Wednesday, July 24:
Right now I am on a train, zipping across The Netherlands
(i.e. Holland) at 200 mph. We decided
last week to take an excursion to Amsterdam (after some pleading by my
kids). I love Holland, having spent two
years here as an LDS Missionary. I love
the people, the flat landscape, the tulips, the cheese, windmills, the little dorpjes (small villages) that dot the
landscape, the canals, and the distinctive Dutch architecture. I love fries with mayonnaise, pinda saus (peanut sauce) and uitjes (diced onions). I love Indonesian Food (as prevalent in
Holland as Chinese is in America). I
love Dutch painters. I love the Dutch history of making a big splash in the world
despite being such a small country. I love it that everyone under 40 in Holland
speaks at least three languages well, and that most speak better English than I
do Dutch (okay, so I’m lying: I hate that part, but I can appreciate it). I love how they have become world-leaders in water-management technology,
having reclaimed nearly 1/3rd of their land from the sea. The Dutch love to boast, “God created the
earth but the Dutch created Holland.” I
love it that the average height of males must be at least 6’3” and that they
have always great volleyball teams. I
love world-famous Dutch cyclists and speedskaters.
Yeah, I’m pretty much fond of everything Dutch.
Yet Holland was not on our itinerary for our 60-day journey
to Europe. Why? Because, believe it or not, 60-days was not
long enough to meet the list of places I still wanted to experience in
Europe. I actually had to scratch a few
places that I really wanted to see in favor of a more rational travel
plan. I had been to Holland twice since
leaving in the summer of 1993, each for a week at a time, and although a trip
to Holland always interests me, I had other fish to fry on this journey.
However, my kids prevailed.
They wanted to see
Holland. They’ve celebrated SinterKlaas (Dutch version of the commercial Christmas
complete with a Santa Clause that arrives via a boat from Spain mounted on a
white horse), eaten enough Indonesian, heard enough mission stories, and watched
the Best Two Years enough to demand that we make a trip—albeit for a
few days—to Holland. I am glad they go
their way. Holland is a cool place.
The TGV, the high-speed train, zips northward and gets
from Paris to Amsterdam Central Station (even with four stops) in three short
hours. Incredible. For this trip, I
wouldn’t even consider flying. Being
able to step on a train five minutes before it departs, and ride in complete
comfort (this high-speed rail is smoother than an airplane) is so nice. The train takes us from downtown Paris to
downtown Amsterdam with no hassles from the TSA, no taxis, and no flight attendants who want me turn of
my phone for fear that it’s going to bring the plane down. I am jealous of
European public transportation.
At Amsterdam Central Station, we will pick up six bikes for
our mode of transportation around the city. Yes, bikes. There is no more bike-friendly country than
The Netherlands, and no better bike-friendly big city than Amsterdam. To understand how connected the Dutch are to
their bicycles you need look no further than the bike racks at any train
station. There are literally thousands
of bikes parked a station.
Sam, Emma, and Jeffrey with their bikes on a typical Amsterdam canal street
g
They even have separate lights for bikes.
Nearly every public street has a defined bike path and cars
are conscious and respectful of cyclists. In fact, in The Netherlands, when
there is an accident between a car and a cyclist, it’s always deemed the car’s
fault. Always. That is not necessarily fair but it does keep
the Dutch auto aware of the cyclist.
Abby will sit in a child-seat attached to one of our bikes.
In Holland, it is very common to see a mother on a bike complete with groceries
and child attached. Grandmas ride
bikes. Businessmen ride bikes. Everyone rides bikes. So we are too.
Abby "achterop"--attached to the back of my bike.
Each of us has our clothing in daypack, which we’ll strap to
our back, and then pdeal to our hotel.
We’ll drop off our light luggage at the hotel, and then complete our
tour of the city, which includes the Van Gogh Museum and Anne Frank House, and
whatever else catches our fancy. We’re just arriving, so I’m a going to
disconnect. I’ll continue this
conversation later tonight.
Monday, July 29: An Appendectomy Later
Twelve hours after I wrote that text above, we sat in the
Emergency Room of an Amsterdam hospital.
Two days prior in Paris, Daphne awoke with what we thought was the
flue. By Wednesday morning, she was
still feeling the same stomach ache, though she said she still felt fine to
travel, and did not want to miss a chance to go to Holland.
