Netherlands

I have not written much about my time in Europe this summer other than knowing terrorist shit was going to go down in France on Bastille Day and in Normandy.  I've been too busy moving my daughter to Hawaii, fighting the axis of evil, and fending off psychos who want to blame me for whatever it is that is wrong in their lives.  Exhausting.

On the upside, after my return from France have you all heard about any terrorist attacks?  Nope.  Coincidence?  I'll let you decide.

On a more serious note.....

My great-great-great-(take a deep breath and count back 17 generations) grandfather was William of Orange a.k.a. William the Silent.  Most Americans have no clue who he was.  The five-words-or-less-version is that he was the George Washington of the Dutch.  He led the revolt against the Catholic Spanish as he was a Protestant rebel.  Needless to say, he had a lot of enemies.  Granted, I'm one of probably thousands of nameless descendants of his as he was a whore with many wives and many lovers.  However, I feel he has unfinished business on the earth plane and I am a vessel of his energy.

Before the trip to Europe I was thinking about William of Orange during my dull and boring daily routine and wondering if he had any clue how far his seed traveled.  Think about it.  He had *no* clue that one night of ****** would eventually end up with me (his seed) in a continent across the ocean in a place called California that did not even really exist in their knowledge at the time.  As I was thinking about this I was walking in a parking lot in Petaluma.  I just happened to looked down, and there was a beautiful purple flower (my favorite color) just there.  It was so pretty and so perfect and just lying there in the parking lot.  I had a thought.  I was going to bring this back to William of Orange's grave as a gesture of my existence and also as a gesture of how far his seed traveled and that his spirit still lives on.  I was going full circle. 

So, in my purse the flower goes and off I go to make the trek to the Netherlands.

I was on a mission.  I was going to visit William of Orange's grave and bring him the flower I found in the Petaluma parking lot.  Upon getting to Brussels, which was our first stop after we landed in Europe, things got hectic and I found myself shuttled on a bus and transported off to Bruges.  Then we were shuttled off to some other obscure Belgium/Dutch towns that are now a blur at this point.  All I knew was that I needed to get to Delft, which is the Dutch town where William of Orange is buried.  We seemed to be everywhere but.

...and then....  On a God-awful early morning bus ride from some town in Belgium en route to Amsterdam, the driver came on the public address system half way through the ride and made an announcement that we were going to have a stop over in Delft.  WTF?????  REALLY??????  ARE YOU KIDDING ME????  DON'T TEASE ME LIKE THIS!!!

It was no joke.  We made the stop.  We only had like 45 minutes to check things out.  As fate would have it there happened to be a local historian on the bus with us.  He was a Dutch man and was curious as to my interest in Delft and William of Orange as most Americans were totally clueless.   The bus was coming to the stop in Delft.  When I gave him the five-words-or-less story of my family, how they came to New Amsterdam after the murder of William of Orange, and my flower-mission he practically grabbed my by the hand and said we did not have a minute to loose.  He knew of the exact place where William of Orange was assassinated complete with the bullet holes still in the wall and was determined that I visit it.  However, we needed to practically run though the town square and around some other places to get to it.

run, run, run, run...whew. We make it there.  However, now it's a museum and there is an entrance fee.  Huh????  WHAT???  DENIED!!!!  We all left our wallets and purses on the bus.  BUMMER.  We thought that was it and would have to go back to the bus.  But for whatever reason, the guy at the ticket door must have seen the looks on our faces and let us in anyway.

This place was like a maze.  Staircases.  Hallways.  Rooms.  My Dutch guide was frustrated as well as he wanted to show me the bullet holes at the assassination site and even he was at a loss as where to find the spot and was remiss at remembering how to navigate the maze to get there.

...and then....as fate would have it.... he found it.  We did not have much time.  I quickly snapped some pictures of the assassination site and other objects of interest.  We also made it to the church where he is buried and I was able to pay my respects and left the purple flower that I brought from Petaluma.  It was time to head back to the bus and we were already pushing it time wise.  Again, he practically grabbed my hand and we all ran back to the bus.

Whew.  We made it.  Onto Amsterdam.

It was only a day or so later when I was scrolling though my iPhone the photos of that day when I noticed the date of the assassination of William of Orange on a plaque where the bullet holes still remain.  July 10.  The day the Dutch historian from the bus grabbed me by the hand and took me there?  July 10.  I happened to unknowingly be there on the anniversary of the death of William of Orange standing in the EXACT same spot with my hand on the bullet holes and staircase where he fell on the EXACT day of his death.  What are the odds of that?  365 to 1.

I can't make this stuff up, people.

Above:  My dad looks like him.  You would think that the genetics would be so watered down that any resemblance would be gone.  Not quite. 

Above:  The bullet holes in the wall at the assassination site are still there.  He was the first head of state to be killed by a fire arm (or so said my Dutch local historian friend)

Where William of Orange is entombed at the Nieuwe Kerk (new church) in Delft where I tossed my purple flower I brought from Petaluma over the velvet ropes to him.