An Untitled Life in Bullets: Part VI

Part VI: Reconciliation “Anger is an acid that can do more harm to the vessel in which it is stored than to anything on which it is poured.” ~Mark Twain

“Those who love, friends and lovers, know that love is not only a blinding flash but also a long and painful struggle in the darkness for the realization of definitive recognition and reconciliation.” ~Albert Camus

“It fucking shows you’ve been on Instagram, and you’re ignoring my phone calls and texts” “Your kid’s with me. What the fuck is wrong with you.” “You make me feel like you are out fucking someone the night before I get there. You probably are.” “I just want to go home.”

I woke up the following day with several texts and missed calls. I set my alarm early so I could call Karen at the airport. They went sightseeing in Iceland, and I figured they didn’t have cell coverage. I fell asleep at 1230 the night before after a long day in Amsterdam. I’m sorry.” I said when she answered the phone. “I’m about to get on the flight. Where the fuck were you, piece of shit!” she whispered. “I went to bed. It was midnight. You weren’t answering Instagram, and I didn’t think you had coverage.” I explained. “I’ll be at Schiphol.”

I was bringing her and the kids out for the summer. We had been talking about trying to make things work between us. We had been apart for almost three years. During that time, she fell in love twice. I was excited to see her and my daughters, but the texts damaged my mood. They flew into Reykjavik the previous day and had a nineteen-hour layover. They stowed their luggage and took a tour of the Icelandic countryside before spending the remainder of the day in the city. They had been awake for 36 hours and were exhausted. I could cut Karen some slack.

It was a week of parties for me starting with the Zomercarnaval street festival in Rotterdam the weekend before and ending with Pride the day before. We pub crawled all week. I went with James to Rotterdam, and after four hours of drinking, we had the bright idea of inviting our regional boss. We met Jim at Rotterdam Centraal and walked to where we could watch the street parade. Downtown Rotterdam was crowded with party goers. We ended up at a German pub called “Wunderbar.” We drank tall Weiss beers all night only to stop for the Frite place across the street.

By 2 am, the city was dead. There was trash everywhere from the festivities. We boarded a train to the HS station in Den Haag. We could walk home from there. We had been drinking for ten hours and were quite lit. The train stopped at a new station. “This isn’t our stop; HS is old.” But it was our stop! We didn’t get off. Fuck! We ended up in Leiden at four am, drunk and exhausted, and the next train to go to Den Haag left at 5 am. “Fuck my life!” I said. “Let’s see if we can get an Uber,” Jim said. Jim oversaw Europe. He was our boss’s boss.

He had a very relaxed demeanor and was very approachable. We never talked shop when we were out. We were just three guys out to enjoy ourselves. He wore glasses and had dark short curly hair. He was of Italian descent. He often wore Star Wars Tee shirts. He could drink.

I ended up coming home at 6 am. I could only sleep until 11 am. I went out every night that week. Pub crawls mostly. Now Karen and the kids were flying in. I was exhausted, but not as much as they were. I gave her and the kids the biggest hug when they came through the gate. Dauphine is my oldest; she was 17. Zöe was 11. Both are wonderful people, and I’m not just saying that because I am their father. Although, of course, one could expect me to be biased. If they were exhausted from flying, I couldn’t tell through their elation at seeing me.

We made our way through Schiphol Airport, and I showed them how the OV Chipkaarts worked for the Dutch transportation system. They came with six suitcases, and each had a backpack. “My god.” I thought. Navigating all of that onto the train was challenging to say the least. A short thirty-minute trip through the Dutch countryside and we arrived at Den Haag Centraal. “You must scan the OV Chipkaart both in and out,” I explained. “If you don’t, it will charge you the maximum amount regardless of your stop.” I walked through the exit and showed them.

I looked back, and Karen had her card hovering over the scanner. “You have to touch the scanner with the card.” I laughed. She never quite got the hang of it, and it was an inside joke with us the entire time. This was their first time abroad, and everything was new and unfamiliar.

We walked down Kalvermarkt from Centraal and took Korte Hautstraat toward the Plein. “My door is next to that Argentine place.” I pointed. Inside I piled all six suitcases inside the tiny life, got on top of them, slid the gate shut, and hit number 1 (the second floor of the US). “Wow!” Zöe exclaimed, “This place is huge.” The kids wandered about exploring the flat, picking out bedrooms, and finding the bathrooms. There was a single WC on the first floor and a master bath on the second. The roof-shaped the rooms; the windows slanted to the sky.

“I bought you some nice wine,” I told Karen. “Would you like a glass? I also have beer and gin. I know you like Vodka and soda, but I haven’t had a chance to get any.” “Yes, thank you, S. Wine is perfect.” We sat on the sofa, drank wine, and talked late into the evening. I had to work the next day. After waking up, I made coffee. Karen and I sat and talked in the living room. As the city awakened, Karen and I sat and talked in the living room. “I bought a French Press for you,” I told her. “I’ve been using the Senseo machine, but the one in this place makes weak coffee half the time.”

“This place is nice.” she mused. “It has a French feel to it. The decorated metal rail at the bottom of the windows is nice, but I wouldn’t want to have a toddler in this place. Those windows are scary!” They opened inward, and there was no screen, just a metal rail at the bottom. “What are you guys going to do today?” I asked. “We’ll probably hang out. The kids are tired. We may explore the city later. Where is there a grocery store? I see you didn’t get enough food.” she laughed. “There’s an Albert Heijn by Centraal. That’s the closest one, I think.”

After showering, I got dressed and gathered my backpack. I kissed Karen goodbye, went downstairs and out of the blue door adjacent to the Argentine restaurant, and found my bike rental, the one from Swapfiets, with a blue front tire. I rode about 10 km per day to and from work. Sometimes I would ride by the Peace Palace. Most of the time, I would take the route that passes by Madurodam, a Dutch amusement park featuring a miniature city depicting the various Dutch history, or so I’ve heard. I never actually visited. My office was near “The Fred.”

The Fred or De Fred is a posh neighborhood close to Scheveningen and the beach. The Frederick Hendriklaan is the official name and its primary avenue. It’s lined with boutiques, patisseries, cafés, restaurants, and museums. Pastanini is my favorite Italian place there, maybe anywhere. Most days, I ate with coworkers in the cafeteria of my office. It was simply delectable. There was a French chef who created the dishes. “Would you like some sauce?” he would always offer. Always! Always go with the sauce! Fresh bread, a salad bar created daily. Soups. Amazing!

The day after my family arrived, I left work early to spend time with them. “What are you guys in the mood for?” I asked. “I want to try that Italian place you’re always talking about,” Karen said. “That’s way down in the Fred,” I said. “What about that other place?”

“There’s Pinocchio’s just around the corner. Their lasagna reminds me of the one I used to eat with my family at that place in Malta when I was a kid.” I said. “It comes baked in a porcelain dish, and the cheese and sauce blend like a soup. Delicious!”

