My last week in Netherlands the weather turned cold and rainy. That depressing gray drizzle that you can walk about in, go to the grocery store or bank in, but you would rather lounge on the sofa, drinking hot Jasmine tea, and reading the second book in the Isabel Dalhousie series by Alexandar McCall Smith. Sounds ideal, but instead I found myself catering to bored, cabin-fevered children. Oh, if only Nickelodeon’s “Wonder Pets” could have played all day. Plus N had business trips to Switzerland and Sweden.

Coming back from Switzerland, he and his GPS girlfriend had a falling out. I knew it would be so–those intense love affairs burn out so quickly. He had refused to slavishly follow her desires. They got into a fight in the snowy Ardennes; and she said in that crisp, clear voice of hers “unable to navigate further” and shut off.

Ah well…

I went back into old city of Maastricht to visit the St. Servaas Basilica built upon the remains of Saint Servatius buried in 384.

I wrote a small piece to my friend about the experience. I will include it here:

I’m drawn to old places of worship, even those small, harsh churches in the rural places with the straight boards painted white and stove to heat the cold congregations. The air is thicker in these places. I feel buoyant, like in waters of old prayers–the most earnest of prayers–still bleeding, vivid, not diluted to benign by some reproduction of print technology. N feels this tangible energy at battlefield sites. Sometimes he knows he is on a battlefield before he even stumbles across a placard or marker. We make quite a traveling pair.

Saint Servaas Basilica was empty except for my family and the two kind ladies cleaning Mary as the “Seat of Wisdom” with rags. How casually their hands wiped the sacred object I just read about in the little brochure the man in the booth gave me.

This basilica, a rather plain, unspectacular specimen compared to its neighboring cathedrals, held a special treat for me, the music lover. The organist was practicing that afternoon. I remembered my college choir director explaining the composers of old wrote music for these cavernous cathedrals and basilicas, knowing the sound drifted to the ceiling and echoed in the concaves. Listen to a “Palestrina” piece sung by “Tallis Scholars” on YouTube. As I watched the organist’s fingers twist about the keyboards, above me, these invisible analog waves played, splashing about, making joyful noises in the ceiling.

Once workers had hoisted themselves to these heights to install the ceiling. In 1500, they didn’t have OSHA regulations; these men risked their lives to put a brick in place.

Again a mystery returns to me, some epiphany I can’t seem to articulate. It started in the Bruges Cathedral. This is an edge of it:

My eyes will pass over the massive stain glass; and I will think how majestic, how beautiful the warm reds and oranges shine like sunlight refracted in rain onto the dark stone interior. I will not come closer to study the tiny detail one skilled hand must have labored over to craft the flowing folds of Jesus’ sleeve as he held up the cup of his blood. In a matter of seconds, I will pass the window of Jesus at the last supper to another stain glass masterpiece: the ever redundant scene of Jesus on Mary’s lap. In my mind’s messy file system, these windows will merge to a single amalgamation of all the stain glass I have ever seen.

But I must be reverent in these places, even if I don’t appreciate the position of Jesus’ falling sleeve, or remember the exact gold sculpture of Jesus on the cross hovering over the altar. For in the concaves above me echo the ernest prayers of brick layers, composers, stain glass masters, pilgrims crawling on their knees, and generations of worshipers.

As someone living in a congested metro area, I can handle some bad traffic—five o’clock on Friday, one mile in one hour kind of traffic. But after having been repeatedly stuck on the bahn for entire days with a screaming child and don’t even mention the torturous hours of the French truckers strike, when the sexy Peugeot GPS warns of traffic on the outer perimeter of Brussels, we, like frightened animals, scurried to recalculate the GPS.

Now some people fall in love with their spouses all over again in exotic locations like Bermuda or the Rivera, but my love flamed for my husband when the jealous GPS sent us through downtown French-speaking Brussels. Where the round-abouts resemble those running of the bull scenes, except with cars.  It was almost as sexy as the time I made N drive through Paris.

Finally, we emerged from the tunnels running under Brussels and looked up at the bahn above us. No traffic. Everything seemed to running fine out of the city.  GPS bitch! (As I write, it’s just my husband and the GPS, alone, driving to Switzerland. She made him drive through downtown Liege. I feel this little love affair is coming to an end. N has mentioned the M word to her. Map)    

So after three restroom stops, including the one giving away free balloons (curse you, Autogrill) we came to the outskirts of Bruges. The day took on this magical glow, like some Disney fairy came down and touched our children with her wand and said “behave.” We parked (always an adventure in those whirly European parking decks), settled into our hotel room with the timbered ceiling, and then walked through the city a little before sunset. In the town center, we flagged down a waiting carriage tour driver and clopped through the streets as the sinking sun reflected off the canals.

