After getting her luggage, Chen Ying picked up a free map from the bus station and did a cursory study of this ancient floating city. The city is surrounded by a circle of concentric waterways, and the center of the target design is not the town hall but the central railway station, built in 1889. Many bridges have been erected over the concentric waterways, allowing for unimpeded land traffic. Chen Ying found the hotel she wanted to stay in and planned to go to inquire if there were any available rooms. She plans to tell the Australian girl she just met about her plans to see if she'd like to go along.

However, there is no short-haired figure with a backpack at the gate of the station.

Chen Ying ran to the information desk, and a station patrol officer told her that the girl had left alone shortly after the car they were in arrived.

"Did you lose something?" The policeman asked.

"Nope." Chen Ying touched her passport and wallet in her pocket, "She and I just met here." ”

She left alone with her suitcase in tow, just as she had done on her way to the Brussels station.

A quarter of an hour later, she sat on the snow-white sheets of the inn with her key card in her hand, and packed her clothes. She washed the dirty clothes she had brought with her in the sink, took out the hanger from the closet, and spread them out one by one to dry under the vents in the bathroom.

It was noon, and the sky was still gray. She went out into the street, walked into a fast-food restaurant near the hotel, asked for a burger, and sat down by the window and ate it with a coke. The clouds parted, the eastern sky began to turn blue, and the sun peeked through the gaps. The carbon dioxide bubbles contained in the cola rose from the inner wall of the paper cup to the surface of the liquid, and they tried to escape, trying to merge into the free air, making a soft crackling sound as they broke free from the confines of the liquid.

Chen Ying spread out the tourist map on the table and looked at it carefully. Figures outside the window are in a hurry, and bicycles pass in front of them, like an old black-and-white movie projected frame by frame. In the middle of winter, as mist rises over the turquoise waters, and the gravel surfaces that make up the road have been rounded and smooth, Chen Ying walks along these still rugged paths towards the museum. The sun shone on her black down jacket, and it didn't make her feel a little hot. There was no guide, no companion, and she didn't stop for a moment. The red-billed gull flew around freely, occasionally landing on the railing by the bridge, tilting its head to look at her. When you get tired of seeing it, you stretch out your one-meter-long wings and glide freely on the air currents caused by the passing of ships under the bridge.

She walked through a wood, stepped onto a mist-soaked lawn, and stopped in front of a gray-and-white modern building. The name of the painter is written on a sign in white letters on a black background. It's Monday, the day of the week when office workers are most upset.

There was no one at the ticket office, and she quickly walked into the sun hall with her bag on her back. The gift shop is packed with tourists from all over the world snapping up souvenirs, and those finely textured imitations are undoubtedly the first choice, and the staff at the checkout desk are busy. Chen Ying did not stay here. She watched through the glass door as avid art lovers maxed out their credit cards in minutes, complaining that they liked too many things, that they didn't have enough money, and that their favorite paintings would sell out. Different languages are transmitted through the air, like a debate of some kind, or like attending a rally.

Chen Ying turned to enter the exhibition hall, and at the door was Van Gogh's most recognizable second self-portrait, the dazzling ice blue background contrasted with the portrait's orange-red beard, the portrait's expression so serious and nervous, eager and sad eyes looking at everyone who passed in front of the painting. Chen Ying felt that she was attracted by those green eyes and couldn't leave.

There are more than two hundred works here, including dozens of self-portraits and more than a dozen sunflowers. This lonely painter suffered from loneliness during his lifetime, and did not enter the profession until he was twenty-seven years old, and was not recognized until his death. His lonely life was written in letters, painted on oilcloth, and he used this method to record his heart, looking forward to the day when the clouds opened and the moon would brighten. Chen Ying looks at the works one by one, from Van Gogh's sketches in his youth to his world-famous oil paintings in his later years. She watched him imitate Miller's work, similar to "The Sower", Van Gogh meticulously copied it, and then used it to create, completely showing a unique style. She saw Vincent's letter to his brother Theo in the display case:

“…… I wanted to draw a touching sketch, to express not a sad melancholy, but a sincere sadness through people or landscapes......"

Those pleasant yellow colors leap in every Van Gogh painting, like mischievous flames and twinkling stars. It brightens up the mood of every visitor, and even the slightly overcast sky outside the window can't dampen this power. The fire in the painter's heart is warming Chen Ying's heart through those bright colors along the eyes. She stayed in the museum until tea time, and was not ready to leave until she was too hungry to stand it. She stared at the self-portraits with fascination, feeling the message that Van Gogh had revealed, and believing that she had an obligation to crack the colorful codes.

Traveling alone changes a person, it teaches one to know oneself anew. Chen Ying had read about Van Gogh's deeds before and was very puzzled by his behavior of cutting off his ears. This past is confusing, and there is still no conclusion on which of several statements is right or wrong. Now that she has seen many original works, Chen Ying is relieved. She believes that this is the painter's way of showing love, giving a part of his body to the other person, which is how many Westerners show their hearts to their lovers.