Holiday shopping requires a certain level of maturity that I just don’t possess.  Let’s take Black Friday.  I’ve tried it.  My sister-in-law had everything all mapped out for us the year we headed out in the early morning to stand in line at the Target store at Merle Hay Mall.  All was good for the first hour as we sipped lattes and laughed with the fun-loving crowd.  But the tone changed as the sun rose and people realized they had to buy five gazillion gifts before they were allowed to go home.  We all got a little serious.  So when the crowd surged, I surged with it. Hence, my proud possession of two photo printers that never saw the light of day except to go to Goodwill.  I’m just thankful we didn’t start our Black Friday rounds at Toyota.

Then there’s this whole what-to-buy business.  I’m always a bit confused.  Is the amount I spend on a gift supposed to reflect how much I love someone?   Yikes — that’s complicated.   Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for buying love, but what if you don’t even know what your special someone wants as you embark on the inevitable purchase of a bathrobe from Sears.  Or is it a gold box from Josephs Jewelry?  See, confused already.  Perhaps Scrooge was doing Bob Cratchit a favor by keeping him late at work every night during the holiday season.  I mean, once you’ve had a turkey “twice the size of Tiny Tim,” how do you top that?

And let’s not forget the sheer quantity of gifts.  You need gifts for your overly-concerned mom, your scolding older sister, your melted-down kids, and your “do you want that promotion” boss.  Oh, and the secret Santa gift, you didn’t forget that, did you?

It’s just too much.

So, today only, I’m giving you a gift for which you need to do NOTHING.  Flowers from Holland.  Just for you.  They’re provided by my favorite Dutch florist, Corrine Kooper.

Kooper, 45 years old, has been in the flower business her whole life.  Her father used to have an open air stand in the big market downtown in The Hague.   Kooper’s old man would hawk flowers above the din of the market, shouting out his wares to all the passerby’s.  Shades of an old peddler.  Clearly, Kooper comes by the profession honestly.

Her flower shop is found on the colorful street of Frederik Hendriklaan.  The shop is narrow and cramped and spills out onto the sidewalk like an upended flower vase.

Three times a week new flowers arrive at the shop.  Yup, three times a week.   “The Dutch people always have flowers in our houses, always,” Kooper explains.  “So, it is necessary to continually have fresh flowers.”

Really?

“My father buys the flowers for me.  He goes three maybe four times in a week to the flower auction outside of The Hague.   My brother, who has his own flower shop, buys the flowers on his computer while he is in his pajamas at home with a cup of coffee.  My father says, ‘You are a lazy flower man.’  But it is the future.”

I ask for Kooper’s help in giving you a gift of flowers.

“When you’re going to help a customer then you ask: ‘Can I help you?’  ‘Yes, I’m looking for a bouquet.’  ‘Is it for a lady or for a man?’  If it’s for a lady, then you’re going to say is it an older one, is it a young lady, these are the things we ask.  What is it for? Is it for a birthday? Is it for someone sick?  All these things you have to know.   This is what the customer needs.  You must get the conversation.  It is so important.”

So what if I want to give flowers to a young lady?

“Romance is for a gift for a young woman.  Red is the color of love.  Okay, the roses are always for this.  We need to put it in a nice paper.  We do a card.  You have to guide the customer in it.  Especially men don’t know the color combination.  You learn this in the years.”

And flowers for someone not feeling well?

“Bouquet to cheer them up, orange, yellow, bright flowers.  Someone very sick, never do white.  Soft pink colors for a lady.  Not too bright because at that moment it’s not too bright.  The future is not bright for that person.  So you have to pick out the softer colors.”

And what about flowers for a couple married for a long time?

“Use white to show the wedding, and a little pink and little red to bring romance back,”  Kooper says knowingly.

Kooper herself was twice disappointed in love.  “I’m very strong in the shop.  In a relationship, I’m very insecure.  I always pick the wrong man.  I do everything for the other one, and I expect it back.  It has not worked.  And that’s why you build a wall very high to protect yourself. . . .  If someone is coming with a big hammer to open up that wall, we’ll see.”

Today, however, Kooper worries about other problems.  She is a single mom taking care of her own teenage daughter.   Her daughter’s first hockey game is in an hour.  She wants to be there.  She also realizes her father is getting older.  “My dad is not having the life forever.  I have to learn the flower auction.”  And what will happen to her shop?  Maybe her daughter will continue in her footsteps?  “Maybe,”  Kooper says doubtfully.  And on top of it all, she is worried about the economy and anxiously hopes Christmas sales can give her shop a boost.

Kooper takes a deep breath and glances out of her shop at the flowing passersby on the sidewalk.

There is a big tree in the heart of Kooper’s street.  A couple of weeks ago, a violent storm blowing out of the North Sea ripped it clean from its roots.  The large upturned trunk and the tomblike dirt hole are all that remain from the triage performed by the City crews.   But, if you look closely next to the dirt hole and trunk, you will see bouquets of flowers.  Those flowers appeared the day after the storm.  For the tree, it seems.

Apparently, we all need flowers this time of year.

So, Corrine, we’d like a bouquet.  Your choice.  And make one for yourself while you’re at it.

Joe

Mazes are fun.  I know this because people pay money to walk into cut-out Iowa corn fields to experience being trapped and lost.  Yup, pay money.  I’m sure this whole maze-thing started because on some dark autumn night a disgusted Iowa farmer, on a never-ending wait for Congress to pass a farm bill, finally cracked. 

