They proudly say, “God made heaven and earth, but the Dutch made Holland.”

If this be blasphemy, then the promise of the rainbow has frustrated the old prince of vengeance. (To my many friends who know nothing of the Bible or Noah’s survival of the flood, just ignore that last reference.)

We learned on our stop in Kinderdijk, a museum of water management—wrongly presumed by this author to be a resort of baby lesbians—that the Netherlands had better engineering in the 17th century to protect its cows than does New Orleans today for its jazz musicians.

The wet landscape is adorned with windmills in a sacred appreciation of the past that would make any gay tchotchke-lover weep. One mill is kept in full sail (a “rotating” responsibility, one might say), turning noiselessly for the glory of Holland and the adoration of the euro-toting tourist. The cost is kept down because maintenance is done by volunteers who get to live rent-free in each mill. This is a land of people sensible about more than just prostitution and hashish.

The Dutch have a word for the countries of the world who are constantly shoveling mud out of their kitchens after another unexpected rise of the river which translates roughly to “stupid.” That’s probably unfair to those who live in a tight crevice between steep hillsides separating mountain rains from the deep blue sea, but for people who live below the surface of the north Atlantic, some respect is their due.

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I cannot say enough about Antwerp, which is ironic, given that saying too little has never been a vice. My return visit after 14 years has me wondering whether this is the most changed place on earth or have I forgotten what it was like. Were all the restaurants Italian in the 90s? We’re the guys this handsome?

The symbol of Antwerp is expressed in a bronze statue of a naked Adonis, running over adoring virgins, holding aloft the severed hand of a freshly slain giant, with the intention of tossing said hand into the sea. How do I know the recent timing of the giant’s death? Well, the sculptor has added the nice touch, a tad gory one might think, of having a stream of blood spurting from a still pressurized wrist vein, though in a breach of verisimilitude the townspeople have substituted water for something more theatrically crimson, doubtless a conceit to decorum in obvious pander to the sidewalk cafés and restaurants overlooking the square containing the 30’ statue.

Having handily vanquished their mythical Goliath, the citizens are free to shop, drink beer, savor chocolates, and maraud the streets with gay and straight abandon—both being great company in my opinion. A favorite vignette of mine happened upon us in the mid afternoon, where Rod and I were enjoying a cold brew in the shade of the cathedral (a juxtaposition that finally gives the church a useful function), when a half-dozen high school boys sat at the next table. They ordered a cocktail, which earned a salty comment from the waiter and left to return with six beers. Bravo Antwerp! The young men drank at a civil pace, shared a few laughs in some form of Flemish tongue, then grabbed their backpacks to wander off in search of maidens or…[insert imagination here, leave me out of it].

Stoned Workers

The sculpture, depicted in the sketch and nestled into a corner of the cathedral’s exterior, is a peculiarly proper homage to the men who labored in the building of the church, instead of a redundant obeisance to dead martyrs or an implausible virgin. And it gave me an irresistible, if pointless, pun.

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Restaurant Row

Days before our arrival, Ghent had held a week-long jazz festival. During our single night, several squares were erecting stages to begin a week of rock venues which will give the students something else to scream about at 5:30 in the morning below the hotel window of some other unsuspecting tourist—not that I am complaining. This is a city of young people, which is not surprising given the large university and cold dark winters.

After Brussels and Bruges, we are beginning to tire of charming canal towns with chatty sidewalk cafés, warm weather, and architecture that yearns for male-dominated, lace-throated capitalism. The restaurants are surprisingly sophisticated by comparison with Bruges, given the youth, but then there are McDonalds and Pizza Huts to break the monotony of sea creatures tossed in a haze of burnt umber with a puree of shaved carrot core infused into their eye sockets. The streets are less crowded, but the prime seats of good restaurants are only available by happening upon a patron unfamiliar with the socialist concept of keeping a table without the brisk consumption of calories and overpriced drinks.

The historic interests are modest by comparison with our previous cities, but Kerry got in the necessary terabytes of raw footage from which he spends days (I imagine) culling a few chance photos meant to humiliate my meager skills—an unfailing accomplishment from a friend who owes me so much for doing so little. We had a leisurely lunch served by a rinestone-in-the-rough waiter with a quick sense of humor and a tolerance of an old American trying to be a smart-ass. I rather liked him, mutuality never being a requirement of my tastes.

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