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

They are stark naked. Yup, not a speck of clothes. The eight old men have the volleyball net pulled tight in the sand and are shuffling to new positions as I come over the dune. The server makes some comment that tickles everyone’s fancy and then hits the ball underhanded to a loud cheer. A flurry of naked men descend on the net. Point to server.

Trust me, this began innocently enough. I was curious about the bunkers that line the beaches at Scheveningen in The Hague, Netherlands. They are leftovers from World War II and were part of Hitler’s plan to defend the coast. The “North Atlantic Wall” that ran all the way from Norway to France.

And it just happens that in Scheveningen the bunkers sit directly above a nude beach. No kidding.

The North Atlantic Wall was not Hitler’s best plan, by the way.

Jaques Hogendoorn and his brother Piet have been studying and teaching and collecting paraphernalia on German bunkers along the Atlantic Coast for years. Jaques gave my wife and I a tour at a command bunker safely tucked into a dune some distance from the sea.

“Total of German bunkers in Scheveningen (the port area of The Hague) is 900 bunkers. The estimated total of bunkers that made up the North Sea Wall were 90,000 bunkers.”

Okay, that seems like a lot of bunkers.

“Not enough,” Jaques states emphatically, “it is impossible to defend the coast in the way they tried. You have to have a normal airforce and you have to have a navy to support that defense. They didn’t have a sufficient airforce and the navy was not effective.”

So there you have it. 90,000 bunkers — totally useless. A cement contractor’s nightmare. Or dream.

And, of course, there was the small problem of all the people who lived by the sea at that time.

“Over 100,000 people were displaced from their homes in Scheveningen and The Hague so that the Germans could build their Atlantic wall,” according to Piet Hogendoorn, a museum-grade collector of World War II paraphernalia.

And, as is the way of dictators, starvation was close on the heels of this displacement. Thus the stories of the Dutch folks in Scheveningen eating tulips during the hard winter of 1944-1945.

Today, the empty bunkers stick out like broken teeth on this vibrant Scheveningen beach scene. Wind surfing and Ferris wheels and bungee jumping are the order of the day. War and death? Not so much.

Back home in Des Moines, we really have nothing so physically in your face as a bunker. In fact, memories are growing dim as the last of that generation is slipping away. Sure, we have our World War II memorials in most towns.  And we have the stories of the five Sullivan brothers from Waterloo killed in the sinking of the USS Juneau, and of the women recruits who trained at Fort Des Moines for the Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps, and the stories from David and Jennie Wolnerman of Des Moines and of their survival in the concentration camps of Poland. And don’t forget the Iowa Gold Star Military Museum at Camp Dodge with all its exhibits and stories.

But there is just something about a large, concrete bunker that causes a sharp intake of breath. And not in a good-surprise way.

Back on the dunes, the old men are still playing even though it’s late in the afternoon. A corner shot is missed and everyone tumbles into the sand, where they lay on their backs laughing at each other and at their old-man knees. A good time had by all.

Who would have guessed?

Naked as jaybirds . . . in the shadow of a bunker.

Joe

“Protected bike lanes are different from conventional bike lanes where the bike lanes are placed along the curb and protected from vehicle traffic. [East Grand] is the first of its kind in the City of Des Moines.” City of Des Moines Construction Projects.

Being on a bike has nearly killed me five times. No kidding. My favorite? Riding down a hill in Dubuque on a homemade bicycle built for three, flipping off the back and landing on the top of a fire hydrant. On my head. The fire hydrant walked away unscathed. Me? Not so much.

True.

And then, of course, there’s the one where I was hit in the throat by a van in Urbandale (figure that one out), was paralyzed for a while, and ended up with a new, sexier voice. That certainly had a few twists I don’t want to repeat too often.

But here I am in the Netherlands at the ripe old age of 64 on a one-thousand-pound Dutch bike with coaster brakes.

How is that possible?

Because if you want to go to the baker or the butcher or the hardware store in the Netherlands, you take a bike. If you want to pick up lumber from the lumberyard, you take a bike. If you’re hauling kids from school to daycare to soccer practice to the park, you take a bike. If you have an important meeting at the law firm, you take a bike. If you’re going dancing at the downtown clubs, you take a bike.

For example, here’s my wife going to work at a UN war crimes tribunal in The Hague. Dressed for work and wearing platform shoes. And it is about to rain. Go figure.

Is she wearing biking shorts? No! Is she going to stay home because it’s going to rain? No! Will everyone show up at work with wet hair and wind-tossed clothes? Of course. But you just wear your suit and you wear your dress and you wear your work clothes and you carry your cello and you toss in your briefcase and you hold tight your surfboard. This is not complicated.

