Is there any more intensely lived time than the hours spent on a hasty stopover between flights? Amsterdam seems ideally suited to this, being a city small enough to briefly grasp hold of. On a rainy morning I took a cab ride to the only cafe I found open at 7am and was whisked as if in a dream by a cabbie in a pinstriped suit jacket to a soundtrack of moody music that felt like a Wim Wenders movie from the '80s. My destination would be the Rijksmuseum for a one-hour whirlwind art history tour. Arriving there and realising what awaited me, I got quite emotional. I felt privileged. As if I had been plucked from the sky and placed in front of some of humankind's greatest achievements. The beauty of these works and their significance momentarily blotted out everything else. There was only paint and light. And the footprints of those who came before - seemingly indelible in this fleeting world.