A couple more days at the squat in Leiden…. working the security-barricade door at a huge techno party; “Whaddya mean everyone has to have invitations? Nobody has an invitation!”…. an impromptu scavenger hunt, conceived on a whim, with our legs dangling over the canal: one broken inner tube, some cat hair, and a poster with Dutch written on it; one white flower, a high-pitched noise, and one shoestring; all found within 45 minutes on the brisk Spring streets of Leiden…. a speech, requested by our host after a Wednesday night eetcafe, about my trip and my philosophies…. one final, quiet dinner with Sandor – an oldschool squatter with the use of only one arm(still rides his bike – coaster brake – still rolls spliffs no problem and still cooks vegan gourmet deliciousness)…. some city sights we didn’t discover till our last day…. aah Leiden – one of the gems of Holland.

A couple more days in Amsterdam… to say goodbye I suppose, though it isn’t hard to find reasons to stay. I was just getting back to Casa Robino with a big load of dumpster dived vegetables as Lily and Mandi were coming out. And as we were dividing the goodies on the street, Robin just happened to return right at that moment from a big hitchhiking trip to Slovenia(the Casa operates just fine without him). He was shaven-headed now and wrote “HITCH HIKE” in huge chalk letters on the sidewalk, his whole body beaming with pure joy of life. Hitchhiking sounds like a lot of fun, in a serendipitous magic-of-people kinda way. Wish I could try it… but for now I am all bike.
I scored an interview with the Netherlands national press agency, the ANP. The kid said it was his third or fourth interview – I guess they don’t send heavy-hitter grizzled pro reporters to interview American bike bums. I told him, “That’s cool, I’m new at this too.” His Engels was, like most Dutch people’s, excellent. Coffee was on the agency and there was a photographer too. The next day, an article(in Dutch) about my tour and my principles was published in dozens of online and hardcopy papers. But of course, despite saying he would, he didn’t notify me when or where it would be published – those reporters, can I trust ‘em? – so it was only random chance I was able to get hold of a copy. “Ik ben tegen snelheid” : “I am against speed.”

Leaving Casa Robino – this time for real – was a slow process. Natural. The snail in me couldn’t bear to hurry, especially after such a momentous time there.
The scheduled day of departure didn’t feel quite right. The day after, it still felt rushed and I wanted to do a little more around the house. On day three, as the sun came up over Amsterdam, I was finally ready to leave. The time was right, and the way had opened itself. Having been out all night, I woke Lily with a kiss and a cup of tea. We said goodbye to Robin – all other nomads were asleep – and after a few final adjustments, we were on our way to Paris!
It reminded me of the day I left home, a little – low on sleep, emotionally taxed, but ecstatic to be on the road again. And not going to make it very far that first day – we stopped in Leiden for some more final goodbyes.
On my way to meet Josta, my first Dutch friend, I passed a group of squatters I knew, outside the local police precinct. They were exercising their rights, giving away free vegan dumpstered food(Food Not Bombs) and banging on djembes right there on the steps of the copshop; one of the crew was inside, in jail, and they were there for support. What a nice feeling it must be, to be sitting in jail, and every time the front door opens, you can hear your friends shouting and making music, just for you. Later the homie was released, and we all sat on the roof of “the Couch” drinking beer and getting the scoop. The cops had taken his fingerprints but still don’t know his name….

Next on our way was Delft, where we had some other friends to visit at another krakhuis. There I was contacted by a Dutch TV show requesting an interview – they had seen the ANP article somewhere – so we delayed for a day. We made vegan pizza from scratch – the secret is hummus in the sauce – and Lily screened her documentary for a house full of folks. I fixed a coffeetable. And there was this bike dude Jason, an American doing PhD work at the huge engineering school in Delft. “Bike handling” – what a program! Live in Holland, the center of the bicycle universe, and study bikes all day every day with other bike nerds. Wow. He has a totally bike-centro blog on http://www.moorebicycles.blogspot.com/

