Theo Bruinsma — Poète de San Francisco

  It was a typical Dutch gray day—neither rain nor sun graced the sky. The train had just left Utrecht station, bound for Bunnik. I was now only minutes away from seeing Angelique. The last time I had seen her was 25 years ago when she visited me in San Francisco. My previous visit to the Netherlands had been in the era of the Dutch guilder and a sense of Dutch freedom. Now, returning after so many years, the monetary currency was euros, and the cultural currency was lockdowns, face masks, and QR codes. Dutch sovereignty and freedom had taken a beating—this time from within. When the train stopped in Bunnik, my compartment was the farthest from the platform. As I stepped out, I saw a silhouette in the distance waving at me. It was Angelique, dressed entirely in black, her long raincoat resembling a cape and a wide-brimmed black hat atop her head. For a moment, I felt transported to one of those Zorro-esque Sandeman commercials from my childhood in the Netherlands. The scene was mys...