“Let’s do that one.”

Pinocchio’s is a small Italian place that opened in 1976. It has a street awning they fold up daily, stacking the chairs and tables and securing them with cables and locks. “Do you have a table inside.?” I asked the woman. It was sweltering outside. Inside wasn’t much better. I sat across from Karen and next to Zöe; Dauphine sat across from Zöe. “May I get you something to drink?” the woman asked. “I’ll have red wine. Could you bring the kids some water?” Karen said.

“Still or sparkling?” the woman asked.

“Still.”

“I’ll have a Moretti,” I said.

“I like this place, but Pastanini is so much better. I’ll take you some time. Maybe meet me for lunch.” I said. “I want a bike. Could you rent me one while I’m here? That Swap feet or whatever that place is?” she asked. “Swapfiets.” I laughed. “Fit is Dutch for a bicycle.”

“Mom! Make Zöe stop doing that with her fork. It’s annoying.” Dauphine insisted. Zöe had been playing with her table setting. Zöe bores easily. “Stop it, Zöe!” Karen said, just as the woman brought our drinks. Two small bottles of water for the kids and beer and wine for us. “Excuse me.” Karen said, “I’m not sure this will be enough water for them.” Karen asked the woman, “Could we get a water pitcher?” It was so hot that day. “I’m sorry, we don’t serve pitchers of water.” The woman said. The look on Karen’s face was priceless. “Oh shit.” I thought.

Karen looked at me, mouth tightened. “What the fuck is that shit?” she said. “They don’t serve tap water?” she quizzed. “I noticed many places don’t. It’s a cultural thing.” I said. “Those waters are €4 each. What a rip-off,” she said, looking at the menu. “Your beer is cheaper.”

“That woman is nice. I don’t want to offend her. Let’s just go with it.” I said.

“You know that’s bullshit,” Karen said.

“I don’t want them to spit in my food,” I said, putting my finger to my lips.

She wouldn’t let it go. Finally, I said, “Could we please change the subject?”

The kids laughed nervously. Karen leaned into me and said, “I don’t appreciate you undermining me in front of my children!” “I wasn’t trying to undermine you. I simply don’t want to talk about this anymore.” I said. “Do you know how hard I have it with these two? You skip off...”

When you cheat on someone, the person you cheated on never really heals. The pain manifests in a server not bringing tap water, missing a text or phone call, or taking too long to go to the store. Once trust is shattered, it never comes back. Ever. Arguments easily flare.

After dinner, we took the nine tram to Scheveningen. We walked along the strand. We went inside the double-decker pier where the giant Ferris Wheel is and watched the sun setting over the North Sea. Afterward, we found a place for drinks next to the beach. The four of us sat at a table.

“Two pints of La Chouffes and a Leffe, please, and she’ll have pineapple juice.,” I said to the waitress while nodding to Zöe, who was drawing with crayons on the back of a paper table. I looked at Karen, “D can have one; why not?” “Just one,” Karen said, looking at Dauphine. She always called her D.

Zöe is quite the artist. No, really. She’s already near an advanced level of animation and character creation. Her dream is to go to art school. The kid knows exactly what she wants. She can’t stop creating. At 11, she reads, draws, and makes YouTube videos of her art process.

We finished our beverages and walked along the strand. It was dark.

“That’s a nice piano bar.” I pointed to the “Crazy Pianos” sign. “I had a conversation with. Dutch soldier there who did Recon as I did. He even trained at Fort Hood where I was.” I said.

It was getting late.

I brought out two glasses of Bourdeaux and set one on the varnished tree stump side table next to where Karen was sitting, and I took a spot on the sofa. We talked for a bit when Karen accidentally spilled her glass of wine. It went everywhere. “Are you going to clean that up?” What an asshole thing to say, I thought. It just came out. I took some of her paper towels and helped soak up the wine. “No big deal,” I said. “You’re such an asshole,” she said. “You’re just fucking mean.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. We started to get into it.

“Don’t you ever fucking correct me in front of my children!” She yelled. “The windows are open. I don’t want the neighbors to call the cops.”

“I don’t give a fuck!” she said, “let them call the cops!”

“All I said was let’s change the subject, that’s it! Then you freaked out.”

“It was fucking water,” I said. She wouldn’t drop it. Finally, I said, “Do you know my biggest fear is you becoming your mother?” I said. That was cruel. I didn’t realize how much so until months later when Karen recounted the child abuse she suffered from her mother. I felt bad. We argued for at least an hour before making up and going to bed. Our fights can last for hours or even days. I am hard to deal with sometimes, and she has difficulty letting things go. I get irritable when I’m hungry or tired. She’s demanding but strives for a good life.

“Let’s do Brussels this weekend.” She said. “I’ll make a car and Airbnb reservation tomorrow,” I told her. The following day, I went to work. At lunch, I sat with Dan and the US crew. “Isabella told me last night that she just wants a man who’ll go down on her,” Dan said as I sat. “Really?” I said. “Yes, but don’t tell anyone. I’m sure she wants that kept hush.” Dan said. “That’s personal, Dan,” I said. “She’s a great person. She’s pretty. I’m surprised she’s had such difficulty finding someone.” Isabella has her quirks, sure, but she’s fantastic.

Isabella flew to Spain to visit her mother. “We should meet for dinner when I come back,” she texted Dan and me.

“Perfect,” Dan said.

“You can meet my wife,” I responded.

Isabella’s time was up. She was going to leave for the states when she returned from Spain. We met at the Plein.

The Plein is a vibrant square in the heart of Den Haag. It is surrounded by grand buildings, bars, and restaurants. Most of the court is occupied by outdoor seating under colorful umbrellas. Servers rush food and drinks to patrons from adjacent bars and restaurants. It is close to the Binnenhof’s government offices and the Mauritshuis museum. Above the ancient buildings of the Plein is the modern skyline of Den Haag’s downtown. High-level officials are not unusual in wandering around the city’s more picturesque nightlife spots.

Korte Houtstraat is one of the streets that framed the Plein. My flat was on that street above the Argentine restaurant and a few doors down from the famous De Basiliek restaurant where President Obama once dined. It would be a one-minute walk to the Plein from my place if I tarried. Karen and I walked through the Plein and saw Dan and Isabella seated across from the Barlow. It was her favorite place to dine. “Hi guys,” I called. They stood up. Isabella walked to me and hugged me. “Oh my god, I can’t believe you’re leaving,” I said. “Me neither.”

“This is my wife, Karen. Karen, this is Isabella and Dan.”

“Steve is our travel buddy,” Dan said as he shook her hand.

Dutch tradition is three kisses, pecks on the cheek, one on each side, and back again, but it is often lost on us Americans, which may be partly due to our Puritan past.

