Things in retrospect, no matter how ugly, always have an aura of salvaged beauty around them. I distinctly recall not particularly enjoying Amsterdam all that much, mostly due to the vicious wind and the dampening weather that have somehow permanently turned my warm hands cold. But reading The Fault in Our Stars, I remember more of the things that make that place beautiful to me: bicycle rides across the city in the rain; the fluttering pea-coat of some Dutch brunette; whistling with strangers in Vondelpark; the canals that scream ‘bath in me i’m pretty oh wait it’s winter so just lay down by the road and whisper needful things to me’; yellow Christmas lights reflection on rain-wet cobblestones; artists and flowers; walking around complicatedly-named streets in the glow of after nightfall and before daybreak; a mild case of missing someone I haven’t thought about for almost five years.