Don’t believe me?  Let’s take a look.  There’s the poor guy or gal worrying their coffee as they sit slumped at the kitchen table still dressed in their chore clothes — wondering why, with all the uncertainty, they ever became a farmer.  Suddenly, they sit up, bump the table causing the coffee to slosh, and look around with a strange glint to their eye.  In the time it takes to crank the engine, there they are, outside on the combine, cutting a labyrinth into the back-forty corn by the light of the moon.   The farmer’s  totally cracked.  The next day the neighbor kids discover the cut-out and are soon screaming with delight at being trapped and lost in the corn.  Which is surprisingly fun for the farmer because the farmer never liked the neighbor kids anyway.  Voila, the corn maze is born.

Maybe that explains the layout for the downtown in The Hague — some city designer just  cracked.  Several times a week, I hop on Tram #17 with great bravado and head downtown.  The tram dumps me out next to this gorgeous pond in front of the Dutch Parliament.  All is fine.  I blithely take a right into the downtown business district, walk five steps, and am immediately lost in the corn.  I couldn’t tell you how I got in or how I’m going to get out.  To be fair, there are four or five streets running into the same square.  Square after square.  These streets can start out the width of a car, and turn into four-foot wide paths that wind and curve.   And even as I look around perplexed, bikes, tiny cars, and motor scooters fly past, making me even more topsy-turvy.  But whether it’s fair or not, if you look closely on your Google Earth, that would be me at a standstill in the middle of the road.  Lost and confused.

Ah, but last week was different.

Don’t get me wrong, I was lost as usual as I walked up this partially deserted street in the downtown district under an early morning grey sky.

But what caught my eye was a store that was no wider than its front entrance.  A yellow flag announced its name, “Verse Friet” — fresh fries.

And inside was Mirjam Badwy-Kraan.  Making fries in a flurry of motion.

“When I was young I had horses.  My father and I went riding. I lived in the north of Holland.”

Mirjam works along as she talks in her crisp, second-language English that wonderfully removes all non-essential words and says everything.  I’m thinking Ernest Hemingway may be editing her speech.  She barely glances at me as she multitasks.  She has no choice.  It is getting close to the noon-hour rush when lines will form outside the single door.  She needs to be ready.

“I met my husband in Haarlem.  We married.  We had children.  My husband worked with his cousin.  They sold fried chicken, bread, and coffee and tea.”

Three children in total.  Now, they are grown eighteen-year-old twins and Marwan, an eleven-year-old boy hanging out at the store because of a holiday.  The couple bought this small shop in the downtown district  thirteen years ago.  Something to have of their own.

Potatoes are thrown into the large wok.  Sizzling and crackling overwhelms all sound.  The potatoes are whisked out of one pan into another.  Salt is added and Mirjam flips the fries dramatically into the air.  But she is no showman.  This is business.

The lines are beginning to form.  Cones of fries dolloped high with mayonnaise are handed out the door.  People are now lined up ten deep.  Twenty deep.  Construction workers in hard hats on lunch break.  A swarm of women on holiday.  Teenagers.  Old men and old women.  Laughter, shouts back and forth, and large smiles.

“The most important thing is to earn enough money to live.  When I was young I had  a rich life because my father was rich.  It was very nice.  Sometimes I miss that life.  I like nature very much.  I like animals very much.  Sometimes I would like to have some moments to do that again.  You know.  I like the life I have now also.  It is more with people.  When I was young, I didn’t need to work.  Now I am in quite another situation that we are not so rich.  So it is quite different life.  It is nice to feel how that is.  When I was young, what I wanted I could get from my father.  Now, when I want something I have to wait a long time before I get it.  Because I had the other life, I can leave it.  If I want something, I can say it’s not the moment now.  And it doesn’t matter.”

Mirjam is warming to her speech, but, at the same time, she starts to get cautious.  She tells me she is talking too much.  Too much about herself.  The unwritten rules of Dutch etiquette, I expect.  Or perhaps Mirjam’s rules.  Unfortunately for her, I don’t know the rules.  But Mirjam is clearly having an internal dialogue where the voice cautioning silence is losing.  I smile.  Coming to a decision, she stops her work.

“People need to feel more together with each other.  I found that in yoga and meditation.  From meditation you feel more equal with other people.  That we are together, all one family.  I think a very important thing.  When we feel all together, one family, there is less fight, less war perhaps.  I think this is very important.  I want to tell to the people that it is important.  We must be more aware of what we eat, what we do.  Every day we can choose.  We have so many opportunity to choose.  When you have a pretty good life, every day you can choose, and think how you can live your life the best.  The best not only for yourself, but also for the other people.  And also for nature.  It’s we are not thinking the right way.  It has to change to save, finally, the world.  And ourselves.”

“That’s the thing I was thinking about.”

She smiles at me.  And hands me a cone of fries.  I smile back.  And slowly wander away, still lost in the corn, but happily licking fingers coated with mayonnaise.

Joe

The decorated tree, the sleigh that flies, the landing on the roof with a bag of toys, the chimney just wide enough, and, of course, “On, Comet!  On, Cupid!  On, Donder and Blitzen.”  Stir that all together and you get Christmas.   Right?  Ah, yes, and Santa.  Don’t forget Santa.

This picture is slightly confusing in this chimney-less era and with the early arrival of mall Santas at Merle Hay, Valley West, Southridge, and Jordan Creek.  I love those mall Santas, by the way.  I go to the malls just to watch these white-bearded heroes deal with anxious and partially deranged parents (of which I used to be one).  You should go check them out.