In the morning I went to the train station to meet the TV crew for the interview. My television debut, how exciting! While I was waiting, I spoke congenially with an elderly couple – seeing my loaded bike there had reminded them of their youth, and a few happy weeks touring across Europe on bikes. Then the charismatic producer appeared – I think he had been spying on me beforehand – and bought me coffee and food. A couple minutes later, a smooth TV personality in a black suit and red tie arrived with the camera guy, and we went out into the rain to do the interview. This slick fella, a Turkish-descent, well-manicured celebrity, standing with the coldsore on his lip away from the camera, was one of “De Jakhalzen” – a small, comedic relief portion of a show called De Wereld Draait Door – The World Keeps Spinning, Holland’s most popular primetime show. He offered me to stand under his umbrella with him – “Uhh, no thanks… when it rains, I just get wet.” And so he put up his umbrella and got wet too – probably his wettest interview ever =P
They put a mic and wireless battery thingy on me and began rolling. Within minutes I got the gist – they weren’t here to give me an opportunity to promote alternative methods of transportation; I was the opportunity. This wasn’t unbiased journalism, this was comedy television. He started asking me questions about Americans thinking they were heroes and leaving messes behind – read: US foreign policy – trying to get a rise out of me or hoping I’d slip up and say something they could shamelessly edit for millions of Dutch people to laugh at over their dinner ofstampot. I didn’t slip – I was actually surprised how cool I was on camera. He prodded me on my trust in humankind – “People LIE, man!” – and tried to get me to ridiculously ask people at the station if I could stay with them tonight. Then, as we’re talking about what I eat and what equipment I carry, he gestures behind him – “Your bike, I mean, it must weigh a lot… hey – where is your bike?”

Oh. My. God. My bike was gone.

Minutes earlier, out of the corner of my eye, I had seen someone move it, but I was almost positive it was the producer, and I just thought he was putting it somewhere better. I could tell it was a gag – no wonder the producer was dressed like a bike thief – and they had been planning it the whole time. The camera kept taping, but I don’t think I gave them the reaction they were hoping for; I told him to call his producer. “Oh he’s putting money in the meter, is he?” “If this isn’t a gimmick, then yes, I do want you to call the police.” The jackal tried to keep the joke going, but eventually the guy came back and we had a laugh. Dicks.
The only fun part was when they taped me riding, shadowing me in their car. They had already told me it was okay, even encouraged, to swear, so when there was another cyclist coming, I told them, with genuine rancor, to “Get the fu€k out of his way, give the man some room!” And they got some good shots of me saying, “I’m not in any hurry.”
In the end, they seemed like pretty cool guys, despite the whole rape-you-for-laughs veneer; I think they were actually feeling a little guilty when they left. And I learned an important lesson – a dubious prospect for promoting my message is not worth my integrity. I’ve got a good sense of humor, and my dignity isn’t much of a foundation for my ego, but still – the last thing I want is to make bicycle touring seem laughable.

Their bigwig emailed me and said they’d air it in one or two days. I wanted to see it, of course, but we decided to hit the road and just try and find a TV to watch it on wherever we happened to be. I picked up a little leather case from the squat’s free-shop, for my spice kit; we said goodbye, and pedalled off in the drizzle.
We passed through Den Haag and Rotterdam on our way to the coast, and followed the North Sea Southwards, battling the wind – it’s not a good sign when there’s a hundred huge wind turbines, all pointing in your direction and spinning like mad – and crossing the mighty dykes that hold back the sea. Fifty percent of the Netherlands(literally the “low land”) is below sea level, and much of the country’s land was actually manufactured – as in: erect a big wall, fill the sea with dirt, drain off any leftover water, and build houses. And somehow it works; they used to use old-tech windmill-driven pumps, but now it’s all electronic I guess. Hope global warming doesn’t wipe ‘em out!

First night out, we stopped in Renesse for water and to try to find a TV. Water was easy, but people weren’t offering their cozy sitting rooms to two dirty hobos. We did, however, get a lead on a Christian vicar whose home is an official stop for pilgrims on the famous Santiago de Campostela trail – which is actually in Spain, but people head there from much, much farther away. We found his house and his wife was appropriately welcoming. She invited us in, fed us coffee and biscuits, and spoke politely before going back to what she was doing. When Peter the Priest got home, he gave me the official Santiago de Campostela bike-pilgrim stamp and agreed to watch De Wereld Draait Door with us. And we were treated to a great family dinner! Their son said it was great to have guests – “Mom always cooks better food when there are guests.”
But my segment didn’t show, and after the credits rolled, sitting there a little embarrassed, Peter told us that he and his family “had their own program for the evening.” It was a polite eviction. We were more than a little surprised – what priest kicks out two poor travelers after dark, anyway? Maybe he thought we were just conning him for a meal and a place to stay…. But they had been more than hospitable already, and anyway, we had a tent. We found a sign out at some rural crossroads that said “Camping –> 2 km” and the grass under the sign was looking pretty lush… we pitched up right there in the ditch and laid in our winter hats and gloves, looking at the stars.

