I’ve been lost as a child. It was in an Iowa cornfield. You know, you’re young, you’re playing around with your cousins, running and hiding and yelling, and then, suddenly, you are completely lost. Green stalks block your vision in every direction. Is that the decaying remains of an old cornstalk or is that a child-eating snake? Of course it is a snake, and of course you look like a Tasty Tater from Tasty Tacos. One more statistic in the declining rural population.

I’ve been lost as an adult. It was driving to crime scenes as a prosecutor. There was no such thing as a cell phone in those days. I’d find a phone booth somewhere on Ingersoll or Hickman or wherever and call police dispatch. It wasn’t a stretch to imagine the conversation after I hung up. “It’s Weeg again. Lost. He’s at that phone booth on Ingersoll. I don’t know how he’s going to write a search warrant when he can’t even find the crime scene. He’s a dope.” And then a little while later I’d call from a phone booth on Douglas Avenue, still lost. I was always thankful my wife, who whole-heartedly agreed with the dispatchers’ assessment of my abilities, was home asleep.

But lost in Venice?

Lord, Des Moines is 12 hours away by plane. I am lost. My wife is lost. Our GPS on the phone is lost. And the water is rising. So much so, they’re selling plastic-bag booties to walk across St. Mark’s Square.

“Come into my restaurant. The best food in Venice.”

We stumble out of a dark alley and see a well-dressed man in the middle of the street, hands outstretched, large smile, ushering us into his restaurant.

He pulls the chair out for my wife, he smooths the table-cloth, he helps with the coats. He stands at attention in his white-pressed shirt and tightly tied half-apron. Waiting for us to settle. Then his hands take flight to explain the Italian-only menu and life in general.

Dario has been a server for 46 years. This is his profession and his love.

“I started when I was 14. An old waiter from a restaurant trained me. He taught me: tie the cloth on the wine; greet the guests; go and open the door; say goodbye. It must be personal. It is always personal.”

And Dario smiles, steps to my right. Pours the wine. Wipes the side of the bottle with a white cloth. And with a small flourish, ties the cloth around the bottle.

“There is no quality now. Some places cook pasta before and warm it up. Homemade pasta must be cooked on the moment. Only fresh vegetables. Broth with the head of the fish, not powder.”

Dario shakes his head, befuddled at the notion of a microwave for anything.

Dario, you are not a young man, where does this all end?

“Maybe I don’t stop working. Maybe I go on a trip. I think I would do this when I am very old. Maybe a small house in south Italy by the sea with a garden and grow tomatoes.” 

Dario, before we go I must admit that we are lost. How do we get home?

“Venice is a very small city. If you want to go anywhere, just walk.”

So we do. Until we are again lost in the narrow alleyways.

We cross a bridge into a small neighborhood. Ah, the Jewish Ghetto of Venice. Hidden away among the buildings are five synagogues, beginning from the 1500’s. Their story is the precarious story of the Jews worldwide. The word “ghetto” is thought to have first originated in Venice. On March 29, 1516, the Venice Senate issued a decree:

“The Jews must all live together in the Corte de Case, which are in the Ghetto near San Girolamo; and in order to prevent their roaming about at night: let their be built two Gates. . . and [they] shall be closed at midnight by four Christian guards appointed and paid by the Jews.” Riccardo Calimani, The Ghetto of Venice.

Yup, not only were the Jews imprisoned but they had to pay for the guards. Unbelievable. Now we are both lost, and sad.

We stumble out of the Ghetto and wander for blocks until we come across Giorgio. A complete change of tune. Giorgio Galasso works in a tiny shop down a narrow street as a mask-maker.

“My family lived in Venice since the 16th century. Before this I was an artisan of wood. There is no school in Venice for the mask. To learn, it is necessary to find other people who do the work.”

And Giorgio found those people and became a master mask-maker. He now teaches mask-making workshops around Italy and elsewhere. Although, with his malleable face and striking features, it is tempting to think Giorgio might have become one of his creations, like dog owners become their dogs.

“The mask exists because a segment of Venetian people used to be very rich. For 50 days there was carnival. All the people are the same during carnival because everyone wears a mask — the rich and the poor. The mask is really democratic. Everyone is equal during carnival.”

Good to know. But, Giorgio, with all your experience of Venice . . . how do we get unlost?

“You cannot get lost in Venice. It is an island. Just walk to the edge.”

Really?

