Last night French Boy and I decided to eat out. It’s a rare decision for a Monday night, but I hadn’t made it to the grocery store during the day as I had planned (note: I didn’t MAKE the time to GO to the grocery store) and we had no food to speak of in this little boat of ours.
So off we went, with no plan in mind of where to go.
We ended up at the only Indonesian restaurant that we truly love here in Amsterdam. Dining in this restaurant is a rarity on any given night because usually it’s too packed and we are too spontaneous to make a reservation so we just don’t go. But last night, it was just nicely packed which means we didn’t have to wait too long for a table. So we went to the bar and ordered some wine, and then in no time, our table was ready.
But I’m not writing all this to tell you about the restaurant, or what we drank, or what we ate. I’m writing to tell you how this place makes me feel. And the only word that I can find that comes close to the feeling is ‘home’.
However. I’ve never lived in Indonesia. I don’t speak Indonesian, and let’s be honest, my skin is almost as white as it can come, with a splattering of freckles to boot.
So how is it that the moment I open the door to this bustling dining hall, I feel ‘home’? Well, this is my theory…