Sometimes it snows in April

Although the title might suspect otherwise, the weather here in Amsterdam is amazing. It’s spring, but it pretty much feels like summer. Smiling faces everywhere, the parks are full with people having drinks and picnics and all bars have their terraces overwhelmed with people looking for refreshments.

I’m strolling down the streets and pass Beurs van Berlage, Amsterdams former commodity exchange. It’s now used as a venue for conferences and exhibitions.

I was there a few weeks back, for an exhibition that really got me. I knew he was a legend, I knew he’d made so many great songs, taught so many how to play and just didn’t want to stop while on the stage. But seeing everything from so close, his instruments, his outfits, his handwritten lyrics, with live performances everywhere and so much information about the man really amazed me.

Prince Rogers Nelson, better known as Prince, was found dead two years ago today in his home at Paisley Park Studios at the age of 57.

I’m strolling down the streets with the sun on my skin, it’s spring in the city, but it kind of feels like summer! But in my head I sing these lyrics:

Sometimes it snows in April
Sometimes I feel so bad
Sometimes I wish that life was never ending
And all good things, they say, never last

My Name Is Prince, the official exhibition will be in Amsterdam until June 8, 2018.
www.mynameisprince.amsterdam

The eye of God Himself

At night the body of clouds advancing higher up the sky smothers the whole quiet gulf below with an impenetrable darkness, in which the sound of the falling showers can be heard beginning and ceasing abruptly—now here, now there. Indeed, these cloudy nights are proverbial with the seamen along the whole west coast of a great continent. Sky, land, and sea disappear together out of the world when the Placido—as the saying is—goes to sleep under its black poncho. The few stars left below the seaward frown of the vault shine feebly as into the mouth of a black cavern. In its vastness your ship floats unseen under your feet, her sails flutter invisible above your head. The eye of God Himself—they add with grim profanity—could not find out what work a man’s hand is doing in there; and you would be free to call the devil to your aid with impunity if even his malice were not defeated by such a blind darkness.

She shores on the gulf are steep-to all round; three uninhabited islets basking in the sunshine just outside the cloud veil, and opposite the entrance to the harbour of Sulaco, bear the name of “The Isabels.”

Don’t mess with Cop

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