Why is Bruges so special? Well, according my indepth research in the “Illustrated Guide to Bruges” and what the carriage driver told me, it is because the old center was preserved intact, never bombed out or torn down for modern buildings.  Bruges comes from “harbor” or such in Norse. The Vikings first arrived in the nine century, doing the thing that Viking do best: pillage. (My Scandinavian in-laws claim that the Vikings have been badly maligned—that they were just peaceful farmers! ) As a port town, Bruges thrived in the 15th century on trade and textile. The Duke of Burgundy, members of the Medicci family, as well as famous artists came to Bruges. But then the port silted up, and the party was over. The rich and famous packed their bags for Antwerp, and Bruges went dormant. Stricken by poverty, nothing changed in Bruges for hundreds of years, even the industrial revolution happening in the neighboring cities had no affect.

The Bruges tourist industry began when a group British Napoleonic War veterans returned to Waterloo. Passing through scenic Bruges, they realized their war pensions could buy a great deal more of beautiful, poor Bruges than England.

It was Bruges’ very beauty that kept it from being destroyed in WWII, when German Commander Immo Hopman refused to carry out orders from his superiors to bomb the city.

The first night there, we took the children to a “fancy “ restaurant. We were quite nervous after several dinner disasters in the past, but we had a lovely time and the food was wonderful. N ordered Langostino in butter, garlic, and herbs, and I got this amazing fish soup, the stock had that mellow distinct taste of well-simmered fish meat, bones, and shells. The children gorged themselves on fresh bread dipped in the Langostino’s buttery sauce. (N tells me Langostino is sadly depleted in North America because it is the ingredient in Captain D’s fried lobster bits!)

Of course, nothing gold can stay, and the next morning started off with dragging a crying child, hyped up on complimentary hotel chocolate, away from the television showing an interesting team sport of pedaling whimsically decorated bicycle-like vehicles over a balance beam suspended above canal water. The goal was to cross the beam and ring the bell in the shortest amount of time. Ninety percent of the vehicles fell in the water.  It seemed more fun to fail than to succeed.

The rationale I gave my child was “you will only be in Bruges a few times in your life, if ever again.” Which actually didn’t make sense, because I doubt my child will ever see strange water-bicycle sport again either. Hmm, will have to look up Flemish water sports on youtube.

The weather was amazing, that sunny first crack of spring. The town swelled with people. We clutched our children’s hands tight for fear of them being taken out by a bicycle, vespa, horse, or car. They whined and begged for chocolate, french fries, boat tours, horse tours, to play in traffic, and run around the central statue.

We passed over the oldest bridge in Bruges which led to the Church of Our Lady Bruges. The church houses the tomb of the Duke of Burgundy. Of interest to the artists amongst us is the Michelangelo statue. The cathedral is physically connected to the Gruuthuse, the home of a wealthy brewmaster. There was a special room with “theater seats” where the Brewmaster and his family could sit and look down at religious services without leaving their home.  The Gruuthouse is now a museum.

After the cathedral outing, we gave in to the canal tour. Quite enjoyable.

The Basilica of the Holy Blood supposedly has a relic with Christ’s blood brought back from the Crusades. It would turn to liquid every Friday until 1325. It’s been dried up ever since. The basilica is a beautiful and intimate space.

At St. Salvator’s Cathedral, I found myself pulling away from the straight on, lined up camera shots, to show the layered complexity of the structure. Like a labyrinth, an edge of a mystery from every vantage point. 

The famous Groeninge museum displaying world famous Flemish Art was closed at the time we visited, so I was relieved as I didn’t have to pretend to be sophisticated and knowledgeable about Flemish art. We gave in to the begging children (and our own inner childs) and set out for chocolate.  Bruges is a chocolate wonderland, and I had to be careful choosing gifts as my friends (A, D, and M) are chocolate snobs. They speak in terms of chocolate as others speak of wine – “Such complexity and depth, I can detect a hint of lavender and orange.”  Based on N’s research, we shopped at Gallers and Dumon’s. Dumon’s is a small family owned chocolatier. The owner asks the English speaking customers if they know Rick Steves’, then points out the Rick Steves’ family Christmas Cards on display. In all, we came back to Maastricht with over 4 kilos of chocolate. At least, that is what N told me, you know I can’t do the metric thing!

I had been waiting and waiting and finally it came. The day we visited Aachen. Since having children, I’ve become the zen traveler. With no time to research history, it’s a total “in the moment – beginner’s mind” experience where ever I tour. Several years ago, I visited the Aachen cathedral, essentially because it was thirty minutes away from where we had been living. I’ve been to many cathedrals, abbeys, and churches in Europe, but nothing prepared me for the power of this place. The first time I came, the accidental pilgrim, I was transfixed by this intimate place. Not the long, high, vacuous, echoing space of other cathedrals, but small and personal place, thick with thousands of years of worship.

