Second star to the right and straight on until morning...

Okay, it's not Neverland.  It's The Netherlands.  Don't confuse them.  One of them is an enthralling land full of adventure, excitement, and wonders at every turn.  The other one is The Netherlands.

I probably shouldn't be so harsh on this country that seems to be populated entirely by sturdy, healthy people all riding bicycles at great speed.  It's not their fault that we haven't had a wonderful experience here.  Let's just say, euphemistically, that there have been some external factors that combined to create a sense of anxiety and  frustration among the Howard clan and many of the others in the program, disinclining us to positive experiences here.

But even so, there is a special thrill upon seeing your first Dutch windmills.

Ketchup in a tube.  Those crazy Netherlanders!

A final farewell to Peter.  He was more popular than Santa Claus when it was time to say goodbye and take photos.  Can't tell you how much we wish he was still our driver.

You know you're in The Netherlands when the hotel has to ask its customers not to use drugs in the rooms.  Not because it's immoral or illegal, mind you, because it's not in this country.  Heaven forbid.  IT'S BECAUSE IT MAKES A MESS AND COSTS MORE TO CLEAN UP!  (Maybe there should be a sign in Ghent that says "Please don't poop in the public urinals.  It clashes with the porcelain color scheme and offends our need for absolute symmetry.)

 Sunday morning in The Netherlands.  It's General Conference (meaning there are no church meetings to attend), so a decision was made to take everyone to the wonderful "beach."  Note the scare-quotes on the word "beach."  This was a beach only in the most mundane and literal sense--i.e., there was sand and water in close proximity to each other.  But the complete lack of any charm whatsoever made it a pretty poor excuse for a beach.  Maybe we've been spoiled by spending time on the South Coast of New South Wales (in Australia), or San Diego, or the Oregon Coast, or any number of other places where there are REAL beaches.  Like, you know, with trees and stuff.  Waves.  Rocky headlands to explore.  Shells that you can put up to your ears and hear the ocean.  Interesting little sea creatures in salt-water pools that create ingeniously complex shapes.  I'd even settle for a piece of driftwood.  No such luck here.  Only tankers parked out in the North Sea and a very "Atlantic City meets Spaceship Port" kind of amusement pier.

But, making lemonade from this "lemon" of a beach, C and E decided to create sand cakes and sandcastles decorated with shells, and had a lovely time doing it.  How marvelous when childhood innocence spares you from jaded cynicism.

 From there we all went to the city museum in The Hague, which had temporarily gained some added splendor because the most important paintings from the Mauritshuis (including some Vermeers and Rembrandts) were on display there as well.  Now there's nothing like seeing a Vermeer or a Rembrandt in real life.  But it was the De Stijl wing that really got my artistic juices flowing.  Look at this--a real Rietveld chair!!  I guess that officially makes me an art nerd of the highest order.

 It's a Dutch Krisanne, doing her very best to explain Mondrian to 7-year-olds.  (Actually it doesn't take much for 7-year-olds to get Mondrian--it's the grown-ups who need help.)

 It was all too much for some of the students.  Many of them are suffering museum burn-out, otherwise known as "musitis."  Symptoms include ennui, lethargy, and a profound antipathy toward people who express loud enthusiasm for the 17th century.

 E really wanted to stand on this statue and get her picture taken.  I felt kinda sorry for the little bronze boy--everybody just walks all over him.

 One of the if-not-exactly-bright-then-certainly-better-than-the-beach spots of the day was a stroll past the Dutch Parliament.  Nice old building on a pond with a fountain (though I personally think politicians would be much more productive if you shut them in a big box with no windows, endless supplies of bottled water, and told them they couldn't use a bathroom until they'd solved all the country's problems).

Just behind the Parliament was this lovely glass-covered galleria, which contained a chocolate shop of stunning quality and variety.  I partook.

 The next day began with a pastoral scene of wooly sheep grazing contentedly on bright green meadows while the morning sun caresses the fog into wispy arabesques.  The day went south pretty rapidly after that.

 The bus stopped by a windmill on its way to Amsterdam.  Okay, it was a nice windmill and all.  (Apparently Rembrandt painted it once or twice.)  But we all had a sneaking suspicion that the real reason for the stop was so the new bus driver--who shall from this point on be referred to simply as "Not-Peter"--wanted to light up another cigarette.  Funny how he gets all nervous about passengers eating McDonald's in his bus (you know, because the ketchup might spill), but doesn't give a second thought to wafting the noxious and acrid stench of burnt tobacco down the aisle and into everyone's nose and throat.

 We had a whole day to spend in Amsterdam.  We know now that our decision six years ago to give Amsterdam a wide berth on our last European excursion was a good one.  Neither H nor I really enjoyed it much at all.  The museums were nice, but art is portable.  It's the city itself that gives us the willies.  It is dirty, there's graffiti everywhere, and scungy-looking people, and filth (of all varieties), and just a general sense that this "tolerance" for which the Dutch are widely known can so easily devolve into outright apathy.  Nobody seems to care about anything in this city except getting to their destination (on bicycles, of course) as fast as possible while inconveniencing as many others along the way as one possibly can.  But small moments of mirth bubbled occasionally, nevertheless, like when we saw what appeared to half of a Smart Car tootling down the street.