Michel Vissers has worked for over a decade at a bike shop in Scheveningen. Like most Dutch, he uses his bike more than his car.

“It is easier to get where you want to go by bike. It is more friendly. All Netherlands is bike friendly. You have to have a bike in the Netherlands or else you are immobile.”

When do kids start riding bikes?

“With peddles? Three plus. I stopped using my training wheels at four. And people ride bikes until they are physically unable. ”

What about those bikes that look like they have the prow of a boat on the front?

“Ah, I have the Urban Arrow. It is a monster. When you have two kids and third on its way, you buy this instead of a car. You don’t want a car.”

Okay, how did this happen in the Netherlands?

Depending on the history you read, most say that the Dutch were enamored with the bicycle as early as the late 1800’s. The restrictions of the World Wars merely made this attachment stronger. But when the last post-war boom hit, there was a push away from bikes to cars. Unfortunately, as Dutch cities became more and more congested, The number of accidents went through the roof. According to the BBC, 3000 people died in car accidents in 1971 in the Netherlands, and 450 of them were children.

People were in an uproar. Protests sprang up. One group was even called “Stop de Kindermoord” (Stop the Child Murder). On top of all this, the oil crisis hit in 1973. The Dutch government had enough. They invested in bicycle infrastructure and moved away from planning cities around cars. The bike became a center-stage performer. And Dutch culture went along for the ride.

What did this mean in reality? Check out this roundabout with a designated bike lane not far from our apartment.

As a result of all the protected bikeways and the omnipresent bike signs and stand-alone bike stoplights and legal liability in favor of the biker, 70 percent of all journeys in Amsterdam and The Hague are made by bike. And, of course, there are more bikes than residents in the Netherlands. Everyone bikes.

“I am 75 years old and have ridden a bike since I was 6.”

Jaap Bal is retired after years of work as a sailor and then an investigator at a laboratory.

His arms are as big as my waist. His heart is a young man’s. And he smiles with a gracious ease.

“I will bike until I am not able.”

I’m not holding my breath for that to occur.

W.P. Kinsella, of Field of Dreams fame, coined the phrase, “If you build it, he will come.”

It’s been reported in the Des Moines Register that in the first year of the pilot program, the East Grand project has slashed injury accidents by 58%. I’d like to think that the East Grand project may be the baseball diamond in our Iowa corn field.

All we have to do is build it . . . and the bikers will come.

Joe

“My motto is to buy from people you know and as close to home as you can get.” Lisa Bean.

Nearly 45 years ago, the Iowa City Coop was on the second floor of an old building on Gilbert Street. A sanctuary of organic foods and small producers. Back in those days, membership was by dues or work. I chose work. It was a big open space with barrels and bins spread throughout the upstairs of the red-brick warehouse. The overpowering smell of open spice containers and overflowing barrels of grain and baked breads and funky foods was a heady delight when I’d show up to do my hour or so of work. One would have almost believed I was there because I cared about the environment, or I cared about where my food came from, or I cared about small farmers.

I could have cared less.

I saw the Coop as an expressway to meeting women. Unfortunately, I didn’t bank on my personality accompanying me to this new environment. It did. But a byproduct of my failed efforts? A love of food coops and all they stand for. 

Naturally, I had to go in the doors of the Iowa Food Cooperative (“IFC”) at 4944 Franklin Avenue.

Lord, this is not the spilled grain of the old days. Giant refrigerators and freezers and shelves full of items carefully marked and catalogued and bar-coded. You can hear the hum of efficiency as products from more than 90 small producers and farmers are matched to members’ orders posted online. The requested items are then carefully sorted and boxed and delivered to a pickup site to be collected by you.

Lisa Bean is a tall, slender woman with gentle eyes and an accent reflecting her long-ago origins in New York City.

“This all started for me when I began to think a lot more about where my food was coming from and I wanted to know more about it.”

Lisa pauses, gives a slight smile.

“Then I started volunteering at IFC. Then I got on the board, then I became the board president, and then I went off the board, and then I went back on the board. Now I’m the volunteer coordinator.”

All spoken in a tone of “can you believe I’m still doing this.”

I can.

Lisa walks down the rows of refrigerated and frozen items and stacked shelves and starts telling me stories about each farmer and small producer.

“Well, this is Radiance Dairy owned by Francis Thicke. He has a wonderful organic dairy.”

And what is so special about him?

Well, Lisa explains, once the cows are done as milking cows at Radiance Dairy, they are not slaughtered, but are literally put out to pasture. Or, as Norma Ames, the computer whiz at IFC puts it, “cow retirement.”

Lisa continues walking and talking.

