloping.

The former balcony has been fully enclosed, sealed with four tall windows, and merged into this singular space. A threshold between two worlds: outdoors, without quite being so. Perhaps a future winter garden. I already picture it: two little armchairs, a few potted plants, or maybe a Parisian bistro table with two woven rattan chairs, in the style of Maison Louis Drucker. The windows are so high you can see the sky from the back of the room. A flawless blue, without a cloud. The sun shines with rare intensity—a clarity more like summer, surprising for April. As if the sky were winking. A sign. A silent blessing for this return.

The Amstel sparkles under a thousand lights. To the left, the waiters at Café Hesp—an institution opened in 1890, one of the city’s oldest still in operation—are setting up the terrace by the riverbank, dressed in white shirts, black vests, and traditional aprons. Everything is still calm, peaceful, suspended. The first Amsterdammers are beginning their jogs; others, more daring—or perhaps simply used to it—dive into the cold river water. A local tradition, perhaps borrowed from Scandinavian ice baths, meant to stimulate the immune system. Slowly, the silence is broken by the rowing teams in training, by the gentle lapping of the first tourist boats gliding upriver toward the center, in search of the day’s early travelers. But while some are already on the move, others choose stillness. They settle onto the public benches along the shore, watching the light on the water, the hush of the morning.

The sun enters the apartment now, slowly, like a familiar guest. I think it already knows it will always be welcome here. Our things, our boxes, have arrived. They form a cheerful mess—a chaos that might overwhelm others. And yet, a strange sense of calm settles over me. As if, amidst this budding disorder, the one thing truly in its place in this room… is me.

It is from this apartment perched above the Amstel, between the soft creak of floorboards beneath my feet and the sunlight drifting slowly across the walls, that I will write to you. A Frenchwoman living in Amsterdam, sending her letters to readers from elsewhere: the United States, the United Kingdom, Canada, Australia… and farther still, to places where the sun sets at different hours, but where words travel freely, without borders. Unusual, you might say. But isn’t that what makes the story all the more beautiful?

I hope to share more of this life here than I ever did during my first stay in Amsterdam—or even in Bordeaux. I want to speak to you of the light that shifts each hour, of the muffled silences of the morning, of the slowness of gestures, and of everything that reveals itself only in the details. Perhaps it will inspire you to one day stroll along the canals. And perhaps—who knows—our paths will cross. I’ll be somewhere—on my Dutch bike, a sack of bread and fresh flowers in the basket, or seated by the water in a deckchair, a book on my lap, or else tapping away at my keyboard, composing the next letter. The one to follow. For sometimes, all it takes is to sit still for the whole world to come to you.

P.S. If this letter spoke to you, feel free to pass it along to someone dear—perhaps a friend who also finds comfort in quiet mornings, moving trains, and words that take their time. You can always write back, too. I love receiving letters, even the silent kind. And if this journey moved you in a particular way, you’re warmly welcome to treat me to a croissant. Just a simple gesture, but it helps me write the next one with a little more light in the morning.