Sure enough, Giorgio is right. There’s the edge.

Now, is that Des Moines in the distance? Got me. What’s that number for police dispatch?

Joe

They laugh. And not just with their mouths, like your teenage kids do when you tell a joke. Instead, their eyes sparkle, tear up, close tight, and sparkle again. Even their ears twitch. I mean real laughter.

And everyone and everything is fair game for their laughter: the President of France, their age, marriage, religion, Frenchmen . . . and me.

“Where are you from?” they ask.

Iowa, I say.

“Texas?”

No, Iowa.

“Ohio?”

No, Iowa.

“Oh, Eeowa.”

Uproarious laughter!

Really? Are you kidding me? This is the level of our humor today? I can’t help but smile.

This all began simply enough. I needed to find a leather-bag-repair-shop in Carcassonne, France. Apparently, I had stuffed one too many bottles of wine, hunks of cheese, and loaves of bread into my little leather bag and the strap snapped in complaint. A shoe-repair store seemed the ticket. So I found Cordonnerie Traditionnelle.

“Today is a special day. I kiss you.”

I guess this is what happens at a French shoe-repair store. Heck, what would have happened if I brought in boots to repair?

The traditional French kiss, left cheek then right, came from Mokhtar Bendahmane. Mokhtar had been called in by the shoe-repairman, Emmanuel Delcambre, to translate for us.

“Mokhtar, can I take a picture of you and Emmanuel?”

“Excuse me,” Mokhtar says. And he takes off to the back room.

Did I offend him?

Shortly, he returns dressed in a beret, a jacket, and a blue scarf.

What? You have French picture props?

He and Emmanuel are once more driven to laughter by Mokhtar’s antics.

Mokhtar begins to translate for us as I ask Emmanuel questions.

“I only repair shoes and pieces of leather for horses. I have been here 25 years. I am 68. For 22 years, I lived in a community. The aim was to live a Christian life and experiment with another kind of society, living an orthodox life with less power.”

Emmanuel looks like an ascetic monk dressed as a shoe repairman. I point this out to Emmanuel.

“There’s a story we tell to kids,” Emmanuel says. “St. Antoine goes into the desert and survives on almost nothing. He is the classic ascetic monk. One day an angel comes and says to Saint Antoine, ‘You are a great saint. I bring you to Cairo. I’m going to show you to someone.’ The angel took him to a shop of a very poor shoemaker. The angel says to St. Antoine, ’The shoemaker is a greater saint.’”

St. Antoine is flabbergasted and in total disbelief.

“St. Antoine says to the shoemaker, ‘Do you pray? The shoemaker says no. St. Antoine says to the shoemaker, ‘Do you sacrifice?’ The shoemaker says no. ‘Do you give up sleeping?’ The shoemaker says no. ‘Do you give up eating?’ The shoemaker again says no. ‘How is this better than me?’ Saint Antoine says to the angel. ‘He is more humble,’ says the angel.”

Really?

“I am not the shoemaker, by the way,” Emmanuel quickly adds.

“He is that close,” says his friend Mokhtar gesturing with his hands inches apart.

What about your job, Emmanuel?

“When I started this job,” Emmanuel says, “I discovered I was the king of the world. Because by this work, I can eat, my family can eat, I do something I love very much. I love working with my hands. It varies each day. I have no boss above me. One day a woman slapped her small son in my shop. I told her she would have to leave if she did that. I can allow whatever I want in my home.”

“He can dance when he wants,” Mokhtar adds. Of course, this observation required that Mokhtar dance a small jig.

It is time for Emmanuel and Mokhtar to get back to work. But Mokhtar leans in before leaving:

“One journalist asked the Dalai Lama, ‘What is the difference between somebody we know for a long time and a person who is a new friend?’”

Mokhtar gives me his last smile.

“The Dalai Lama said, ’No difference.’”

Kiss left cheek, kiss right cheek.

Joe

Although this is beginning to sound like an old love song, I have been hacked one more time. The post “Learn More About Who seems to be Worried About Shopping Essays and Why You Need to Caution” is not mine. I’m so sorry.

After the first hack, I purchased all sorts of neat-sounding services (is a “firewall” actually like a wall of fire?). But here I am. Hacked.

It feels a little like the Ghosts of Christmas might be visiting me for past wrongs. Hopefully this will soon be resolved by my malware service . . . and Bob Cratchit can carve the turkey and Tiny Tim will walk again.

