The Girl Another turbulent red-eye flight to Schiphol, and once again, I haven’t slept. The countryside steams by in the sun as I roll seaward in a sunflower-yellow local train, past the ungainly windmills, flooded polders, village after village. Past sheep and goats and swans and geese. It’s green-gold June. I’ve been reading travel books in preparation for my return. Watching the vista unspool with its relentless flatness—the view unimpeded in every direction and dwarfed by the towering sky above—I understand why there are four Dutch nouns for horizon, although I can’t recall them now. A second later, I realize I’ve missed the tulip season by a couple of weeks. Empty field after empty field files past, precisely measured and orderly. One month ago my father passed away. Back in Missouri, on his way to church one afternoon, he was T-boned by a young man driving a big F-250. Nothing I could do, the young man said. My father remained in a coma for several days and never regained consciousness.
What do You think about Travels In Vermeer (2014)?