 "But what's an Oscar doing in Amsterdam?" you ask.  I'll tell you.  The one sight we really wanted to see in Amsterdam was the Anne Frank house.  It was so very worth it.  Deeply moving and thought-provoking, as expected.  I left with a knot in my stomach, but as I told H it wasn't the same kind of horrible knot I felt at Auschwitz.  The Anne Frank House isn't a place where bad things happened--it's a place where good people showed immense courage and hope in the face of an almost insurmountable evil.  Quite a change from the other WWII sites I've visited in the past, this one ennobled us for being there, and didn't merely makes us sad.  We bought a deluxe edition of the book in the bookstore and stayed in the cafe for lunch (largely because the thought of stepping out into wretched Amsterdam again right away was distasteful to us.)

So the actress Shelly Winters, who played Mrs van Daan in the movie version of The Diary of Anne Frank, promised Otto Frank that if she won an Oscar for that role, she would donate it to the museum.  She won... and here it is.

 Stereotypical Amsterdam scene.

 The Van Gogh Musuem was closed for renovation, but it's most important works were on display at the Hermitage.  It was great to see "Sunflowers" in person.

 But the Apples painting was our favorite.  Unfortunately, the gift shop didn't sell a postcard of this one.  Luckily I'd snapped a pic of it, even though (I found out later) photos were forbidden in the galleries.  I truly don't remember seeing any signs to that effect, but given the difficulty I've had interpreting European signs in the past month I'm not so surprised.  It could well be the case that the symbol for "No Photography Allowed" looks like a green squiggle emerging from purple checkerboard hexagon, and everyone from Lithuania to Lisbon gets it immediately.

 That's bona fide class on four wheels, right there.

 On to the Rijksmuseum (also undergoing renovation).  Both E and C loved the 18th-century doll houses that were so big you had to climb a ladder to see into the top floor.  The house itself was made of genuine tortoise-shell.  How un-PC.

 For an art geek like moi, this is nirvana...

... with whipped cream and a cherry on top...

 ... and sprinkles...

 ... in a waffle cone.

E does a jig in the gardens outside the Rijksmuseum, amusing passersby while giving her parents a chance to rest their aching feet.

 One would think that a shop called "Tinkerbell" in the middle of Amsterdam might not be the kind of place good God-fearing people would dare to visit.  Doesn't even bear thinking about.  But this store was actually a delightful children's toy store.  We procured two puppets and a whoopie cushion (because nothing saves a bad day  in Amsterdam quicker than fake flatulence on a crowded bus.)

These contraptions apparently hold two people.  I have yet to see that work in practice.

 Our last morning in Leiden was spent at... (envelope please)...  ANOTHER WINDMILL.  But I have to say that even taking into account my extraordinarily low expectations for what this visit would constitute, the windmill turned out to be quite interesting.  Who knew there was room to host a small dinner party inside a windmill?

 Or that they could house a kitchen bigger than some of the hotel rooms we've stayed in recently.

 18th-century Delft tiles as a sink back-splash.  Makes granite countertops positively seem chintzy by comparison.

 E hiked up those steep ladders to the top like she was a veteran fireman.  No fear.

 What better way to celebrate conquering the mighty windmill (take that, Don Quixote!) than to play a game of Red Rover with the students.

 C, our cautious and circumspect one, took a little longer to reach the top.  (The landing was really only half way up, but it was the highest place to get out and look around.)  And she was happy to have her photo taken as long as she could hold onto that door handle and not get too close to the edge.  She is her mother's daughter.

 City Hall in Delft.  

(And for all you pronunciation pedants out there, the two authentic Dutchmen we've spoken to this week--Peter and Not-Peter--have both pronounced this city's name almost as if it had two syllables.  "DEL-uft," instead of the usual English or American way of saying it with only one syllable and almost swallowing the "l" entirely.  I shall remember this for future reference, and use it as a weapon to assert my superior knowledge over all those who don't care about such things and are therefore completely lacking in all refinement.)

 The New Church in Delft.  Yup, that's the "new" one.  The old one must be pretty old!

 Couldn't resist this shameless descent into tacky touristique.

 A shop called "Cheese and More" was just begging to be explored.  We discovered that they sold cheese... and more.

 And the employees wore traditional Dutch costumes.  Awww... doesn't that just make you want to nibble on some Gouda?

 They breed 'em big in Delft.

 What a fantastic idea.  Pimp out your wheels with some Vermeer!

 That's not an optical illusion.  Delft has its own "leaning tower."  The spire on the Old Church is 2 meters off center at the top, and it's really noticeable!  It appears to be twisting a bit as well.  We stayed clear, just in case.

 "The Blue Heart" of Delft.  Yet another example of kitschy public sculpture, relieved only in a minor way by the fact that it was NOT executed in 18th-century glazed porcelain tile.

We left The Netherlands and headed south to Antwerp for two nights.  (I get a kick--in a silly, totally puerile way--out of spending time in a city that has the word "twerp" in its name.)  

After allowing our girls to put on The World's Longest and Possibly Most Tedious Puppet Show Ever in their hotel room, two of our dear students turned the room into a fort for C and E to enjoy.  I could hear the squeals of delight from down the hotel hallway  It was miraculous!  Thank you, J and P.