Sisterchicks in Wooden Shoes! (2 page)

O
ur plane slid through thick rain clouds before landing on the long, wet runway. If Noelle’s world was a place of windmills and tulips, they weren’t visible from the air.

I made sure I had all my belongings before exiting my seat and meandered down the long aisle to the front of the plane, where the flight attendant bade us farewell in both English and Dutch.

I followed the group through customs and on to baggage claim. Signs were posted in several languages, including English, so I had little difficulty figuring out what to do. I could see why the tour book said this was rated the best airport in Europe. Not that I had experience at any other European airport but simply because I didn’t feel lost.

As soon as I retrieved my luggage, I walked toward the exit and into the open area where the general public waited for arriving passengers. I walked slowly, turning my head right and left, trying to spot Noelle. My stomach fluttered with the sort of anxious
butterflies I feel whenever I’m asked to stand in front of a group to speak.

I wasn’t about to stand in front of a group; I was only going to stand in front of Noelle. But still, I didn’t know what to say.

Noelle’s last e-mail indicated she would wait for me at the exit. But which exit? What if I should have gone in a different direction after collecting my suitcase? I already had passed the security line. I didn’t think I would be allowed to turn around and go back to the baggage-claim area.

Maybe I should stand in one place and let her find me.

I stopped walking and stood to the side, hopeful that she would spot me. She would recognize me, wouldn’t she? Of course she would. And I would recognize her. It was just that so many people were milling about.

Around me swirled the mixed sounds of different languages. A tall businessman on his cell phone spoke in a deep voice that echoed in the crowd. A harried mother called to her prancing child, pointing to the rest room and trotting right behind him. A young couple with pierced noses and leather jackets stopped in the middle of the traffic flow, arguing with expressive hand gestures. A young man pushed a wheelchair containing a woman who held in her lap an explosive bouquet of yellow, red, orange, and pink tulips.

Shoulders back, lips pursed in a tight smile, I looked right and left again, feeling more alone in a crowd than I had ever felt before.

What if she isn’t here? What if she was delayed and couldn’t get a message to me? What should I do?

I tried to think if I had a phone number for her. I’m sure I had her phone number at home, but in my scramble to pack, had I written it down anywhere? No, I was certain I hadn’t scribbled it anywhere. I had no backup plan. I hadn’t exchanged any dollars into euros. Should I do that now? Did the pay phones work the same as they did in the U.S.? How would I dial information? Would the operator speak English? What would I even ask the operator?

The butterflies in my stomach turned into stampeding elephants.

What if something happened, and she sent me an e-mail, but I didn’t read it because I didn’t check my messages before leaving for the airport? Or what if—

And then I saw her.

Tall, calm, walking toward me, looking older and more regal than I had pictured from her photos, Noelle spotted me and smiled.

I smiled back. We were like two third graders in our timid approach, each moving toward the other until we met halfway and shyly said, “Hi,” at the same moment.

We gave each other an awkward hug, and I laughed. All the stomping elephants and fluttering butterflies escaped in the exhale of my laughter. The stampede must have been obvious because Noelle gave my shoulder a comforting squeeze.

“You’re here.” Her voice was soft, like a really great latte.

“Yes.” Now my response came out short, quick, and breathy. “I’m here.”

“Your flight was good?”

She was so composed. I tried to mirror her, drawing my chin up and taking a deep breath through my nose. “Yes, the flight was good.”

“Good.”

Noelle’s navy blue peacoat was topped with a raspberry-colored scarf, which looped around her neck once and hung long down the front. Her smile was as wide as it was in all her photos. She was taller than I expected. Or maybe the thick-heeled boots she wore under her gray pants elevated her.

Despite my attempt to remain composed, I laughed again and then switched from smiling and laughing to smiling and crying.

Noelle let out a light, slightly nervous laugh. Her eyes glistened.