“Pickle Creek, they do herbs and garlic and infused oils. And now she is making some pesto. They grow such quality plants, and they love their plants.

Really? Love their plants? Come on.

“They play music to their plants in the green houses. And he always delivers with a smile on his face. They are both retired chemists from Chicago.”

Retired chemists from Chicago with musically appreciative herb gardens — I hear that all the time. Who’s next?

“We have Agri-Cultured foods which makes fermented kombucha. We sell like 25 gallons of kombucha.”

You’re making this up.

“No, they are based in Waukee. They bought the old St. Boniface Hall. And do all their stuff there. They make kimchee, sauerkraut, pickles, hummus, and kombucha. And really good breads too.”

Sauerkraut from the suburbs?

“Pete Waltz is a founding member of IFC. His pork is all flax fed. He’s a pretty cool guy. He has a small store in Osceola that sells all Iowa products.”

Of course he does.

“Lucky George. He’s interesting. He’s a retired cellphone salesman. He and his wife are running a multiple animal farm with heritage pork.” 

And on and on goes Lisa, speaking of the farmers as if they were her family relatives — the kind you would actually enjoy sitting next to while eating potato salad.

Coming from the Big City, Lisa, how does this all work for you?    

“I love it. We actually have a farm that was corn and soybeans, 30 acres. We converted that to natural prairie. We now have a really good stand of short and tall grass prairie. We have chickens and goats and alpacas for fun. The goats are for grazing. I’m trying to restore our timber to the way it used to be.”

It all seems like a lot of work. Why volunteer at IFC?

“I love all the people. We get to know each other, and we have  30-35 volunteers come every time.”

Are you serious?

“I think people like the community of it.”

Lisa pauses, thinking.

“At least for me, it feels like things are a little bit out of control in the world.”

A slightly embarrassed smile appears, afraid of sounding pretentious.

“Here, I feel like I’m doing a small part to make the world feel like a friendly, honest place.”

Okay, I can buy that . . . and maybe some kombucha, if you have any left.

Joe

Paul VanCleave of JP Party Rentals is standing next to his pickup truck early the next morning.

Beaming.

“We specialize in unique and exciting inflatables and concession items. We’ve been in business about three years.”

Great. Good to know. But here you are in Urbandale in the early morning with a pickup full of candy and water. Are you a crazy man?

“This year we wanted to be part of the Urbandale Fourth of July parade. We wanted to be a part of the community.”

VanCleve gives me an even wider smile. ”We’re just excited to be a part of the celebration.”

And I am excited to see him.

I walk further up the street.

This next trailer full of candy is obviously a parade-induced hallucination.

Larry Rogers and Chris Good are with Iowa Auto Repair, the business responsible for the screams of delight from the million kids lining the Urbandale parade route.

“We’ve been in business 36 years and we’ve been doing the parade for 30 odd years. This year we are pushing almost a half million pieces of candy.” Rogers says this with barely suppressed glee.

“Bigger every year,” chimes in Chris Good.

They are both so enthusiastic that I wonder if these two mature men got permission from their parents to be here.

“This trailer was built by my business partner 24 years ago,” Rogers says. “It gets used only for the parade. After 24 years it has only about 200 miles on it.”

No kidding? But really, do you enjoy this year after year with the heat and the yelling and the glare of newly-polished concrete streets?

“Nothing like it,” says a proud Chris Good.  “This is like our Christmas,” echoes Larry Rogers.

Larry and Chris. Chris and Larry.

And off they march, trailing candidates running for various offices, young dancers with spider-like balloons hooked to their backs, and a truck that pulls portable toilets.

As I stand on the sidelines, I notice three women cheering next to me. Well, two women cheer. The third woman-to-be sits in her mom’s arms . . . with a fistful of candy.

 “We’ve been coming for 35 years. Three generations are here today.” Kristin Howard says proudly.

Have either of you ever marched in the parade?

Laughter — apparently that is a silly question.

Mallory, Kristin’s daughter fills me in. “We’re laughing because we’ve actually been in the parade for years with the Urbandale High School swim team and then with the Urbandale High School Band for my brother.”

“And you marched with baton and gymnastics,” adds Kristin.

“About 10 years worth of marching,” Mallory sums up.

And given the smallest member of this group, who refuses to release her candy while in her mother’s arms, I don’t believe their marching days are near done.

Ah, there’s the red-nosed clown and the ringing of church bells.The parade comes to an end.

Everyone packs up their blankets and lawn chairs and coolers of water. Small children carry full bags of candy that drag behind them on the ground. Neighbors laugh and talk and wave goodbye.

I walk home on the now-quiet street, bending now and then to retrieve a forgotten piece of candy, and smiling for no reason at all.

Joe