Marcia is preparing to train to Amsterdam from Paris. I am drinking coffee in the Detroit Delta lounge. As for Andrea, she must have decided to squeeze one more trip into the 24 hours remaining before our river boat departs for the tulips.

Rain is forecast for Tulipdom. Then some more rain. And then some more. No matter. Tulips need rain. And I need the boat.

The Peepers will report soon.

Diana, really looking forward to your report from Floriade!

Have a great trip!

Diane, sorry about the forecast of rain. Put windshield wipers on your lens. :D I know you all will have a great time none-the-less. Awaiting your fabulous reports.

Diane - Hope you enjoy the tulips - just stay away from those coffee shops! Lee

THE NIGHT OF THE DAY OF THE NIGHT

The Peepers have arrived.

The trip to the Peepboat was long, if noneventful. A plane ride from Detroit to Amsterdam with the woman in front of me coughing virulently. Premium economy was nice, but nothing to write home about once the cougher reclined her seat. On the other hand, had I been in cattle economy, her reclining would have impaled me with the turn down tray. So I take it back. Premium economy was lovely.

I decided to not sleep on the plane, as I anticipated that Tauck would drop me at a day room upon my expected 6:00 a.m. arrival. So I knocked out one of the two briefs I knew I had to do while traveling (a third may or may not come, especially if the internet remains in a coma.

Tauck is a class act. Upon arriving at Schipol airport (what a big thing that it—if one wanted to get lost, that’s your place), customs and passport control each took 5 minutes. I walked to the baggage carousel as my bag was turning a corner. Yay.

The plane was early, but it was only 15 minutes before a Tauck contracted driver met me at arrivals. I was the only Peeper to be picked up, and after a courteous 20 minute drive, we arrived not at a day room, but at the boat. The boat! Yes, the night security guy gave me a double take, since Peepers were not expected until at least noon, and it was just 6:30. My room, of course, was not ready. But I was free to roam the boat.

I left my bags (except for work and the electronics) and roamed away. The Treasures is a wonderful boat. Pristine, tasteful. One large lounge up front on the main deck, one what I call a game room—with the 24-hour coffee dispenser I so love—is on the other side of the boat one floor up, and a restaurant on the lower level.

Two things—(1) the coffee is exquisite; it is not mud, and, if you drink too much, your teeth do not feel as though they will fall out; (2) don’t laugh; the toilet paper is great; soft and luxurious; this may seem silly, but I’ve had (and bought) my share of less-than-pleasing tp, and it is not pretty. The public bathrooms are also very pretty, with a pedestal glass sink.

I got to meet many of the crew, since I was the only Peeper and apparently appeared as an apparition to many. Everyone was very nice, including Steve, the cruise director. Canadian, thirtiesh, with handsome eyes and an encouraging welcomeness. I think I love him.

They let me have breakfast, which was good because I was starved. No matter how many times I eat yuck in an airport or airplane (yuck was the name of the game on the Delta flight), I am still always hungry upon arrival. The Tauck breakfast is European buffet (my sister’s favorite), with a few items one can order (omelet, etc.). While in the line for some lemon jam (tartly excellent!), I asked the departees how they enjoyed their trip. To a woman, 10s out of 10.

I then went to the game room, plugged in the computer, pulled out my stack of pleadings, and knocked off the second brief. Freedom (until the internet kicks in)! It was around noon, no ready room, and only a few Peepers onboard.

The internet was not working when I arrived Sunday morning, and is not working as I write this (Monday early evening). That, despite repositioning the boat. Tauck is trying very, very hard to please, and I cannot fault it for this problem. But I have not been out of touch for two days for as long as I can remember. Then again, maybe that’s my problem, not Tauck’s.

I fell asleep upright in the main lounge, and shortly thereafter the lovely Johanna woke me and told me my room was ready. I give Tauck points for this, because I was, after all, an early arriver. As Johanna led me to my room, refusing to allow me to carry anything, the crew I had met earlier called be my name and asked how I was. Now, many of you are on first-names with crews of various lines. This has never happened to me, and I really appreciated their effort. (At home, I sometimes wonder if even my son knows my name—a joke Noah, a joke; I know you know my name, even if you want to forget it on occasion)

The room (a basic with French window) is lovely, if smaller than usual. Just enough room for a bed (I was so happy to see that bed), two chairs, and a tv on the wall. The bathroom is beautiful, if again small. Shower. Molton products. The closet is not walk in, but very suitable, with safe.

I could not help it. I was so tired I sank into that delicious bed, with that sumptuous cloud of a comforter. One hour later, Marcia knocked, I opened the door with only half my body out of the sleep-coma, and my sister bounded in, happier than I have seen her in years. She LOVED Paris, to which she had returned after eight years. We gabbed, me in the cloud covers and Marcia in the chair. And we gabbed. After we had solved the world’s problems (if not our own), Marcia went to lay down and I went for a double espresso.