Thank you for your patience.

Joe

Dear Readers:

A post just appeared, “Inspiring College Easy Cases Tips guide,” that I did not post. Someone has hacked my blog. I realize I’m long overdue for this new reality, but it still stings. I am taking precautions with my malware provider to remedy the problem. I apologize for any trouble for you — and I hope the hacker is not writing better stuff than me.

Joe

Des Moines, Iowa, certainly offers guilty pleasures. You know, like drinking a craft beer at a movie theater at 10 in the morning on a work day — a direct ticket to hell for any hard-working, sober Iowan. Or going to the farmers market and never once purchasing a raw vegetable — God invented breakfast pizzas for a reason, folks. Or lecturing your kids on the dangers of fast food — and then having an existential moment alone in the B-Bop’s parking lot with an order of large fries on one knee and a chocolate malt balanced on the other.

Yup. Guilty pleasures.

In the world of the Netherlands, there are other guilty pleasures.

Sure, sure, there are the obvious ones. Like the world-famous Red Light District that advertises sex for sale from the street-front windows. Trust me, nothing says “come hither” like a very bored-looking woman fully absorbed in her smart phone while wearing a bikini in a room the size of a closet. And then there are the oddly-named Coffeehouses that, surprise, surprise, don’t sell coffee. Haze weed–12 euro. Skunk weed–7.50 euro. Cappuccino–so priceless it cannot be purchased!

But sex and drugs pale when stacked against a true Dutch guilty pleasure — the infamous OLIEBOLLEN. “Oil balls” for the literalist among you. Deep-fried delights of love for those with a soul.

“Everything is pointing to the end of December. That is the New Year, when everyone by tradition comes to get oliebollen. The stand is very full. That is the time for champagne, fireworks, and oliebollen.”

Linnie Vermolen, a soft-spoken Dutch man who seems genuinely excited about Sinterklaas and Christmas and oliebollen, runs the stand Gebakkraam Vermolen in The Hague, Netherlands. His oliebollen stand, along with many other oliebollen pop-ups, appears on the first of November and disappears late New Year’s Eve.

Linnie is the king of oliebollen.

“I have done this for 28 years. I was doing this when I was 20. My mother first. She even worked here yesterday.”

A group of kids come up to the stand. Gerda, Linnie’s aunt, laughs and jokes with them as she serves out the hot oliebollen. Some plain, some with raisins, others with apples or cream. They are gently sprinkled with powdered sugar and placed on napkins to be eaten immediately.

My mouth waters.

I forget my next question.

Fortunately, Linnie continues the interview by himself.

“Oliebollen is a Dutch tradition at the end of the year from a very long time ago.”

He’s absolutely right. There’s a Dutch painting by Aelbert Cuyp from 1652 that shows a young woman with a basket of oliebollen. And there’s even a recipe for oliebollen in a 1667 Dutch cookbook.

Linnie pulls a fresh batch of oliebollen out of the frier. I set down my tape recorder and hold out a napkin like the poor, starving Oliver Twist in the workhouse.

Oblivious to my suffering, Linnie continues working at the deep fat fryer.

“This is like a donut, but different. A donut is like a little bit cake. This has gist. For the rising.”

Gist? Of course, yeast.

But what about all the calories in oliebollen?

“Every morning when I’m here, I take one. And every evening when I leave, I take one.” Gerda tells me this with the clear authority of a mother’s stamp of approval.

Gerda instantly became my mother as I look to her in the hopes of finally getting an oliebollen.

She turns to help another customer.

Ahhhhhhh . . . . . . . I lean weakly against the inside of the stand.

By the way, oliebollen is not just about a taste delight, it is anchored in the harsh reality of surviving the night. Apparently, the German goddess Perchta goes a little berserk around the winter Yule time. Without much provocation, she will cut open your belly with a sword while you sleep, which is not a good thing. Fortunately, if you eat enough oliebollen, THE SWORD SLIDES OFF YOUR BODY! No kidding. I’m not making this up. This is why we have oliebollen at this time of year.

Oil balls save lives. Now there’s a jingle that should be made into a Christmas standard.

More customers arrive, to my growing disappointment and rumbling stomach.

“Every year there is an oliebollen competition. Last year I won first place in The Hague. Secret people come to judge. And we surprisingly won.” Linnie says this in the matter-of-fact Dutch manner that carefully guards against bragging. But he should be bragging. Winning this newspaper-sponsored event is a big deal in Dutch world.

