Something is happening in the neighborhood. It’s not a new thing, it’s just more vibrant now, for me at least, I think. My friend, while walking his dog, is assaulted around the corner. Three kids beat his eye socket with a metal bat, shattering it. Various cameras film it. Nobody is caught. To watch someone develop PTSD right in front of you.

Brunch with new acquaintances in the neighborhood, fellow corgi owners. The woman decided her future mother-in-law was weird for not liking dogs. It disappointed the Libanese man, who eventually found it in his heart to overlook the initial character flaw. On dating apps, the woman found it most effective to set her filters exclusively to Middle Eastern men. She recounts all the times Muslim kids in the neighborhood responded poorly to the dog.

It’s late in the morning and I’m on my way to Gerimedica, the company’s I’m excited to be joining in May, which is next week already. I’m on my bike listening to an American podcast about the history of Dutch anarchist cycling culture.¹ The scene could only be more Dutch if I had a frying pan with bitterballen on the back of my bike.

The commute is wonderful: it takes me from the East side of Amsterdam via De Pijp and Vondelpark to perhaps the most beautiful building I’ve ever had the privilege of calling my office. I cross the river Amstel, enjoy the sun, and marvel at the preparations people have been making.

Spring is here, I think? I spend the afternoon in the park with ex-colleague-turned-friend Susan, who is celebrating landing a new and challenging job. There’s a boy in the park who’s walking around barefoot. Later we see him on a slack line. I like this scene; it tells me that summer is almost upon us.

I never seem skilled at enjoying whatever season is here. Instead I’m forever yearning for what’s just out of reach. On Javastraat I pass a travel agency, the target audience of which most certainly is concerned with visiting Morocco or Turkey during the summer months. Surprisingly, there’s a wide array of names that would inspire city trips around the world.

What I love most about today’s snapshot is the despair I can see in Lemonade’s eyes even when her entire body is a background blur. DJ is a calm 12-year-old dog, and Lemonade was thrilled to see another dog in our home for the first time, but her energy level was high enough that I eventually brought her back to her crate. It was right in time, too, because the afternoon light filling the living room made for a nice little portrait.

Life sure is different now that we’ve gotten Lemonade on a proper walking schedule. She still feels most comfortable going potty on the puppy pads we have on our balcony, but she absolutely loves going out and exploring the neighborhood.

I’m surprised by how well she walks on a loose leash, and how few issues we’ve had with the stuff she puts in her mouth. I’m hoping to make most use of her imprint period, and that means familiarizing her with as many different things as possible.