At the introductory gathering a few hours later, Andrea found us. I finally meet Andrea. Hugs all around. Those who have met Andrea know all this, so you can skip this paragraph. Andrea is a doll. And, to me, a travel goddess. She is cheery, smart, happy, welcoming, easy-going, and just a great broad (if I may use that term). What a treat to have her on the boat.

As to dinner, the food has been very good. The waiter at first was a bit stiff. But we worked on him through the courses and eventually won him over.

This is why I am so happy with Tauck. When asking about our desert orders, my sister asked what types of ice cream were available. The waiter (a different one) answered “What flavor would you like?” Imagine that. And so Marcia had fruit and strawberry ice cream. Together.

After dinner, sleep was the only choice.

This morning, when I asked other Peepers how they had slept, almost every answer contained the word “ambien.” Must be on sale.

That’s all for this report. Sorry it’s so delayed.

p.s. We heard this morning from an unhappy tour guide this morning that the government of the Netherlands resigned. Since we have no tv (yes, MaryLee, no tv) or internet, I have no clue.

Diane, sounds like a wonderful beginning for a wonderful cruise.


We all hope weather brightens, if not, remember we're all waterproof!

You are so cute I think I love YOU :D Some of us have that creative writing gift for bringing a smile and eager anticipation for the next sentence......step up, you are the one :app:
Looking forward to the next installment!

Suzie, Diane is quite lovable and a gifted writer with a wicked sense of humor.

Thx, Diane, for giving us your daily updates. Always a great read.

Say HI to Andrea. :hello1: She is a travel goddess!

the internet is going--hope this makes it


THE BEARS WOULD BE SHIVERING

I am from Wisconsin. I have seen the bears sweaterless from the back of a tundra buggy. I wear Birkenstocks without socks until November. I drive with my windows open whatever the season. I don’t like long sleeves.
But I am cold. There is rain, or mist, and wind. It is in the mid-50s, a heat wave for my city, but I am cold.
Colder still, because I packed for spring. Short sleeve shirts. A light sweater. A thin raincoat.
So, today I basically wore all my clothes. The layering look to extremes. First sweatshirt store, I’m there.
But this was a lovely day. This morning, rainy and early, breakfast with the girls. Then a lesson on the headsets, which let you hear the tour guide from afar. The warning—remember to look at the guide once in awhile or you might lose her. Well, I am a ditz, so I lost her. But not for long.
First, 10-15 of us loaded into a bus with a crisp guide named Leeze. A short city tour and then onto a canal boat. Yay! It was a covered boat. I feared I would be iced to the boat were I moving in an open boat in the open canal.
Not only a covered boat. A beautiful little critter, with cherubs on the low-hanging ceiling (I could touch the ceiling, thank you very much you tall people). With beautiful wood. With plates of cake at ornate table settings (which I’m sorry to say I did not try, having just eaten breakfast, with that smooch lemon jam). And, ta da, espresso. Not just ordinary espresso. Espresso in a tiny porcelain decorated cup with its own top! Like Christmas for Jews. Open the top and behold the Amsterdamians’ present. Like silk it was. Strong, smooth silk.
There was, of course, talk of history as we navigated the canals. Amsterdam is below sea level, here is Anne Frank’s house, here is where the literati lived, and, by the way, the government fell yesterday. Really? Really. When asked, Leeze would not elaborate. She was too angry. “I would break my throat if I said what I feel.” And on to more history and more espresso.
By 10:00, we were docked, had walked a block or so, and were at the Rembrandt museum. The guides hired by Tauck are terrific. I didn’t know that Marcia loves Rembrandt, so I dialed down my museum impatience and attended the whole tour instead of ducking into the gift shop prematurely (we all have our foibles). We saw The Night Watchmen (or whatever it’s called), and one my folks would remember, with a jowly happy guy reaching out of the picture with a glass of something. There were 4 Vermeers, including the one with the girl at the window (or are they all the ones with the girl at the window?). With the headset on, I wandered to a series of four different types of x-rays of the window girl picture. This was my favorite part, although it did cause me to lose the guide and therefore have to return the gold star I earned for not going to the gift shop within the first 5 minutes of the tour. Each x-ray showed some hidden part of the picture—one showed the artist’s first draft of the work, and how, for example, he narrowed the girl’s nightcoat; another showed what earlier retouching had been done. It was really neat. Made me want to learn about such conservatorship.
After, I did make it to the gift shop. No sweatshirt. Nothing else, except a put-together doll house, which is apparently a big thing here. No bags for me.
We had initially decided to stay in the city central after the tour, and come back on an afternoon shuttle. But Andrea bagged the afternoon, I got a headache, and Marcia agreed to go back to the boat and return to town with the afternoon shuttle. Good choice. Everyone was hungry, and I hadn’t had coffee for an hour and could taste that aroma in my throat (I learned coffee from my mom, although I don’t need to scald my throat with it as she prefers).
Fortified, Marcia and I returned to the shuttle for the city center. Our boat had moved, and was parked side-by-side to another riverboat. So, to get to the dock, we walked through the stranger boat and onto the dock. I can’t tell you how neat that was. This line of people usurping another boat as if it was a piece of carpet. I could tell by looking that our boat was much more beautiful that the boat upon which we were trespassing. No matter. Its occupants had wandered our carpets previously.
The shuttle took us to a spot near the church next to the Anne Frank house. Some went to that memorial. I could not. Just couldn’t. So Marcia and I got directions to a funky neighborhood, headed there, got lost (surprised dad?), found our way, and gabbed for two hours. We hadn’t been together, just us, for a long time, and we picked up where we had left off in Antarctica. We stopped for coffee for me, the rest room for her (up a teeny winding staircase that seemed endless, especially on the way down).
The sun came out, three of my layers came off, and the city looked glorious. It looked like Rembrandt with halos.
Tonight Marcia is going to a concert she had heard about. I am cultured out. Tauck, again, did a great job. Steve (the one I love) called and called and called to get her a ticket, arranged a cab, and gave her instructions for a cab back. Marcia only had 25 minutes for dinner, and Gabriel, who I think is second in charge, took individual care of her. She had lamb with ceaser salad. Looked good.
Andrea, I and Adrianne, a widow we met the first day, had a long and leisurely dinner with some very good wine. We heard each others’ stories, both highs and lows. Adrianne told us how she met her husband, his wooing her, her saying no, and then saying yes. 53 years together. A good life. Andrea told us about her cross-country relationship with her now-husband, her move to Boston from Ohio, and how they just fit together. Another good life.
OK. I know you want to know. No I did not go to the coffee “shop,” although I did smell its fine aroma when I poked my head in, and when I passed a couple groups of young people. I will leave my share of pot to those to whom it is important. Besides, I will never forget that, when I went to Jamaica in my 20s, I saw this old man (must have been 40), with a big stomach pouncing out of his speedo (you can only imagine), with a huge stogie that looked like a cigar. It just seemed so silly. Then again, I don’t think he cared if he was silly or not, especially since he was laughing like a hyena.
And here we are. Tomorrow is an early day. Leave at 6:15 (yes, a.m.) to go to the flower auction. Apparently it’s a big to-doo, with flowers purchased in the morning arriving in, for example, NYC by evening. And then the Keurkoff gardens, about which I know nothing, but which I assume will involve tulips.
The group, of only a little over 100, is gelling fine. Everyone is easy and happy to be so lucky to be together and in such a beautiful place.
I’m off to see if I can add to the puzzle in the card room. I know. Exciting. It is, you know. It really is.