Jerry Julian is a mall Santa for several months every year up at Rochester, Minnesota.  He’s done it for years.  If you are ever fortunate enough to see him, he is the spitting image of Santa.  Which is great, I suppose, unless you’re on a date with him.  Yup, even in the dead of summer, he does not drop his Santa persona.  He will be perched on his Harley in red suspender pants with his long white beard tucked into his shirt waiting for the light to change.  Suddenly, he’ll be spotted by the kids in an adjacent car.  The kids go wild because, of course, Jerry is Santa.  And Jerry?  He’ll lean from his bike and knock patiently on the driver’s window.  The startled mom will slowly roll down the window expecting a car jacking by a crazed bearded man.  Jerry, gently smiling like the elf he is, will hand small Santa rings through the window and admonish the kids and mom to be good.  There are worse things to do in this world.

But everyone knows that Santa arrives by landing on the roof and coming down a chimney.  Ah, but not so in Holland where Santa Claus was born.  Sinterklaas comes from Spain.  On a boat.  And he arrives in mid-November with a retinue of helpers called Zwarte Pieten, or Black Petes.  No North Pole, no sled with reindeer, no elves.  Okay, is this even the same guy?  I needed to check this out.

So, down to the harbor I go.

Thousands of children line the harbor.  Many are dressed as Black Petes — the court jester of all these shenanigans.  You should know that  the Zwarte Pieten are embroiled in a nation-wide debate about whether the black-faced depiction is a racial caricature.  Even the U.N. is involved.  However, the costumed children of all colors seem unaware of the turmoil on this day as they dance and laugh to the music of the children’s choir singing on the other side of the harbor.

Time passes.  60,000 of us look with diminishing hope to the harbor entrance, longing for the boat from Spain.  The smallest children are beginning to melt down.  I feel like melting down.  At last, a murmur goes up.  We look to the sea.  And one child, perched high on his father’s shoulders, sees the first ship rounding into the harbor.

Ship after ship arrive.  Each filled with Zwarte Pieten and full bands.  All playing raucous music to which the thousands of people bob and sway.  But no Sinterklaas.

Personally, I give up all hope.  It is time for all these parents to turn to their crazed children (who miraculously are not falling into the harbor) and tell them there will be no Sinterklaas this year.  But then it happens.  The last ship arrives, and there, standing on the roof of the pilot house, is Sinterklaas.  Christmas is saved.

And if that isn’t enough, Sinterklaas then gets on a white horse and parades through the town.  We all wave with joy.  And he waves back.

Jerry Julian recently wrote of his arrival the other day in Rochester, Minnesota, to begin his job as a mall Santa.  He tells of flying in on a small plane from Colorado.  However, he makes no mention of welcoming crowds.  Nor does he mention raucous bands playing on the plane or beautiful white horses prancing on the boulevard.  Instead, Jerry ate lunch at a fast food joint upon arrival.  A girl of 18 approached and wanted a picture with Santa.  The girl wondered if Jerry was at Rochester for medical treatment at the Mayo Clinic.   With a twinkle in his eye, he said that he did need a visit  with Dr. Phil.  She smiled.  He then asked the same question of her — “her face became stone cold in reality.”  Jerry then wrote of her response in his cryptic and creative manner that says everything you need to know.

“I am really sick and have been for 5 years only now it has gotten worse.  They have Chemo and Radiation planned so it is going to be pretty tough this year to make it through.  She mentioned the Glass Angel Santa gave her 4 years ago and she still has it – Thank You.  Santa handed out the Red Ribbon of being on Santa’s Nice List.   Santa asked if she has a signed photo from Santa ?   Well, she does now.  Hard to think that she is so up-beat yet there is bad JU-JU going on inside.  Evening thoughts with her name were shared out to the Universe.”

Yup, I think Sinterklaas has finally arrived.

Joe

Sir, you do not know me, but I write to thank you for all you’ve done concerning drug dealing and illegal immigrants.  As my representative from Iowa, I wanted to share with you how your observations were my salvation.   And perhaps my story will be a cautionary tale to others who don’t appreciate your commitment to keeping our borders safe.

You probably recall your statement made in response to those who want to allow children of illegal immigrants a pathway to citizenship:

“For everyone who’s a valedictorian, there’s another 100 out there who weigh 130 pounds — and they’ve got calves the size of cantaloupes because they’re hauling 75 pounds of marijuana across the desert.”

I was fascinated by your direct linkage between illegal immigrants’ kids and drug dealing.   Little did I know when I read your remarks that I myself would soon be put to the test.

It all began because I am a stranger in a strange land.   I am residing for a time in the Netherlands.  And even in this land of the Red Light District, certain legal niceties are required for an extended visit.  Yes, I needed some type of permit to legally stay with my working wife.  Unfortunately, I ran into a few difficulties.

Rest assured that I attempted to comply with all the government regulations.  I began with a visit to the immigration office.  I took a number at their main office and waited in line.  After a time, I was invited to give my request to a nice young woman.  Notes were taken.  She conferred with her supervisor.  Unfortunately, the young woman eventually told me I was in the wrong place and needed to set up an appointment to register with the City.

I happily followed that directive and off to the City I went.  When I talked to the representative from the City, that gentleman also took notes of our conversation.  Many in-depth questions were asked.  Discussions with fellow employees took place.  But, sadly, he was forced to tell me I was again in the wrong place and needed to talk to an expat group with the Government.

I contacted them, of course.   This young man also took notes.  He also conferred with his supervisor.  He also spent time carefully reviewing my case.  Alas, I was advised that I needed to talk to someone in the immigration office, where, of course, I had earlier waited in line with a number.

Undaunted, I spoke to a gentleman back at immigration.  He had me go through my story twice.  Then, he sadly informed me I was in the wrong place and needed to register with the City.

Yes, a complete circle.

As you can see, Representative King, I did not rest on my laurels waiting for things to happen.  I was proactive.  But the clock was ticking.  Soon, I would become an illegal immigrant in the Netherlands.  And that’s where your words were nearly prophetic.