I have since read the history of the Aachen cathedral and let me enlighten you. Charlemagne built the cathedral as part of his palace in 785. He had decided to make Aachen the permanent center of his empire. Charlemagne cited logistics and the nearby curative hot springs* for choosing Aachen as his home. Charlemagne’s remains are enshrined in the cathedral.

*N, always the font of weird history, said that later Syphilis patients came to the springs, which was ironic as Aachen had a booming prostitution industry. Self-reenforcing, N says.

Aachen Cathedral

View from entrance	Gold altar dating from Charlemagne’s time.
	St. Nicholas chapel circa 1474.
From floor to ceiling, the choir is 32 meters high. The little box between the white candles is the tomb of Charlemagne.	The octagon, the core of Charlemagne’s cathedral. The chandelier dates back to 1165 and the cupola mosaic to 829.
View from outside shows different architectural styles.

Town Hall.

The Aachen Town Hall stands on the part of Charlemagne’s original palace.

Town Hall. The market in the walking square outside the building was breaking up as we arrived.	White parlor
Coronation Hall.	Charlemagne whooping up on people.

Couven Museum – Named after the architect of the Limburg region (Aachen – Maastricht) The information here was gathered from a wonderful tour guide. And they let me take pictures in the museum! (I bet you are wishing they didn’t…I get carried away).

Aachen was very much influenced by the French and Napoleon. According to the wonder tour guide, the French even have a different “special” name for Aachen on all their maps. Napoleon declared himself the new Charlemagne and he, Josephine, and his sister visited Aachen several times. After the defeat of the French, the Prussians ruled Aachen. The citizens preferred the laissez-faire French to the militaristic Prussians.

Old family apothecary. Aside from compounding medicine, they were the first to make chocolate in the Germanic region.	Sand timer
Porcelain china brought from China and painted in Netherlands	Parlor
. No, you ignorant fool! This is not ceramics from Delft! That is cobalt blue. No, no, beautiful magenta comes from Rotterdam!
Regency style gown	Shh. I touched it.

Going home (Would someone take this woman’s camera away?, you plead)

I’m going to have to get N to fill you in on WWII history. Here are photos of the American cemetery for soldiers who died liberating the Netherlands.

N: Tongeren has a Roman wall.

Child: I want a booger, no burger. Booger. Burger

N: If you can’t behave, you won’t get a special treat in Brussels

Child: I’m trying to be good, but I keep making mistakes.

N selects BRUSSELS AIRPORT in sexy French GPS system and off we go, leaving the orderly Netherlands behind for the wild, unruly lands of Belgium, where they eat like the French, make amazing pastries and chocolate, celebrate Halloween, and have less strict trash desposal rules. Maastricht runs beside the Belgium border. And like the Germans in WWII, you must cross the Albert Canal to get into Belgium. The bridge is undergoing major construction, but as N–the history buff–excitedly pointed out, “They’ve saved the bunker!”

From N — here is some history — The battle of Fort Eben-Emael. After WW I, the Belgians decided that it might be a good idea to dig a big ditch to keep the Germans out. This ditch is the Albert Canal. It’s a really deep, deep, ditch which reqires high bridges. High bridges are harder to replace than low bridges, like that which you find going across the Maas. The Maas is on one side of Maastricht – in the Netherands. The Albert Canal which parallels the Maas is on the otherside of Maastrich- in Belgium. Holding a bridge during combat is difficult. So, you best put a few pillboxes around it. The Belgians put a few on each side. They also put in a special bunker with a lot of wires in it. These wires went to the explosives that they built into the bridge. As an added disincentive to the Germans, they put a big fort – Fort Eben-Emael – a few miles away with guns targeted at the bridge. This fort was state of the art circa 1934.

Well, one day in May of 1940, the Germans showed up. Instead of coming down the road, they landed with gliders in the early morning. Within a few minutes, they took all the bunkers covering all three high bridges over the Albert Canal. The Belgians did manage to blow up one bridge but that was because the German ground troops coming through the Netherlands showed up 20 minutes early, before the gliders. By the way, the Dutch – to their credit – did manage to blow up all the bridges in Maastricht, but because they were low bridges, they were easily replaced the same day.

The Eben-Emael fort garrisoned with 1,200 Belgian troops fought against the 78 Germans who glided onto the roof. A few minutes later, all the fort’s big guns were silent and the world was introduced to shaped charge explosives. By the next day, the fort surrended.

