About my first time

This is my very last time. And what do you do when you do something for the last time? Take a breath and think about all those first times. First times stick with you, no matter how clumsy and awkward they sometimes are.

The very first time I rang the bell at the Amayzine office on Pilotenstraat for an appointment. The steel door that made such a noise when I closed it behind me that I jumped a little. The walk through the editorial offices to the cozy kitchen. That very first coffee of thousands (really) of coffees. And the first time May gave me a pinch on my arm. I still remember how it sounded, I still remember how it smelled, I still remember what I saw.

My first piece for Amayzine about double last names I spelled out letter by letter, to ensure there were no mistakes before I sent it to our editor Maartje. Who later, and probably this time too, saved me from grammatical discomfort. I dreamed about it when it went online, as if I was taking my final exams again. Why? Because it was my dream job. I followed May, Jet, Liesbeth, and Josselin from the first post that appeared.

As soon as I walked into the editorial office, I knew it. I had to and would work at Amayzine. Even if it was as a dishwasher in the kitchen. It went a bit differently, because I first got to try it as a holiday editor, then as a contributing editor, and later as the head of the editorial team. My first official Friday at Amayzine, I left Brabant at seven in the morning, just to make sure I slid into such a bright white desk by half past nine. Which of course meant I spent from eight to half past nine in the car in front of the door, because there are no traffic jams on Fridays. And I stayed, until I was renamed Eddie and my derrière was imprinted in the office chair.

The first editorial party, where I had my first (of many) way too deep conversations for parties with a barrel of gin and tonic. The first time working with a hangover that you could climb, which always makes May extremely funny. The first Amayzine trip to Greece, where I made friends for life. The first press trip where I flew to Copenhagen with a plane full of strangers and returned with acquaintances. The first time in a grown-up house in the Amsterdam region instead of a student room. And that first message from one of you, because I made someone laugh, cry, or brought a bit of recognition with my story. All together, I filled six and a half years with first times at Amayzine.

The bell, of which I now know exactly how many tenths of a second it takes. The door that reassuringly rattles in the hallway afterwards. The click of the glass door when you open it as you walk into the editorial office. And without looking up, hearing the footsteps and the rustle of clothing, knowing who is coming in. The quick clicking heels of May. The rustle of a bag against her coat and the jingling keys of Daan. The distance between Lil's footsteps. The splash of coffee on the darkest days, May's hidden sentences for me in her texts, Lot's customized plates to grab my attention, and even the group chat that never stops. I will miss you all and everything one by one.

May, Ew, all my loves from my very first hour to the last day at the PilotStudio and especially you: a million thanks.