Park it and be merry.

Just the other day I led mission of rediscovery. I rekindled a few joys that were put on the back burner for a bit. I forgot the pleasure aroused from getting pleasantly lost in a city. Forgot how lovely it feels to just journey and find your way; to be okay not knowing the specifics of everything, not knowing the details and directions. Everything is beautiful and in the end, the way will be found and all will be okay. 

I ride along the canals, feeling for the first time that I am a car. My bicycle and I are a dream team, following the rules of the road. My arm extends to signal my right on red. My bell dings, alerting the tourists about to stumble in the bike lane that they shouldn't dare to step in my way. My balance is steady and for two seconds I loosen my grip, uncurl my fingers and let my hands drop to the side. My bike and I are in complete unison. Glorious. As we tip to the left I grab the handles, the seconds coming to an end. My grin is two-chubby-cheeks wide. 

My destination is soon found as the gates of Vondelpark welcome me. I cycle through the pathways, eyes peering for the perfect point to set up camp. A spot along a pond calls to me and I stretch my paisley duvet across the grass. 

I set my ipod speakers to my "PLINK" playlist, a playlist reminiscent of spring cruises during senior year of university. It reminds me of leaving the NY border for 'everything is better in Pennsylvania.' I unravel Bambolê, my half English, half Brazilian travel hoop. Within seconds I am reminded of a happiness left unfulfilled due to an affair I've been kindling with my bicycle. I forgot how happy hooping makes me. My hips are ready as I give Bambolê a push. My body catches the hoop and it is as if no time has passed. 

I find my groove and begin to spin as a woman is revealed, walking up to the tree my bicycle lays against. She knocks on the wood, looks up waving and says hello. I watch amused, wondering whether she is speaking to a bird, squirrel, or the tree itself. As my hoop turns she spins around and proceeds to greet the tree behind her. 

The playlist shifts as Bambolê drops down, twirling around my knees. Behind me I find a woman across the grass waving her camera. She points at it, then at me, then lifts a hesitant thumbs up. My mind transports itself back to days of meeting up at the Binghamton fountain, skipping classes for sunshine and prime-time hula sessions, performing for the students passing between classes. It reminds me that a slew of strangers currently possess photos of Hula Hope: the 'hula club.' Members: Ian Thomas Franks, Jillian Maxwell, and Kourtney T. Smith. 

Instinctively I pose, hands in the air as she fumbles to capture the photo. The camera clicks and the music shifts. With that I turn to see a Dutch posse approaching, watching and smiling as they get closer to my performance. Naturally I begin a routine of tricks, throwing Bambolê over my head, dropping him to my knees, spinning him around my neck and arms. They begin to speak to me in Dutch, their phrases feeling endless as I wait to throw in an "Engels, alstublieft?" One asks, "are you in the circus?" as another chimes in inquiring if I spend my days 

practicing hooping in the park. They linger, transfixed, slowly relocating to another spot across the pond, 

still watching from the bushes. I turn once more with the switching of songs and am startled to notice a 

fountain of piss spraying from the hose of an old man. 

...And with that, I pack my bicycle bag and decide it is time to journey home after a successful It's stay. 

only a matter of time before another adventure in unveiled.