Dear Amsterdam,

sorry but you’re the least favorite among my trips, so far, ‘cause you just simply remind me of some not-so-good moments. I hate how you made me run my way from my friend’s flat in Vauxhall to a not-so-obvious bus stop at 4am just to catch the airport-bound bus—well I partly blame it on my poor sense of direction—I almost miss the bus trip and could have caused missing my flight as well. But I made it anyway; thanks to my strong legs.

I hate how you made me drink my pre-boarding morning coffee alone in the airport, when I could have vented out the morning rush with someone. I was extremely pissed off that I didn’t want to contaminate everyone else of my not-so-good-mood, so I decided to have some time alone.

I hate how you made me hope to see Augustus Waters and Hazel Grace in one of your cinemas—I hate how it (seemed to have) ruined my first day in Amsterdam, because to be honest, that was my ultimate purpose of visiting you. Crazy, isn’t it?

I hate how we can’t stay too late in your busy city centre because we had to travel far to go home to another town. We spent more time in commuting and walking just to get to the city centre from our hostel, and it was just a bit tiring.

And most importantly, I hate how things turned out days after the trip—of how it made me cry for a couple of nights—of how it just made everything feel so awful. Those days that followed were not the best days of my life. Hence, you are my least favorite.