I'm always so glad when Diane's back on a boat somewhere/anywhere. First two installments were great!

Puzzles just fall together with a little help from the "pot shop"...darn, girl ;)

I am a lawyer, I am a lawyer.

Yay, Diane is traveling again!

SUPER reports!!! Can't wait for future posts, Diane.

We apologize for the lack of posts. The Internet aboard the MS Treasures leaves much to be desired. However, we are having a wonderful time! I'll leave the words to Diane & just post some pictures for your viewing pleasure.

The first few pictures are from the Flora Holland auction that takes place every day. 23 hours from being cut, purchased, shipped to your local flower shop.

All I can say is "Wow-eee"...Beee-utiful, takes your breath away. They look unreal, like wax imitations. So much beauty in the world.
Keep the photo's coming....miss you girl

This was so much fun to read and look at, I am now late for work! Thanks for taking us along with your humor and lovely photos. Much better than work.

A+ Diane! Magnificent photos, Princess!

Wonderful stories and photos, thanks!

We now have internet but I am such a wuss I am carsick from the bus ride. Will write later. Strange day

THE FLOWER BRIGADES

The day (Tuesday) is over. Holy moly (guide Peter’s second favorite saying), was it a day.

Up at 5 (yes, a.m.). Out the boat door at 6:15. To the flower auction.

I figured the flower auction would be a quaint, frothy thing, with paddles and genteel auctioneers in an ornate room filled with gilded chairs (and gilded lilies too). I even wore my black pants, so I would not look like a shlub. Quaint? No. Frothy? Only the refrigerated coolness. Paddles? Not the hand-held variety.

The flowers we peons buy, and the few popular ones amongst us receive as gifts, likely come from The Holland Flora auction. The auction is a daily, computerized, high-tech dance which takes place in one of several headquarters, each of which is the equivalent of 733 football fields. Flowers auctioned off in gross by 8 a.m. this morning, will be transported from here (still in Amsterdam) to world-wide destinations, for receipt by this evening.

The tour was a self-guided walk on top of the goings-on. Down below, long, long trams moved thousands and thousands of flowers to their pre-departure place in the football fields. The flowers, of all kinds, were voluptuous, like carpets of velvet. It took close to an hour just to walk the length (and back again) of the warehouse. Parallel to our walking planks were high-tech machine gadgets to store unused trams and then move them to their needed station when their time arose.

