As I have often written, life in Amsterdam is different from my life in the U.S. in oh so many ways. One of the biggest differences I noticed right off the bat nearly two years ago is the role of the police. In my first week here, I had two encounters with the police. O.K., I wasn't actually in trouble, but I did get a chance to observe the men and women in blue in action. And those two encounters taught me a lot. The first took place at a tram stop, which we watched from the window of a restaurant. An old gentleman carrying an array of plastic bags was waiting for a tram. The next thing we knew, policemen were circling him. Uh oh, my U.S.-self thought. Then I observed that rather than arresting or hassling him, the police seemed to be taking to him. And talking to him some more. This went on for a good long time. Soon an ambulance pulled up and the man was laid out inside it. We continued on with our dinner, and the ambulance stayed put. After 15 minutes or so, the man emerged from the back of the ambulance. There was another long powwow with the assembled police force. Then the man took a seat at the tram stop, and the police and ambulance went on their merry way.

The second incident was what I dubbed Naked Man in the Park. Again in my first week here, I was taking a walk with Casey. I saw a small group of people looking over at a playground. As I approached, I saw what kept them looking: a man clad only in his underwear, sitting on some of the playground equipment. He was accompanied by two policemen. Again, there was a long discussion of some kind. I assumed he would be handcuffed and escorted away, possibly after a physical, or at the very least, a verbal altercation. That's just what you worry about when you see a "crazy" person and the police in the U.S. Instead of that swift kick of justice, I just saw talking. And more talking. So much talking, in fact, that I did what all the other onlookers did: just continued on with my walk. A good 20 minutes later, when I was heading back in the opposite direction, I saw the police walking with the man. One was holding his ankles, and the other his wrists, and they were heading back to the police car, with the man swaying gently back and forth. What was remarkable about both of these situations is how much talking and how little anger there was. Maybe it's all of that time on their bicycles that makes the police so comparatively relaxed.

Some people say although there are many laws and rules in Amsterdam, citizens don't necessarily obey all those laws. In fact, they think of laws as merely "suggestions". In a city that prides itself on its "anything goes" attitude, it makes sense that the police aren't in your face, or even anywhere to be found at times. So although there are rules about things like throwing trash into a giant pile right next to the very welcoming trash can or riding a motorbike in the park, the police don't necessarily see it as their duty to stop you. They might in fact pass right by and ignore the infraction. It seems like the main objective is to avoid trouble at all costs, even if at times that means turning a blind eye to rule-breakers.

There is good reason for the Dutch to be proud of their approach to crime. Their prisons are so empty that they are not only closing prisons, but have recently actually imported criminals from Norway to stock the Dutch prisons. Needless to say, that is not the case in the U.S. There have been some recent cases of police violence in the Netherlands, including the killing of a black man while in police custody that sparked riots. These incidents, while certainly troubling, don't happen nearly as often, it seems, as they do in the U.S. Fingers crossed this isn't one aspect of American culture that the Dutch will seek to emulate.

Meanwhile, I read about the police news in the U.S.: Ferguson, Baltimore, Staten Island, Milwaukee. The list grows and grows. And along with the police news comes news of mass shootings from Orlando to San Bernadino. The rest of the world remains utterly confused by our uniquely American attitude towards guns. Even in situations where talk of gun violence might seem out of place, the subject comes up. For example, when I took an online literature class through Colgate University, the British writer Martin Amis began his discussion of his book The Zone of Interest by telling his audience of students and faculty in Hamilton, NY (and those - like me - listening remotely) that maybe if there weren't so many guns stowed in people's pockets, the police wouldn't be so on edge, and there would be less police violence. You might ask yourself why a British author feels the need to weigh in on the gun control problems the U.S. is facing. On the other hand, he now lives in New York, so he does have a personal stake in the issue. With the ability to see things more clearly from his far-away culture, he linked the recent spate of police shootings of black men to our seemingly cavalier (to the rest of the world) attitude towards gun control. Recently, the questions about why Americans are so fixated on owning guns has been replaced by perplexed, "What on earth"-remarks about Donald Trump. I'll save politics for another blog. Suffice it to say that I feel like I'm doing a lot of U.S.-explaining about issues for which I have no answers.

Bookending the questions from folks in Europe about guns and Trump are the questions from friends and family in the U.S. about terrorist attacks in Europe. Paris, Brussels, Nice, Munich: Europe has its own share of geographical codes that stand now for a frightening sense that nowhere is safe. "Is everything O.K. In Amsterdam?" we are often asked. In a city in which, as I've reported above, the police are remarkably hard to find, I've seen a bit more of their presence lately. Then again, once this summer in VondelPark, I saw them attending to a man who had found a colorful bird. I have to hope that they are at the ready if something terrible were ever to happen.