The blonde waitress returned with our drinks—red wine for Dan and Isabella, Tripel Karmeliet for Karen and me. The beer came in a glass of its namesake, which is how everyone in The Netherlands serves it. If you order La Chouffe, it comes in a La Chouffe glass with a nice head. Watching a bartender pour beer is fascinating. They rinse the glass like we do but pour the beer until the head is overflowing, then they use a flat knife, almost like a frosting knife, to scrape off the excess foam. The last step is dunking the glass in water before serving.

Many American establishments pour the beer until there is almost no head and wipe off the glass with a towel. Only the finest craft breweries get the head right; still, many don’t. I’ve never seen a knife used nor seen the glass dunked like they do in Europe. The waitress brought two steaming plates of sea bass to Dan and Isabella and mistakenly put Dan’s wine in front of me. I instinctively passed it to Dan. Karen and I had eaten earlier at a “Mexican” restaurant. The food was delicious but not what I know as Mexican food.

Isabella looked at me. “Dan’s not going to drink his wine now because you touched it,” Isabella said, laughing.

“I’ll drink it. It’s just too many hands have touched it.”

“Sorry, man.” I laughed. I didn’t realize. Don’t worry, my hands have been terrible, but I washed.”

“Your friend Dan is a neurotic mess,” Karen told me later at our flat.

“He’s okay. I know what he is. He struggles to be okay like we all do.” I said. “He’s highly successful. Not only does he do what I do, but he’s also working on a Ph.D. He’s going to the Army helicopter flight School.”

“He’s going to be a warrant officer.” I continued.

“I liked Isabella. She was nice.” Karen said. “I’m surprised you didn’t want to hook up with her.”

“I like her,” I said. “She’s pretty and smart, but something about her doesn’t feel right to me. I can’t place it.”

“Besides, I’m supposed to be trying to work things out with you, remember?” I said. “I know, I was just teasing you. I could tell she’s a lot like Dan. Both are neurotic messes.”

“I think Isabella is hilarious,” I said. “She’s so funny. There are so many Isabellaisms.”

“You can see Isabella’s eyes trail off whenever she recounts a story l. It’s like she fades into her head while biting her lip.” I said. “I think she has a lot going on up there. Her Dad, for one. He’s sick and alone in New Mexico. She lives in DC. She has concerns.”

“So, what did you guys do today,” I asked. “We went shopping, of course. We found an awesome store called Primark. They have the most wonderful clothes. We also went to get gelato and walked through that Forest. What is it called?” “The Haagse Bos?” “Yes, that’s it. It’s magical”.

“I reserved a car and Airbnb for Brussels. I want to find Delirium village. Belgium is the beer capital of the world. Those damned monks know what they’re doing.” I said. “It’ll be fun,” she said. “There was a Nancy Drew book set in Brussels; I’ve wanted to go since I was nine.”

“So, who’s Auggie?” Karen said. “Isabella was talking about him at dinner.” “He’s a great guy. An Army major here on an internship from Duke where he is pursuing his master’s on the military dime. He was here with his wife. She’s beautiful. They have a toddler. Lived by the beach.”

“Auggies almost like a bro. Maybe he used to be. He is a smart guy. He has this margarita recipe I want to try to make. He uses agave syrup and freshly squeezed limes. A one-for-one ratio between the juice and tequila. Sounds fucking amazing.”, I said. “That sound delicious.” Auggie hung out with us in our pub crawls when he could get a kitchen pass. His wife and kid left for the US a few days before him. He hung out with us one last time at the Huppel Pub. “Here’s my card,” I said, holding out a blue card. “In case you become a general.” I laughed

“Oh, I’m going to be a General.” He said. “You better fucking believe it.” He was already drunk before he even met us that night. We ended up at De Paap, a live music place. Auggie disappeared for a while. I imagine he made a phone call. James and I and Jim, our gig boss, sat at a table talking with two women. One had blonde hair, and the other was darker complected with black hair. The music was loud, and their body language suggested they weren’t feeling it from James or Jim. I talked to them about bs. That’s when I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Auggie. I could smell the alcohol. He was completely ripped. “This guy is a sexy motherfucker.” He told everybody. “A sexy silver fox.” He kept going on and on to where it was funny, and then it became tedious. “Thanks, man”

That was the last I saw of Auggie.” I told Karen. “He left De Paap, and I never saw nor heard from him again.”

“What about those women?” she asked. “Who knows? Probably had enough of us ugly Americans.” I laughed. “Isabella confided to me all the creepy shit they did to her.”

“For example, Paul,” I said. He’s a guy at work. We went out to the Fred after work. She was sitting across from him at a restaurant. Isabella said something about her feet being sore, and he told her she could put them in his lap. She was like, what the fuck? He has a wife and kids.”

“That night, Jim introduced himself, and they were talking. He started in about; although he’s married, they are on the rocks. Something about the conversation creeped her out. Men are pigs.” I said, “I’m not trying to say I’m much better, but I try to be. They’re embarrassing, really” I remember Paul pulled me to the side when we were on the curb getting ready to leave the restaurant. “I saw your application and knew you were the guy.” he slurred. “This is the guy! I told Jim we should pick him,” he said. “Technically, you picked me twice, remember?” He laughed.

I was selected eight months prior, but the group I worked with wouldn’t release me. I was six weeks out from ending my temporary assignment with them. They wanted me to train two people of higher rank, so to speak, to do the job I was doing by myself. It’s the way it goes.

“I didn’t even realize all that was going on, and I was right there,” I told Isabella the day we went to Bouzy. Bouzy is a wine bar below her apartment and across the street on Denniweg. I met Dan and had her there for wine one sunny afternoon just before Karen and the girls came out. "That sort of thing happened with an ex when I was in Washington D.C..  A supposed friend and coworker grabbed her ass at a happy hour. I wouldn’t have known had she not told me. I confronted him. I would have liked to have beat his ass, but I’m not stupid. Losing my job isn’t worth it.”

“Oh my god,” Isabella said, “he apologized. Said it was alcohol. I didn’t take it further.” I suspect my ex was sleeping with him. If you knew her, that notion wouldn’t be such a stretch. “That night, another friend and co-worker told her she “looked so good.” “What the fuck?”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Isabella said. “It was the way he said it. He put his arm around her and whispered that into her ear. She told me that my friends are not my friends.” “That messes up,” Dan said. He rarely cursed. “She was friends on Instagram with the ass grabber.”

“He pulled her over one night at a happy hour and tried to get her into a threesome with his girlfriend. Maybe they did behind my back. Perhaps that’s why he felt so familiar.” I said, “Wow!” Isabella said, “I have trust issues myself, believe me.” “It’s all water under the bridge.”

“I was dating a nurse when I first got here.” Dan said, “We hit it off pretty well at first, then I got friend zoned, then ghosted. She was in my running club but disappeared for a while. She just recently came back. I’m so picky about the women I date.” he said, “She went abroad.”

