I wanted the brownie.
We were in Amsterdam for the weekend. It was my only chance. Yes, I could find a brownie in Stuttgart, but I wasn’t going to risk it. I am Colombian; I wasn’t about to shoot myself in the foot. I didn’t want to be the stereotypical tourist, but I was about to be, though I swore I would eat it privately to avoid all theatrics. Jonatán and I drove for seven hours in our rented Peugeot and arrived to a quiet suburb of the city late at night. The hotel was large and modern, with high ceilings and glass walls. It was raining. Jonatán was silly about the parking, made me ask the receptionist whether we could park in the hotel’s parking lot.
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