The young Americans sitting on the bench smoking weed were pleasantly surprised that the police paid no attention to them or to their aromas. After all, there was a lost bird to attend to.

Even with the terrifying rise in terrorist attacks in Europe, it still all somehow felt far away to me. That is, until the attack in Nice happened. Rachel and I were there, in the very spot where the truck mowed down 84 innocent Bastille Day celebrators. We met up in Nice after she spent 10 days as a mother's helper in St. Tropez. Rough life, you might think, but a two year old is a two year old, whether in St. Tropez or somewhere decidedly less beautiful. Luckily for us, we had to get back to Amsterdam to greet one of Rachel's visiting friends. When texts and FB messages came in the day we returned, asking me if we were still in Nice, I hadn't heard the news yet. When I did, I realized we had dodged a bullet. Rachel phrased it so well when she wrote about how it could have been us. She linked that feeling of relief to what her black friends feel when they read about yet another police shooting. It was not a link I had ever made for myself, but it makes so much sense.

I arrived in Nice to a frenzy of excitement about the European championship soccer match that evening between France and Portugal. Peter and I had plunged headfirst into the excitement over this tournament. I even remembered (mostly) to refer to the matches as "football" not "soccer" and to nod with bitter disappointment when tales surfaced of how the Netherlands was knocked out of the running and didn't even make the tournament. This was a national disaster of tragic proportions, I'm told. It was exciting enough to cheer on Italy at a crowded reeking-of-smoke bar in Amsterdam even without the Netherlands in the mix. Being in France for the finals was thrilling. I was alone, awaiting Rachel's arrival the next day. So like any self-respecting old lady, I retired to my hotel room by game time to watch from the safe and quiet confines of my little room. I must admit that the thought fleetingly crossed my mind that the large crowds made beautiful Nice a terrorist target. I chased those thoughts away, telling myself that those things happen only in big cities, not in picturesque small cities nestled safely against the sea.

Getting ready for the big game by tucking into some delicious food. This is France, after all, and food takes precedence over football.

It saddens me to think that these terrorist hits can forever change our associations with beautiful places. So from now on, will Nice be the place where a truck mowed down people enjoying a national holiday? I want to remember the beauty and the energy, the juicy dripping peach we shared and the patient woman at my hotel who let me practice my French, but those memories are confused in my mind with the headlines I woke up to after we returned to Amsterdam.

The sun, the flowers, the blue sky each and every day: each one were such a welcome sight after a grey summer in Amsterdam.

The Chagall Museum, perched up in a hilltop neighborhood, was a nice break from the beach.

I thought a lot about the difference between travel now and travel during that pre- or post-college whirlwind tour. Now I have time to walk around and more money to spend, even if I do need more sleep and more food than I did back then.

Even at 10 p.m., the streets were filled with people.

Like an angel from heaven, this waterfall appears at the top of the hill overlooking Nice. This means you can scale those heights even on a hot day and instantly cool off.

And after a long day, you can refresh yourself with amazing food, just as we did.

I'll admit that the day after we returned from Nice, feeling both lucky and sad, I wondered how I would ever get back on a plane and go anywhere. It's easy to want to curl up into a ball or hide in some underground bunker, safe from the next tragedy. I'm angry that our kids have to grow up in a world where it's not just a question of if, but when the next incident will happen. I'm angry that as a 4th grade teacher, I had to practice "active shooter drills" with my students, when we crouched in the corners of the classroom and tried to keep quiet and still. It would be tempting to find some eternally quiet place and stay there forever. Since those places no longer exist, somehow you pick yourself up and realize you just can't live life like that. You have to do a little ignoring, and deep breathing in airports, because the alternative - that bunkered life - is even scarier. Rachel's para-sailing adventure in Nice seemed like a good metaphor here: you have to get up there and sail through the air sometimes just to appreciate the firm ground beneath you. And you have to keep hoping that you're lucky. I'm also hoping we can look forward to a time when more of us can trust the police to help us feel safe. Here's hoping that time isn't far away.

Here are Arthur and Janet, stars of a previous blog post about their trip to Amsterdam. He's pictured here with just some of his many fans. Arthur happens to have ALS, but is not letting that define him. He reminds me what it truly means to count yo… — Here are Arthur and Janet, stars of a previous blog post about their trip to Amsterdam. He's pictured here with just some of his many fans. Arthur happens to have ALS, but is not letting that define him. He reminds me what it truly means to count your blessings and to make the most of each day you are lucky enough to have. Thanks, Arthur.

The beginning of the video is really silly, but I still love the song. Does it matter if you're black or white? "I'm not going to spend my life being a color," he sang. We're not there yet, Michael. Maybe someday.