In the middle of all of this action was a large room, located at the observers’ height, in which the auction was being held. Scores of brokers, in front of computer screens, sat in what looked like a cantilevered movie theatre. At the front were two almost wall-to-wall screens and what is known as the Clock. The Clock has info as to the flowers being auctioned at that moment—the grade, the quantity, the price (as it changes up and down), the seller…….. The room appeared silent, with the brokers’ fingers acting as their voices. Just like the stock exchange.

It was mesmerizing, but so was my tiredness. So, well in advance of the consistently attentive Marcia, I found the coffee shop. And evesdropped. The couple next to me were having a fight. I know that not from their words, which I had no clue to understand, but in their hands. She pointed with the second finger. He rolled his comparable finger around the rim of his cup. My kind of drama.

It was now 8:00. In the morning. And off we were the Kreukenhoff, the Tivoli Garden of flowers. For those on LCT, I will let Andrea advise more about this, as she is a flower child, and as her pictures are sublime. I will say that this was akin to the Disneyland of flowers. I understand that the gardens are open for only a couple of months. Once intended to allow flower brokers to confirm the grade of the types of flowers they were purchasing, the gardens have morphed into a tourist hot spot.
We arrived at the gardens at 9:00, greeted by rain and dampness. Undaunted, we trudged out of the bus to the entrance, and beyond. We had three hours to explore the six or so pavilions and the tulip-blanketed outdoor gardens.

The flowers were, of course, more than lovely. There is a type of tulip I had never seen—they are fringed, and look like the bottoms of my son’s jeans. The pavilions were also interesting. Poland was being honored and had its own pavilion. The outside of the pavilion commended Poland for being a historically democratic country, which led to a double-take.

The best of the pavilions, to my liking, was way at the end—the Beatrix (named, as they all were, after Dutch nobility). It was not just that this pavilion was full of lilies—all different kinds, textures and colors. It was that, in contrast to the traditional nature of most of the remaining pavilions, this pavilion was a modern design focused on fashion—purses trailed with blue lilies, mini-dresses hemmed with silver lilies, even a wedding gown overlaid with cascading purple lilies. It was a dream, with stitches of color.

Many could have spent all day at the K event. The morning was sufficient for me. At noon, the Peepers, cold and damp, if smelling like hyacinths, creeped up the bus. I laid across the bus’ full back seat, fitting perfectly head to toe. One hour later, I awoke to the boat. And lunch.

My compatriots ate well, and then went to their respective quarters to practice what is a lost art to most of us—doing nothing. I played at practicing my meditation, started watching the BBC News, and did what I knew I had to do—check my email.

Did the last brief come in? Of course. Could I retrieve it from the email? Only the brief, not the supporting documents. Then, the email went out again. And the games began. I decided to do my best rough draft of a reply, email it to work, and let them finish it. I spent the rest of the day writing, writing, and writing again. First to Copeland, then to Cyndi Lauper, then to Sinatra, then to Elvis Costello…… Marcia asked the maître d to bring me some supper, even though the boat does not have room service. Thirty minutes later, a knock on the door, and dinner! By 11, fini! With dinner and the brief. Now to get it to work. Still no email. Tried to fax. No go. Nothing to do but wait for the next email opening, which came and went. Emailed doc gone, I was off duty. Yay.

So ended the day of the flowerings. The flowers flowered. The flower-brokers flowered. The Peepers flowered. My words flowered. The boat, already flowering, flowered some more. And will flower tomorrow.

I am writing this a day late, having just finished a tumultuous game of “Identify the (city, building, location).” I could wait until my report about today to tell you, but you must know now. The game involves teams, who look at the big tv screens in the lounge, trying to guess what is being pictured. The screen is scrambled into design, and parts are revealed one after the other. The first team to identify the picture, by the sound of a bike horn, wins points. After 20 questions, the winner is crowned.
Andrea is the expert here, with Marcia the expert-in-training. Adrienne watched. And I contributed nothing, except this—I guessed that a picture, which turned out to be of Mother Theresa, was of Andy Warhol. I cackled. Andrea and Marcia get pics of the Taj Mahal, and I can’t even get the pic of Mother Theresa. No one on our team thought this was funny but me. Competitive little team we have here, don’t you think?

Beautiful pics and wonderful updates; thanks girls and have a grand time!!!

A most winning combo - Diane's commentary and Andrea's pix! Great job! This Tauck river cruise has been very high on our wishlist. Love, love, love Tauck! Please keep the reports and pix coming! Tremendously enjoyable!

Really interesting commentary, brought to life by Andrea's gorgeous photos. I am not a fan of river cruising having only experienced the less than stellar Amakaterina in Russia, but the Tauck experience could change my mind.

What? No gift shop at the flowery tour? Did Andrea or anyone take photo's at the Beatrix pavilion? That sounded right up my alley, along with the "Identify the city"...couple or more glasses of wine and I would have mistaken Andy Warhol for Mother Teresa too.
Hilarious

So very interesting (and amusing), thanks Ladies!
-----------
Helen

Leslie--I may prefer river cruising to the big boats. Fewer people makes for more friends (or, I suppose, the other way). Love the way the boat is hugged by land on both sides as we move. Tauck is, I expect, the opposite of your barge-boat. The Treasures is newer and lovelier that, for example, the Mozart (line?), which we walked through to get to the dock).

