Sisterchicks in Wooden Shoes!

by Robin Jones Gunn

  I knew that she had made an abrupt decision to leave home right after graduating from high school, taking all the money she had been saving for college and instead going to Europe for the summer. She traveled around until she ran out of money and then took the first job she could find, which was providentially in Rotterdam, where she met her husband, Jelle.

  “Your father never quite accepted that you stayed here, did he?”

  Noelle glanced over at me. “Is that what I told you?”

  “I’m not sure what you told me, to be honest. I just assumed your parents didn’t approve of your staying in Europe instead of returning home.”

  “I couldn’t go home.”

  I waited for Noelle to explain her stunted sentence. We drove in silence through steady rain. I didn’t know her on-the-spot, in-the-moment personality well enough to decide whether her comment was an invitation for me to probe further or, more likely, was her closing the door on the subject.

  One thing was clear. Even though I knew a lot about Noelle and the two of us had shared a lot about our experiences over the decades, parts of her life were a mystery to me. Her relationship with her father was one of them. Somehow this significant disconnect with her father never had been mentioned in our written chats.

  Noelle had told me quite a bit about her mother after she passed away. And when my mother died almost nine years ago, Noelle had lots of encouraging and helpful things to say to me.

  Our fathers, however, never had been a big topic between us. “Would you like a coffee?” Noelle asked. “I could use one. We drink a lot of coffee here. Did I tell you that already? This would be a good time to stop for coffee.”

  “Fine with me.”

  The first stretch of the drive from the airport had been the familiar sort of highway that circles any large city and its suburbs. I had a vague sense of the buildings looking different and the shape of the trucks being narrower than trucks in the U.S. But in general I was more caught up in the conversation with Noelle than I was with the view out the window.

  She circled a traffic roundabout, and we soon entered a residential area. I was surprised to see how narrow the homes were and how close they were built to each other. Every one of the brick houses had a large window that faced the street, and each home was separated from the pavement by a low fence with a gate that led to a small patio, which was little more than six feet by six feet. Most of the homes had flowers percolating over the rims of clay pots or windowsill boxes. Through many of the front windows I could see either a bouquet of flowers or a lamp.

  I wasn’t trying to take an impromptu survey of what all these homes had in their windows, but because we were driving so close to them, it was easy to peek inside. And every home had its curtains open.

  “Is this typical?” I asked Noelle.

  “Is what typical? The traffic? I was thinking it wasn’t too busy right now.”

  “No, I meant the houses. They’re so close together.”

  “Land is at a premium here. We build up, not out. Most homes are several stories. Usually three. The Dutch are very efficient.”

  We did a loop, circling another roundabout, and headed down a stretch that was suddenly agricultural with a marshy field where some sort of green crop was at the five-inches-high stage. I looked for a windmill but didn’t see any across the flat expanse. The road we were cruising down was built up like a long, flat mound. To the side, down the mound, was a canal that ran parallel to the elevated road.

  “There’s your first canal sighting,” Noelle said. “You’ll see them everywhere. We’re about to go down my favorite part of the drive home. The place I want to take you for coffee is just a little ways from here.”

  Noelle drove on, and I watched a smile rise on her face when she turned a corner. “This is it. This stretch with the trees lining the road. Isn’t it lovely? I have no idea how old these trees are, but look at them. They’re so big and shady. Each of them has a distinct personality. My girls used to call me gek, crazy, because I would talk to the trees as we drove this way. Now they tell me that when they drive down this stretch, they say hello to the trees.”

  I admired the big, burly trunks of the expansive trees and took in their branches that effortlessly sprouted thousands of new leaves. They stood like brave soldiers, wearing their scars and their prolific assortment of green medals with pride and honor.

  “I almost feel as if I should salute them,” I said as we sped past the end of the tree formation.

  “Yes. That’s it, isn’t it? I never thought of it that way before, but that’s what I feel too. Those trees have stood strong through sleet, snow, and hail. They remain steady in the summers, which sometimes can turn sweltering. And they keep on standing, brave and true. I feel grateful for the determined person who planted them so long ago.”

  We entered an area that looked like a picturesque European village from a travel brochure. The close-together shops looked clean and fresh, in spite of the obvious age of some of the taller buildings at the end of the block. The line of shops on the right side of the street reminded me of an area not far from where I live—an area that had gone through a successful urban renewal when some of the older, more charming buildings were renovated. We drove slowly down the street, looking for a place to park. As we passed a flower shop, I noticed the store next door had a large sign in the shape of a wooden shoe hanging out front.

  “Does that store really sell wooden shoes?”

  Noelle looked over her shoulder. “Yes. We can go in, and you can try on a pair, if you want.”

  I laughed. “They really sell wooden shoes here?”

  “Of course. Many people still wear them on the farms. The fishermen wear them.”

  “Why?”

  Noelle smiled. “They keep your feet warm and dry, and they don’t slip.”

  “Do you have a pair of wooden shoes?”

  “Yes, of course. For the garden. When the girls were little, they both had pink ones they wore when they went out to the family farm to see the horses.”

  “I thought wooden shoes were part of the Old World Dutch tradition. I never would have guessed they still make and sell them. Except maybe for tourists.”

