In Holland: Delft

The Dutch town of Delft, from above, with Oude Kerk poking into the sky.

During my first trip to Holland in 2008, I had only seen Delft in the dark. Dierdre's morning trip to the emergency room, after breaking her wrist in a post-pub Halloween celebration daze, had set us back several hours. Thus, by the time we arrived from The Hague, the sun had already gone down on Delft's picturesque canals and brick townhouses. Still, as we had  meandered for a while despite the dark and drizzle, I was struck by the quiet beauty of the dark, rain-dampened town. Besides that, one of my very favorite books, "Girl With a Pearl Earring," is set here. Inspired by the painting of the same name, it crafts a story around Johannes Vermeer's unknown muse. Griet's character may not have been real, but I knew that Vermeer himself had once walked along these canals, trod the same wet bricks of Market Square, gazed upward at the spire of the New Church. I knew that someday I wanted to be back here, to use the sunlight to trace Vermeer's shadows. Our second day in Holland this time around, Tony and I did just that.

Our first view of Delft, down the canal to Oude Kerk.

From the main road that led to the train station, we made a right into what Tony thought at first would be a dead end; a small alley, barely large enough for one car to fit through at a time. But we emerged from its shadows into one of Delft's side streets. On either side of us the road, lined with brick houses of various colors, stretched straight out as far as we could see; a thin canal separated the two sides of the street, with tiny cars squeezed into even tinier parallel parking spots along the water, with no safety rail. Trees with pale, papery leaves cast dappled shadows onto the walkways. It was quiet; a few locals were passing by on foot and bicycle, but after the hustle and bustle of downtown Rotterdam the day before, walking into Delft felt like, at long last, we were seeing the real charms of Holland.

We followed signs to Market Square and gradually emerged into the less sleepy part of town; large groups of people were milling about near a larger canal where paddle-boats were available for hire. An occasional driver maneuvered around the oblivious pedestrian tourists crisscrossing the main roadway. At this busy intersection we made a right, making for the steeple we could see poking above the rooftops in the distance.

Market Square, where the fictional Griet did her shopping, had no market on this weekday, but was still bordered by cafe umbrellas and tables, and tourists crowding around shops selling chocolates, trinkets, and cheese. A pedestrian-only area, it could belong to any era in time. Directly ahead of us perched the hulking New Church, its steeple and tower rearing high into the summer sky. We walked all the way around it, taking in the small side canals, here spotted with lily pads, there hiding a rusting bicycle in its black shallows. At the rear of the church we found a statue tribute to Vermeer's "The Milkmaid," another masterpiece we were eager to see in Amsterdam in the coming days.

Tony enjoying our long, sunny lunch in Delft.

We lunched at a cafe just one street over from Market Square, where it was a bit quieter. We had been warned by our hosts that service in Holland can be frustratingly slow for American tourists, as most of us are used to the constant rush of our lives at home; the Dutch tend to take their time with most things, especially dining out. Indeed, even though we had nowhere in particular to be, we were a bit frustrated by how infrequently our waitress appeared within earshot, and we spent well over an hour at the cafe before our we finally managed to flag someone down to receive our check. But Tony's vegetable croquettes, my club sandwich, and our glasses of cold Amstel were just what the sunny afternoon had ordered...even if a bit slowly.

From the cafe we made our way back into the shadow of the New Church, passing between its massive, yawning doors to pay admission for the church and tower. Inside we made our way between the earthen off-white columns and were treated to the sight of the massive, splendid tomb of William of Orange, the most famous of Holland's royal figures. Members of the Dutch Royal Family are buried here to this day, with a stone weighing over 11,000 lbs sealing their resting place in the deepest of divine darknesses. Once we had sufficiently enjoyed the nave, with the stained glass casting patterns on our bare arms as we passed through, we decided to face the next part of our admission fee: the tower.

Interior of Oude Kerk, Delft.

Tony came to regret letting me talk him into climbing the tower, but not long before I came to regret it myself; the tiny spiral staircase went on for what seemed like ages without landings or windows, making me dizzy and a bit panicky; we also frequently had to stop and flatten ourselves against the wall to accommodate people who were going back down. A little over halfway up, we pushed open a wooden door and found ourselves on one of the lower, rear roofs of the building. After stopping for air and a few photos (and a "I hate you so much right now" from Tony as he looked straight down at the pavement), we took deep breaths and plunged back into the semi-darkness.

Once we were finally, finally at the top, we were rewarded for our efforts; breathtaking views of red-tipped Delft gave ways to stretches of flat, green countryside, and the distant cranes hovering over the waterfronts of Rotterdam in one direction, The Hague in the other. As we gulped in the fresh air we squeezed past other people to make our way to each side of the roof, eager to take in the view in all directions. Despite the calm weather on ground level, we were up so high that we were caught in an almost nautical breeze; my blue dress whipped around my legs, and a video Tony made of the panorama is obscured by the sound of wind in the speakers. After all of that time in the windowless tower, though, the breeze was much appreciated.

Luckily, going down didn't seem to take nearly as long, and once we sat our shaky behinds down on a bench for a few moments, we were ready to make our way to Delft's other main attraction.

Vermeer's final resting place in Oude Kerk, Delft.

Oude Kerk, affectionately nicknamed "Old Jan" (Old John) was our final Delft destination; a landmark in its own right, the church is even more recognizable from afar due to its tower, which leans 22 feet off-center from the base. It was into this tilted building that we entered for free, and found ourselves in a cathedral much different than the one we had just left; nearly everything was white, except for the ceilings, paneled in dark wood. The church houses not one but three magnificent pipe organs, so that nearly every way we looked we were facing one of them. And when one of them began to play a demonstration, I took a seat, the better to feel the stones rumble beneath me from the pipes' power.  Soon, though, we got up, and began to scan the carved stones in the floor of the nave: we were looking for someone.

Just when we were ready to call it a lost cause and leave, I saw a woman tap her husband's shoulder to get his attention, then point down to the stone at her feet. They stood staring down at it with something like reverence for several moments before they moved away. Then it was my turn to quietly call for Tony and wave him over. Soon, we were both standing where the woman and her husband had been, and looking down at a simple, small stone engraved with the name we had sought: Johannes Vermeer. A mere 43 years he lived and painted in Delft, leaving behind a widow and 10 children, and far too few paintings. Nearby lies his friend Anton Van Leeuwenhoek, inventor of the microscope, interred in a far more prominent tomb above the floor. Had Vermeer been laid to rest today, I am sure it would have been in equal splendor.

When we finally emerged back into the sunlight, I felt a heaviness slip away from my chest; I suddenly felt that all day, until this moment, I had been holding my breath.

Deep shadows on Delft's shaded canals, behind Niewe Kerk.

Finally we knew we couldn't stay in Delft any longer; we had to catch a train to The Hague if we were going to see some of Vermeer's work; more on that later, but spoiler alert: we didn't. It was with regret that I dragged my sandal-ed feet along the cobblestones back toward the train station. We took our time along the canals, now lined with deep afternoon shadows from the buildings on either side, and I thought of Griet, or whoever she was; perhaps on another summer's day just like this one, she had been walking along the same waterway with a basket under her arm, or gazing down from a window in her blue and yellow turban. But then, we turned a corner into the alley, with the rumble of traffic ahead, and she was gone.

Note: all text and photos are my own. Please credit.