Why planning a vacation is no easy task — Ervolino
And the winner is …
Last week, while I was pondering my next vacation, my friend Tom asked if I might like to go to the Netherlands.
I told him I’ve been there five times, but have an old friend there I’d like to see again.
Tom has never been to Europe. And, like most people with a yen to cross the Atlantic, he’d like to visit the land of his ancestors.
(His surname is Dikeman. Formerly Dyckman. Formerly Dijkman. Dutch enough for you?)
I enjoyed all of my trips to Amsterdam, where I stayed with my friend Rolf, a doctor, scholar and mensch.
As I told Tom, “Rolf is the smartest person I ever met. He speaks six languages fluently and can get by in another three. He knows all about European history. And American history. And soccer. And, on top of everything else, he’s a great cook.”
“Wow,” Tom said. “And you’re a sponge. I bet you learned a lot from him.”
“Oh, yeah. He taught me everything about how to make apple butter and perform kidney transplants.”
Rolf also visited me several times in the U.S. Once, during Easter vacation, we were going to my parents’ house for dinner and he asked to stop at a florist's shop.
“I’ll bring them some tulips for Easter,” he said.
The best part of this little side trip was the look on his face when the clerk told him that a dozen tulips would cost $50 — instead of $5.
(The next year, in Holland, I bought two dozen red roses to bring to his friend’s birthday party — for $14.)
On another visit, just before Thanksgiving, Rolf spent a week at my apartment in East Rutherford before we traveled to Long Island for Turkey Day.
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Rolf watched a lot of TV that first week and was baffled by all the cooking segments.
He saw Martha making a turkey dinner. And Julia making a turkey dinner. And Emeril. And Rachael. And …
“Why are all these people doing this?” he asked.
There seemed to be another demonstration on every channel.
“Well, this particular meal is a huge part of our culture,” I replied. “It’s who we are. It’s an American tradition that goes back hundreds of years.”
Rolf still seemed confused. “If it’s such a tradition,” he said, “how come no one knows how to make it?”
Anyway, that was years ago. Rolf got to know my family. I got to know his.
Both of his parents have passed in recent years. He inherited their home in the south of Holland and subsequently sold his apartment in Amsterdam.
Rolf remodeled the entire house — it’s now larger and ultra-modern — and said he could gladly host Tom and me for a week at the end of May or the beginning of June.
I ran this past Tom.
“How does that sound?” I asked. “It wouldn’t cost us anything. We could travel to Amsterdam and Rotterdam by train to see the museums. Or, we could get a hotel there for a couple of days, see the sights and then head down south. Or …”
The more we mulled this over, the better it sounded.
That period (late May) is possibly the best time to see Holland. And the southern part of the country is in full bloom.
There is less to do in the south, as far as nightlife is concerned, but my bar-hopping days are behind me.
They do have some excellent beers there, though, in addition to their Amstel and Heineken. (They also have lots of exotic imported beers, too. Like … Budweiser!)
Of course, if I do go to the Netherlands, there are a few things I need to attend to first.
I have to make sure that my dog sitter is available. And I have to work on my back. It’s not in great shape, and I’m not anxious to visit such a beautiful country bent over like Felix Unger.
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And then there is the matter of renewing my passport. It expired more than 10 years ago. And I never got around to getting a new one.
If I do return there, one thing I HAVE to do is visit the grave of Rolf’s parents.
Back in the 1990s, his mother told me that she, like so many Netherlanders, adopted the grave of an American soldier who was buried there after World War II. (There were more than 8,000 of them.)
She visited and took care of his grave until she died. I was touched by her commitment and would love to return the favor.
“That’s very thoughtful,” Tom said. “But I know how Italians are. He got your mom $50 worth of flowers, so you’ll have do the same.”
Exactly!
FOOTNOTE: Since that conversation, I checked the flower prices there. For $50 I could buy — are you sitting down? — 47 pounds of roses.
Too Italian?
This article originally appeared on NorthJersey.com: Planning a vacation no easy task, says Bill Ervolino