The next day we passed through Goes and stopped at the library to check on De Wereld Draait Door – the bigwig said she would email me – but the library was closed. There was an intercom though, and after I brazenly buzzed it, someone actually answered! After a quick explanation, she agreed to let me in and use the internet – in a closed library! I love public libraries, hot damn! But of course there was no info on my segment. Shyeh, media.
Next door at a cafe we decided to have a hot cup of tea – it wasn’t warm in the Netherlands, by any definition, in early March. We passed a pair of beer-bellied and bearded old codgers outside; they asked where we were from(America! No! Australia!) and I complimented one of them on his crystal pendants. Minutes later, he comes inside and approaches our table with almost zero English, proffers his card(Bert – he’s a drum-maker), gives Lily one of his pendants(!), a rose quartz, and intimates that if we ever come to Katendijk, he will find space for us. Nice! Thanks old dude! Now, where’s Katendijk….
We found it on the map and it really wasn’t too far out of our way. We figured this was a chance to hang out with some locals – Bert was true Dutch for sure – and maybe even have a warm place to sleep for a change. Lily, having grown up in Vanuatu and Australia, is accustomed to tropical paradise – her first time seeing snow was last winter – and despite a few tricks up my sleeve to keep her warm, she was hurtin’ in those frosty nights.
So we pedalled to Katendijk to look for Bert. It wasn’t a big town but we didn’t see the street, so we went back to the bar to ask for directions, and who’s there drinking beer but our friend Bert! Of course he’s in the pub!
Lily bought him a beer and we chatted, but soon our common language was exhausted, and an awkward silence settled over the afternoon village pub. It seemed Bert couldn’t put us up in his place – some big mess, I gathered – and his girlfriend was sick or something…. He made phone calls, he spoke to the other brooding clientele; he looked embarrassed, he looked apologetic; we tried to tell him that any dirty corner of the floor was more than enough, but by the end of the beer, it was obvious we’d be out in the cold again. Thanks anyway Bert!

We never did find a warm place to sleep in Zuidland, but we huddled close and kept the pedals pumpin’. And we never did see the segment on De Wereld Draait Door – maybe they decided I hadn’t acted enough of a fool to make anything out of it. Probably for the best.

We traveled. We smiled and joked and flirted and said “hoi dag” to everyone we passed. We met strangers and were given stroopwaffles and pannenkaken. A woman delivering mail said she’d invite us for coffee if she wasn’t working. There were no hills, just gloriously flat bike paths along the dykes, with Dutch village roofs sticking up over the ridge and a cramped Dutch countryside full of sheep and horses.

Nearing the Belgian border, we were confronted with the Westerschelde, the huge estuary that connects Antwerp with the North Sea. As far west as we were, there was only a ferry service… but with one look in my eyes, Lily agreed to cycle east and find a different way. Farther on, we found a tunnel that goes under it – you can take your bike, and it’s free, but you and your bike have to get on a bus… sorry Lil, I don’t take buses either. A bit inconvenient, perhaps, but this just meant that we had to cycle all the way to the bridge crossing over the River Schelde, and in lieu of visiting Brugge or Gent, to reach Brussels via Antwerp instead.

Shortly before this massive industrial port city, we came to the town of Putte – the border town. We weren’t sure if this was pronounced like “putin,” the French word for asshole, so to confirm I asked some random girl, “Excuse me, which village is this?” I caught up to Lily, reporting, “That girl just called me an asshole!” They speak French, as well as Dutch, in Belgium – maybe the town got its name from border arguments year after year… “Putin!” “Tu putin!” “Non, tu putin!” “Mais non, TU putin!”

We didn’t see any huge sign saying, “Welcome to Belgique,” so I asked another cyclist if we were in Belgium yet – oops, it was a quarter mile ago. We went back for photos – no Belgium sign, just the Antwerp Province sign, but we still took the obligatory border shots. As we were preparing to continue – Lily was actually in the Netherlands, and I was in Belgium – tons of police started arriving by car and van-load, Dutch and Belgian both…. at first I was confused, but then I remembered which border this was. “The Netherlands…. riiiight. They’re setting up a roadblock to check for drugs.” Most of the cops just eyed us with passing interest, but one young buck approached me, saying something in Dutch, then English: “Where are you coming from?” Uh oh.

What I said was “Madison, Wisconsin,” which, thankfully, confused him slightly and pointed him in a “Wow, a world-wide bike tour” direction instead of a “We’re going to search you” direction, which is probably the way it would’ve gone if I had answered with “Netherlands,” or worse, “Amsterdam.” And I think they wouldn’t have been too pleased with a couple of the particular Dutch souvenirs I had stowed away in my panniers…. close. Too close for comfort! But before things got too involved, we saddled up and took off, and the Belgian police wished us a poorly translated “Good trip!”