“So, you live upstairs at that place across the street?” I asked, pointing at the windows above a patisserie. “Yes, that’s my place,” Isabella said, smiling. “I love it, but my upstairs neighbor’s toddlers are so noisy. It drives me crazy. They’re a British couple on holiday.”

“Call the cops on them.” Dan said, “Or speak to the building manager and complain. I don’t mess around. I’m ruthless.” he continued. “Wow, I don’t know about all that.” I said, “I can’t get any sleep. They’re up late every night. I’m going crazy.” Isabella was biting her lip. “I’m sure my neighbors feel the same about us.” I laughed .“My kids fight like cats and dogs. They are six years apart. You’d think neither of them would care what the other is doing; it gets loud. I remember the toddler days and how they experienced the world, so new to them.”

“I can’t stand children.” Dan blurted out, “They are annoying.” I took a sip of my Malbec. “Anyway, what are you guys doing his weekend,” I said without acknowledging what he had just said. “I’m going to hang out with my friend in Berlin,” Isabella said. “It’s Pride week there.” That was the last time I hung out with Isabella. She sent me photos of her in Berlin, three sheets down with her guy friend, gin and tonic in hand. She left the next week, and I never saw her again. I’ll never forget the time we spent together in The Hague. The three adventurers.

Karen and I fought for several days after she arrived. I don’t even remember what about. Perhaps she was exhausted; I’m an asshole or a combination of the two. Things brightened up when we took our road trip to Brussels. It was a real family vacation—a chance to grow together.

Our Airbnb was adorable. A Belgian couple who went on vacation abroad did an excellent job renovating an ancient ground-floor flat. The place wrapped around a private garden encased in glass in the center of the flat. Zöe claimed the sofa at the entrance of the park. Our driver dropped us off at Mannekin Pis the following day. The sculpture was dressed in a Santa outfit. We bypassed the famous statue and found a Belgian waffle place. We continued to Grand Place, where we savored the architecture. We eventually found Delirium Village.

It was the Mecca of Belgian beer. Over 2000 beers were represented in the interconnected bars and taprooms. We sat down and enjoyed Belgium’s finest before heading out to find a palace or a chocolatier. We wandered the cobblestone streets all day. We had fondue at a street café. Dauphine liked the boys in Brussels. They had a confident attitude with dark features. “They’re so cute.” I overheard her telling Karen. She was referring to our servers at the streetside café. “Dauphine took three years of French in school, but it often fails her.” I laughed.

Brussels is primarily a French-speaking city. “Dad! Stop it,” she growled at just above a whisper while staring intently at me and motioning her head slightly as if that would silence me. I smirked and took a sip of my Boulevardier. After lunch, we wandered to the old palace. “Thank you for bringing me out. I love you, Steve Kelley,” Karen said. “I love you too.” “I’ve wanted to visit Brussels since I was a kid, and now, I’m sitting in a park above a palace.” We were sitting in Park Egmont above the Palais Egmont. There were people everywhere, lying on the grass.

We strolled through the city all day long. We had dinner at an Italian place. Our waiter was an older man who told us he had just emigrated from Naples. After dinner, we smoked at an outdoor hookah lounge. Dauphine was surprisingly good at it; our Egyptian server was quite impressed. Night found us sitting among thousands of people in Grand Place square. The lights on the ancient ornate buildings were magical. A full moon was out. People spoke in hushed tones as if we were all sharing a sacred moment. We sat in silence on cobblestone for at least an hour.

The following day, we drove to Ghent. We wandered the medieval streets and toured castle Gravensteen. “I hate torture,” Karen said as she rushed through the torture museum part of the tour. I admit I don’t much like it either—how the wealthy had to maintain control over the poor. Is it still like that, isn’t it to some degree? I drove in six countries and never saw one cop pulling someone over. That’s strange to an American. I see four or five people in the US pulled over every day. Europeans use cameras and average speed zones to regulate traffic. Whenever anyone sees a cop in the US, they instinctively brake, even if they are not speeding. You see all the time cops killing minorities in the US who are disproportionally pulled over. When did our government stop fearing the people? We are a police state. That much is clear.

The US has 5% of the world’s population, yet we have 25% of the world’s prison population. You would think that would be China or North Korea, but it’s the US, the land of the free. There are police checkpoints in the US that are not border-related. Immigration and DUI checkpoints. One must go through checkpoints to drive from one US city to another. We have seen the decimation of 40 years of the drug war. I see blight everywhere I go in the US. The rich live in gated enclaves. Income inequality in the US is unprecedented. The US is a nation where the six heirs of Walmart own more wealth than the bottom 40% of Americans. The US is a plutocracy; the foot soldiers protecting that hierarchy are the police and a privatized prison system. So, you can see how a torture museum can be triggering.

Sure, there are despotic nations whose police unleash reigns of terror on the populace. Syria, Iran, and North Korea, for example. The US boasts higher ideals, yet we shut down the government on the debate to build a wall. The Iron curtain of the Soviets makes walls; Americans don’t.

“No, I don’t like torture museums either,” I told Karen. “It’s okay; let’s go see the other parts of the castle.” Afterward, we ate pizza at a gourmet place in Ghent before heading for Bruges. Somewhere in that town is my favorite beer, Tripel Van De Garre, and I will find it.

We arrived in Bruges late afternoon. We walked to the main square. Karen and the girls browsed a local store as I waited outside. The main square was packed with people. Music was playing. We walked around and had a delicious Belgian waffle. “I want to find De Garre,” I said. I tried to pull it up on my maps. It showed that we were already there. I walked around, but it wasn’t there. I noticed a back alley that rewound itself among vines growing on brick walls. We went down the path, and at the end was a simple doorway with the word “de Garre.”

Inside was a quaint pub with antique tables and local townsfolk enjoying beer and cheese. We made our way upstairs. We sat at a table by an open window. I ordered Tripels for us. It came served on a doily with a small bowl of cheese cubes. “I’ve been looking for this beer since I had it at Granville Moore’s in DC,” I told the bartender. “It’s not supposed to be served anywhere but here,” he said. “Our distributor took it upon himself to provide it to other establishments.” I didn’t tell him it’s also at Yardhouse.

The following day, we moved to a flat above a luxury watch store on the posh street of Noordeinde. The King’s palace was half a block from our new place; he was our neighbor. Every morning the King’s guard rode by our upstairs window in their blue uniforms and a four-horse carriage. The flat was two floors above the watch store. Karen sat every morning watching the people walk and ride their bikes by the window. An older man with a young wife would also sit by his open window in his robe, smoking, looking at the street below and her. He looked just like an older Albert Camus. Every morning he would open the window, light a cigarette, and drink coffee while looking down at the busy street. He and Karen mirrored each other every morning, except she doesn’t smoke. I, too, became fascinated with the bustle of Noordeinde.

“I just love this place.,” Karen said. “It reminds me of a black and white movie set in Paris in the 1950s” “It does.” I said, “The old guy sitting in his window every morning watching us as we watch him, none of us caring.” I laughed. “And our neighbor is a fucking King.”