At the same moment we dropped all the formalities, and in a spontaneous surge, we wrapped our arms around each other again. This time we hugged as if we were sisters separated at birth who were at last reunited. On the ends of her straight, pale hair I caught the scent of sweet almonds and sugared vanilla.

In that moment I knew coming here was a good decision.

We drew back and held each other at arm’s length, both staring, taking in the three-dimensional sight now that the reality of what was happening sank in.

Noelle laughed again, and I followed, my plumped-up cheeks catching the glimmers of my teary joy.

“You have such a great laugh, Summer! And I love your hair. The last picture I saw of you, your hair was so short.”

I fingered the ends of my brown hair that almost touched my shoulders. “I’ve been growing it out for quite a while.”

“Come.” Noelle reached for the handle of my suitcase. “Let me take that for you. Do you need a rest room? Something to drink? It will be a bit of a ride home. Not too long because the traffic should be light this time of day, but if you would like, we can eat something here. Are you hungry?”

“I…I don’t know.”

Noelle smiled generously when I said I thought I had displacement shock.

“I have plenty to eat at home, and we can always stop on the way if we like. I’m afraid the weather isn’t going to allow me to show off the best parts of the countryside today, but the forecast says the rain will clear tomorrow. We’ll have time to see plenty during your visit. I still can’t believe you’re here!”

“Neither can I.”

“Come.”

I trotted beside Noelle, picking up my usual pace to keep up with her. She had a steady, brisk gait, the stride of a woman who knew where she was going. That was certainly consistent with how her life had played out.

We stole glances at each other, smiling in response, as if we both knew what the other was doing—gathering the visual data that had been missing all these years.

“You don’t look tired at all,” she said, leading the way to the car park. “Are you tired?”

“I slept a little on the plane.”

“You seem so tranquil.”

“Tranquil?” I was sure my e-mails of the past few days hadn’t
come across as anything close to tranquil. She probably expected me to arrive in a complete dither.

“I thought when you arrived, you might be more… What’s the word for it? Here we say,
‘Je zit niet lekker in je vel.’
”

I raised my eyebrows. I was surprised at how natural it sounded for Noelle to roll off a sentence in Dutch. “What does that mean?”

“Something like ‘You’re not sitting in your own skin.’”

“And what exactly does that mean?”

“Nervous. Rattled. That’s a better word for what I’m trying to say. You don’t seem rattled.”

“I’m not. I’m still wearing the skin I left home in.”

Noelle laughed. Her laugh was different than I had expected. It was light and airy, like very thin metal wind chimes when ruffled by a slight breeze. Somehow I always imagined her with a belly laugh.

“What about you? Have I rattled you too much by showing up on such short notice?”

“Yes.” Noelle smiled. Her blunt reply seemed honest, but at the same time she seemed to enjoy giving me her answer the way two friends enjoy teasing each other.

“I am rattled. And I’m grateful. This is a good time for you to be here, Summer. Although, to my way of thinking, anytime would be a good time for you to be here.”

“As I said in my e-mail the other day, I’m content just to be by myself when you have things to do. You don’t have to entertain me. I really hope you didn’t alter your schedule because of me.”

“Of course I altered my schedule. For all the best reasons. You
came to see me. Do you think I’m going to leave you alone in your room for one minute? Not a chance. Don’t worry. All is well. We can work out the details as they come.”

Noelle reached into her pocket for her keys. She stopped at the first row of cars in the parking garage and stood behind a squared-off small blue car. It didn’t resemble any model I had seen in the U.S.

“Here she is. My little Bluebell. I got an excellent parking spot, don’t you think?”

“You did. What a cute car.”

“Yes, she is a curie. And small, right? All the cars here are small, but don’t worry. There’s room in the back for your suitcase.”

I went around to the passenger side and waited while a woman in the car parked beside Noelle’s opened her door and got out. She looked at me and said something in Dutch. I was caught off guard. She repeated her statement or question a little louder, as if I hadn’t heard her in the cavernous garage.