The open bridges allowed the German forces to move rapidly into Belgium, opening up the western front.

We decided to forgo the bahn and travel through the cities and towns. We passed Tongeren, which has a surviving Roman Wall. We had to explain the Romans to our children, which somehow led to a discussion about the dark ages and the difference between the Roman age and the Dark ages, which reminded me of one of my favorite Money Python scenes. You know it: What Have The Romans Ever Done For Us, from “The Life of Brian”

We took a train from the Brussels airport and arrived in the heart of old Brussels.

We ducked into a favorite restaurant, located in a the basement of one of the old buildings. We took narrow stairs down to a cavern-like room with low bricken ceiling that arched over the diners like a sunken cathedral ceiling. Despite all my fumblings in French, the waiter gave us an English menu. It was filled with the exotic European flavors of rabbit liver, beef tongue, feet, and tripe. I opted for safe chicken and wine, and N ordered this lovely endive, ham, cheese, and mashed potato dish and a local Begium brew. The children ignored the shrimp croquettes we had ordered them and nibbled on french fries.

It started to rain, so we decided to visit the city museum. I think it had lots of historical stuff, such as old tapestries, ceramics, and painting, but we only wanted to run up and down the stunning wooden staircase spanning three floors and then press our faces on the glass case protecting the miniature city model and boats.

Afterwards, we wandered about the narrow streets, looking in the store windows at lace, tapestries, and chocolate. It was too early to dine on Rue des Bouchers (street of the butchers), but we strolled down it, gawking at the seafood on display and politely informing the beckoning waiters, that we had already eaten. ‘Come back for dinner’, they said. If we only could. Oh how I lust paella.

It sounds so peaceful in retrospect, but I neglected to mention the unending whining for ice cream. Finally we gave in and bought the children Creme Brulee gelato. Then we got back on the train, accidentally getting into first class. A few minutes later, the ticket checker tossed us out.

We got back into waiting, sexy stationwagon, drove home, and showered. Brussels is quite a dirty city.

The parts I didn’t tell you and more… (Read Dutch Bandito I)

According to my husband’s research of the Dutch Alien Stamp law, visitors in Netherlands have three business days to register with the alien police unless the visitors are staying in a hotel in which case the hotel registers your presence for you.  After that, the aliens police has the option of fining you anywhere from 50 to 700 euros.  You also have to have 34 euros on your person at all times or you can be arrested for vagrancy.

So as I had written previously, while the children and I waited in the sexy stationwagon – God, that was a great car – watching people walk their dogs and pick up canine poop with plastic bags, N ventured into the Politie station at Heerlen (which has roman baths if you are interested in that sort of thing. Heerlen, this is, not the Politie station). He waited outside a small room that was occupied by an alien police officer and two tense aliens with serious immigration visa issues. It took awhile. Lots of dog poop action outside. Finally it was N’s turn, he approached the policeman in the tiny room, whipped out our US passports and requested four alien stamps. The policeman’s face twitched and his eyes darkened with fear like some bureaucrat extra in Terry Gilliam’s “Brazil.”

The policeman tried the avoidance tactic first. “You are from the US.  You are not working? Correct?”

N replied “I am here for meetings and conferences.  Not for work.”

“Well then, you should not need a stamp…. Unless perhaps you are stopped by the alien police.”

N smiled. “Well, it just so happens, we were.”

The officer sighed, resigned, defeated. He took out a stack of paperwork, fired up his computer and began to write and type. Half an hour later, we were each given a three month permit, even though we were staying less than a month. We were assigned permanent alien numbers to reference when informing the police when we will be entering and leaving the country.

So we are accounted for. It feels strangely gratifying. We are known entities. No identity crisis here, our number is emblazoned Dutch national computer system. If the Germans ever invaded again and started rounding people up, the Dutch could give them our address. (like they did all the Jews in WWII)

The story is over. So I thought…

The morning N was to leave for Switzerland, I had donned some loose wide-legged jeans, a sweatshirt and dull, unimpressive rubber-soled flats. (I was a fashion disgrace in Maastricht, where the women wear some degree of heel on their shoe or boot. Walking down the market street in their tight jeans, you can hear the heels of their high stilettos pinging the cobblestone like rain falling on tin.) I headed down in the drizzling gray rain to the Albert Hein grocery without the company of the grocery advisory committee –my children.  I bought milk chocolate, olives stuffed with garlic, paprika potato chips, red wine, and sparkling Spa water for myself. I got the children some grapes, cabbage, yogurt drinks with all natural ingredients, biologisch bread and ham, and nutritional crackers because I would feel guilty if the children ate the junk I ate. When I returned, the children were watching Dutch cartoons like dazed addicts; and I could hear N moving the suitcase about upstairs. I began to put away groceries when the doorbell buzzed. It was the loudest doorbell in existence. A piercing blast of sound that felt like electronic shocks through your auditory senses.