Our plan was to spend one day in Amsterdam, touring the
canal streets in the center of the city on bike, visiting the Van Gogh Museum,
the Anne Frank house, and ending the day with Indonesian Food, very must apart
of the Dutch gastronomy. After arrived
on Amsterdam’s central station, we walked 500 meters to a biker rental shop and
picked up six bikes for the family. We
carried two days worth of clothing in day-packs on our backs, and made our way
through Amsterdam’s picturesque canal-lined streets. With waterways on every street in its
historic center, Amsterdam is called the Venice of the North for a reason
(frankly, I would take Amsterdam over Venice any day). We rode over an endless series of bridges and
lanes on clearly marked bike baths that cars and pedestrians respect. I am convinced that there is no better way to
see Amsterdam than on bike, and if a tourist misses that experience that he
misses much of Amsterdam.
By the time we made it to our hotel via bike, Daphne looked
wiped out, and still has very visible effects of the flue, and she just wanted
to sleep. Lisa decided to stay at the
hotel with Daphne and Abby, while Samantha, Emma, Jeffrey, and I visited the
fabulous Van Gogh museum. By the time we
returned, Daphne has slept a few hours and, thought still not feeling well,
said that she didn’t want to “miss out” on anything else, so she joined us for
excursion at the Anne Frank House.
Our bike ride to the Anne Frank house was approximately 15
minutes from our hotel. By the time we
arrived, Daphne looked even more ill, but she persisted that she wanted to
endure and see it. She and Jeffrey sat at the side of the canal on
Prinsengracht, the street upon which Anne’s house sits, while the rest of us
waited 45 minutes in line to get in.
Halfway through the tour, Daphne looked even more pale. She told me that she couldn’t take it anymore
and that she just wanted to go outside and sit down. She and I left the exhibit and waited at the
entrance of the house on a bench while the others finished the tour. Daphne lay down on the bench, resting her
head on my lap, here legs curled in a semi-fetal position. At this point, I began to worry that this was
not the flue. I wondered if she might
have appendicitis. While we waited, I
called the concierge at the hotel to inquire as to where I might find medical
help in the city. He gave me name of a
hospital (which step I was not ready for), and so he suggested that we call the
hotel doctor for a consultation.
The fastest was back to the hotel was by bike. I hated to
make Daphne ride back to the hotel, but any other method—public transportation
or taxi would have taken twice as long.
We first consulted the hotel doctor via telephone, who after two minutes
of questions decided that he need to come see Daphne. 45 minutes later he arrived, asked a series
of additional questions, felt around, and then proclaimed, “I think that it’s
appendicitis.”
Ten minutes later, and after a priesthood blessing, Daphne
and I were in a Taxi, heading toward Onze Lieve Vrouw Gasthuis in Amsterdam, a
fantastic hospital. The next morning she
went into surgery. The care she received was superb: friendly and efficient staff who, of course,
where happy to speak English; the accommodations were top notch as well. We
felt blessed to be in the Netherlands during this episode.
Daphne, pre-surgery in her bed in the hospital. She's resting after three days of continuous pain.
The Fam with Daphne post-op.
Daphne, on her way out of the hospital. We cannot speak highly enough about our experience with the healthcare at this facility. So happy we were in Holland versus Paris, as everyone's ability to speak so easily in English made this experience so much less scary for Daph.
Suddenly, the end our trip completely changed, and we had to
alter our plans quickly. It was now
Thursday; we were in Holland and most of our stuff was sill in our apartment in
Paris (we only took two days worth of clothing for our two-day trip to
Holland), and we were supposed to vacate that apartment by Sunday morning.
Our plan was to fly to Prague on Sunday where we would stay
for three nights. Our return back to the
states would originate from Prague on Wednesday morning. Our original plan was no longer on
table: there was no way I was going to
have Daphne fly two days after her surgery, and especially not to the eastern
end of central Europe where I’m not sure she would get the same kind of care
she had in the Netherlands should there be any lingering affects—ie,
infections--from the surgery.
I also did not want to make her travel back to Paris, only
to move to yet another place two days later.
After consulting with the kids, we decided to stay in Holland for the
duration of our trip, remain at the same Marriott, and while Daphne recovered
the rest of us would savor this great country.
We had two obstacles to clear:
·
What about our stuff in Paris?
·
How were we going to get home?