  “I’m sure they sell lots of them to tourists in the larger cities. But if you want an authentic pair for a lower price, you should buy them here.”

  “I don’t know where I would wear them.”

  “In the garden, of course. Especially in the spring when it’s wet and rainy. They’re comfortable. Really.”

  When I still didn’t look convinced, Noelle said, “You will try on a pair before you leave. I just decided that for you. Oh, wonderful! That car is pulling out. This is a good spot.”

  Noelle pulled into a very tight parking place in front of what looked like a post office.

  “I can’t believe how compact everything is. I never could have managed to park in a spot this small. You amaze me, Noelle.”

  She turned off the engine and reached over to put her hand on my shoulder. “Summer, I think quite a few things about this country will amaze you. I know I’ve already said it, but I’m really glad you’ve come.”

  “I’m glad too. I do have one request, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Warn me ahead of time about any of the things you think might surprise me so I won’t say or do anything to embarrass you.”

  “Don’t worry about embarrassing me. Trust me, I have managed to embarrass myself plenty over the years. You are my guest. It is my honor to have you here. So, are you ready for a coffee now?”

  “Sure. Just tell me how to ask for coffee in Dutch.”

  “That’s easy. Koffie.”

  “Now how do I order a grande, two-percent, half-pump, sugar-free vanilla latte with no whip?”

  Noelle stopped in front of the car and stared at me a moment, apparently trying to see the joke in what I had just said. “What was all that?”

  “That’s my usual,” I explained.

  �
��Your usual what?”

  “Coffee.”

  She still looked confused. “Why would you have to go through a whole speech like that just to get a coffee? What did you say again?”

  I repeated my standing order, and this time she laughed.

  “What is the two percent?”

  “That’s the milk. You can order nonfat, two percent, whole, or half-and-half. If you want your latte with half-and-half, you order a breve. Or you can order soy milk. You can have whipped cream on top or add your own chocolate powder, cinnamon, or liquid sugar.”

  She looked at me as if I were making all this up.

  “It’s true. It helps if you memorize what you want before you get to the register so you can say it all in the right order.”

  “What if all you want is a simple cup of coffee?”

  “Then you have to ask for ‘drip.’”

  “It’s an entire coffee subculture, isn’t it?” Noelle said. “We have those fancy coffee chains here, but I rarely go to them. The last time I did, I was with my girls, and they did the ordering for me. Sounds like that was a good thing. I would have been lost on my own. Ordering will be much simpler here.”

  We stepped into a warm, small space that had the feel of a bakery because of the limited yet tempting assortment of treats inside the display case. An older couple sitting at the table in the corner stared at us. I glanced at them a second time and got the feeling they weren’t staring in a creepy way but rather in a bored way, as if we were the best entertainment available on a dull afternoon. Why sit home and watch television when you can walk to the local and watch people?

  Noelle greeted the woman in the white smock behind the counter and ordered for us.

  “Would you like to share a gebak, or would you like your own?” Noelle pointed to what looked like a flat apple tart on a plate inside the display case.

  “I could eat a whole piece. It looks good.”

  “It is goot,” the woman behind the counter said in stiff English.

  “I’m sure it is. Tank you.”

  I meant to say “thank you,” but hearing her goot instead of good prompted me to respond with “tank you.”

  Noelle gave me a quick glance as if to be sure I wasn’t making fun of the woman’s accent. I wasn’t, but my face warmed, and I quickly stepped to the side while Noelle paid.

  The people in the corner still were watching us. I hoped I wouldn’t do anything to cause a scene. At the same time, I felt as if I should do a little tap dance or finger-puppet show before sitting down.

  Opting to ignore the couple, I sat with my back to them. Noelle placed a small ceramic cup of dark, steaming coffee in front of me. The apple gebak was served on a plate with a fork balanced on the side. I took one bite of the dense fruit pastry and made an mmm sound.

  “Lekker? “Noelle asked.

  “Is that what it’s called? Lekker? Is that Dutch for ‘cake’?”

  “No, lekker is the word for ‘delicious.’ If it’s really good, you go like this.” She opened her hand and put her flat palm to the side of her thick, blond hair. “You say, ‘Lekker,’ and then you do this.” She waved her hand slightly as if fluffing up her hairdo.

  “What does that mean?”

  “That you like it. It tastes delicious.”

  “But why are you waving to your ear?”

  Noelle grinned. “That is what it looks like, isn’t it? I hadn’t thought of it that way before. I have no idea why we do it or what it means, but if you like something that’s tasty, that’s what the Dutch do.”

  I gave it a try, waving my open palm in front of my ear. Noelle nodded her approval. “My first lesson in Dutch nuances. Keep them coming.” I took a small sip of the hot coffee and swallowed it quickly. The strong taste prompted me to cough.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I hate to admit this, but I think I’ve turned into a coffee snob. Not even a coffee snob. I’m a latte snob. This tastes really strong to me.”

  “Oh, right! The five-percent milk.”

  “Two percent.”

  “I’ll get some milk for you.” Noelle went to the counter and returned with a small pitcher.

