As we've had to postpone our travels because of the pandemic, I believe a weekly dose of travel dreaming can be good medicine. Here's a reminder of the fun that awaits us in Europe at the other end of this crisis.
I'm under the towering church spire in the tidy Dutch market town of Haarlem, tempted to eat a pickled herring. The sign atop the mobile van reads: "Jos Haring — Gezond en Lekkerrr" (healthy and deeeeeelicious).
I order by pointing and ask, "Gezond?"
Jos hands me what looks more like bait than lunch, and says, "En lekkerrr."
I stand there — not sure what to do with my bait — apparently looking lost. Jos, a huge man who towers over his white fishy counter, mimes swallowing a sword and says, "I give you the herring Rotterdam style. You eat it like this. If I chop it up and give you these" — he points to the toothpicks — "this is Amsterdam style."
As I take a bite he asks, "You like it?"
Even with three "r"s on the delicious, "It's salty" is the only polite response I can muster.
"Yes. This is not raw. Tourists say this is raw. But it is pickled in salt. Great in the hot weather. You sweat. You need salt. You eat my herring."
A Dutch Masters kind of town, Haarlem is a good place to start a European trip. In small-town Holland cultural differences are obvious and travel is easy. I see the Netherlands as a cultural wading pool that slopes gradually into the more challenging waters of central Europe.
While mighty Amsterdam is just a 20-minute train ride away, cute Haarlem provides a more comfy base and a more genteel experience. For half the price of a simple Amsterdam hotel, the tourist office can set you up in the home of a charming Haarlem family.
Amsterdam's Anne Frank wrote her story in a world-famous diary and long lines of visitors wait daily to pay a visit to her house. Haarlem's Corrie ten Boom shared an equally inspirational story in her book, The Hiding Place, telling how her family courageously hid Jews from the Nazis until the inevitable day came when the Gestapo knocked on their door, too. A visit to Corrie's home in Haarlem is as intimate as reminiscing with her family.
Amsterdam's Rijksmuseum has a large collection of great Dutch masters. Haarlem fills a 17th-century pensioner's house with a small, delightful collection of the quintessential Dutch master: local boy Frans Hals.
While Amsterdam's red light district is a rowdy cheery squad of hedonism, Haarlem's is a quiet little cobbled zone where people remember their polite words and no one dares even litter. Amsterdam's coffee shops are filled with pot enthusiasts from Sydney to Vancouver, while Haarlem's caters to local students and old hippies out for a joint and a stroll before dinner.
Like most old Dutch towns, Haarlem's center is dominated by its church spire. It is said a society builds its highest monuments to its greatest gods. If that's so, this spire towers over a community that worships trade.
Much of the architecture of today's "old Holland" is from the 1600s. That was Holland's Golden Age — when merchants ruled the waves, stockpiled profits, and hired Rembrandt to paint their portraits. While Haarlem has its fancy old guildhalls and business has reigned here for centuries, the town's strictly enforced building code assures that the church tower will always dominate the downtown.
Tent-like market stalls lead to red brick guildhalls. And above it all rises the Grote Kerk (Great Church). Like most medieval churches, it was built facing east toward Jerusalem. But once inside, all eyes turn to the west wall, where its pipe organ, an Oz-like tower of musical power, reaches nearly a hundred feet to the ceiling. Cupids swing from the largest of 5,000 pipes while gilded angelic trumpeters seem stuck in an 18th-century game of Statue Maker. Mozart trilled here.
Haarlem's Grote Markt (Market Square) cheers me with a festival of flowers, bright bolts of cloth, evangelical cheese pushers, and warm, gooey stroopwafels. The carillon clangs with an out-of-tune sweetness only a medieval church clock tower can possess. Savoring the merry dissonance, and taking tiny Amsterdam-style bites of my Rotterdam herring, I wander deeper into the market, happy that Jos is piling chopped onion on herring, contributing to the amazing ambience of this scene.
Under high-stepping gables and yawning awnings, the square bustles expertly with the same commercial game it's practiced for centuries…just as it did in 350-year-old paintings by Frans Hals. A noisy traffic circle in the 1960s, the now car-free area has become the town's social and psychological hub, the civic living room. Dodging flower-laden one-speeds, I feel like part of the family here. I'm immersed in Holland — with raw-herring breath.