Suzie--yes gift shop. Tiny but gifty nonetheless. Next to the coffee place. So it was a difficult decision. As to the Warhol/Theresa Q, I take the 5th.

Thank you for the kind words about my photos - you are all so good for my ego!!

Here a couple of shots of the fringe tulips Diane wrote about. They were beautiful!





Suzie, the Beatrix display was actually all orchids. I unfortunately did not make it to that pavilion, mostly because I would still be there taking pictures. It was a cold and rainy day (yes, for those on Zodiac, I actually got cold!) and I decided to treat myself to a cappuccino and the most delicious almond cookie ever.



We are having a wonderful time aboard the riverboat. Tauck is doing a fantastic job of keeping us entertained and catering to our every desire. They include wine with our lunch and dinner and I have to say I haven't had one yet that I didn't like. The meals are excellent too.

The "Identify the City, Object, Location, etc" game was an absolute blast. I've already had a couple of people stop me today to ask if I had been to all the places! Not yet...but one of these days, especially if I can travel with Marcia and Diane!

This afternoon we are off to the Kroller Muller Museum and the De Hoge Veluwe National Park. Marc, tomorrow is Floriade!

Andrea, Queen of the meat locker, got cold??!! No way.
I'm eagerly anticipating more stories and photos.

sorry I am behind here--trying to catch up--and internet sucks (which is a word I don't often use).

KERFLUFFLE DAY (Wednesday)

Our Peeper quartet has been lucky enough to have Peter as our guide on all of the excursions thus far. Peter is a 40-year-old-looking 61 year old, born in Switzerland but now living in Canada. “I am just a baker” is his refrain. Fond of pastel shirts and black jeans, he reminds me of an adult-sized leprechaun. Peter has blond, scruffy hair, eyes that expand and contract depending on the joke, and a tongue that spouts out like a diving board when he is excited. Peter’s stories begin with the truth, and then morph into children’s fantasies.

Peter’s favorite terms are “holy moly” and “kerfluffle.” Well, holy moly, today was a kerfluffle of a day. It’s not that anything was wrong. It’s just that nothing was particularly right.

This morning, I thought we were going to see The Hague. I expected either the war crimes court (which, as I write this and as you know by now, is convicting former Liberian Prime Minister Charles Taylor of aiding the militias in Sierra Leone—he was acquitted of direct culpability in crimes which included rape, child slavery and other similar wrongs); or the administrative courts, through which we attorneys attempt to serve process abroad (often unsuccessfully) under The Hague Convention.

Not so. We drove to the town of Den Haag (i.e. The Hague). We then drove to the Peace Building, n/k/a the war courts. We did not enter. We got off the bus, some took pictures, we looked at the building, we got back on the bus, and we left. Kerfluffle number 1.

We then drove for about ½ hour to a hotel. We got out of the bus, crossed the busy intersection, entered the hotel (which was beautiful, if surrounded by a casino and other too-modern buildings), and had a scheduled restroom stop (when presented with a restroom, it behooves one to take advantage). Then, we went up the stairs, out a terrace, and looked at the water and the “dunes” (foliage covered). Some said “ooh.” Some said “aah.” Some said “?”. And we went back to the bus. Kerfluffle number 2.

Peter later said we did this stop (aside from the Americans’ well-known “tiny bladders),” because the itinerary said that we would see the water and the dunes, “so we have seen de water and de duins.” Peter explained that “de marketing department, it does not workwith us. It just tells us to make de stop. What with dis traffic? What do I know? I am only de baker.” Apparently, traffic jams are not consistently taken into consideration in itinerary developments.

We then drove to the Delft porcelain museum (and store, emphasis on the store). I lined up for the ½-hour tour, but left before it started. It was sunny out. There was a tiny park on the corner across the street. I am a short Jewish woman, not a herdable cow. So, I left the historic building, went to the park, peered into the adjacent modern building which housed the local university, returned to the museum and ordered a coffee. Andrea, brilliant woman that she is, was already seated, cappuccino and almond cookie on the table. We schmoozed, I went to the store, the Peepers were herded back onto the bus, and we returned to the boat for lunch. Kerfluffle number 3. Note that Marcia, always ready for more useless knowledge, took the tour before she dared to shop.

After lunch, back on the bus. Really. Off to the town of Gouda (pronounced “Howda” if you must know). Once there, a village tour with a robust guide. It rained through the tour, which had become no big deal. This area, after all, rains an average of 220 days of the year. It was good to walk.

I thought that we were going to go on a tour of the making of the Howda cheese, and then receive a big slab as a reward for our participation. Not so fast. We did go to a museum, in a lovely historic building, but we saw no cheese, except for the gift shop. We heard a gentle man, who was fascinated with his own jokes, advise re the town’s history of commercially weighing various materials, including cheese. Kerfluffle number 4.