“We work very hard to be good. But we like it very much. Everyone who comes to us is happy. And when they leave . . . they are even happier.”

And, at last, I too am happy.

Linnie claps me on the arm and smiles with his twinkling eyes. Gerda gives me a big sack of hot oliebollen. And, with my armful of oil balls, I’m suddenly back to my ordinary life . . .  a life of guilty pleasure, of course, as I wipe the powdered sugar from my lips and rub my sword-resistant belly.

Joe

Paris is warm on the autumn night we visit. My wife and sister-in-law and I wait patiently for the Eiffel Tower to light up and sparkle as it does on the hour. Not a large crowd. Although the darkness pushes us all to the light like the draw of a campfire. Time stops. Then the tower begins to sparkle. A shared wonder comes from the crowd and echoes around the grassy fields. The tower is mesmerizing. My wife and sister-in-law embrace in joy. My oh my.

After a while, I look below the Eiffel Tower into the dark. Rows of blankets are spread out on the asphalt path. And hundreds of plastic Eiffel Towers blink and wink and dance in enticement as young men hawk their wares.

The blankets are a necessity because they allow the trinkets to be folded up and tucked out of sight when the police patrol by. And after the police are gone, out the plastic Eiffel Towers come again.

“Do you want to buy?”

A tough gig selling trinkets under the Eiffel Tower with one eye always cocked for the police and the other scanning the crowd to make a sale. Yup, there are easer things to do than to sell Eiffel Towers under the Eiffel Tower.

It turns out the French police conducted a large raid in late September before our visit: “French police have seized 20 tonnes of miniature Eiffel Towers in a crackdown on the illegal souvenir trade in Paris. . . But those selling the miniature Eiffel Towers are often migrants forced to flee from police checks.” The Guardian, September 20, 2018.

Really? Undocumented immigrants? Quelle surprise!

Roland Barthes, a French philosopher and theorist, wrote an essay years ago on the Eiffel Tower. He spoke of how the Eiffel Tower dominates the skyline of Paris.

“And it’s true that you must take endless precautions, in Paris, not to see the Eiffel Tower; whatever the season, through mist and cloud, on overcast days or in sunshine, in rain — wherever you are, whatever the landscape of roofs, domes, or branches separating you from it, the Tower is there.” The Eiffel Tower, and Other Mythologies, Roland Barthes, translated by Richard Howard.

And so it is.

There’s the Eiffel Tower in the distance, just like Barthes claimed. Unmistakably majestic.

And the folks at the bottom of the Eiffel Tower selling trinkets?

Not a one in sight.

And the 11,100,000 undocumented immigrants in the United States (according to the Pew Research Center)?

Nope, can’t see them.

And the 40,000 undocumented immigrants in my home state of Iowa?

I certainly can’t see them.

And my undocumented immigrant neighbor and wife and children who milk the cows and serve the fries and babysit our kids?

No way can I see them.

Of course.

Anything else would require looking under the tower.

Joe

It is with some shame that I acknowledge that I’m a fan of Brené Brown, a shame researcher. I don’t want to be a fan. She is way too popular, way too smart, and way too much a cliche for the manly man I’ve always striven to be. Jeremiah Johnson, the old movie Western from 1972, is my role model for a man. A stand-alone guy. Tough. Gutsy. And able to survive against all odds. Yup, that’s me. A Mountain Man.

Oddly enough, the “Mountain Man” approach hasn’t worked that well for me.

When the old prosecutors, after a day of trial, would say, “Joe, let’s have some whisky to celebrate,” I’d look around the bar to see if they serve chocolate malts . . . with maybe a little whip cream . . . and a cherry?

“What about those Cubs?” every man in America asks at the water fountain. And I unerringly respond about this Chicago baseball team with questions like, “Did the Cubs score a touchdown last Saturday?”

And how about fixing a car, or pounding a nail, or cranking a wrench? Sorry, my wife still watches the neighbors with envy as the husbands fix and hammer and repair while I’m doing rolling-like-a-ball in Pilates class. Nope, Jeremiah Johnson I am not.

Which of course gets me back to Brené Brown, who advocates embracing your vulnerabilities as a pathway to dealing with shame. Of course, who wants to do that? I certainly don’t want to embrace anything but a donut. But facing uncertainty and risking yourself is apparently the ticket out of the shame party.