It began innocently enough, as sin always does.  I noticed, as my time to become an illegal immigrant drew near, I started walking past the coffeehouses.  Representative King, let me assure you these coffeehouses sell products you’ll never see at Starbucks.  Yes, we’re talking marijuana with a capital “M.”  I knew that to indulge in any such behavior was wrong and it went against all my years as a prosecutor.  But the inexorable pull of becoming an illegal immigrant was compelling me to want to sell and use drugs — just as you predicted.  75 pounds worth of drugs to be exact.   It hadn’t happened yet; but, as is clear from your statement, I knew the moment my status changed from legal to illegal, I would find myself giving drugs to young Dutch children strapped to the backs of their mom’s bikes, and, even worse, smoking dope while wearing a Rastafarian stocking cap.  Talk about trouble.

I tried to stem the tide of this horrible transformation by overwhelming my senses with Dutch flowers.

Nothing.  When that didn’t work, I tried Dutch chocolate.

To no avail.  So, I pulled out my biggest gun — Dutch pastry.

Sadly, failure, failure, failure.

Representative King, I am not ashamed to tell you, I became more and more distraught and frightened.  And yesterday, the unmentionable started to happen — my calves, those very calves that had honestly and truly served me for 59 years, grew larger and fruit-like during the night.  Deep despair hung like a cantaloupe around my neck.

Ah, but of course I’m writing because there is a happy ending.  Just as you would have predicted, all these illicit thoughts vanished today.  Why?  Well, immigration granted me a temporary permit.  I AM LEGAL.  My calves immediately shrunk.  I no longer walk past the coffeehouses.  And I don’t have to worry about my bad back and the need to carry around 75 pounds of marijuana.  Lord, what a relief.

The only sour note — I was unable to cancel my eBay order of three Rastafarian stocking caps.  Perhaps an early Christmas present?

Your fondest supporter in Holland,

Joe

The storm was forecast to come out of the west.  Strong winds were to hit England first in the morning, then scoot across the channel and slam northern Europe by the afternoon.  80-90 mph winds.  Maybe higher.  Flights were cancelled.  Trains were shutting down.  British television was warning that the next morning’s commute wasn’t going to happen.  It was time to batten down the hatches.

Sitting comfortably in The Hague, 194 miles across the North Sea from London, this Iowa boy began to wonder what it would be like to see an ocean storm.  You know, curious in an academic, sophisticated way.  Okay, maybe curious in a weird, storm-chasing way.   But I’ve been around.  I lived through the 1993 floods in Des Moines, where, just like you, I carried drinking water from an Iowa National Guard water truck home to the family.  And, believe it or not, I was folding sheets at the Holiday Inn in Estes Park the summer of 1976 when the Big Thompson roared down the canyon causing death and devastation.  So, I’ve seen a bit of water.  But never an ocean in a storm.  I wondered what that looked like.

So, wisely waiting until my wife left for work, I went to take a look.

We live several blocks from the North Sea.  As I leaned into the wind and rain heading for the shore, I started to get a little nervous.  I saw trees down.  Big trees.  Uprooted.  Yikes.  I forgot that we are living in a city built on a beach.  Roots are shallow.  It looked like a giant toddler had come and gently pushed the trees over on the way to the toy room.   And if trees were pushed over, what about all those clay roof tiles?  What if the toddler started throwing those?  “Brained by a roof tile in Holland.”  If I wasn’t killed outright, my wife would finish the task.

Bent over, leaning into the wind, I made it to the harbor.  Of course, the harbor was jammed with boats and ships looking for protection from the storm.  But I didn’t expect the noise.  Their wires and ropes screamed unrelentingly in the wind.  A little unsettling for my already jangled nerves.

Ah, one last sand berm to get to my destination — the beach.

OUCH!  The wind was sweeping across the beach so hard that my eyes were blinded by the hard-hitting sand.  And soon, I realized from licking my lips that it wasn’t rain drenching me, but salty ocean water.  OUCH again, as more sand pummeled my face.   Even when I turned my back to the wind, I was getting soaked to the bone.   With sand and salt in every nook of my body, freezing, partially blinded, scared stiff, I looked at the crashing roaring waves through my sand-encrusted eyes and raced home.  Terrified of nature.  As I should have been while sitting in my armchair.  Stupid.

But you already knew that.   I really wanted to tell you about another storm.

Mickey was 130 pounds in his prime.  A big lab from almost day one.  He would leap and buck with joy whenever anyone paid him any mind.  Which we all did.  He asked to be loved.  A simple demand.  So, without much thought, we complied.

My youngest wrote a ten-point manifesto as to why we needed another dog for our three cats and “lonely” female lab, and taped it across our bedroom door.  I resisted at first, but before long, I’m meeting Mickey’s grandfather, a gentle giant.  The deal was done.   To be fair, Mickey’s arrival did result in chewed-up shoes, gnawed-on chairs, and a couch eaten through to the wood frame.  But then he would put his large wet nose on my thigh, and his huge lab eyes would look up with joy and mischief.  What are you going to do?  So much for anger.  He was a balm for the soul.

Where he thrived was in the country.  The sight of a big dog running in the tall grass makes my heart sing.  Although, he did terrorize the deer, rabbit, and raccoon population.  And, a skunk or two.  But with his gentle mouth he would bring the terrified animal to our feet, leaving to us the task of what to do next.  And he’d sit wagging his tail.  He didn’t care what we did.  He did his part.

Mickey lived long for a big dog.  His liver had problems, but he miraculously survived.  Then, his hips started going.  He didn’t care.  He just circled a little more slowly in the tall grass.  But now he can’t rise anymore.  Food is no longer a thought.  So, today, the vets from Starch Pet Hospital will appear at our house for the third time over the many years they have lovingly cared for our animals.  Each time, I say I will never do it again.  But, “again” is here.   And my two sons remain at home as witnesses.  One moment, Mickey will be alive.  The next moment, dead.  It is unthinkable.