“Do you think we were too loud last night with open windows? It’s just that it was so hot.,” she said. “I don’t think so. It was late” Our bedroom was just above the living room and faced Noordeinde. “People fuck, right? We were in our place. Things are better with us.”

“Although I should fucking hate your ass.” she said.

“That’s impossible to do long term.” I said, smiling.

“You’ll never love anyone like me.” I joked.

“Yeah, right; you think you’re all that, don’t you?”

“Of course, I do, or I wouldn’t have said it,” I said, laughing.

“There’s nobody like you.” Karen said while shaking her head.

The next day we went to Leiden for dinner. I showed Karen and the girls around. They thought it was beautiful. As we exited the train, I caught a Karen doing the hovering thing with her Chipkaart. I gently took her hand and touched the card to the scanner. “Ok, ass!” she said. “You always let those scanners get the best of you?” I said, smiling. “Whatever.” She retorted. “Gabby wants us to visit her brother in Trier. She said he could show us around Cologne.” “Oh, I don’t want to meet anyone there,” I said, “How awkward is that?” “I know, right?” she said.

Gabby was our German friend back in California. Her son goes to school with Dauphine. “I’m sure her brother Conrad is thrilled with the idea as well.” I laughed. “I’ll text him when we get there. I don’t want to be rude,” she said. “Maybe we just meet him for a beer by the Dom.” As it turned out, Conrad never responded. “Perhaps it was the wrong number.” Karen mused. That weekend we stayed in Luxembourg. We walked around the city and had nasty French-style burritos. “What is all this mayo inside?” Zöe said. They were filled with mayonnaise and fries.

“Aaagh,” Dauphine yelled as she spat out her food. “I thought that was melted cheese! It’s hot mayonnaise!”

“I’ve never seen your dad not finish anything.” Karen laughed. “This is supposed to be cordon blue, but it’s fried nuggets with fries and 200 grams of mayonnaise,” I said. “This place is popular,” I said, noting many people inside. “It just doesn’t suit our taste, I suppose.” “I never want that much of any condiment in my food,” Karen said as we walked, I saw a man sitting in front of a Burger King playing with a knife. I called 112. “There was just a man stabbed to death and France and thought you guys would want to know,” I told the dispatcher. “All right, we’ll send officers.” “Let me know if you need anything further,” I said. Central Luxembourg is a little sketchy. We walked through the city to our car.

The following day, we visited the Casements du Bock, a series of underground fortifications in old Luxembourg. After lunch, we explored Roman ruins in Trier. An amphitheater and the Porta Nigra, the Roman Gate to the city. We wandered around the square, thinking about dinner. “So technically, I’m American too.” I overheard the craftsman say, “I’m from Colombia.” “Yes, we think we own “American” in the US,” Karen said, laughing, holding up her fingers like a quote. The man was selling handcrafted bracelets. He had long hair and a charming demeanor.

“I’m going to take the girls for brats.” I said, “Okay, I’ll catch up.” “Ich mochte drei bratwurst, bitte.” I stumbled through my German while holding up three fingers. “You want four wursts?” the girl smiled in English. “I forgot where I was,” I laughed, holding up two and a thumb. That night we checked into the Marriott in Cologne. We went to Gaffel am Dom, a Kölsch beer hall next to the Cologne Cathedral. “May we sit here?” Karen asked the man rushing by. “If you want to,” he said curtly. We looked at each other and laughed. “Okay then, this works.”

The man came back and took our order. “The way it works here is you order a round, and if you want to stop drinking, you put your coaster on top of your Stange.” He explained, pointing to a tall cylindrical glass. “I will keep refilling until you do that, so be careful.” he laughed. The Kölsch style of brewing is unique to Cologne (Köln). It is brewed with ale yeast and finished like a lager. It is served cold in 20 cL cylindrical glasses that the server (köbes) carries in trays with a handle, up to 12 at a time. “Here you are,” he said before scurrying off.

The beer hall was packed. Köbes were hurrying everywhere carrying their Kranzen (trays). I was three beers down before I knew it. It was so cold, and the short glasses allowed the patron to enjoy the beer without it getting warm. “Are you English?” he asked when bringing two more. “We’re from California,” I said. He smiled and looked up at the ceiling. “I’ve always wanted to visit California.” “We live in the mountains east of Los Angeles.” “I bet it’s beautiful there.” he said, “You can snow-ski in the morning and go to the beach on the same day,” I replied.

We talked to him for some time when it slowed down. He had whitish blonde hair and steel blue eyes. “It’s a tradition that a Köbes can drink with you, but you must invite them to do so.” “Of course!” I exclaimed. “Let’s get some rounds going.” We drank with our Köbes until closing. The Gaffel Dom was on the street in the shadow of the Cologne Cathedral. The Cathedral (Dom) was one of the few historic buildings that survived World War II. During the last days of the war, a German Panther tank crew mysteriously stayed by the Dom as the army retreated. An advance group of US Sherman tanks was taken out or pinned by the Panther. A US Pershing tank came to their aid. As the Pershing rushed through an intersection, they saw the Panther waiting with its gun pointing at them. The US took a quick shot and scored a hit taking it out. This is probably the most famous tank duel of WW II. The German crew was defending the Cologne Cathedral. Did it symbolize Germany to them? Were they defending their Roman Catholic Faith? Were they ordered on a suicide mission to delay the US advance? The Dom survived.

The next day we toured the German countryside—medieval villages and castles. I found that very few Germans spoke English in the rural areas, and I had to break out my terrible German. Beer helped loosen up the dialect, however. Days later, we were back at the Noordeinde flat. We got into some argument, but I don’t remember the details. I tried to make myself friendly by taking her out for dinner and drinks. On our way home, we walked down a side street that led to Noordeinde. A couple was walking dogs to our right.

We had to go around them to pass, but two bikes blocked our path just then. The man refused to move, and Karen had to shuffle past him. “Asshole,” she muttered. “Bitch!” He yelled. I was on him immediately. “Hey, motherfucker! Who calls a woman a bitch?” His eyes widened. “Motherfucker? Did you call me a Motherfucker?” he stammered. Then he put his finger on my chest. I shoved him. Hard. He stumbled back five feet. I could smell alcohol on his breath. There was one on mine. He got to his feet and approached me. “I’m not afraid of you.” He was slightly taller than me. He was darker complected than most Dutchmen. His woman was a blonde. She looked rough. I heard her yelling at my wife, “This is the Netherlands! We have dogs here!” “Why don’t you move your fucking dogs out of the way when you take the road?”

