It is still funny. I have been living in Utrecht for three months now, and I still hesitate when somebody asks me what the hell I am doing in this city. It reminds me of the amazement some friends showed when I told them I was going to take a Dutch intensive course in Amsterdam in July. Then, the summer “Dutch: what for?” blossomed into the autumnal “and why Utrecht?”

I look around, searching for shelter, trying to answer as vaguely as possible, falling back on the catch-all answer to this question I have carefully developed through these months, longing for a twist in the conversation that saves me this anguish. Anguish of not knowing. Anguish of just feeling. I would like to tell them I do not really know, but when I look them in the eyes, I am certain they won't understand. They will just think I am a stupid little girl who is now accidentally in Utrecht, but who could as well be in Firenze, Birmingham, Warsaw, or anywhere in the States. They cannot understand there was something special about Utrecht, this city that sometimes seems more like a town. This vast town that struggles to be a big city. They won't understand that, remembering having read long ago about a Peace Treaty signed there – though ignoring how to pronounce its name, ignoring its history, its culture, its secrets – I ventured to discover what was hidden behind the name of this place: Utrecht. This was my first choice when I filled in the papers for my Erasmus scholarship. But is it still that special?

For those who expected a negative answer to the question, this essay is finished. For all the rest, I will be honest: you learn how to appreciate Utrecht once you are part of it. It is similar to what happens with Dutch people: you hate them in the beginning, yet you later turn out to be fond of them. There is a moment when you even kind of start fancying their sense of humor. No grudge, please. I will try to explain my experience and the conclusions I drew from it, so that you can decide later if you will forgive me.