The question of Paris could only be settled once we knew how
we were going to get home. Ideally, we
wanted to reroute from Amsterdam. Those
hopes were dashed after a disappointing call with American Airlines, who wanted
to charge us $2,800 per person to fly home from Amsterdam as opposed to
Prague. I then asked them if could keep
my original itinerary with one simple modification. My original itinerary with American consisted
of the following legs:
·
Prague to London Heathrow
·
London to LAX
·
LAX to SLC
At this point, I simply did not want to drag Daphne eastward
to Prague, which would require a needless flight and another night’s stopover
form Amsterdam. It wasn’t worth the strain on her body.
So my request to American was simple: "can I find my own way to Heathrow and
join the flight from Heathrow to LAX that I am already on?”
“No,” American flatly refused. “Once you miss that flight in Prague, your
ticket will be cancelled.”
“Hmmm, so can someone override that for me, and re-ticket
that? I really don’t want to drag my
girl that just had an unexpected surgery in a foreign country to Prague: that’s more airports, more security, more
customs, more transfer, more luggage, etc. All I want you to do is let me travel 2/3rds of the same legs I'm already booked on. That won't cost you any money or keep you from selling a ticket to another customer. I'm not asking for anything that will truly cost you any money.”
American refused.
All they wanted was another $3,100 per person to remove
Prague as my originating city. I wasn’t
pushing them for what really would have been ideal: Amsterdam to Dallas to
LAX. I didn’t expect any empathy, so I
didn’t push for that kind of a reroute after I initially inquired about
it and was quickly shut down.
I did, however, push for the small modification in making
Heathrow my jumping-off point instead of Prague. Sadly, they refused. Yes, they wanted to charge me $21,700 more
than what I had already paid them to book me on the same two flights on which I
was already booked and for which I had already paid. I am writing a separate blog entry
discussing this conversation in greater detail.
It will be a fascinating case-study in just about everything that is
wrong with not only this horrid company but with the industry itself. I hope you’ll share it with as many people as
you possibly can. I may not have found
an easy way home, but I am bound and determined to make sure that this costs
American far more than it does me.
So, after American failed to be of any help, we decided that
Prague was the only sensible solution as long as we could delay that flight
for as long as possible, which meant pushing it to Tuesday night and flying out of Amsterdam instead of Paris. So, I purchased 7 tickets from Amsterdam to
Prague at a cost of $150 euros ($195) per person. On top of that I have the Prague apartment to
pay for that we’re not going to use, and a night at the Prague Airport on
Tuesday night (our flight lands at 8:30 p.m and twelve hours later we head back
west to Heathrow). You could also throw into the mix the cost of the flight from Paris to Prague that we paid for and never used.
I am also waiting to see what this little adventure at the
Amsterdam hospital will cost me: so far I have paid them $5,000. No idea what
my insurance will pay but since my deductible is $4,000 this little medical
adventure will at least cost me that (insurance pays 100% after that, as long
as it’s in network—I suspect they’ll make an exception on the network thing
here, but who knows). By now, I am sure
that my insurance is ready to fire me after four years of heart surgeries,
breast cancer, and foreign appendectomies.
I am their worst nightmare.
Anyway, back to our second problem: Paris and our
stuff. Because we had ruled out
returning to Paris, we now had to find a way to get our the majority of stuff
that was still sitting in the apartment in Paris. I decided to send Jeffrey and Samantha back
to Paris on the high-speed train to grab our suitcases, stroller, Emma’s soccer
ball, Daphne’s blanket, and a slew of other items.
They left Amsterdam at 9 am and returned that evening at 11
pm with all of our belongings.
Samantha and Jeffrey, on their from Paris with the family's entire set of luggage.
So, despite the added expenses associated with all of this,
we have been quite happy with our detour.
Amsterdam is one of Europe’s greatest cities (though I am admittedly
biased). My kids now feel the
same. It has the charm of Venice without
the same temperature or level of crowds; it has fantastic art with the Van Gogh
and Rijks Museum a stone’s throw apart from each other. It has great gastronomy with food from every
culture represented. It contains a
citizenry that is welcoming, tolerant, and hospital. Throw in the pleasure (and safety) of bike
travel and this city becomes magical.
Sure, there’s a raw side of Amsterdam with its legalized
marijuana (small doses only) and prostitution that don’t appeal to me or to
many travelers, but that crowd is easy to miss.
Speaking of the Red Light District, I had never been there prior to this
trip (as you can imagine, I didn’t spend any time there as a missionary),
nor had I been there on my two previous trips after I left Holland as a
missionary.
