My mouth tasted horrible, and I tried to keep it shut for fear of poisoning the airplane.
I looked over at Augustus, who was staring out the window, and as we dipped below the low-hung clouds,
I straightened my back to see the Netherlands. The land seemed sunk into the ocean,
little rectangles of green surrounded on all sides by canals.
We landed, in fact, parallel to a canal, like there were two runways: one for us and one for waterfowl.
After getting our bags and clearing customs, we all piled into a taxi driven by this doughy bald guy who spoke perfect English—like better English than I do.
“The Hotel Filosoof?” I said. And he said, “You are Americans?”
“Yes,” Mom said. “We’re from Indiana.” “Indiana,” he said. “They steal the land from the Indians and leave the name, yes?
“Something like that,” Mom said. The cabbie pulled out into traffic
and we headed toward a highway with lots of blue signs featuring double vowels: Oosthuizen, Haarlem.
Beside the highway, flat empty land stretched for miles, interrupted by the occasional huge corporate headquarters.
In short, Holland looked like Indianapolis, only with smaller cars.
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