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About Utrecht

So, we chat—turns out, she’s savin’ for somethin’ big. “A little plant of hope,” she says, like WALL-E’s dream. I’m touched, man—didn’t expect feels on this mission. I slip her extra quid, sayin’, “Keep the groove alive, baby!” She winks, and I’m off, struttin’ like I own the night.

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Then I hit up the local market on the Markt. Man, the smell of fresh stroopwafels hit me like a freight train. I had to get one. Or two. Okay, maybe three. Don’t judge! They were calling my name. I’m standing there, stuffing my face, when I see this old lady, Mrs. van Dijk, trying to haggle over some flowers. She’s like, “I’ll give you two euros for those tulips!” The vendor’s like, “Lady, they’re ten!” And she’s all, “But they’re wilted!” I’m dying laughing. Udenhout’s got character, for real.

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