Amsterdam is a city full of people from somewhere else.
Gay expats are everywhere. Men who came here for the freedom, the openness. For the feeling that this is the place.
And then.
Belonging and feeling at home are not the same thing.
There are little doors that close. In the conversation at the bar. On the dancefloor. In the friend group that’s been here for years.
Something doesn’t quite come in. Doesn’t quite land.
It’s not the country. It’s not the language.
It’s something from before, that came along.
There are men who start over again and again. New city, new circle, new story.
The new becomes ordinary after a while.
And then, in a quiet moment, the question is suddenly there.
Where am I actually at home?
Does this sound familiar?