Now why don’t they just say “bon voyage” like any other English speaker?

* * *

I arrived on the morning of New Year’s Eve, bundled against the cold and ready to ride. I had a couple of plans, heaps of enthusiasm, and eight hours of daylight. At the terminal I queued politely behind a few cars, but was soon motioned around by the customs official. I thought he might want to see my passport, or at least ask me something, but he was busy checking in motorists, ignoring me. So I kept pushing on past, behind the office….
Walking by a couple of cig-smoking customs guys, I nodded, and their conversation(in Dutch) didn’t even stop. I passed through the gate as easy as a breeze.

And then,

I was in Holland.
IJmuiden, Noord-Holland, Nederlands.

It was 25 winter kilometers from IJmuiden(“aymowden”) to Amsterdam, through the thick mist and dusty snow. “They drive on the right side here!” I often had to remind myself that first day; and several times, nearby random pedestrians shouted something to me in Dutch, directing me off of the street(where I am accustomed to riding), and onto the bike path… which is everywhere!
I had a little map to the city center, and I didn’t even use it. There were bicycle signs at every corner, separate from the roadsigns, and of course people on bikes to ask for directions. I passed a cold couple of fellas on the way, one pedaling and the other sitting side-saddle on the rear cargo rack of his old Dutch bike, holding his mittens over his ears. Through his scarf, he said to keep cycling, keep cycling and I left him with an amused “Only in Holland!”

Downtown Amsterdam was bustling with trams and cars and bikes and tourists. The Station Centraal was teeming with travelers coming and going, waiting, or rushing to catch a train. I went there hoping to find a tourist info office and a free map of the city, but it was so hectic there, I was momentarily paralyzed, overwhelmed by all the sheer busy-ness. It’s Amsterdam, where the city posts “Beware of pickpockets” signs and hundreds of thousands of bikes are stolen each year; and not only that, but it’s the train station – generally the riskiest crowd to be in, no matter which city it’s in. There was no way I was going to leave my bike and gear alone, my first day in the city, among who knows how many bike thieves; even for a second, even to have a map. I’d just have to wing it.
So much for a map then; on to the next priority. I found the coffeeshop I was looking for, Homegrown Fantasies, and ducked in for a quick purchase before heading South to Leiden. It was a nice atmosphere in there, with a deliciously intoxicating aroma and a gregarious cashier behind the menu, rolling joints and shouting at tourists.
“It’s okay to roll tobacco in it,” and “Don’t leave, I didn’t mean to scare you, I just wanted to sell you drugs!”
I wanted to be impressed with the cannabis expertise in downtown Amsterdam, but when I asked him to recommend something that would chill me out, versus send me flying, his response was disappointing. He didn’t even really know which ones were Indica and which were Sativa. In the end I chose two grams(12 euros) of something called Euphoria, and I sat outside on the cold patio seating, next to my rig, and had my first smoke in Amsterdam. Not your average pre-rolled, walk-outside-in-a-haze Amsterdam coffeeshop tourist experience; it was more of a new take on an old hobby. Bike tour style – after finishing my doobie, I faced to the South, and with a deep breath, started riding. Down broad boulevards seething with big-city activity, through narrow criss-crossing alleyways, over canal bridges, and out of the city, using only my compass and those handy bikepath signs.
Fourty kilometers of car-free fietspad(bikepath) without a map, sailing past sunset in a foreign land… with the Homegrown attitude adjustment, it was one of the most entertaining rides I think I’ve ever done.

And then there was Capers! Capers with a song on her lips, Capers with that bounce in her step. It was as if Fate had decreed that we should meet with success, and had carefully watched over our every step and pedal stroke, guiding us inexorably together.
The air vibrated as we hugged; cats purred on plush cushions around the world and luscious fruits dropped ripe from their branches. The ink of a thousand poems in a hundred languages finally dried at that moment, their pages fluttering under the eager breath of cloud-chasing romantics and giggling children.
Like we were in a moonlit dream, we struck out into the night. With Josta, our gracious host in Leiden, we skipped down to the Turfmarkt in the center of town for the fireworks. We were like a couple of little kids, laughing and jumping about, celebrating everything. Imagine Capers on my shoulders as we play beside the canal, pyrotechnics blazing in the sky and reflecting in the water, the old windmill silhouetted against the fiery night. Sparkler-trail vision streaks in circles, thousand-string bangers unleash in deafening staccato. The smoke from a fresh spliff in the winter air, and a cold bottle of champagne to ring in the new year… it was pure magic.