Thus, the FiveFinger Vibrams. You know what I’m talking about. The totally dorky shoes that have five toes splayed right out there for the world to see. I love them. I could argue to you that since I was in an accident they allow me to feel the ground in a way that gives my numb feet some balance. That would be true. But, really? I just love how they feel. Period.

But don’t get the wrong idea, they are the opposite of cool. One of my Dutch friends is Margreet. She is kind but unfailingly honest (for instance, she asked me when I first arrived in Holland why I had grown so fat — you try to answer the “why” of that question). When I asked her about my FiveFinger Vibrams, she said I should do what I want but the shoes are “a little strange.” This is from the most tolerant people in the world!

And I don’t stop at shoes, I also love hats. Pretty much any kind of hat. And since I have a large head, and the wind blows incessantly in the Netherlands, hats generally perch precariously on the top of my head unless I tie them down with a nice string around the chin. Very stylish while you bike . . . and very similar to hats worn by circus clowns when they are peddling around the ring on their unicycle while juggling balls. I know this. I asked Margreet what she thought of my hat. “The string around the chin? Really?” She shook her head.

Ah, but then I got a physical challenge. My therapist (that acknowledgement alone kicks me out of the Mountain Man Club) said she’d love a picture of me at an outdoor cafe in my shoes and hat. Really? Both at the same time? Here in the Netherlands?

So, here I am, sitting at a cafe on Fredrik Hendriklaan, The Hague, Netherlands. Yup, I’m the guy in the funny hat and funny shoes. Possibly scaring those small children to my side.

And when I asked the young Dutch man to take this photo, he had only one reservation.

“Really? What’s the problem?” I asked.

He hesitated and then said in excellent English: “Are you sure you want the shoes in the photo?”

I rest my case. Welcome to the Shame-A-Palooza.

Joe

“I try to show flaws because flaws are human.” Tom Sachs, press release 2008, concerning the Miffy Fountain.

Henriette Priester is helping me learn Dutch during my stay in the Netherlands. Not such a big deal, one would think. I figured that with the right motivation and a little time I could learn just about any language. French in a weekend? C’est moi, mon cher. German before noon? Hah! Before you can say Ich bin ein Berliner. Learn Dutch over a couple of months? Please. I go Dutch all the time.

Henriette is the wife of a husband/wife team that runs the gym, Absolutely Fit, in The Hague. She is a mother to many of us in the gym, she has her own adult children, and now has three grandchildren.

Henriette knows how to teach. She began my informal Dutch lessons by only speaking Dutch to me.

“Hoe gaat het?” Henriette says very slowly with a lot of hand gestures.

Cleverly, and after much thought, I respond:

“What?” — which I say way too loudly because I’m an American.

Sure, I have had my struggles. Last week, when I was in the checkout line at Albert Heijn, the Dutch Hy Vee, there were about 30 Dutch folks behind me, harried and rushing to get home for dinner. A check-out clerk about three cash registers over began yelling at me. At least I thought she was yelling at me because she and everyone else waiting in line were looking directly at me while she was talking.

I couldn’t understand a word.

So, I defaulted to smiling. Very broadly.

Several people immediately backed away.

But one kind Dutch woman leaned over and said in English: “She is wondering if you would like to go over to her line and check out.”

Hah! I hurried over to her line and began to unload my groceries.

The check-out woman nodded at me and said something more in Dutch. Nope, zero understanding. She tried again. Not helpful. Mercifully, she indicated where my debit card should go. I put my tram card in the slot. Oops. Okay, here’s the debit card. She then ended with a final flurry of words.

Is she speaking Swahili?

Thirty tired shoppers watched this transaction with fascination. As did I, because I was apparently having an out-of-body experience somewhere in Australia.

Finally, red-faced and embarrassed, I quickly packed up my groceries and raced for the exit.

“Meneer, meneer,” the cashier said loudly, and pointed to my toilet paper left at the cash register. Everyone looked at the toilet paper and then at me.

Whose toilet paper is that? I wondered aloud.

Not one of my best moments.

I grabbed my toilet paper and fled the store.

As you can see, Dutch lessons were going quite well when Henriette introduced me to books that have been used for over sixty years to teach Dutch kids to read — Dick Bruna’s “Nijntje,” which I promptly translated incorrectly as “Fluffy.” “Fluffy goes to the sea.” “Fluffy flies.” “Fluffy goes on a walk.” These books are not only great for Dutch lessons, but are made out of such heavy paper that you can gnaw on the edges if you’re still teething or, as I discovered, if you are slightly anxious.