With one exception. I did see a tradesman hand-making white pipes from the local stoney material, which was really fun. The pipes, once generally formed, were put one by one into a big mold, which the tradesman tightened by turning a hand crank. Apparently, years ago, when the canals froze in winter, men would put a pipe in their hats, skate over the canals to their homes in nearby cities, and judge their skating skills by the state of their pipe upon arrival.

Gift shop perused, restrooms visited, our Peeper trio (Andrea had, quite smartly, disappeared) walked the tiny town, rain and all. That done, the wet ones stopped in a café named after a bagel. Bagels were everywhere on the menu. So strange. But good.

Kerfluffle number 5 was my getting carsick on the bus back to the hotel.

Over dinner, we tried to figure out what kind of a travel day we had had. Good? No. Bad? No. Did it matter? Not really. There was more peeping for the Peepers to do.

sorry I am behind here--trying to catch up--and internet sucks (which is a word I don't often use).

KERFLUFFLE DAY (Wednesday)

Our Peeper quartet has been lucky enough to have Peter as our guide on all of the excursions thus far. Peter is a 40-year-old-looking 61 year old, born in Switzerland but now living in Canada. “I am just a baker” is his refrain. Fond of pastel shirts and black jeans, he reminds me of an adult-sized leprechaun. Peter has blond, scruffy hair, eyes that expand and contract depending on the joke, and a tongue that spouts out like a diving board when he is excited. Peter’s stories begin with the truth, and then morph into children’s fantasies.

Peter’s favorite terms are “holy moly” and “kerfluffle.” Well, holy moly, today was a kerfluffle of a day. It’s not that anything was wrong. It’s just that nothing was particularly right.

This morning, I thought we were going to see The Hague. I expected either the war crimes court (which, as I write this and as you know by now, is convicting former Liberian Prime Minister Charles Taylor of aiding the militias in Sierra Leone—he was acquitted of direct culpability in crimes which included rape, child slavery and other similar wrongs); or the administrative courts, through which we attorneys attempt to serve process abroad (often unsuccessfully) under The Hague Convention.

Not so. We drove to the town of Den Haag (i.e. The Hague). We then drove to the Peace Building, n/k/a the war courts. We did not enter. We got off the bus, some took pictures, we looked at the building, we got back on the bus, and we left. Kerfluffle number 1.

We then drove for about ½ hour to a hotel. We got out of the bus, crossed the busy intersection, entered the hotel (which was beautiful, if surrounded by a casino and other too-modern buildings), and had a scheduled restroom stop (when presented with a restroom, it behooves one to take advantage). Then, we went up the stairs, out a terrace, and looked at the water and the “dunes” (foliage covered). Some said “ooh.” Some said “aah.” Some said “?”. And we went back to the bus. Kerfluffle number 2.

Peter later said we did this stop (aside from the Americans’ well-known “tiny bladders,” because the itinerary said that we would see the water and the dunes, “so we have seen de water and de duins.” Peter explained that “de marketing department, it does not workwith us. It just tells us to make de stop. What with dis traffic? What do I know? I am only de baker.” Apparently, traffic jams are not consistently taken into consideration in itinerary developments.

We then drove to the Delft porcelain museum (and store, emphasis on the store). I lined up for the ½-hour tour, but left before it started. It was sunny out. There was a tiny park on the corner across the street. I am a short Jewish woman, not a herdable cow. So, I left the historic building, went to the part, peered into the adjacent modern building which housed the local university, returned to the museum and ordered a coffee. Andrea, brilliant woman that she is, was already seated, cappuccino and almond cookie on the table. We schmoozed, I went to the store, the Peepers were herded back onto the bus, and we returned to the boat for lunch. Kerfluffle number 3. Note that Marcia, always ready for more useless knowledge, took the tour before she dared to shop.

After lunch, back on the bus. Really. Off to the town of Gouda (pronounced “Howda” if you must know). Once there, a village tour with a robust guide. It rained through the tour, which had become no big deal. This area, after all, rains an average of 220 days of the year. It was good to walk.

I thought that we were going to go on a tour of the making of the Howda cheese, and then receive a big slab as a reward for our participation. Not so fast. We did go to a museum, in a lovely historic building, but we saw no cheese, except for the gift shop. We heard a gentle man, who was fascinated with his own jokes, advise re the town’s history of commercially weighing various materials, including cheese. Kerfluffle number 4.

With one exception. I did see a tradesman hand-making white pipes from the local stoney material, which was really fun. The pipes, once generally formed, were put one by one into a big mold, which the tradesman tightened by turning a hand crank. Apparently, years ago, when the canals froze in winter, men would put a pipe in their hats, skate over the canals to their homes in nearby cities, and judge their skating skills by the state of their pipe upon arrival.

Gift shop perused, restrooms visited, our Peeper trio (Andrea had, quite smartly, disappeared) walked the tiny town, rain and all. That done, the wet ones stopped in a café named after a bagel. Bagels were everywhere on the menu. So strange. But good.