The fairy tale continued as we explored the town and Dutch culture over the following days. Josta took us for drinks and authentic Dutch cuisine, and cooked the best “stampot”(they love to mash everything together over here) I’ve had this whole time, with language lessons and quirky side-notes sprinkled throughout. We meandered over the old cobblestones of Leiden, soaking in the history and the happiness. We visited the public library, we sat on the sidewalk and photographed people on bikes. We wandered and wondered, taking it free and easy.
Josta rented a bicycle for Capers, a classic Dutch single-speed coaster, and we took a trip back to Amsterdam. I couldn’t follow the route I took the first time, so we adventured onward with my compass, following perfectly flat bike paths toward the horizon along arrow-straight canals, detouring through quaint little villages, taking breaks, sharing fruits, and discovering life together.

In Amsterdam once again, this time I had a destination. Capers had set up a place for us to stay for a couple nights before we returned to Leiden(nice to let someone else worry about the accomodations for once!); a kind of dumpster-diving hitchhiker nomad base – more on Casa Robino later.

I asked if anyone had any recommendations down in the center of town, but all I got was “Get lost.” As in, ‘Getting lost is a great way to see the city.’ That fit snug with Capers and I, both being very try-it-and-see, faceful-of-optimism, adventure-around-every-corner livers of life; so off we went to see what all the hype was about.
It was a Saturday night, the perfect setting to witness Amsterdam’s world famous Red Light District. It was easy to find; it’s even shaded in and clearly marked on the free maps the police provide. We walked along that oh-so-famous strip full of neon sex shops and brothels, where scantily dressed, perfectly manicured prostitutes lay on their beds with their legs open and on display, or stare through the glass alluringly at the passersby. The aroma of marijuana could often be caught on the breeze from the coffeeshops and street corners, and lecherous drunks stumbled to and fro, wondering if they’ve got enough money left to get laid. On one particularly shady avenue, a small dark man dressed in black weaved through the crowd, subtly whispering “Coca?” to anyone that might be interested, and other rough-looking characters whistled from doorways and alley mouths to get your attention. I was of course targeted by the hoodlum type of drug dealers(I ignored them like a good tourist) but Capers, with her vibrant smile and her blonde dreadlocks, was approached by a bouncy dready hippie chic saying, “You’re not from here, are you? I was just wondering if you’d be interested in some LSD.” When Capers declined, she smiled and waved, and with a “No worries, have a nice day!” she disappeared. I guess Amsterdam has every kind….
It wasn’t long before we had had enough – the place is actually rather disturbing; even just window-shopping, we were rather disgusted by the sex industry(apparently most prostitutes are still working against their will) and certainly not interested in backdoor white powder. We split a paper cone full of fries and decided to call it a night.
We weren’t actually lost at first, but before long we realized we were a little underprepared to find our way back. We were 80% sure we had the street name and number right, but it’s a tiny street, and we hadn’t memorized any nearby landmarks. We didn’t have a cellphone, nor even the phone number. We had no map, no money, and no motor vehicles, just each other and a strong determination bred from principle – can’t give up just because the going gets a little rough. It was late, and the only people out were drunks; no one knew where Callenburgstraat was. And after an hour of wandering around trying to find something that triggered our memory, even the drunks were gone, and the streets were empty. Eventually Capers did flag a taxi, but only to ask for directions, and after another round-about detour, we stumbled upon a street corner we recognized. Hooray! We celebrated in relief with a big hug. Back inside, after a hot cup of tea, we slept with the sublime contentment of an adventure accomplished.

We returned to Leiden for the last few days of Capers’ stay. After meeting up with Josta, we took the rental back to the bike shop that’s attached to the train station. We’d be one less bike on the way back, so we rode Dutch-style, with me pedalling the rental and Capers sitting side-saddle on the rear rack – an experience I will never forget. It’s one thing to have a girl on the back of your bike(classic Dutch romance), but when Capers slid her arm around my waist to hold on, it felt so good I couldn’t stop the joy that bubbled up and burst forth in blissful laughter. What fun, cycling in Holland!
Josta’s kitty-cats finally got used to me the day before I left; silly scaredy cats – don’t they recognize one of their own? Then for our last night in town, we stayed with a guy named Niels who inspired me to build a bike-generator-powered battery charger from scratch. Still workin’ on that one….

And then I was walking with Capers for the last time, to the train station. We navigated the way effortlessly, with all the mystery and truth of the cosmos bouying our steps, and made it to the platform just in time. With a hug and a kiss and a toast to the future, we said fare-thee-well, and the marvelous fairy tale of Capers and Charlie in Holland came gently to an end.

And they lived happily ever after, surrounded by vibrant memories of inspiration, love, and joy.

Until we meet again….