“I used the Nijntje books for my children and the children of my children,” Henriette says.

Really?

If children learn Dutch from these books, why can’t I?

So Henriette sent me home with half a dozen Nijntje books. And I tried to read them.

Mmm . . . harder than they look. I turn the page. Yup, there’s Nijntje doing something. Is that Nijntje on a boat or is she bathing? Okay, I think Nijntje is going on a walk. With a large cheese? Lord help me, for a rabbit without a nose Nijntje seems to have quite the vocabulary.

And it only gets worse.

I pick up book after book after book. A total disaster. I can’t translate one word.

I hate Nijntje.

And then I read about the new art sculpture back home in Des Moines, Iowa. The Miffy Fountain. A wonderful sculpture by Tom Sachs that is located in Des Moines Western Gateway Park. The Greater Des Moines Public Art Foundations wrote about the Miffy Fountain with understandable pride:

“Miffy is a character recognized globally as a symbol of childhood. . . The American artist Tom Sachs uses the image of the little bunny to comment on the commercialization of every human experience, no matter how innocent or traumatic, to sell these products.”

The little bunny? Oh my lord, Miffy is Nijntje, which I incorrectly translated as Fluffy. Tom Sachs made a sculpture from Dick Bruna’s Nijntje. My worst nightmare — Nijntje has come to Des Moines. I can never return home!

So I asked my son, Emmett, to scout out the new Miffy Fountain for me in Des Moines.

“Dad, I can’t see a thing. She’s coated in plastic. I think for the winter.”

Hah, I knew it. Miffy is trying to go undercover. Why? Well that’s a no-brainer. She can’t speak English. She’s Dutch. I’d like to see how she fares at Hy Vee.

Don’t worry, folks, I have a solution for all of us.

And it’s not learning a new language. Too hard. Instead, we just need Dutch letters. No, not letters in Dutch, but “Dutch letters” — the almond-paste pastry. The next time you walk past the Miffy Fountain, or, for that matter, walk past me, offer us a Dutch letter.

Why?

Duh. Pastry is the world’s language. Natuurlijk.

Joe

The three houseboats float low on the canal near Veenkade street in The Hague. You have to look close because they blend in with the moored sailing boats and covered speed boats and the old fishing boats that barely float with their hulls half-full of rain water. And it doesn’t help that the shadows reaching out from the left bank swallow most of the canal. But there they are. Three houseboats in a row. Catnip for my river-loving soul.

I sit at the table of Sylvia Satter, grandmother to Sharona Verhagen, and aunt to Sylvia Boutier. Three generations of Dutch women who invite an absolute stranger inside their houseboat and offer me tea and snacks.

“We are coming from a family that lives everywhere. They travel in a caravan. They were gypsies.” Sylvia Boutier, 47 years old, has dancing eyes and a face that switches from high comedy to dire tragedy in a glance.

“After a time, they tried to go into a house because my grandma was tired of it — all the traveling, and the kids were growing up. They tried to go into a house but it was not very her thing so she decided to go back in a caravan. But the place they were staying didn’t work. So they went into a houseboat.”

And that was good?

“I have been on the boat 47 years. We still have the gypsy feeling. We are proud of it. Still you are more free here than in a home.”

And how were your treated growing up living in this different way?

“I remember my school they were calling us ‘gypsy, gypsy, gypsy,’ in a bad way. There are some people who don’t accept it. It was not nice. It stopped because there was one guy always bothering me and I hit him. Then it stopped.” Sylvia Boutier says with a shrug.

But her niece, Sharona Verhagen, nearly 25 years younger, had a different experience.

“I don’t have that feeling. I was special in a good way. All the kids in my school wanted to be here. It was a different generation.”

And now?

“I’m a teacher at a preschool and when I tell the kids who are 4-6 years that I’m living on a boat they are like ‘I want to look at that.’ They really want to see it. They think I’m living on a little boat, a little thing.” Sharona Verhagen says this with a warm, kind smile — confirming her choice as a preschool teacher.

They both assured my seasick suspiciousness that there is very little movement on the boat except when there is a large wake from a tourist boat. That the boats are easy to maintain. That the City is a pain and constantly trying to push them out, but they get by. That they feel free and not bothered by people on the land. And that they support and love each other.