“Noelle?” I called out, trying to keep my expression toward the woman friendly.

Noelle popped her head up over the top of the car, and the woman repeated her statement a third time. She sounded impatient.

Noelle responded with several sentences in Dutch. The woman said something else. Noelle nodded her head and spoke again in Dutch.

With a brusque nod to me, the woman stepped past me. I slipped into the car and looked at Noelle. “What did she say?”

“She was asking about the construction. She wanted to know
if this part of the terminal had a detour for the arrivals, because last time she was here, it was blocked off.”

“Oh. She certainly seemed upset.”

“Why?”

“She had such a stern expression.”

“Oh, that. Dutch people don’t come across smiling and flowery to strangers. It’s normal to be polite but to the point. Once you get to know someone, then the smiles come.”

Noelle turned the key in the ignition and glanced over at me. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. It’s just… I was… It’s so strange to suddenly be in a place where somebody says something to me and I have no idea what she’s saying.”

“Yes. Well, you don’t have to be concerned about that quite so much. If you’re trying to communicate with a Dutch person, and they’re under sixty years old, you can speak to them in English. Usually they’ll understand you and answer in English.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes. Of course I’m serious. We’re a very progressive nation. A lot of our television programs are in English, so that has made a difference. Especially for the children of this generation.”

Noelle began to back her car out of the parking spot. From the other side of the adjacent row of parked cars came the sound of screeching tires.

“What is that?” Noelle looked over her shoulder and continued to back up.

The sound of the squealing tires intensified. I tried to look
out the passenger window. In the side mirror I caught sight of a large utility truck barreling down our row, headed right for us.

Noelle shouted something in Dutch, jammed the car into Drive, and thrust her right arm out in front of me as if providing a flesh-and-bone safety bar to ease the anticipated impact.

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.

T
he utility truck missed the back of Noelle’s little Bluebell by mere inches before coming to a screeching halt when it hit a waist-high concrete barrier. Almost immediately we were confronted with the scent of burned rubber.

Noelle and I sat in a stunned sort of quiet as the driver clambered out of the truck and walked around to the front of it to examine the damage. He appeared to be uninjured.

“I can’t believe he’s all right,” I said in a whisper.

“He must have had a problem with the brakes or some sort of engine failure.” Noelle carefully shifted into reverse and eased the car out of the parking space once again.

We slowly drove past the accident site. Several individuals had gathered around, and from what we could tell, the driver really did look like he was okay. He was talking with another man, who was on his cell phone and nodding his head.

“They’re calling for help,” Noelle said.

“That was really close.”

“Nothing like a little excitement to start your visit! If he had hit us, it could have been disastrous. He was going so fast.”

“I’m glad your instincts were equally quick. I don’t know if I would have been able to pull forward that fast.”

We spent the first half of the drive to Noelle’s home evaluating what had almost happened, followed by stories from our histories of near and actual car accidents.

I thought we had just about exhausted the topic when Noelle took a deep breath and said, “My father was in a car accident a few months ago.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that. Is he okay?”

“I think so. It happened last December.”

“This past December?”

She nodded.

“Noelle, I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t write you about it. There wasn’t much to say. My brother called and said Dad was in the hospital with a broken leg and some broken ribs. I know he spent a few weeks in the hospital, and then he was moved to an assisted-living center.”

“And you haven’t gone to see him?”

“I haven’t been back to the U.S. since my mom’s death. That was more than twenty-five years ago.”

Noelle had grown up in a small community in Wyoming. When she and I were paired up as pen pals, her first letter to me was on stationery that had a cowboy in the bottom left corner. I still have that letter.

“I’m really sorry to hear about your dad’s accident. I hope he’s on the mend.”

Noelle looked straight ahead and kept driving. “You know that he and I… we haven’t had much of a relationship ever since… well, since I left home.”

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.