And so go the storms of life.

Stunningly bright-blue clear skies followed this storm in the North Sea.  The winds were soft and warm.  The waves were gentle.  The sun was shining.  So, what to do after a storm?  How do you put yourself back together?  Perhaps you shake your fist at the heavens.  Perhaps you pull the covers over your head.  Or perhaps . . . you just put on your wet suit, hop on your bike, grab your surf board, and head to the beach.

There, you will hook up with your buddies and run into the ice cold water to frolic as we were meant to do.

And play in the North Sea all afternoon until your mom calls you home for supper.

There you go.  Perhaps that’s what you do after a storm hits your life.

And, for those who aren’t here to weather another storm, including my beloved Mickey, may they rest in peace in the tall grass.

Joe

Grey is the sky in Holland.  It comes in different shades of grey, of course.  But grey it is.  As you hang out in this world, you begin to respond to the small tonal shifts from dark grey to light grey in ways that may not be mentally sound.  For example, if it’s a dark grey day, you need to lock away any implements that might cause self-harm — like those two dozen ginger cookies in the shape of Dutch windmills.  They may look innocent sitting there on the counter early in the morning, but after the first hour of dark grey skies, you’ll have eaten the cookies and be using the internet to find the Dutch translation for “Hand over the apple tarts, NOW, or I’ll throw this carved wooden shoe with the little painted Dutch boy through your very clean window.”  Not a good turn.

Whereas if there are light grey skies, you awake in the Netherlands wondering if someone from the Iowa Lottery is knocking on your front door.  And, now that you think of it, today would be a good day to go back to school and become a people and animal doctor so you can do rescue operations that save small children, and animals that look like small children, but are nicer.  Like baby pandas.  Why not?

Ah, but today is a dark grey sky.

Through the misting rain, it’s hard to see what shops are in the narrow buildings on the other side of the boulevard.

Slugging across the puddled wet bricks in my squishy tennis shoes, I take a closer look.   Past the ever-present bicycles is a wondrous display of lights and colors, stuffed animals and wooden creatures, and puzzles and games.  It’s a toy store.  A Dutch toy store open on a dark grey Holland day.

I’m dying to look inside.  But a little wary.  I was just shamed by a clerk in a downtown store when I innocently went inside to purchase jeans.  Why am I purchasing jeans, you might ask.  Because, you can’t be a man in Holland and wear anything but jeans.  “Really?”  I said to my wife.  “Really,” she responded.  So, off to buy jeans.

“Size 36 waist, please,” I say, after I acknowledge to the clerk that I don’t know a speck of Dutch except  the word for pancakes.  The clerk in her early twenties cooly appraises me.  She shakes her stylish hair and swishes the elegantly tied scarf around her neck.  I can tell that she thinks I may not be quite right in the head.   She dramatically pulls out a waist size 34 and says, “This is your size.”  I smile.  I tell her I’m really truly a pudgy old man and wear a 36.  She does not smile.  “The dressing room is over there,” and she hands me the size 34.  I obediently go to the dressing room.

Of course the size 34 doesn’t even fit one leg — I’m being optimistic with size 36.  I bring out the pants.  Defeated by my pudge.  I tell her the size 34 does not fit.  Again, she openly looks me up and down.  She clearly believes I am lying in addition to being crazy.  She says the size 36 jeans are in a back room.  Of course they are.  No one in Holland is size 36.  I shrug my shoulders, hoping the gesture adequately apologizes for the years of eating French fries.  She doesn’t move.  Apparently, she is patiently waiting for me to break down and come clean about my real size.  I smile.  Finally, she sighs with boredom, and strolls slowly to the back of the store where they must put the jeans that are rejected by society.

After a while, she returns.  The jeans fit.  I put in my credit card to pay.  A long wait.  Then, horror of horrors, the “cancelled” flashes on the screen.  She looks at me.  All her expectations have been fulfilled — “what can one expect from someone who doesn’t realize they wear a 34.”  She tries twice more.  Each time I am “cancelled.”  Now she’s convinced I’m a crazy street person who has wandered in and the police need to be called.  I leave before she presses the under-the-counter emergency button.

So, here I am at the toy store, a little uncomfortable.  I feel pretty sure that if I walk in the door, they’ll have me arrested for some heinous child crime involving toys.   I don’t know.  My confidence has been shaken.  But I open the door.

A paradise.   A jungle of wooden birds and castles and rocking horses and stuffed giraffes.  Lights, and small rooms, and hidden alcoves abound.  And there is no corner that isn’t overflowing with something you want to lift up, shake up, wind-up, or give a small push.

A gentle-faced woman pokes her head around the corner from a back alcove of the store.  “Goedenmorgen.”  I stand looking wide-eyed at all the wonders.  She smiles.  I ask if I can take some pictures.  “Of course you can.”  Larger smile.  “But none of me.”  Naturally.  How could I take a picture of her?   She is a fairy godmother.  Everyone knows you’re not supposed to take pictures of fairy godmothers.

And there I am.  Fairly certain that Geppetto might be somewhere in the back putting together Pinocchio.  Why not?  And the Swan Princess is still a swan leaning against the far wall.  And Snow White is asleep in her bed around the corner.  And Rapunzel is draping her hair off the high shelf.  And in the upstairs loft?  Perhaps the miller’s daughter spinning golden, size-36 jeans out of straw.

Mmmmm.  Is that the sun shining through the dark grey sky onto that wooden rocking horse?