I had a vision of Karen screaming at the woman. I had to deal with this guy so close that I realized he wasn’t a trained fighter. A head butt would end this. I had a moment to think about where I was. What are the Dutch assault laws? I thought about my employer sending me home. “Karen!” I yelled. “This isn’t worth it!” Let’s go.” I called. I was thinking if this motherfucker kept coming, I would drop him. I wanted to badly, but discretion is the play here. “Come on, Karen!” She finally broke off. As we walked away, both were calling her names.

“We have Paris next weekend. I don’t want to get sent home early because I got into a fight with trashy people. Fuck those assholes.” I said. I was impressed by how Karen stood up to that woman. I didn’t hesitate to defend her honor. I didn’t think twice; I just reacted. “I can’t believe you're leaving,” I told Kareem. “This leaves me with just James. Pretty soon, I’ll be running the unit alone.” the thought concerned me. We had six of us running our European mission. Roger, Dan, and Isabella have already left for the states. “Let’s go out tonight.”

Kareem, James, Karen, and I met at the Grote Markt. “Let’s go to Vavoom,” James said. Vavoom is a Dutch Tiki bar. They prepare deliciously strong Tiki drinks. At first, I was hesitant until I remembered the Dutch have a heavy presence in the Caribbean. They’re artists here. Two heavily tattooed guys work the bar at Vavoom, which is always crowded. They have no barback and handle all orders and inventory items themselves. They pour, shake, stab fruit on sticks and add fresh orchids, flowers, and limes to several strong craft cocktails on their menu.

“So, how was Paris?” I asked Kareem. “It was great. I paid for a burlesque show through Groupon. They said we needed to have a hard paper copy when we got there. Where the fuck are we going to find a printer?” he said. “The Show was about to start. That’s when Tia stepped in.”

“Did she make it home all right?” I asked. “Yeah, she took WOW airlines as you suggested, did that layover in Iceland,” Kareem said. “She had a great time.” “That’s good.” James was quiet that evening. I think Karen intimidated him. He’s not used to her caliber.

“Did you guys use the WC yet? Holy shit, those stairs!” Kareem said. “They’re scary,” Karen told him. It was a narrow serpentine stairwell with a thick maritime rope as a rail. “Wobbly as fuck, especially with a few of these down.,” James said, holding up a ceramic coconut.

Tia was Kareem’s girlfriend. I met her when we all went out a few weeks before Karen flew out. Tia was a bombshell. I couldn’t decide who was more beautiful, her or Beyoncé. “Tia owns her own business in Baltimore.” Kareem said, “She argued with them for a while. She won.”

We kept buying rounds of these demonic tropical drinks. I don’t know how many we had. Three, four? More? When we all had had enough, James got one more, the strongest one on the menu, “Cap’n Mike’s Wench,” I believe it was. Kareem already didn’t look too well. Karen is a trooper.

That night was the last time I saw Kareem. I still consider him a good friend and chat with him now and then. He left Vavoom without finishing his drink. “Fuck that,” I said as he stumbled out of place. As Karen and I made our way home, it was already getting cold in September.

My employer’s housing company moved us to a large flat on the Grote Markt. Tall ornate doors opened from the street into a long hall with high engraved ceilings and chandeliers and led to a wide wooden staircase illuminated by the light from tall, expansive windows. Artwork hung on walls. The bottom floor of the building was the palatial residence of an artist. Some of his work had anti-American sentiments. “We should be careful,” I said. “There was a man shot by police close by in May. He stabbed five people with a knife. “Americans are good political targets.”

“The man was deranged according to media.” I said, “I don’t think it was terrorism, but I’m with my family, so I want to be careful.” Unless a person has visited the US or is well acquainted with our many dialects, we come off as English with our neutral Pacific Southwest accent.

Being mistaken for English is better?” Karen said, “They want to kill everybody.” “They want to kill us more.” I said, “Look at the political situation we’re in. We’ve been at war for 17 years. It’s unprecedented in our history. WWII was only six years long from Poland to Berlin.”

“Our daughters have known nothing but war, but it’s a war where the average US person isn’t affected. The people living in the war zone are. They’ve lost children, parents, siblings, and have had their communities decimated.” I said, “Perhaps the artist isn’t too far off.”

“If the criticism came from an American, I would be like, you got those facts wrong, but I can understand your sentiment.” I said, “But he gets his facts wrong and comes from a non-American perspective. More like anti-American propaganda.” “We’ll steer clear,” Karen said

“Why would they put us here?” I said. The apartment was rustic with roughhewn wood floors and a towering ceiling. A center room dominated the place, but it was an open bedroom with a view into ours. The bath was the best yet. Every footstep made a creaking noise on the floor.

Karen has made friends with the proprietor of the Greek restaurant next door. “Beautiful lady!” the white-haired man called. “My restaurant is superb! Fitting for a beautiful woman like you,” he said. “How cute.” Karen said, “I want to try that place.” But we never did.

The morning we moved into our new place, we left for Paris. “The Battlefield of Waterloo,” I said as we drove through Belgium. “So much history here.” The Belgian countryside is magnificent. Rolling hills and old farms and forests slowly passed by our Citroen’s window.

Soon we found ourselves driving on rural roads in the French countryside. The more was a backup on the major highways, and our map took us through farm country. Nearly abandoned French villages dotted our route. “There’s nobody here,” I said. “Almost every town is empty.”

“It’s like that in the US. Young people move off for the city, and the older ones live out their lives. When they die, their homes are left behind.” Karen said, “That’s why there are such cheap houses for sale in rural Italy.” I said. “I’m not sure I could do it. Too quiet for me.”

“I need to go to the bathroom,” Zöe said. “There’s no place out here,” I told Karen. “Can you find a country road to go down?” “Here’s one.” I turned the car down a narrow winding road past an old stone house. I drove down a beautiful lane, pulling to a hedge for a while. It was quite a beautiful pastoral area of farms separated by hedgerows and oaks. It was sunny. The sky is so blue in Northern Europe. Zöe came back from behind the hedge, but we lingered for some moments, taking it all in before proceeding back onto the main road.

We drove through Northern France all afternoon. “What is that castle on the hill, do you think?” I asked. “Or a walled city?” We were approaching the medieval town of Laon, outside of Paris. The sun was low in the sky when we parked at the Cathedral overlooking the villages below. Laon was built on top of a tall flat hill that overlooked the surrounding countryside. Its medieval streets wound throughout. There were battlements and gatehouses and towers. We stayed and wandered until nightfall. We ate dinner at a local place. Dauphine translated.

We arrived in Paris at night. The highways were congested. We were staying in Le Marais in the 4th Arrondissement. We took winding roads in the neighborhood until we found our parking garage. Parking was tight. “I need to go to the bathroom, bad,” Zöe said. “Can you hold it?” No.

“I don’t even know where our flat is,” I said. “Let’s see if we can find it.”

We ran up the stairs and out of a door into a courtyard that served as the common area for a bank of flats. A long hallway led to double doors to the street. “Go behind the trash cans.” She ran over. “That sounds like a horse.” Dauphine laughed. “Sssh!” Karen said, putting her finger to her lips. Zöe came back. “Feel better?” I said. Our flat was behind double doors farther down the street. We retrieved the key from the mailbox and proceeded up ancient winding stairs inside.