  As I lightened up my coffee, I said, “I hadn’t realized it until now, but I barely recognize the real stuff anymore.”

  “It’s all right. You don’t have to change over to the Dutch way of doing things simply because you arrived an hour ago.” She winked. “We’ll give you a week.”

  I laughed. “A week is all I have.”

  My statement stuck in my throat as soon as I said it. It was as if I had spoken a self-fulfilling prophecy. After this week I didn’t know what kind of life or schedule I would have. Would I be able to drink coffee if the doctor put me on a restricted diet?

  Noelle confidently lifted her chin. “Don’t worry. A week is all I need. I told you. The Dutch are very efficient.”

  Noelle’s home felt familiar from the moment we drove up to it. Much of what met my eye was as I had imagined. I had seen photos over the years, with the inside and outside of the house as the background.

  Many of the same distinctives I had noticed about the other Dutch homes appeared in Noelle’s as well. Even though her house was only thirty-five years old, the flat front of the house led straight up to a pointed roof like the traditional houses we had seen on our drive. The front entry was a patio of pavers with flowers and a small tree, all growing in deep Mediterranean blue garden pots.

  “We gave up trying to bother with grass out here,” Noelle said. “This part of the house rarely sees sunlight. I’ve had good success, though, with a few shade-loving plants. In the summer it’s nice and cool out here.”

  We entered, and I realized how efficiently the small space was used. Four steps in, and we were standing by a stylish black leather couch that framed the seating area in the living room. To the right was the staircase, and to the far left was an entire wall covered by built-in bookcases and a customized space where a flat-screen TV was flanked by small speakers.

  “My son Michael would love what you did with that wall,” I said. “He and his wife have been trying to do something similar in their apartment but without anything being built in. The shelves are eating up their floor space.”

  “We added all that,” Noelle said. “And we redesigned the kitchen. Come.”

  I let go of my luggage and followed her a few steps past the couch where the room made a T. On the left was a round dining room table with a bouquet of red tulips fully in bloom. To the right was a modern-looking but very small kitchen with all stainless-steel appliances.

  “It’s just the right size for us now,” Noelle said. “All the years while the girls were growing up, it was so small. You could barely have two people in the kitchen at one time.”

  I couldn’t imagine the kitchen any smaller. Even with the modern upgrades, the built-in appliances appeared narrower than what we have in the U.S.

  “It’s impressive,” I said truthfully. The space looked well used, and the shine from the stainless steel reflected cleanly the focused, canned, overhead lights. The kitchen looked as if it could be an advertisement in a magazine.

  “Are you ready to see your room? It’s on the second floor. We converted the attic into a third floor, and that became our bedroom. I’ll show you that too.”

  The three stories were traversed by a set of stairs. I had seen this sort of metal, spiraling stairs in movies or in pictures but never in a home. There was no railing. Only the series of narrow metal plates that were open to the front to accommodate feet that were too long to fit on just the step. Feet like mine. Although, when I took the fifth or sixth step, I realized only a child’s small feet would fit on such small stair plates.

  Noelle was carrying my suitcase, which was a good thing. I’m afraid I would have had a terrible time trying to navigate the narrow steps, the spiral direction we were heading, and a bulky suitcase. Noelle hoisted it ahead of her with little difficulty. She seemed much stronger than I was. But then, i
f I lived in a three-story house instead of a one-story bungalow, I might have developed some impressive strength from all the hauling up and down.

  After one complete spiral turn of the metal stairs, we were on the second floor. A square area anchored four closed doors. Noelle opened the one at the opposite end.

  “This is the bathroom. I put clean towels on your bed. I’ll be sure to give you some instructions before you run the water in the tub or shower. It’s different than what you’re used to, but I don’t think you’ll be too confused.”

  Turning to the closed door on my left, Noelle opened up the guest room—my room. A twin bed with a beautiful, puffy white down comforter waited for me with folded towels at the foot.

  “I put hangers in the closet, but let me know if you need more. This room doesn’t have a lot of closet space since we use it for overflow” She put my suitcase next to the closet. “I’ll show you the office across the hall, and then we can go up to see the bedroom on the third floor.”

  I kept up with Noelle as she scooted across the hall and opened the door to a crowded home office. The desk sat in front of the window that looked out to the back of their house. A high-back office chair faced the window.

  Just then the chair turned, and Noelle’s husband lifted his hand to greet us but didn’t change his facial expression.

  “I didn’t realize you were home,” Noelle said in a soft voice.

  The large, fair-skinned man nodded in a reserved manner.

  Whether he was reserved Dutch or not, I was thrilled to meet Noelle’s husband after all these years. I jumped in, stepping close and offering my hand in an eager handshake. “Jelly, I am so glad to finally meet you. Thank you for agreeing to let me come last minute like this.”

  A deep voice suddenly spoke from the speakerphone on the desk. I hadn’t realized a phone call was in progress. The man on the speakerphone replied in Dutch. While I couldn’t understand what he said, I distinctly heard him repeat Noelle’s husband’s name, “Jelly,” with a humorous inflection.

  I turned to Noelle with my lips pressed together just as a second voice chimed in, also in Dutch. We had interrupted a conference call.