I ran to the door, before the visitor could buzz the torture device again.

A smiling, dark-headed gentleman in a gray-striped suit and tiny circular red-framed glasses stood outside my door. He held a hardcover tabbed notebook with a computer print of some logo stuck between the plastic like those corporate campaign notebooks they give out at “kick off” meetings.

He started speaking in Dutch. I smiled and politely inserted my “Pardon, ik spreek engels.”

“Oh.”  He said. “I will try. I am with the city council.”

Ok, my first response was I’m just a visitor and I can’t vote for you, sorry. But before I could say that, he opened that notebook and said, “How long to you plan to stay in Netherlands? You must register with the government. It is the law.”

Do you remember those old episodes of the Incredible Hulk when, during some tense conversation with bad guy, Dr. Banner would look down at his hand and see this tiny bit of green coming through. Then you would know it matter of seconds, bulging green muscles would rip through the conservative white dress shirt; and the green Hulk would start flexing his physique and roaring unintelligibly. Well, I could feel the heat rising up my spine. Soon my entire neck would be bright, flaming red; and I would start spitting out a stream of southern profanity like amber colored tobacco (god dang sumofbitch I ain’t doin’ shit with no dang gov’ment. Git off my porch. Go on call the po-lice).

I needed N, the patient bureaucrat whisperer, before I caused an international incident. (For the record, My Name is Earl is on heavy rotation in the Netherlands and the Dukes of Hazzard has never gone off the air)

“N, the governments here!Can you help?” I shouted up the winding steps of our home. I heard his footsteps coming down. I smiled airily at the government official. “My husband can help you.” And I skittered just out of sight.

Here is the gist of the conversation.

Government Official: (forceful) We were notified by the alien police that you were here. It is fine that you registered with the police, but you must also register with the government. We control the records.  That is the law. (translation: you owe taxes)

N: It is my understanding that you don’t have to register with the city unless you are staying more than three months. We are staying less than one month.

Government Official: (suspicious) I do not expect you to know Dutch law.  Why did you get an alien stamp if you are staying less than a month?

N: Because the alien police came to the house and told us too.

Government Official: (annoyed) So when you are you leaving?

N: Saturday.

Government Official: (still annoyed) This Saturday?

N: Yes.

Snapping shut of the notebook.

Five days later we loaded up the sexy Peugeot Station Wagon for the last time. The sky was a gentle blue with high fluffy clouds, so different from the depressing, nasty things spitting ice at us for the last few days. We waved good-bye to our house, the gelato parlor, the pizza joint, the friture, and the Albert Hein. We decided to take a small detour along Highway 69, dubbed “The Highway to Hell” in WWII.

The red hot love affair between N and the GPS system had cooled in those few days in Switzerland, but they have decided to remain friends. N punched in the general direction and the GPS sent us through some lovely forests in Belgium.

N was supposed to provide background information about Highway 69, but when I reminded him, he said to rent “A Bridge Too Far.” So I wrote it up myself, but of course, I wasn’t so specific about the details. So N decided to write it after all:

In September of 1944, Allied paratroopers staged “Operation Market Garden”, a massive drop on the bridges in the Netherlands. General Montgomery was to come up from Belgium, relieve the paratroopers, then press across the Rhine at Arnhem and into the Ruhr—the industrial heartland of Germany—and end the war by Christmas. He chose a narrow road surrounded by woods and swampy farmland to move an entire army. Slowed by German delaying actions and poor road conditions, Montgomery arrived too late. The Allies secured or replaced all the bridges from Belgium to Eindhoven to Nijmegen but failed to hold last bridge— the key bridge over the Rhine at Arnhem. By stopping the Allies at Arnhem, the Germans ended the Allied advance that had started with D-Day. That winter the Germans starved the Dutch. Eighteen thousand Dutch died. The Netherlands would not be liberated until after the Battle of the Bulge.

Note: The Dutch suffered the highest percentage of civilian deaths of any of the “Aryan” occupied countries during the war. Most of the deaths were from starvation. While I was staying in the Netherlands, a female relative of my Dutch friend passed away. As a child during the war, she and several of her siblings had suffered from severe malnutrition which permanently altered their health and led to their premature deaths.

Arriving in Amsterdam the early evening, the children experienced the most joyous moments of their Dutch adventure: The McDonald’s playland at the Schiphol airport. Just forget I have ever read Fast Food Nation or Amusing Ourselves to Death and let me humiliate myself before the better, funnier reality hosted by a smiling clown god pushing French Fries.