The morning sun penetrated our upstairs window as the city slowly awakened. I made coffee. “There’s a patisserie downstairs that I saw on the way in,” I said. The girls were still sleeping. “I want to fuck in Paris,” Karen said, pulling me back into the bed. We spent the day strolling around the city. We walked from Le Marais to Notre Dame, then meandered along the Seine, where sunbathers took advantage of a perfect mid-day. We entered the Louvre Palace grounds toward Les Champs-Élysées and the Arc Triomphe.

We took a street that brought us into view of the Eiffel Tower and had lunch just before crossing a stone bridge. We crossed the bridge, and I went to a nice neighborhood. The tower looked before us. We found a place in the grass. There were men selling souvenirs and beer and wine. After negotiating a reasonable price, I returned with a bottle of wine and some cold beer. We spent the remainder of the afternoon in the Eiffel Tower park. We talked and enjoyed some wine until the sun set over the city. I had a seller that kept us supplied with wine.

The following day, we had quiche at our local patisserie. We headed for Versailles. Being a history enthusiast, I was excited to see the Hall of Mirrors and the palace of Louis IV. We spent all day exploring the palace grounds and the extensive garden, losing ourselves in the maze. “I want to see Hemingway’s flat tomorrow. It’s close to the Shakespeare and Company. Bookstore,” I said, “And the Louvre.” Karen responded. “Perfect.” We dropped the girls back home and went out. It was dark. We enjoyed some food and wine under a streetlamp at a sidewalk café.

“You are so beautiful,” I said. “Every time we walk into a place, I see everyone checking you out.” “I never notice.” She said. “I’ve learned to ignore it, I think. I don’t accept the advances of men; I hope you know that.” “You are one of the only people in this world I trust.”

“Even the three years we were apart and hating each other, I knew I could always count on you.” I told her, “I can’t say the same about you, although I love you.” she said, “I will never cheat on anyone I’m with. I learned my lesson. It’s not right. It’s best just to leave.” I said

“I’m glad you learned your lesson.” she laughed. “She put you through it, didn’t she? Not that you didn’t deserve it.” “I deserved it in spades. I’m trying to think of someone she and I knew whom she didn’t fuck” I was exaggerating, of course. I hope “It doesn’t matter.”

“That’s what you fucking get for running off with a 22-year-old.” “I bet she didn’t count on me becoming best friends with the guy she sent a post-coital selfie to just after she fucked that guy in Atlanta.” “You were just her meal ticket,” Karen said. “A survival fuck.” Karen continued. “Wasn’t she pretty much homeless when you met? You’re so stupid.”

“We should talk about something else,” I said, lifting my wine glass to take a sip and looking away.

“Tonight was fun,” she said.

“The Eiffel Tower was beautiful lit up,” I said.

“What the hell is up with the restrooms? Like there are none. One open porta potty and a 30-minute line.” I remarked. “I tried to go on one of the others next to it, and it was filled to the rim with shit. Disgusting. It’s only the Eiffel Tower. A world-famous landmark.” I laughed. “Yes, that was bad,” Karen said. “I meant today at Versailles.” “Oh yes. I love that place.” I said. “Louis IV was always my favorite French King. He’s known as the Sun King. He devised the idea of ambulances on the battlefield and supply lines.”

“I can’t wait for Switzerland next week,” Karen said. “It’s a whirlwind tour of Europe.” I laughed. “Seven countries in six weeks.” She said. They could only stay for six weeks. I was a resident of the Netherlands. “I predict Switzerland will be my favorite. I need some nature.”

“I love ancient architecture, or as Isabella says, “architecture porn,” but mountains and lakes and rolling hills and fresh air are so lovely,” I said. “I can’t wait. We should get back. We have an early day tomorrow.” Karen looked beautiful under the lamplight. The pale light caught her hair as it fell onto her shoulder. She’s more beautiful than when I first fell in love with her. She’s a timeless beauty. I was so proud to walk the streets of Paris with her holding my arm, capturing their attention. She was slender and fit. She had not aged since she was 22. She dresses stylishly and in good taste. Our oldest Dauphine often “borrows” her clothes. She’s one of the most intelligent people I know. When we split three years prior, she got heavily into fitness and hiking.

She’s one of the most well-read people I know. When we married, she brought her grandmother’s antique collection of books, some dating back to the 18th century. Her analytical mind complimented my abstract one. I was always dreaming while she was dreaming and planning. I would be nothing without her, and that’s the truth. She kept me focused. I had big ideas, I put in the work, and she encouraged me. She was my friend and lover, and personal advisor. She was wise beyond her years when I met her. I told her then she reminded me of Athena.

She appreciates art and beauty. Nature is her church. She’s the perfect traveling companion, always up for the adventure. She has the qualities men want. When dating, she had hundreds of men trying to be with her. She calls them her ho’s, but she chooses to work it out with me. Still, her ho’s keep trying. Now and again, someone she talked to while we were apart will reach out. “Sorry, I’m working things out with S.” she would text. They all leave disappointed. Yet still, they would try again. I’ve never understood male persistence and desperation.

Like the old saying, “Paris is for lovers,” we had become lovers again. I had rediscovered the magic I fell in love with many years ago. Love comes easy at first. Whether it lasts depends upon working against the tests of time and circumstance. Love must always be a creation. Love must be made and re-made, like bread. Neglected love withers and dies like a vintage left on the vine to rot under a cruel and unforgiving sun. Love itself is never enough, but its pursuit is noble and takes hard work. So much love in this world has been abandoned.

I walked away from love once. I swore to fight for it ever since. Where I was selfish and cruel, I chose to be selfless and kind. This is what I was working toward. Therefore, I brought her and the girls to Europe. To mend what was broken. To rebuild what I destroyed.

A week after Paris, I was driving on the Autobahn at 172km/h, music blasting, yet a few cars would still pass. We were on our way to Switzerland, nine hours from Den Haag. We were only in Frankfurt. Dauphine wanted to see the Black Forest on the way to the farm in Flühli. We arrived at the farmhouse in Flühli at 10 pm. The farmer greeted us. He was about 75 with a long white beard. He wore long underwear and boots. “Guten Abend!” he said. I tried German, but Swiss German is like nothing I’ve ever heard. “I don’t think he understands me, Karen.”

Switzerland was breathtaking. We entered Bern and saw enough of the mountains and rolling green hills before the sun went down. The last leg of our journey was in the dark. It took some time to figure out where the farm was from the village of Flühli. The farmhouse was a large structure. The farmer and his wife lived on the bottom floor. The top floor was for guests and had a funky layout. It was quaint with a full kitchen. The farmer’s wife was from India and was fluent in English. She showed us to our part of the house.

