I think Dutch people are very sober. I don't know if it's the

Host: The evening sky hung low over the Amsterdam canals, painted in soft gray and muted gold. The rain had stopped an hour ago, but the pavement still shimmered, reflecting the orange glow of the streetlamps. Bicycles creaked past slowly, their riders hunched in silence, as if the entire city had collectively agreed not to disturb the night.

Inside a small, dimly lit café near the Jordaan, Jack and Jeeny sat by the window. The coffee between them had long gone cold, but neither had noticed. Jeeny’s hands were wrapped around the cup, her eyes fixed on the reflection of people passing outside. Jack sat back, arms crossed, eyes sharp and steady — the kind of gaze that cut through words before they even formed.

Jeeny: “You know, what Martin Garrix said… it’s strange but true. The Dutch seem to have this quiet kind of respect, this sober distance from chaos. It’s almost… peaceful.”

Jack: “Peaceful, or detached?” He smirked, his voice low, almost a growl. “I’ve seen that kind of calm before — it’s not peace, Jeeny. It’s indifference dressed up as dignity.”

Host: The rain began again, just a trickle against the window, each drop catching the streetlight like a brief spark. Jeeny’s brows furrowed, her expression softening into sadness.

Jeeny: “No, it’s not indifference. It’s about boundaries. About knowing when to let someone just… be. Not everything has to be admired, touched, or claimed. Sometimes the truest kindness is to leave someone alone.”

Jack: “You’re romanticizing it. You think they’re being respectful, but maybe they just don’t care enough to react. In other countries, people get excited, they shout, they celebrate. That’s life, Jeeny — messy, loud, human. Here, it’s like everyone’s been taught to keep their emotions in check, like robots with good manners.”

Host: Steam rose slowly from the espresso machine behind the counter, the sound of milk frothing mingling with a distant tram bell. The air between them tightened, like a stretched string ready to snap.

Jeeny: “And yet, Jack, you always complain about the noise of the world. You say people are too loud, too obsessed with celebrities, too hungry for attention. Isn’t this restraint a kind of evolution? Maybe the Dutch have just learned to balance admiration with dignity.”

Jack: “Evolution?” He laughed, the sound rough and dry. “No, that’s not evolution. That’s emotional austerity. Look at what happens when you push restraint too far — you end up with loneliness disguised as culture. Everyone’s ‘fine,’ but nobody’s connected.”

Jeeny: “That’s not fair. You can’t call a culture lonely just because they don’t perform excitement the way others do. Maybe it’s not about coldness — maybe it’s about trust. They trust each other enough not to be dazzled by status. Isn’t that something you’d admire?”

Host: The café door opened, letting in a gust of wind and the sound of bicycles passing over wet cobblestones. Jack watched the street as if searching for an answer out there, among the reflections and raindrops.

Jack: “You think it’s trust. I think it’s a cultural habit — the same one that tells people to mind their own business, even when something’s wrong. Look at how Europe sometimes treats its own problems — polite, quiet, and slow to react. That’s not respect, Jeeny. That’s avoidance.”

Jeeny: “So you’d prefer the chaos of Hollywood or the frenzy of Tokyo when a star walks by? Crowds screaming, pushing, forgetting that the person they’re touching is human?”

Jack: “At least there’s honesty in that chaos. It’s raw. It’s the pulse of humanity — to feel awe, to lose control for a moment. When the Beatles stepped off the plane in 1964 and thousands of fans screamed themselves hoarse — that was madness, sure. But it was also love, wasn’t it?”

Jeeny: “It was obsession. It was need. And sometimes love that turns into madness destroys what it claims to adore. Look at what that kind of attention did to Princess Diana, Jack. To be worshiped until the flames burned you alive — is that what you call honest?”

Host: Silence fell like a heavy curtain. Even the rain seemed to pause, as though the city itself were listening. Jack’s jaw tightened, and his eyes grew distant — a shadow of memory passing behind them.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right,” he murmured, “but tell me, Jeeny — what’s the point of being left alone if it means being unseen? Isn’t there a part of every human that wants to be noticed — not worshiped, but simply acknowledged?”

Jeeny: “Of course there is. But the Dutch way isn’t about not noticing — it’s about noticing quietly. It’s about saying, ‘I see you, but I won’t take a piece of you for myself.’ Isn’t that the kind of respect you wish people had in this age of cameras and likes?”

Jack: “Respect can look an awful lot like distance. We’re social creatures; we thrive on connection, not isolation disguised as courtesy. The Netherlands might be polite, but you can feel the chill under it. It’s a beautiful, controlled society — but maybe it’s forgotten how to burn.”

Jeeny: “And yet that control is what keeps the fire from turning into ash. Look around you, Jack. The world’s drowning in noise — every moment filmed, shared, monetized. Maybe sobriety is a form of rebellion now. To be calm, to be normal, to walk past fame and simply say, ‘hello’ — that’s the most radical act of all.”

Host: The words hung between them like smoke, curling upward, fading into the dim light. A couple at the next table laughed softly, their voices melting into the low hum of the rain.

Jack: “You think ignoring fame is rebellion?” He shook his head slowly. “Maybe it’s just another kind of conformity. Everyone pretending they’re above it. That’s not freedom — that’s snobbery with manners.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. True freedom is being able to admire without being consumed. To care without needing to own. You see, in other places, people chase fame because they think it gives meaning. But here, people have meaning already — in their work, their family, their lives. They don’t need celebrity to fill a void.”

Jack: “You’re assuming they’ve filled it. Maybe they’ve just learned not to look into it.”

Host: Jeeny smiled, a small, tired smile — the kind that comes not from victory, but from understanding. She leaned forward, her voice softer now, like the rain returning to a whisper.

Jeeny: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe some of them are hiding. But even then, isn’t that a kind of wisdom — to know your own limits, to know that worship destroys what it touches? Maybe sobriety is just the art of surviving attention.”

Jack: He looked at her, the edges of his expression softening. “And maybe chaos is the art of remembering we’re alive.”

Host: For a long moment, they both just sat, watching the rain. The streetlights blurred into halos through the glass, and the world outside moved at its own calm, unhurried pace. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell rang.

Jeeny: “Maybe the truth is somewhere in between — to be calm enough to respect, but wild enough to feel.”

Jack: “Yeah,” he nodded, the first hint of a smile tracing his lips. “To greet the famous man on the street… and still remember what it means to be human.”

Host: The café clock ticked, the sound steady, rhythmic — like the heartbeat of the city itself. Outside, the rain began to ease, and the canal reflected the faintest hint of moonlight. Jack and Jeeny sat in that quiet, not as opposites, but as two sides of the same truth — one that neither the sober nor the chaotic could claim alone.

And as the last drops of rain slid down the window, the world outside seemed, for a moment, perfectly balanced — alive, still, and profoundly human.