Two days later with a computer satchels on our backs, a child on one hand and a roller suitcase balancing another suitcase and a child’s car seat in the other hand, we moved like slow, weighted down elephants in the crowded Amsterdam airport filled with fashionable European female travelers with impossible high heels and a large contingent of Scottish men in kilts.

Folded in my computer satchel was my lovely tapestry I bought in Brussels. The kind lady at the All-Things-That-Say-I-Visited-Belgium store said I just had to take the receipt and customs form to the customs office inside the airport to get a forty dollar credit. And Voila! There it was, just past the initial passport check.  How convenient.

I opened my satchel and took out my receipt and showed it to the female customs officer.

“No, no” she said, “You must take this to the customs office behind gate 16.”

N and I stared at her.

“Just take it to the office behind gate 16.” She casually waved to other side of the airport past ticketing. Obviously she had no experience toting two children, two computers, and the entire library of Kumon workbooks across the Amsterdam airport.

“They did this on purpose!” I fumed to N, careful not to curse in front of the children as we dragged them back across the airport. “So you won’t get your money back. They figure you are late for your plane and haven’t the time or you don’t want to be bothered. It’s a ploy.”

We found the little office tucked in an inconspicuous corner manned by a customs guy who looked like a young European soccer player, except in an official government uniform. Cleft chin, bright round eyes, high cheekbones and naturally spiky hair.

I jammed my receipt and passport under the glass window before he could ask for it. “Hello, I bought a tapestry in Brussels; and I need a stamp.” (redneck translation: I done bought this dern tapestry and you gonna me my forty dollars, I don’t care what you think.)

The young customs officer flipped open to my alien sun-shine stamp, looked at me, then examined my alien stamp again. He frowned. The lighting seemed to darken as if I had fallen into some Cold War Soviet Spy thriller with the wrong identifcation papers.

Was I about to be disappeared to Siberia?

“Why were in you Netherlands?” The customs officer asked, in a clipped, hard accent.

N stepped up. I never answer this question right. It’s very technical and easy to answer incorrectly. “I attended a conference and my family came with me,” He said in that firm voice that brokers no argument.

I tried to look innocent, which is hard for an anxious redneck with an overactive imagination.

The officer put his finger on my alien stamp, “Do you know they put you down as a Seaman?” He laughed. “You are a Seaman!” Then he motioned to two other young male customs officers/soccer players/KGB agents and showed them my hilarious alien stamp. ”Kijk” (Look)

I had felt so tense and compacted inside from packing, hotels, taxis, waiting in lines, anxiously clutching my children who haven’t yet learned the world can be a dangerous, mean place. Laughter rose out of me, bubbling and sparkling like my beloved carbonated Spa water.

“You are a seaman,” the customs officer said again and smiled. He took out his official stamp and pressed it onto my receipt.

N believes the alien police officer made us sailors on shore leave, because that was the easiest paperwork. I must say, we are some sorry sailors; we didn’t even see the red light district.

Thirteen hours later, we watched the baggage carousel at the Atlanta Airport regurgitate our bags.  The poor agricultural dog was losing his little Beagle mind sniffing our children’s car seats. We were home, no longer aliens, but feeling quite alien nonetheless.

We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.” – T.S. Eliot.

Tuesday.  N had left for a conference in Germany. The children and I were still in our pajamas as some primitive part of our brain that doesn’t understand abstract concepts like time and time zones was puzzled as to why it was light in the middle of the night.

Outside, dreary, dense gray clouds blanketed the sky. Rain glistened off the neighbors’ slate roofs. My children laid on the sofa, enthralled with Dutch cartoons, and I stood before the open refrigerator wondering what a person with a gluten-free, diary-free (sorta) diet can eat in the land of bread and yogurt.

There was a knock at the door. It didn’t elicit the fear of door knockings as back in the states–the dread of a how to tell some scary dude you don’t want a magazine subscription, need your gutters cleaned, or your lawn mowed. Door knockers in the Netherlands are typically nice people with licenses for collecting money for a legitimate charity.

Nonetheless, being suspicious by nature, I only opened the top half of the old door—like some character in a German fairytale. This blonde, efficient-looking guy stood there in a windbreaker, holding a notebook. Before I can muster the typical Pardon, Ik spreek Engels, he is flashing a card with the word “politie” printed on it.

“The police!” I exclaim.

“Ah, you speak English.” A little light sparked in the policeman’s pale Northern European blue eyes. Some intelligence, like a private joke I didn’t get. He held up his notebook, between the ledger lines is an Indian name scribbled in red ink. “Do you know this person?”

