When I was going through immigration at Schipol airport, the young woman leafing through my passport looked up at me and asked, what are you in Amsterdam for? My first thought was, isn’t everyone here…to get a little high? Do a little dance…make a little love…you know, get down tonight? I then thought to try and give her the short version of the truth - which is that I live in Belgrade and my future husband lives in Paris and we occasionally like to spend a weekend somewhere where neither one of us has to do the dishes. We’re not married yet, but I’m fairly certain I’ve already figured out that one of the great secrets to a happy marriage is a third person who does the housekeeping.

But what’s the short version? By this point I’m overcome with panic. I’m one of those people who is inclined to believe they’re guilty of something whenever approached by someone in uniform. Quick! Say something, say anything. (Except for tourism. You are actually a tourist, but everyone hates tourists, and you need to be liked by everyone everywhere so you cannot admit to being a tourist.) And so I blurted out the noblest, most concise, and most above-board response I could think of. One word, three letters, I didn’t even bother putting it into a sentence. ART.