Kerfluffle number 5 was my getting carsick on the bus back to the hotel.

Over dinner, we tried to figure out what kind of a travel day we had had. Good? No. Bad? No. Did it matter? Not really. There was more peeping for the Peepers to do.

THE ART IN THE FOREST

As I write this, the boat is preparing to go through one of the 18 locks it will traverse during this trip. I never understood locks and their function. I still may not fully know how a lock works, but I know how it feels.

The boat is between two stone walls. In front of the boar is a closed gate. To equalize the waters and allow the boat through, the water levels under the boar are increased—the boat is lifting higher and higher as I write this. Then, when the time is right, the gates open, the boat passes through, and the gates close again. Magic to engineers. Like floating on clouds to me.

Today was a late departure day, which was good for me. My fellow Peepers (except Marcia) are looking dreary and worn, which is exactly how I feel. I bypassed the on-board events this morning, bypassed Marcia’s walk to the city (Arnhem), and bypassed lunch. I did not, however, bypass a wonderful afternoon.

We traveled to De Hoge National Part, about 40 minutes from town. In the middle of the park, which is really a forest, is the Kroeller-Mueller museum, more than a gem of philanthropy and beauty.

The museum itself is located after a visitor’s center, for which was allotted 40 minutes. In the center was a sub-museum about the forest’s history and natural charms. Having sat in the back of the bus, and so being majorly car sick, I did not pick up the bus again at the center but got directions and walked directly to the museum.

What a walk. Cloudy, drizzly, windy and fine. Just what I needed. Of course I got off the path and was lost, but bike people pointed that I needed to turn around and I followed them until they were out of view. The part/forest has a thousand white bikes which people can just pick up, ride, and leave at a station. Apparently Amsterdam tried this, but the bikes were stolen. Not here. As I walked, I heard wushing sounds—wush, wush. I turned around, to move aside from what I believed was a car. No car. The trees.

After about 40 minutes, I made it to the museum, with welcomes from the outdoor sculptures. There is a big Di Suervo, that looks just like our orange sculpture on Wisconsin Avenue at home, except on its side, not standing up. And other pieces from the 20th century.

This gist of the story is that the wife of a business owner began taking art appreciation lessons with her daughter, who was preparing to study in another country. The wife became so passionate about Van Gogh that she embarked on her own intensive study. She bought at least 100 of his works, and others of similar ilk. The family lived in Den Hague, but bought parcels of undeveloped land on the site over the years. When their home ran out of room to show her collection, the family decided to build a museum in the forest. They made an agreement with the government to give her works to the government, in exchange for the government’s agreement to never develop the forest and to protect the works (and those collected in the future) from being dissembled or otherwise divided.

Even if you’re not into art, you would like this museum. It’s in a forest, after all. And the grounds are filled with all different kinds of sculpture, mostly modern. The building itself is single story and reminds me of a silver-stoned F.L. Wright design. Of course there were Van Goghs. And Seurat (Sunday in the Park with George Seurat). And sketches from one of my favorites, Modigliani (whose print I believed protected me when I could not sleep as a child). And the scary Ensor. But there was more. All sorts of more. Including video installations adjacent to a Mondrian (the guy with the black, red, and white rectangles). Including stuff that was way too modern even for me. And Gilbert & George (they put themselves in every picture), which I think is tacky. Nature and art. Art and nature. One and the same.

So, the kerfluffle day was redeemed. And so was I, because on the drive back I sat closer to the front of the bus.

FLORIADE—THE RECESSION’S WORLD’S FAIR, WITH A FOCUS

This trip’s marketing big kahuna is the Floriade, a flower/environmental festival held every 10 years on the outskirts of Venlo. It reminds me of a cross between Epcot and the 1964 world’s fair, on a lesser scale, and focused primarily on flowers, plants and the environment.

I did not really want to go. I did not think I would be interested. But I was, if not as much as others, and I’m very glad I experienced this event, which draws people from all over Europe. So, again, there is the music of language.

The site is divided into several major pavilions, each with a different bent—Greenhouse (where most of the flowers are), Education, Zen (yay for that one)….Some countries have tiny marketing outposts, mostly consisting of p.r. videos. Azerbaijan was one such country. As an aside, there have been tons of t.v. ads and billboards promoting Aizerbaijan as a business/tourist spot. I am confused.

There are gondolas which take you from one side of the site to the other. Shops, of course, although much fewer that I expected, and lots of food places. I think that the Floriade would have been grander in scope had the world not been suffering its financial woes. The U.S., for example, was asked to have a booth, but declined because of the expense.

I didn’t learn a whole lot, but I experienced tons. Including the welcome from 4 young women, all on stilts, with white futuresque tight costumes and hair, and gloves with super long (i.e. feet, not inches) fingers. These women moved and danced, in time to expositional-type music, their hands going every which way, their arms raising to the sky, with their costumes’ material creating wings. Their legs never stopped moving, their stilt bottoms looking like horses’ hooves. So cool.