Now, I’m an American, but my dominate subculture is southern and not the cultured, graceful low-country southern, but the rural, rock-gut, gnat infested southern near lower Alabama (LA). I operate on two modes: friendly ,helpful, smiling Georgia peach and get-the-hell-off-my-property redneck.

I started with Georgia peach and explained that we were mere renters and had arrived only days before. I gave him the name of agency we rented from and suggested he checked with owner. Inside I’m feeling like the biblical good Samaritan.

I noticed the policeman didn’t take any notes, but stared at me with his unblinking blue eyes. Then his blond, somewhat heavy, police friend joined him. I think there is a universal law that when two policemen get together, something or someone is going down. In this case, me.

“May I see your passport?” The original blonde cop asked. As I write, I added a question mark because technically it was a question, but it didn’t sound that way.  I turned around, embarrassed to be caught by the cops in my pajamas, and pulled out my passport and my children’s passport without saying a word. Although, inside I had made the silent transition from Georgia peach to redneck.

“You have many passports,” said the cop with notebook.

“My children’s.”

“What are their ages?” I told him. He took my passport, flipped through the pages, then handed it to his heavy friend. The two looked at one another.

“And how long are you staying?” Notebook cop asked again.

I replied. The two cops looked at each other again. Isn’t this a fun game? So I tell him, thinking once they know I’m leaving in a few days there won’t be any problem. I’m here to improve the Dutch economy, after all, not to ask for health benefits or other perks of the Dutch government.

“And why are you here?”Ok, I was very tired after the flight, but I’m pretty sure we covered this at the airport. Again I answered. Again they look at one another. Clearly, I was flunking the oral examine.

“You do not have an alien stamp on your passport.” The notebook policeman said with a smile–not a warm, “Welcome to Holland” smile, but one capable of being both pleasant and jerk at the same time. Like the commercial they show here with all these good-looking foreigners trying to comically, yet futilely communicate. You would think this is some kind-hearted mobile phone service commercial, but then the punch line appears at the end saying something like “If you live in Netherlands, speak Dutch.”   To be fair, however, I was in full redneck mode.

“I’ve never needed one before.” I said, then realize I might have said something very stupid.

“It is the law,“ he smiled. Laws are very, very important in the Netherlands. Not that laws aren’t important in US, it is just there are less of them guiding your daily existence. For instance, you might get lazy one afternoon in US and not recycle that smelly tuna fish can. Well, in the Netherlands you are breaking the law.

I digress.

The notebook policeman asked for a piece of paper (wasn’t he holding a notebook?). I gave him my child’s coloring book. He wrote down the address of the police station in the neighboring city where I should go to apply for the stamp, the “uurs” the alien office was open, and his phone number. Now, I don’t have a phone, and I don’t have the rental car and nothing is more daunting then trying to figure out the Dutch bus system, which seems to be passed down like spoken word history through generations of Dutch, never written down on clay tablets or the internet. Plus, my children have bladders the size of green peas and only stare at me with vacant, confused expression when I tell them why we should try to use the bathroom before we get on the bus.  So I tell the cops I can’t get there until next week because that’s when N returns with the stylish Peugeot station wagon with the sunroof.  Again the blonde policemen look at each other. Will y’all stop that!

“You will need it as soon as possible. It is the law.” The notebook cop who did all the talking smiled that smile. “Good day.” He and his friend turn away and began to walk to the sidewalk, then suddenly he turned around, his pleasant/jerk smile even bigger. “We will come back next week and check.”

There you have it. I’m wanted by the Dutch authorities. I’m an outlaw. A Dutch bandito.

So I called N over the internet.  He doesn’t answer his phone (so much for emergencies!)  I emailed my Dutch friend and said I was in tears (I’m a total crybaby) and couldn’t possibly meet that afternoon and could we reschedule. Three hours later N gets back to me. He tells me not to worry; he’ll take care of it. He researched the specifics of “the law” on the internet, then asked his colleagues. The Chinese one said it was very serious and N needed to take care of the matter immediately. The Dutch colleague laughed and said something about politics, recession, and immigration.  Not taking any chances, the next morning, N skipped his conference and drove back to Netherlands.  Since we had last met, N had discovered the stationwagon’s big screen GPS system with the sexy female continental voice. “Turn left, big boy.” Already it had replaced that instinctive masculine, Viking navigational system in his brain that took thousands of years of evolution to hone. “At the round-about take the third exit, Mr. Leif Erickson.” N punched in the police station address, and we obeyed the sexy voice’s commands, until that nasty snag with the detours, construction and a shopping street, then it was kind of a whiny bitch. N left us in the car at the politie station, coming back thirty minutes later with shiny, laminated stamps on our passports, it–and I’m not lying–looked like rays of red sunshine.  

