Back in the very beginning days of Scott + Kristin—in 2005, before there hardly was such a thing—we lived in Holland. I shared a bed with my best friend Megan in the attic of some horrid Surinamese woman’s home in Utrecht (I really must tell you that story one day); Scott lived a half an hour away by bike in his own roomy digs in Zeist. Luckily, none of us were ever home much, as we looked at Europe as our playground. And sometimes, that included indulging in even the most touristy of activities.
And in Holland, touristy translates to, well, windmills and wooden shoes.
And funny-looking wax women from the days of yore.
You see, in Zaanse Schans, just a 20-minute train ride north of Amsterdam, there’s about the most touristy living museum you’ll ever find. Which obviously meant we had to go. Stat.
There was also a cheesemaker and blacksmith shop, but we preferred to spend our time frolicking among the windmills, like quintessential (wannabe) Dutch children.
But once the sun sank down behind the dikes and canals and valleys, our day of childish fun wasn’t over yet. En route back to our respective homes, we swung by Amsterdam, hit up the night Christmas market and took a spin on the carousel.
And it’s exactly carefree days like these, with nothing on our plates and not a worry in the world, that I miss about our time living in Europe. Oh, to be 22, jobless, homeless and blissfully unaware like that again. Instead, I’m one week shy of 27, in a constant state of stress over deadlines and from where the next paycheck might come, living in an amazing apartment in the most amazing city with an even more amazing dude, who I happened to fall in love with somewhere among all the windmills and cheese and wooden shoes and am now marrying in just 99 days—so hey, things aren’t looking too bad either way.