1. While I was thinking to myself, “Who in the hell would steal my bike from in front of De Baile in broad daylight?”€ a passer-by told me, “If you’re wondering where your bike went, they just towed it.” I truly couldn’t believe the predicament I was in. Honestly, it seems that towing a bike is more trouble than it is worth, but since that’s how they do things around these parts, I had no choice but to figure how to get my bike back from whosoever towed it. After finding the Fietsdepot online and then deciphering their best impersonation of an “€œEnglish translation,” I took the Sprinter to the lovely cultural haven which is Sloterdijk and from there another short journey on bus 82. I ended up in the middle of an industrial area where the only sign of fun was an indoor go-cart track. From the bus stop, I walked ten additional minutes through what I’d imagine an aged Robocop set to resemble and I finally arrived at this Fietsdepot. I saw what I later learned to be between 10,000 and 15,000 bikes being held against their will in an unkempt football-sized field. I walked the perimeter of this field and headed to the administrative offices of the Fietsdepot. As is common within any administrative office, the service I received was slow and inaccurate. Apparently, they had no record of having towed my bike, so it became my mission to find my bike amongst a lot of 15,000. To assist me with this mission was one of the bicycle mechanics, a very cordial older Dutch gentleman that saw this as a great opportunity to smoke as many cigarettes as possible. To help pass the time, I ask the mechanic what happens with all of these bikes. “Well, we tow bikes from all over the city to here. They are even housed by what part of the city they come from. Over there is the North, there is the South. East over there, West over there. Here is the Centrum. We hold these bikes for three months. After three months, we separate the bikes into repairable and non-repairable groups. The ones that we cannot repair, we cut in half with a-how do you say it?-hydraulic saw? We then ship those bikes to the recycling plant over there, where you see the two smokestacks. The bikes that can be repaired, we repair-this is my normal job when I’m not looking for bikes that they have lost. The bikes that are repaired, most of them get put in trucks and taken to Africa, and the rest are sold here in the Netherlands to students.” After assessing the mechanic’s very detail-oriented explanation of this place and its function I performed an equation comprised from all of the data that he just told me. With uneven eyebrows I ask the mechanic, “So basically, this place is a concentration camp for bikes?€” From the mechanic’€™s furled brow, I could tell that he was checking the math on my equation. After about 23 seconds of silence he tells me rather matter-of-factually, “Yes. I guess you are right. I work at a concentration camp.”€