This time, however, I lead my entire family (Daphne not
included) on a tour of the Red-Light District. That was unintentional, of
course. Apparently, Siri doesn’t have an
option to filter out pornographic streets from her directions, and the American
Movie Association has apparently not rated any of Siri’s suggested routes from
the Amsterdam Marriot to the Star Bike Rental shop.
It was Saturday and we had to return our bikes before 7:00
p.m., as the rest of our journey in Holland was going to involve a car. 10 minutes into our journey, we turned onto a
ridiculously crowded street with no auto traffic but with thousands of tourists
making it very difficult to cycle. 200
hundred meters into the street I realized where we were: large windows flanked us on each side, some
with red-lights on, some with curtains closed and some with curtains open.
“Jeffrey,” I turned and spoke directly to my rather innocent
son, “look straight ahead.”
I had avoided this street for all these years. I seriously
had no idea where it was. Yet here I was pedaling leisurely on a bicycle with
my three year-old, my wife, my sixteen year old son, my eighteen year old
daughter, and my eleven-year-old overly-perfectionist-minded daughter who
worries that there are sins that she may committed but has since forgotten.
As soon as I realized where we were, I had one mission: get the
heck out of dodge before I scar these kids for life! At the same moment, the humor of it all hit
me. I was the only person on the street
with a baby seat attached to his bike.
And I was the only guy on the
street not taking in the
scenery. As frantic as I was to get off
the street, I realized how hysterical this really was. I can only imagine what the other tourists
thought of this Family Night Stroll with
the Little Ones through the red light district.
I nearly ran over a few gawking tourists and pimps in my attempt to leave the place. Eventually I
finally found my escape route with a right turn (literally and figuratively)
out of the Red Light District.
Oh well, if my kids were going to be introduced to that part
of the world, I suppose it’s good that I got to show it to them! How Clark Griswaldian indeed!
The Red Light District notwithstanding, our trip to the
Netherlands has been a spectacular way to wind down the trip. In addition to getting to know Amsterdam, we
rented a car to see other highlights of Holland (memo to self and bank account: don’t rent a car until you are
ready to leave Amsterdam because it costs a veritable fortune to park here).
On Sunday, we went to church with and visited some friends
of mine in a place called Spijkenisse, near Rotterdam, where I spent 6 months
of my life. We visited Zippora
Pattiasina and her family, Mavis Isselt, who we found, taught and was later
baptized into the LDS church.
Today, we spent the day visiting other places where I lived
as a missionary (Hilversum and Gouda).
We also wound our way through various little back-doors and villages
full of canal-front farm houses that are so plentiful in Holland. We also visited Kinderdijk, a series of 19
windmills built in the 1700's that are all jam packed within about a square mile.
Tomorrow we head to The Hague before we board our plane to
Prague at 7 p.m. Our longer than
expected trip to the Netherlands has been a treat that all of us have immensely enjoyed—even Daphne,
despite the misery associated with her first day and the recovery that continues
to follow her surgery.
And my Dutch—well, frankly, I was surprised that it wasn’t
as bad as I thought it was going to be (though my vocabulary is probably that
of 3rd grader). I will say
that I have felt the same kind of liberating sensation as being in
England: I can understand what is being
said, and I can communicate all of the essentials. The reality is that I don’t need to speak a
lick of Dutch, and I’m not overstating it when I say that most Dutch people speak
better English than I do Dutch, but it is nevertheless fun to speak in their language—something that is always
a surprise to most Dutchmen, and something they typically appreciate.
I love this land and I still love this people. Good night. I still have a few blog entires before I wrap this up. Stay tuned.
- Everyday Paris
- Paris sights
- American Airlines
Parting pictures of Holland:
Samantha and Jeffrey, moments after swallowing raw herring, Dutch delicasy for the first time.
The kids and I enjoying Indonesian "Rijst Tafle" (Rice Table).
My family with my dutch friends from Spijkenisse.
Sam and Jeff on our back-door journey today.
Kids in front of Stadhuis (City Hall) in Gouda.
Family at Kinderdijk
I've taken 5,000 pictures of Windmills since I was 19, and I still can't get enough of them.
5,001
5,002
Abby has some big shoes to fill.
So do Sam and Daph apparently.
The girls in a big shoe.
Reed, this is for you.