Ok, in all honesty, I’m feeling kinda bad about being a redneck to the smiling Dutch cops. After all, they did stop a terrorist attack in Amsterdam today.

Here is a little side note: So I did turn up at my friend’s house the next day and recounted the story. She said the politie had only come to her house once, looking for marijuana. Her husband let them in because they weren’t growing any pot. The politie had the wrong address, it seems, because my friend’s neighbors were growing marijuana plants in every room, using special growth lights etc.

Now when it comes to drug use, I own up to being far, far more innocent than our last three presidents and Oprah Winfrey, nonetheless I’m curious. Isn’t marijuana legal in Netherlands? I asked. My friend told me you can only have thirty marijuana plants, not hundreds like her ex-neighbors.

Today I received a lovely surprise visit from my dear Dutch friend. Although, we had not seen each other in almost three years, it was as if no time had passed, and we settled into comfortable conversation.

We took a family hike up to St. Piet. St. Piet is a hill in a hill-less country. A ruined fort sits on the top and overlooks the city. Five years ago, when we first came to Maastricht, we lived in a very unique house shaped like a wedge. The back of the house was no wider than five feet. From the back window on the top floor, we could see St. Piet. We would sing to our baby by that window, then say good-night to St. Piet.

I did not include a picture of the fort on top of St. Piet, but this picture of sheep. I adore sheep, and these were especially talkative sheep. I wish you could see the large industrial windmills in the distance, but alas I think they blended with the sky.

Below are the stores where I once shopped: a green grocer, wijn store, delicatessen. Not pictured is the patisserie next door where you sit for hours (if you didn’t have a small child) and enjoy hot tea, chocolate, or Vlaai (pie). Further down the street were the butcher and the Cobben.

Olives with garlic. A  mellow, salty taste, not made bitter by pasteurization and months in a jar. Firm, meaty contrasted with the crunchy picked garlic. Nothing better.

History:

Maastricht began as a Roman bridge over the Maas River. Throughout its history, Maastricht has been fought over by many countries including France, Germany, US, and Spain.  

Another smaller river flows through Maastricht: the Jeker. Just beyond the Jeker’s banks is the old city walls. Now a park runs along the old wall. Below is an image of the park, to the left is a fenced area containing goats, deer, and peacocks. On the right corner, you can see the edge of a bird aviary.

Inside the city, the Jeker breaks into  smaller streams to power mills and flood fortifications. Enemies often tried to tunnel into the city, so the Jeker was diverted to flood these tunnels.  

Leaving the city through old walls, you pass under Helpoort. In olden days, you could feel the fires of tanneries just beyond the arch. Plague victims left the city through Hellsport.

In later years, the city would build a sick house (below), just outside the walls, but until then, the plague victims died on the grass beside the Jeker.

Today, the old city houses high-end fashion stores, chocolatiers, and restaurants. I feel terribly out of place in my wide leg jeans and long trench coat. Here, the ladies wear their slimmed down jeans in boots. Their high heels clicking the cobble stone. The jackets are smaller and tailored at the waist.

Here are some fashions for Spring.

After wandering past the Basilica, we came to the main shopping street, where we were forced to stop at the V&D by whining children. Inside they were putting up the breads and pastries for the evening. We snagged some beautiful chocolate and those WONDERUL meringue – light and airy, yet chewy in the middle.

Here is something for the aspiring writers amongst us. One day, may our books be sold in the church converted into a bookstore.

We are here, but very jet-lagged, so forgive my grammatical errors. After landing in Amsterdam, we drove a Peugeot station wagon across the Netherlands. A station wagon with a sunroof, mind you. In Europe, you can be a parent and stylish!

Our house is a lovely brown, brick semi-attached thing with a gravel back garden. All very IKEA and utilitarian, but comfortable. That’s one thing about the Netherlands, it looks so severe and modern, but feels wonderful. Nothing too big or too small, a nice balance.

Of course, there is modern art about the walls, as with every rental we’ve had here. I love the sensibility of art as a “basic” requirement of living.

It is drizzling here and those dense clouds of winter hang overhead, tinting everything gray.  It feels wonderful to my dry skin.

N and the children foraged for food at the Albert Hein while I slept. They brought back lingonberries, the wonderful, creamy yogurt you can only find here, and that fabulous product called “Vive” which is the shot glass equivalent of something like 50% of your daily fruit and vegetables.

The children fell asleep the lulling sound of Dutch Nickelodeon. Hopefully, they will sleep through the night.

Old ritual: Crown room and Bailey’s Irish Cream.

The children are thrilled. First train to concourse then chowing down on minature tortes.