Joe

Going to the mountain top to seek wisdom isn’t exactly a new idea.  Heck, Moses must have worn a path with his frequent up and down visits.  I particularly like the notion that there is a wise man or wise woman ensconced in a cave at the top of a mountain.  Just think about it.  You merely have to make your way up the mountain, ask the right question of the guy or gal on top, and the scales will fall from your eyes.  Wow.  I’m all for it.

So, my wife and I headed up the mountain.

Well, not immediately.  You should know it is harvest time in the south of France.  It’s running about three weeks late.  We discovered this when a miniature tractor appeared in a small village we were visiting.  I was a little disappointed when the driver failed to throw candy and wasn’t wearing a Shriner’s hat, but then I saw the trailer.

Yup, that would be grapes.  A cart full of grapes.  And it’s heading to France’s variation of the Iowa corn elevator, the winery, where the grapes will get weighed and sucked into vats.  So, of course we had to visit several wineries to see if they were making wine correctly.  It turns out they were.

In this pursuit, we came across the small, sun-dazzled village of Seguret, found in the foothills around Mont Ventoux — yes, the same Mont Ventoux of Tour de France fame.

Lucky for me, my wife had done some reading and knew of a winery tucked behind this village.  Somewhere up the mountain.

As a starter, you should know that I have a minor problem with driving up the side of a mountain.  Sure, I know you love the wooden roller coaster at Arnolds Park.  And, yes, you have a season pass to Adventureland.  Great.   But a cliff on one side of the road and a rock wall on the other is not my idea of a good time.   Just think about it.   All it takes is the driver to give a polite cough, correctly turning her face into the crook of her elbow for proper hygiene, and suddenly you’ve veered off the road, plummeted down the cliff, and turned into liver pate at the bottom of the mountain.  Not a good thing.  Certainly a compelling and reasonable argument for any sane person to NOT go up the mountain.

So my wife drove us up the mountain.

A good decision, we both agreed.  The mile we traveled in reverse gear because of a rogue grape combine coming down the single-lane mountain road could have happened to anyone.  And, yes, I got a little vertigo from the winding back and forth, but it might have been from the excitement of being up so high without any guard rails.  And the continuous narrowing of the narrow road as we drove higher?  A wondrous increase in anticipation.

At the top, when I looked up from kissing the ground, there was Walter McKinlay.  He was working the grapes just unloaded onto the conveyor belt by the tractor.

McKinlay is an Englishman, who lived in Scotland, and now is the proud owner of Domain de Mourchon.  He’s literally at the top of the mountain.  No kidding.  He harvests, produces, and sells “grands vins des Cotes du Rhone” in the south of France.

“I am 80 years old.  Born in 1933.  You don’t believe me?  Here, look at my passport.  What does it say?  Yes, 1933.”  He smiles and works the wine counter like a pro.  Pouring us glasses to taste, he tells his story.

“We needed to leave Scotland, you see.  We needed to live in warmer climate.” This after a highly successful career in IT support for North Sea oil companies.  “So we said: ‘Why don’t we buy a vineyard in the south of France?'”  He laughs and dances around the counter pouring wine.

“When we decided to do all this it was a bit tough in the beginning.  We bought it when it was 17 hectares, 40 acres, just the vines.  Not a weed to be seen.  A lot of chemicals had been used.  We don’t use chemicals.  We are moving towards totally organic.  We are year four of six to be organic.  There was no winery here.  The house was in ruins.  And we didn’t really know what our wine was going to be.”

Now, his business is a grand success.  Written up in multiple publications, and a must-see stop on the Rick Steves’ tours.  Pretty amazing.

“My dad, a Scotsman, married an English gal.  I was called, you never heard of this word, a Sassenach.  A Sassenac is a half-breed.  And here I am in the south of France.  My wife and I on one side of the valley, my daughter and son-in-law on the other.”  He smiles.  A successful smile.  This is a man who has reached all his dreams.  He appears truly happy.

And his marriage?  “My wife, I must tell you about my wife, we’ve been married 54 years.”

Ah, at last we get to THE question.  That question that will make all this worth it.  “And what is the secret to such a long marriage?”

He pauses.  Looks down.  Harrumphs a little to himself.  Then says with a twinkle: “She puts up with me.”

He pours us another taste of another great wine.

Okay, that’s it?  “She puts up with me.”  These are the words of wisdom from out of the cave at the top of the mountain?  A 54-year marriage and “she puts up with me”?  Really?  You put up with the flu, right?  Or sometimes you might put up with a bad back.  Or maybe you put up with a rock in your shoe.  But put up with your husband?

My wife gently guided me back to the car, adjusted my seat belt, and drove us down the mountain.

Joe

“South of France.”  I never thought I’d see those words in anything but a trashy romance novel.  You know, that same old story where Blake, the Chicago fireman, says to Rose, a kindergarten teacher: “Darling, how can you leave me now after I’ve devoted my life to saving widows and small dogs?”  And Rose coyly responds: “Oh, I have no choice but to go with Henri to drink flutes of wine while his pilot flies us to the south of France.”  See, there it is.  “South of France.”  But no one really goes to the south of France.  South of Des Moines?  Sure, people go there.   Heck, even I have been to Graziano’s Grocery on the south side.  Multiple times.  Without a pilot.  But south of France?  I don’t think so.

So, here we are in the south of France.  In the small village town of Vaison-la-Romaine.  For me, it is vacation from my vacation in Holland.  It is an exhausting life.  When I’m not eating pastry and drinking wine, we are walking the cobblestone paths in the medieval city up on the mountain looking for places to eat pastry and drink wine.  I’ve tried to convince my wife that eating pastry and drinking wine must be what they mean by the  Mediterranean Diet.  She seems unkindly skeptical.

