Sylvia's Journal

We usually don’t enter Holland from the right, that is, from Germany. We enter at Schiphol airport and then anchor ourselves in Aalsmeer. But our Aalsmeer hosts had left for Southern France and so we had to rethink our plans. What if we just played tourists for a couple of days?

My brother Willem, who is a man of action and fast words, immediately sat down at his computer and booked us a hotel on one of Holland’s northern islands, plus a ride on the ferry. And so, after a brief shopping spree in Borne to take care of things we need in Kabul but cannot get there, we left in our German car for one of the most northern harbours in Holland, Harlingen.

For two and a half hours we drove along the eastern border of Holland through the flattest of flattest landscapes, dotted with old farmhouses that are true architectural treasures from days past. The fields were full of cows, sheep, lambs and dandelions. Dandelion seeds floated in the air looking like small pieces of cotton.

The ferry was rather empty; it is not the high season yet. Half of the people were under age 10. The kids carried fishing rods and shrimp nets giving us an idea what people do for fun on the island.

I was told, when it was too late to turn back, that half of the island is used as a shooting range by the Dutch military. I was reassured that there would be no barbed wire and men in uniforms. They better not be there; bad associations, despite all their good work in Uruzgan.

To stay with the gun theme, we did spot an glass gun and handgrenade both filled with vodka in the local liquor store. We were trying to imagine the reactions of the customs guys at Kabul airport if we were to bring it back in its authentic looking wooden gun locker.

After we arrived we checked out the place on foot; most people do this on bikes which are for rent everywhere. The place is, as Axel calls such places, terminally cute. We walked around for hours until our legs ached and then we sat at a deserted terrace, it’s still barely spring here, and thus quite cool. But the hotel owner had put blankets on each of the chairs and so we sat down on the terrace and had our adult beverages, such a luxury.

It is asparagus time in Holland, the white fat fleshy ones that grow in long mounts covered by black plastic (hence their paleness). The traditional asparagus meal includes butter sauce (after asparagus the most important ingredient), boiled potatoes, ham and a hard boiled egg cut in tiny pieces.

We have calculated that it must nearly be asparagus time in Lobster Cove and wished we could help ourselves daily like Tessa and Steve will be able to do shortly. If they cut the spears enough we may still be able to have a few in June when we get back to the US.

And now, after a few stretching exercises for our very unexercised limbs, we are going to play a game of scrabble in the ‘drink and spice locale’ downstairs, a lovely restaurant/bar that is all ours as guests of the hotel. We have lined up massages, haircuts and such for tomorrow in case the south-eastern France front makes it all the way up here. It’s still the perfect vacation.