Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 108483 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108483 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
“You seemed to be doing fine this morning.”
“And last night.” He licks at the seam of my lips, teasing them open for a deepening kiss. “God, I want to fuck you all the time.”
“We have that in common then. Now tell me where we’re going.”
“Sassenheim. Keukenhof Gardens is a little more curated. Like a tulip museum. I thought we’d go a little off the beaten path.”
“Says the man leaving for Antarctica in a week. I’m pretty sure you’re king of ‘off the beaten path.’”
“You may be right about that.” He laughs. “I think we can access tulips better on our own, finding the fields, seeing windmills along the way. Maybe have a picnic. Sound okay?”
“Seriously? It sounds like the best day ever.” As soon as he said “we,” it sounded perfect. I want to see tulips and the coastline and anything of this country he wants to show me, but I mostly just want more time with him.
“Good. The season for tulips is just beginning, so they won’t be in full bloom but still beautiful. The weather has been favorable this year. Mid-April is best, so we’re about a month early. I just wanted some time out of the city,” he says. “Some quiet with you. A slower pace with fewer distractions where we can just enjoy each other.”
“It’s working already.”
The train ride lasts about a half an hour, and as soon as we step off, I’m in love. A canal runs through the village, bordered by narrow houses. Small boats line the canal walls, and stone bridges crisscross the water. It reminds me of Amsterdam but emits a different energy, like the city’s restive cousin. It’s so vivid, and the air is crisp. It only takes a few minutes to rent bikes, find a bike path, and start off. It’s cool, and the wind whips at my face and hair. Exhilarating.
“You okay?” Maxim asks over his shoulder, pedaling slightly ahead of me on the bike path.
I increase my speed to pull up beside him. “Yes. I’m loving this.”
“I thought you would.”
As we ride, the landscape changes, signs of the village falling away and replaced by lush countryside, by fields and horses leisurely grazing, not bothering to look up when we ride past. Stout windmills, their thick, wooden arms lazily whirring, dot the scenic route along the highway hugging the coastline.
He pulls over and stops at a railing bordering the bike path. I pull up beside him.
“See those?” He points out to the water.
“The windmills?”
He slants me a grin. “Those are wind turbines, not windmills. There’s a difference.”
“Yeah, well, what about them?”
“They’re mine,” he says, a possessive glint to his eyes.
My mouth falls open, and I scoot closer to the rail like that will somehow bring me much closer to the objects floating on the water, starkly white and elegant.
“What do you mean they’re yours?”
“I bought them. Just those few, but it’s a start. I used the last of my money.”
“You own them? Oh, my God. What are you gonna do with them?”
“The Netherlands is making real headway with wind energy. It’s a viable substitute for fossil fuels and the dirtier ways we get power.”
“Wow. You own windmills.”
“Wind turbines, Nix.”
“You’re a regular old Don Quixote,” I go on, warming to my analogy. “A knight errant, determined to save the world. Comes fully equipped with windmills.”
“So I’m a joke now, huh?” He reaches for me with a playful growl.
“Ahhh!” I jump on my bike and take off, pedaling furiously, yelling over my shoulder when I see him coming after me, “It’s Doc Quixote!”
We ride and laugh until we reach the tulip fields, rolled out like vibrant carpets displayed in an open-air bazaar. Great swaths of purple, yellow, red, and pink.
“Most of these fields are owned by farmers who sell the tulips. Some won’t even let you take photos, much less pick the flowers,” Maxim tells me, bringing his bike to a stop. “Fortunately for you, your guide knows where to pick ’em.”
We ride a bit farther, alternating between moments of easy silence, conversation passed between us as we ride beside each other and, at one point, a rousing chorus of Billy Joel’s greatest hits. Maxim makes up his own ridiculous lyrics for “We Didn’t Start the Fire.”
“Rabbit ears, Britney Spears, iPhone, Home Alone.”
“I’m pretty sure the iPhone hadn’t been invented when Billy Joel wrote that song.” I laugh after his last chorus, which included such anachronisms as The West Wing and DVRs.
“You have to go ruin it with technicalities,” he says.
“Also known as truth.”
“Truth is relative.”
“If you think that, maybe you should go into politics,” I say. We’ve reached the flower-picking garden and walk our bikes through wide aisles between the rows of tulips. “Do you have a general disdain for all politicians, or have there been any good ones, in your expert opinion?”