We wake early and Uber to the Amsterdam Centraal. We take the train to Vlissingen. We hope. Maybe we’re headed to Frankfurt, but it’s hard to tell, especially since at one point we need to change trains, which involves moving up a dozen cars and getting back onto the same train. It’s all very Dutch, but very civilized just the same. Miraculously, we make it to our stop, or at least they tell us the train isn’t going any further. We get off and walk a hundred meters to the ferry terminal. There’s one ferry to Breskens, Belgium, so we get tickets and amuse ourselves in the snack bar, think truck stop with boats. We look in the tall deli case and use the time honored ennie-meenie method to pick the croquet, a cigar sized seafood dumpling of indeterminate origin and the fregola, a cigar sized sausage of indeterminate origin. Mandy is traumatized, I sorta like them.
There’s a problem. We’ve planned this entire trip around seeing our Belgian friends Isabelle and Stephan. But they’re not Belgian. Nor is Breskens in Belgium, Nor is Sluis, the town they live in, in Belgium. So, in hopes you never make the same mistake, here is an aside to explain what my middle school geography teacher should have taught me.
- The Netherlands: Formal name, the Kingdom of the Netherlands, a country
- Amsterdam: The capitol city of The Netherlands
- Holland: The northern two territories of The Netherlands. Also what many people refer to the Netherlands as, including people who live there. Also, a town I used to live in in Bucks County, PA.
- Belgium: A country that seceded from the Netherlands in 1830, and one where we will not be going today.
- Breskens and Sluis (pronounced slice or SLU-is): Towns not in Belgium where we will be going today.
Geographic and gastronomic trauma behind us, we pull into the fairy tale village of Sluis, complete with a clock tower, windmill and castle (well the castle is actually the town hall, but you get the picture). It’s a tiny, ancient walled city where the word charming must have been invented. It’s a tight knit community with lots of families living there for generations and it’s immensely popular with tourists when the weather is nice. Isabelle is working the counter in her bookshop, which also serves as a post office and ING banking station. The shop is neat and cheery and airy and Isabelle greets everyone with her effortless grace. It’s the kind of place where a neighbor walking down the street pops into the shop and asks for help tying a necktie. So there I am, tying a tie for a guy…
Stephan take us to their home upstairs to stash our bags. We can’t wait to explore town, and Stephan is a wonderful tour guide, explaining the history, the current, and introducing us to virtually everyone we pass. We walk a big loop, stopping for lunch and some good local beer. Most of the shops are family owned and we love being able to walk to almost everything you could need. Except asparagus.
The local white asparagus is thing around here, and it’s only in season for a few short weeks. Fortunately for us, now’s the time. Stephan drives us the few miles through some more countryside to Spitsbroek, the local farm who made it big on this crop. There’s a line, so we cue and have a look around. On the surface it’s quaint (can I use charming again?) but when you look more closely you see a serious operation. There’s even a specially engineered machine that slices the long stringy parts out of each stalk to guarantee tenderness. We watch as one woman orders a few kilos of the strings, which will be boiled down into a soup base. Stephan gets 2 kilos and we get the impression we already want more. There was a quick downpour while we were at the farm, and Holland gives us a wide brilliant rainbow as recompence. The landscape opens up so wide that we see both sides across the farmland. (If you’re keeping score, that’s rainbows in France, Costa Rica and The Netherlands… no pressure next country)
We chill back at the house, catching up and enjoying the hospitality. Isabelle closes up shop around 6 and Stephan and I head out to the next little town for some Chinese takeout. It’s the little differences that make travel fun, and apparently Chinese food, only authentic in China, morphed differently in every country. Good, just different. Joining us for dinner is our hosts’ son Brian, Stephan’s sister Karin and Karin’s husband JP. Wine flows, the company is great and the conversation is fun. I find out JP owns a repair shop and we start talking cars. He shows me his pictures of some of his collection and we have a new must-do on our trip. We talk and laugh and carry on late into the night. Talking before bed, Mandy and I realize that we both had a similar thought at some point during the night. We’ve visited lots of historic walled cities in our travels and we’ve always wondered what it would be like to really be inside. Glad we didn’t end up in Belgium.
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