Some would stay all day. The Peepers, even Marcia, came back to the boat after 4 hours. Then, Marcia and I became the apparent ugly American tourists. The boat was still docked. Did we walk to the city and explore its “old town”? No. We walked to the massive outdoor outlet mall. Now there was a Levi store, it is true. But there also was Prada, Burberry, D & Gabana, Furla, and many whose names I did not recognize (Marcia, of course did, as our mother taught her well). We did not stay that long,, and we bought nothing, so, in fairness, we were really only unattractive American tourists, not ugly ones.

THE SOMBERNESS OF THOSE LEFT BEHIND.

This morning began with a wonderful walking tour of Maastricht.

We saw the only remaining bridge over the city’s canal. You would know it if you saw it. It is curved, with seven stone stretches, with the old city to its west. We also saw the few remaining gates and walls to the old city. The gates dated back to the 1400’s. The walls, depending on the materials used, dated back to the 1400’s, the 1500’s or the 1600’s. Since Maastrich was constantly being invaded, the circumference walls expanded over the years, as the old city’s population expanded.

The city was a commercial exporter of, among other things, breads and pastries. The breads were made of speltz, a wholer grain flour. The flour was ground through use of a huge wheel, part of which was in the canal, and which used the water for leverage. Lucky us, a bakery was using an original old mill as we passed, so we were able to see the small pre-industrialized factory in action.

Maastrich has historically been a wealthy city, and remains so today. Little apartments in the old city now go for over a million dollars, even in this economy. The old city retains its historical structure and character, although its flank now is infested with shops. They may be rich people’s shops (Prada anyone?), but they are shops nonetheless.

The old city, like other such cities, is drawn around several squares. Our walking tour was early (8-9 a.m.), and the city was devoid of tourists. By the time we returned and walked around this afternoon (2 p.m.), the squares were filled with people, from different countries, speaking different languages, and pointing to different sights.

After the walking tour, we boarded the bus and drove to the American World War II cemetery in Margarten. The Netherlands donated the land to the U.S., which created and maintains the site.

I did not expect the cemetary to be so silently moving. First, a long pool, leading to a tall stone obelisk-type monument to the soldiers. One each side of the pool, the names, birthplace, and date of death of those soldiers whose bodies were found and could be identified. Then, over a small incline, 8,300 graves, in three large triangles, each for a different area of battle. Crosses, start of davids…., all of white stone, with the person’s identifying information. We were given roses to place on a grave. We wandered, with hundreds of other visitors, through the aisles, reading the names of the dead, incredulous at their ages (most were just boys), terrified at how scared they must have been, wondering how their mothers could carry on. I placed my flower at the grave of a Jewish man from Illinois, who I can only remember now as Milton. Someone had already left a large stone (for remembrance) on his tombstone. Behind the marked graves, a large area in tribute to those who were never found or could not be identified. That mass, in contrast to the prim lines of crosses, was unbearable.

The bus was quiet as we left the site. The suffering of the dead was enough. But how can those left behind cope? Where do they get their strength?

We drove back to Maastricht, to a castle—Chateau St. Gerlach (its name is trademarked)--where we had lunch. I think the castle was a typical touristy thing, but the Peepers enjoyed it. Up 65 steps, in circles of dankness and darkness, to a renovated cave. Once you found your spot (a trip in itself), there were appetizer tables. For an entrée, you lined up, went into the kitchen, were given a paper chef’s hat, and received a plate of veal. I ate enough of the appetizers to forego the veal, but the cave-setting was filled with white-hatted Peepers.

The steps down were wide and straight. About two blocks to my left was the biggest cow I had ever seen, even in Wisconsin. I walked to her, mooed, cooed, grunted. Nothing. I turned and walked back. A little down the road, I heard a deep, groaning moo, and when I looked, the cow had turned her backside to me. No analysis needed.

On the bus and back to Maastricht, where the Peeper trio (Andrea was on another bus) were dropped on a square and wandered.

A good, but sad, day. Another kerfluffle redemption.

Thank you for the educational and entertaining reports - a wonderful experience!

As always, Diane, your writing is captivating.

Diane, I so appreciate and enjoy your writing! Thanks for taking the time to do so.

Andrea, your photos are absolutely beautiful! The flowers are breathtaking!

Sharing your experiences, in words and pix are truly welcome! This Tauck riverboat trip, thanks to your fantastic writing and photography, is very, very enticing to Alan and me.

Diane, many thanks for your time and energy to blog your trip for us. I always enjoy your memories, they teach and entertain us. Please continue, kerfluffles and all!

No Antwerp for me today--sick, and need to be in shape to return to work. It's a relatively short excursion (which alone is disappointing). Andrea or Marcia went and will report.

Tomorrow is off the boat, to Bruges (I'm psyched), and to a hotel for a farewell dinner.

Sorry for all the typos. I write, not proofread.

I miss my dog.