I awakened to the sound of cow bells. An orange morning glow illuminated our bedroom. I got out of bed and walked to the window and saw Switzerland. Green rolling hills, cows, and goats with bells on their collars. There was dew on the grass. You could feel it in the air. The girls went outside to play with the goats. After coffee, Karen and I readied the car for the day’s excursion. We headed for the Jüngfrau region. The Swiss Alps. The place that Tolkien inspired Tolkien to write The Lord of the Rings when he visited in 1919. It was Rivendell.

We stopped to take in Interlaken and the green mountain lake. Dauphine was filming a video for her Snapchat and slipped on the wet grass and landed on her butt. There was a gasp from some older British ladies followed by sighs of relief when she stood up, chagrined but unhurt.

After a long day exploring the Swiss countryside, we returned to the farm. “This should be it. The GPS has it to be right her.” I said, looking at a moonlit hillside. We had been looking for the farm for about half an hour. I saw headlights watching us from up above, and the truck approached. “Wohin gehst du?” the man said. Or at least that’s what he should have said. Who knows what he said? I had trouble understanding the Swiss dialect. I’m not that fluent in German. “Kunsthaus,” I said finally. “Ah! Kunsthaus!” he kept repeating. “Folge Mir.”

“So, the farm isn’t lost in another plane,” Zöe said. I had told her the GPS put us in the right spot, but the farm disappeared; likely, we either went into another dimension, or the farm did. She was a little disturbed but thought the idea was excellent. “I’m afraid it was a bad signal.”

Karen, Dauphine, and I finished the evening drinking wine, Tripel Karmeliets, and La Chouffe’s in the kitchen and talking about our day. The farmer’s wife brought us fresh pears, so we snacked on those as well. Zöe was tired and went to bed early. Likely a ploy for more device time.

On the morning we left Switzerland, the girls were running around playing with the goats and the farm cats. The Farmer and his wife talked with us while we packed the car. He gave us some boiled white potatoes from his garden to take with us on our trip. “Do you like this.” his wife pointed to a curly green plant. “Kale?” Karen said. “We make chips out of it?” “Really?” the woman said. “I’ve never tried it. It tastes bitter raw. We had a guest from Texas who ate it right from the garden.” The farmer and his wife were so friendly.

After thanking our guests and tracking up the girls, we were on our way back home. No eleven-year-old wants to leave a farm. Neither did our oldest, for that matter. We decided to drive through the Alsace-Lorraine region of France through Luxembourg and back to The Netherlands.

For dinner, we stopped at Mcdonald’s. There were surprisingly few food choices in the countryside. I haven’t been to one in years. “It’ll be fun.” Karen said, “you could get a Royale with cheese.” “Like Pulp Fiction,” I said. The restaurant was packed. The entire town was there. “It looks like we order from those kiosks,” I said. It took a while to figure it out, but it was intuitive. “There are no English options,” I said. We drew some attention from curious patrons who I imagined wondered who we were and who didn’t know how to order at Mcdonald’s.

We were back on the road for a few hours when Karen grabbed a bottle of wine and started to try and open it with a cuticle tool. “I’ll see if the next gas station has a wine opener,” I said. I came back empty-handed. “We are in Alsace, France, and there’s no wine opener inside?” We drove further, and I pulled over by an empty gas pump standing by itself. “Here, let me try to open it,” I said. I sat on the ground outside of the car, intensely focused on gauging away the cork. A man came over and said, “Bonsoir” I smiled, chagrined, holding up the wine.

“The things I do for love.” I thought. Afterward, I saw the man’s RV and realized he wanted some LP gas and was too polite to ask me to leave. I could have tried to open that bottle anywhere. I felt bad. Finally, I went into the gas station to see if they had a wine opener.

We got home late. I checked my email and my housing company responded to my complaint about this flat with no privacy. “You’re new apartment on Denniweg is ready. We’ll send a driver tomorrow morning.” “We’re moving to Isabella’s old building,” I told Karen. “Last move.”

When I arrived in Den Haag, it was the middle of tourist season, and everything was booked. That’s why we had to move so often, but it gave us a perspective of different parts of the city from a day-to-day experience. I must admit it was a pain in the ass to move so often.

The house on Denniweg was a two-story flat on the top floor of the building. It was above a patisserie and across the street from a gracht and wine bar. It was the flat above Isabella’s, the one the English couple with kids had. It was nice and modern, with plenty of windows. Denniweg is another posh neighborhood in Den Haag with plenty of shopping, restaurants, art galleries, and bars. The famous Des Indes hotel, the British Embassy, and the Escher Museum are at the end of the street. My driver arrived at the Grote Markt place and helped with the bags.

“I’m Conrad,” he said with a heavy accent. He was older with grey hair. “I think you’ll like your new place,” he said, “it’s one of the best the company has.” “I’m sure we will,” I said. After conversing a little on the drive, he said, “I used to work at a hotel in Aruba.”

“That’s right; the Dutch still have colonies abroad.” I said. “If I were to go on vacation, which would be best, Curaçao, Aruba, Bonaire...” he cut me off.

“Aruba is the best, believe me. The others aren’t quite as nice.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” I laughed. A car cut us off.

“Son, a bitch!” Conrad muttered as the other car honked at us.

“It’s a good thing the Dutch don’t have your gun laws,” he said.

“I can only imagine. I get the sense there are many dour people here.”

“The Dutch can be very dour, but we live life, and life is mostly good here.”

“We are dourer in the wintertime.” he continued. “You caught us at a good time. I’m not saying there are no guns here. There are drug traffickers also, even though drugs are decriminalized. I’m saying it would be bad if the average Dutch person had access to a gun.” he said.

“Well, we have to consider being killed every time we leave the house and in Los Angeles, perhaps even inside your house,” I said. “In America, gun rights are considered unalienable, and if you believe that sort of thing, god-given.” I continued. “You’re joking,” he said. “Nope.”

“Gun rights are in our founding documents. The NRA would have you believe they are the only absolute right, unlike free speech, which has certain restrictions such as yelling fire in a theater, libel, etc.” I said, “which means in their eyes, any lunatic has firearm rights.”

“But we have laws restricting gun ownership such as felons, mental illness, drug use, etc.,” I said. “But it’s my understanding that the ACLU gutted our mental institutions in the US in the Reagan era and people aren’t typically committed anymore.” “They are here.”

“There aren’t nearly as many homeless on the street here,” I said.

“That’s because we take care of our mentally ill and not just throw them to the curb.”

I didn’t want to touch on the pro-life culture in the US, which is pro-fetus, and fuck you after that. In the name of polite conversation, I didn’t want to get into Dutch history, their colonies, and the former Empire. And since we were talking social justice, I didn’t want to bring up the Dutch Holiday tradition of dressing up in Blackface, claiming to represent Zwarte Piet (Black Pete).

Glass houses, you know.

To be continued...