Ride Like Royalty
Amsterdam, the Netherlands
I AM WAITING at the curb for my guide Erik to pick me up. I have booked a private tour with him to go to the Christmas market in Brussels, Belgium, a 2-hour drive from Amsterdam. I’ve been to several Christmas markets in Germany and the Netherlands and now I have a chance to see what Christmas is like in Brussels.
I spent a lot of time in Brussels during my years with Flying Tigers and I love the beautiful city. The Christmas market is held in the Grand Place, the huge cobblestone square ringed by medieval guild houses, the center of business and commerce since the 12th century, the site of burnings and beheadings, rallies and protests, and of course the marketplace where townsfolk bought and sold bread and flowers, coffee and chocolate through the centuries.
Back in Amsterdam, a beautiful, sleek, dark metallic blue Lexus sedan pulls up to the curb where I am standing. Cars are simply transportation to me, but this elegant vehicle catches even my indifferent eye. A very tall, very handsome Dutch guy gets out and walks up to me. “Ann?” he asks. “I’m Erik. So nice to meet you.” And with that introduction, off we go.
Erik is friendly, affable, speaks better English than most Americans. He shows me around Amsterdam on our way out of town. We stop at the apartment building where Anne Frank lived before her family went into hiding. A bronze statue across the street commemorates the young girl of diary fame. I place a stone on the base in the Jewish tradition to indicate “I was here. Your memory lives on.”
I love the Christmas markets of Europe. The holiday lights, the decorations, the music, the feeling of goodwill toward your fellow man, the gluhwein, hot mulled wine served in a colorful tin cup you can purchase to take home, a memento of the market. And of course, the food. THE FOOD! Sold from kiosks and pushcarts or hot off a floating charcoal grill suspended by chains. Beautifully decorated cookies, gingerbread houses, gigantic pretzels in crazy flavors, hot greasy sausages with squirts of exotic mustard are available all around the market. Once I slurped down an entire bowl of steamed mushrooms served with hollandaise sauce- and I don’t even like mushrooms that much!
We arrive in Brussels and park the Lexus in a garage. Trying to dodge the holiday crowds pushing strollers, walking dogs on leashes, window shopping and eating, we cruise around the Grand Place. I take photos and we eat hot-off-the-waffle-iron Belgian waffles with their fluffy interior and crunchy sugar crust. We listen to street musicians and sample seasonal treats, drink a hot beverage to chase away the December chill, (gluhwein for me, hot chocolate for Erik). I buy some souvenirs and gifts to take home. It is cold and starting to drizzle so after a couple of hours, we head back to Amsterdam.
I compliment Erik on his car as I get in. It really is beautiful, creamy white leather seats, lustrous polished wood accents. Erik nonchalantly tells me he bought it online, sight unseen. “Whaattt??” I splutter, finding it impossible to believe that someone would buy a used car without a test drive, a look under the hood, maybe some tire-kicking, a few questions for the seller about the car’s past.
Erik tells me the minute he saw the listing, he knew this car was unique. “Ex-prinsdom Monaco” it said. Erik shows me a screenshot on his phone of the original listing. He knew instantly this car had belonged to His Serene Highness, Prince Albert of Monaco. The Prince had awarded a royal warrant to Lexus, a mark of recognition to companies who supply goods and services to the reigning monarch, a coveted endorsement. Erik knew this car had been immaculately maintained and would be in pristine condition. He immediately bought it. Erik shows me a photo he found on the internet of Prince Albert and his sister Princess Caroline getting out of the car – THIS car!
I sit in the right rear passenger seat, Prince Albert’s seat. I recline comfortably in the seat, smoothly raising the footrest with discreet controls. Erik opens the backseat console, a chilled compartment inside. He offers me a split of chardonnay. “Take a picture of me sitting in Prince Albert’s seat,” I suggest, “eating a Belgian waffle and drinking wine.” We laugh as I pose, acting like I always ride in beautiful cars.
For a moment I have a glimpse of what life must be like, when because of an accident of birth, you are “to the purple born”, a prince of the realm.