But in the course of climbing to the high castle in the medieval village, I was a little perplexed.  My confusion began as the small path became steeper and steeper, and as the cobblestones became more and more eroded and dangerous to walk upon.   I was gasping a bit for air as we slipped and slid on the ancient stones, when around the bend came a woman in three-inch heels and dressed in her Sunday best, clutching her purse.  And, by the way, not a young woman.  In deep discussion with the man at her side, she might have been strolling at Jordan Creek Mall as she tip-tapped across the cobblestones.  Instead of the Apple Computer store below her on the first level of the Mall, there was a 300-foot cliff with no guard rail.  Otherwise, it was a Sunday stroll.

Fine.  It must be some local eccentric out for a walk.  Right?  Then, coming down from the mountain top, we passed another woman, perhaps in her early eighties.   She was wearing  high-heeled, scarlet suede shoes and a dress.  You heard me correctly — scarlet suede heels.  When I offered her an arm at a particularly steep section, she broke into a wide, big smile.  “Non, merci, ca va,” and strolled on.   I couldn’t make this up if I wanted.

Finally, on a steep portion in the middle of the climb, there was an elderly man navigating the treacherous cracks in the cobblestone.  To my eye, he was perilously close to tumbling down the mountain path as he wobbled precariously.  As I passed, thinking I’d rather not witness his imminent fall to death, I saw he was walking with a thin wooden cane.  On cobblestones.  Successfully.  Okay, that’s enough of this.

What is going on with these people?  Are they some kind of mutant race of super French Methuselahs?

I found the answer on the other side of the mountain stream, which is home to the original village.  As in . . .  the original Roman village.  This Roman village is remarkable in that the ancient streets, house foundations, statutes, and a 6000-seat amphitheater are preserved.   All from around the 1st century B.C. to the 3rd century A.D.  Older even than the Polk County Courthouse.

Pretty amazing.  But that’s not the key to the mystery of this super race of humans.  Check out this close up of one of the ruins.

Yup.  All you who have ever visited a two or three-hole Iowa outhouse will immediately recognize the camaraderie of this six-hole set up.   The mystery is solved.  The French of Vaison-la-Romaine descended in part from the Romans.  And those Romans were the kings of flowing water.   Flowing water worked perfectly as an automatic flush while the Romans sat on these cold stone toilets.  Cold stone toilets created a hardier stock of inhabitants.  Thus, French octogenarians are climbing up the cobblestone paths of mountains because of cold stone toilets.

See, travel does broaden your mind.

But what of Henri and Rose in our romance novel?  Ah, good question.  All I could find was a white slip hanging in a darkened window late on a chilly night.  With both shutters flung wide to catch the light of the moon, I’m sure her own pair of high-heeled, scarlet suede shoes were carelessly discarded in the center of the room.   Such is romance in the south of France.

Joe

Safe houses are good things to have in your survival bag.  Lord, life is complicated enough what with recent droughts, floods, tornadoes, and man-made craziness.  You need a place to go that makes you breathe more slowly and smile just a little.  And maybe where you can ask your mom, who is holding a cool wash rag to your brow, to rub your neck at that one sore spot.  Ahhhh, that’s it.  A safe house.

That is the small difficulty with travel.  Where are your safe houses when you’re 4338 miles from the nearest Hy Vee?  And it’s particularly a problem when you’re just a tad bit anxious before you ever leave town and are going to live in, say, the Netherlands.  I mean, really, I’m about to get into a 650,000 pound hunk of metal and fly across water?  Lots of water?  I was fortunate that my doctor prescribed medication so I could walk onto the plane without embarrassing my wife by crying and screaming and diving into the pond in front of the Des Moines International Airport.  Unfortunately, I was so nervous when I took the medication to make me not nervous, that the little not-nervous pill refused to go down my throat, and instead took a strange detour up my nasal passage.  This made me a little more nervous.  See, this is why we need safe houses.

This small plane is NOT a safe house.  This is the baby plane you take to get to the big momma plane to fly over the bottomless ocean.  The baby plane was not made for sturdy types like myself.  Perhaps when I was ten, I could have comfortably flown in this plane.  Okay, maybe when I was eight.  While trying to get into this Lilliputian plane carrying my 300-pound backpack, I cracked my head on the top of the door, stumbled into the flight attendant, and was politely told, with uncanny hindsight, to duck.   Thank you, ma’am.  Next time I climb into a sewer pipe, I’ll remember to keep my head down.  But for now, I’m going to wedge myself into the seat, grip tightly the hand of my wife, and fly to the momma plane.

Unfortunately, this is also NOT a safe house.  This is the airport at Amsterdam.  None of these travelers have slept for forty days and forty nights.  People may be speaking Dutch or they may be speaking sleep-deprived gibberish.  You pay your money and make your choice.  But what is certainly happening is that the elusive purchase of a train ticket is about to begin for those poor folks forming lines to the left.  This may be a good time to take some more of that special not-nervous medication.  You cannot purchase a train ticket at this airport with a normal credit or debit card.  Instead, you must have a credit or debit card with a secret chip hidden inside.  In America, most of us don’t yet have this secret chip.  And if you are one of the select few who have an American credit card with the secret chip, you will soon find that you can only use a Dutch debit card with the secret chip.  Sorry.  This goes a long way in explaining why Leo Tolstoy had Anna Karenina throw herself onto the train tracks.  I wanted to throw myself onto the train tracks.  But I didn’t have the right Dutch chip card to get to the tracks.