Not a bad life.

“We are part of the water.” Sylvia Boutier adds. “When you are on false land, it angers you, because you are on false land, It doesn’t feel so nice as the water.”

Grandma Sylvia Satter joins the conversation.

“I couldn’t breath in a house. I go mad, really. You don’t know how much of richdom that you have living here on a houseboat.”

Richdom? Really? Such as?

She pauses for a moment, laughter in her eyes, then says, “Every year we have a couple of little swans. They knock on the glass. They are telling us: ‘Look I’ve got babies.’”

And all three women smile with delight at the memories.

Where does this all end?

“I will live here until I die,” says Grandma without hesitation.

“But they must live long,” Sylvia Boutier quickly adds, to stop any bad thoughts from my question.

And what do you call houseboats in Dutch?

“Woonark.”

Mmmm . . . literally that means?

“Living on an ark.”

I eventually leave and walk up the dark canal to my landlocked apartment, missing already the up-close smell of the water and the warmth of the three women. Two white swans float quietly past in the shadows. Not a sound as they drift on the canal. Two by two. Looking for an ark made of gopher wood.

Joe

“I want it now.”

I’m sure those words first came to our minds while still in the womb — demanding even more from our poor, bedraggled mothers. And the words remained true as we matured and expected to receive that plum job with the six-month vacation and a company car after graduating from high school with a degree in the correct application of Goth makeup. “I want it now.” Of course, who doesn’t? Instant gratification. I’ll take two helpings, please.

And today, amazingly enough, we can get anything imaginable almost upon the mere thought.

I want those pants. They’ll arrive tomorrow. I want that book. Great, press the button. Oh, you want a new lawnmower? Easy-peasy, there it is at the front door.

I love it! Not a human in sight. We have hooked ourselves up to the Matrix pods and it feels good.

But, of course, there is a human in sight. Some man or woman is lugging your lawnmower or your pants or your Hy Vee groceries to your mailbox or door or into your kitchen. As shocking as it seems, your ease in ordering milk does not make the milk easier to carry.

The Netherlands is no different. You think it, you got it. However, the modes of delivery aren’t quite the same.

Take for example the mail. In this neck of the woods, it’s by bike. Yup, a bike loaded with mail. Delivered in rain or shine (well, “shine” is a little strong since the sun’s rays never exceed their allotted five minutes per week). The mail delivery person uses the back of the bike, the front of the bike, and even a bag on the shoulder. It doesn’t matter to them. Here’s your mail. Instant gratification for you; back-breaking work for Rashid, the smiling, friendly, mail guy.

And your kids? Hah, they are also delivered for you by bike. This isn’t that strange. Transportation is still transportation whether the kids are in a school bus, a van from a carpool, or packed like small wedges of Dutch cheese in the front wooden basket of a heavy Dutch bike. A bucket of kids to go, please.

But what about instant gratification on a Dutch canal?

Let’s say some day you’re floating down a canal and feel a sudden urge for French fries. What do you do? Well . . . .

“My name is Pema Zangyetsang.”

Dark eyebrows, dark eyes, big smile.

Pema is the owner of Mister Snack.

“I’ve had this two years ago.”

His shop is sparkling clean with displays of snack foods and drinks and, yes, French fries. It sits directly over the intersection of two canals.

“In summertime, it is good to deliver to boats. People call the phone or some people just ring the bell.”

What Pema is talking about is this wonderful system of pulleys he has set up to deliver his snacks to boats on the canal.

See, you never have to leave your boat as you eat fries slathered in the traditional Dutch style, with more mayonnaise than fried potato.

Instant gratification. Awesome.

Is this your life dream, Pema, to own a snack business in the Netherlands?

“I want to own more shops. Actually, I’m planning for sushi, but this place is too small.”

And your home?

“I’m from Tibet. It is very far from here. I came in 2004 to The Hague. I learned Dutch . . .  I very much miss home.”

Why?

“This last January, my father back in Tibet is very sick.”

And this is why you miss home?

“Yes.”

Ahhhhhh . . . what happened to my instant gratification? Everything was whimsical, light, mildly funny. And now? A sharp left turn into the hard life of an immigrant, who has done everything right (learned Dutch, operates a successful business, pays taxes), but who can’t be home with his ill father.

Only one solution — I pull out my iPhone, hit my automatic contact number, and order some ice cream. Whew. Close call. Instant gratification wins the day.

Joe