Ah, and this is also NOT a safe house.  This is the tram of death.  No one riding the tram has ever eaten a dozen donuts at one time.  I have.  The tram silently pulls up to your stop, the doors open, and you have 1.2 seconds to haul your wife’s four large suitcases, your 300-pound backpack, and your sorry rear end that ate all those donuts, onto that thin little tram.  Don’t get your hopes up.  Lolo Jones couldn’t do it.  Just accept that you will suffer humiliation when the door closes on your last suitcase.  Relax, the door will open again, releasing your luggage, and you will fall into the aisle of the tram with the recalcitrant bag on your tummy.  At this point, I personally resisted the urge to wave to my fellow passengers as I lay beached on my back holding my bag.  I’m trying to blend into the culture.

Mmmmm.  Now this looks like it might be a safe house.  I’m going to check it out and get back to you.

Joe

Holland for seven months.  Can you believe it?  My wife is volunteering to go over to The Hague for seven months to assist in the prosecution of war criminals.  Not your run-of-the-mill bad guys, by the way.  One of the defendants she is working on has a murder scene involving over 8000 bodies.  Get your head around that.  I can’t.  Regardless, I’m along for the ride.  I’m going to be a kept husband while my wife heads out each day to save the world.  And, let’s face it, there are some advantages to that arrangement — do I drink coffee in the morning and wine in the afternoon or first wine and then coffee?  Or do I just stay in bed reading trashy romance novels?  Perhaps all three, you say?

Being an accessory to my wife’s career, however, does require some planning.  And although Rick Steves is certainly the second coming, I felt the need for a bit more edge.  Lo and behold, I had a vision while driving down Ingersoll.

“Stam–Fine European Chocolates Since 1913 — Amsterdam – Des Moines.”  

Well, look at that.  Amsterdam is just right up the road from The Hague.  Since eating Dutch Letters is my present Dutch immersion strategy, maybe Stam’s can give me a better feel for Dutch culture.  In I go.

Stam’s is celebrating 100 years of being a chocolate-making family.  Trust me, they have this down.  When you step inside, the muted gold colors, reflected light, smell of chocolate, and classical music playing in the background, makes you a little faint.  Don’t worry, head for those soft chairs.  I did.

Ton Stam is the mastermind behind Stam’s in the United States.  A financial planner in Holland, he was recruited to come to America to continue in finance.  While in Wisconsin, he met his future husband, David.  David was asked by Bill Knapp to come work in Des Moines.

“We said we’re not moving to Iowa.  That’s just too scary for a couple of guys living in Wisconsin.  That turned out to not be the case. It was just the opposite.  And Des Moines is where we want to live.  Listen, I thoroughly believe the places you live become what you want them to be.  In fact, I turned down a job in San Francisco.  A half-hour sitting in non-moving traffic did that.”

Eventually, Stam and David decided there was no chocolate in Des Moines like the family chocolate made back in Amsterdam, so they opened up their first shop in Valley West Mall.  Stam built the kiosk, David decorated the little shop, and they imported chocolate from his dad’s chocolaterie in Amsterdam.  Before long, they recruited Stam’s nephew, a master chocolatier, to move to Des Moines.  With the chocolate made here, Stam’s business flourished.  And why shouldn’t it?  Eating their chocolate is certainly a venial sin — you’re not quite going to go to hell, but you’re flirting with it.  Today there are nine different stores with the Stam logo.  A wonderful chocolate success.

Ah, but of course there is another truffle in this box.

Stam is one of those big men who exude sincerity.  He shakes your hand and you’re certain everything is going to be all right.  He talks of his family with that same warmth.  You soon learn that his husband, mother, six brothers, in-laws, nieces and nephews, and even friends, are all considered family.  And he speaks of them through stories.  So he began.

“My father came to Iowa when he was 75 years old to help with the opening of the new store.  My father worked like a dog.  He was putting windows together and putting displays together to make it look right.  After questions by reporters at the opening, he started telling me stuff.”

“In the fall of  ’44 the Germans rounded up more and more kids to work in German factories.  So he and his bosom buddy were picked up and transported to Germany.  They escaped.  They were walking back to Amsterdam.  They were caught near the Dutch/German border by the Waffen–SS.  My Dad was 22 and his buddy was 22.  They’d known each other since they were six.  They made them dig a grave and they flipped a coin.  ‘One of you is going to be punished for this and one of you is going to have to live with that.’  And they shot my father’s best friend in front of him.”

“He was 75 years old and it was the first time I ever heard about it.  Ever.”

Stam sighed and sat quietly.

But Stam was warmed up and eventually the stories began to tumble out, one upon the other.  The theme was death.

“When my father died, he had it all planned out.  I had my dad on the phone on Wednesday.  He said, ‘Come home on Saturday. On Sunday we’ll do Last Rites.  I’ll pass away the next week, and you’ll do the funeral.’  But he passed on Thursday.  A little early.”

“Ever since my Dad died, every time we would do something wonderful with my mother, her comment will be, ‘Isn’t this great, another bonus, another extra.’  She thinks that everything she got after turning 80 was extra.”

“When I had my mother on the phone a couple of days ago she said, ‘You know what, Ton, I’m feeling great, but I hope the end comes soon.'”

“Her brother died a while ago.   When he turned 80 — he was a single guy — he called his godchildren together to talk about how to do the funeral.  But he didn’t die.  When he was 81, “Well, I’m still here, so I’ll just have another dinner with the godchildren.’  At 84, his best friend, a priest, said to him, ‘Oscar this dying thing is getting to be an awful lot of fun.'”

“It’s comforting to grow up in a family where people just say, ‘Yeah, and then you eventually die.'”

Stam smiled with sad eyes.  He pointed to the picture of his him and his father on the wall.  “He’s “Frits” with a “s.”

Stories about chocolate and death.

As for me?  I’m on my third chocolate and heading to Amsterdam.

Joe