Stroopwafels: A Love Story

We had reservations for the high speed train from Paris into Amsterdam, and just our luck, we scored the best seats in the house -- one of only two glassed-in booths. Awesome! We were thrilled to be travelling the last leg of our trip in privacy and comfort. 

Er... for the first 40 minutes anyway. 

Something in the breaks snapped. The next thing we knew, we were being tossed out at the following station.  We were directed to climb aboard a different train, arriving in a half hour. 

As you can imagine, the next train was packed to the rafters. As the crowd crushed in, it quickly became evident that there was not going to be enough room for everyone. 

Thank goodness we both managed to board! It was pretty close. Pushing through with all our luggage, we became separated by two or three others who had sandwiched themselves between us. Before we knew it, the train had started moving and we were all left jammed like sardines in the aisle. 

But only for 20 minutes.

Someone finally realized the train was too full, so they dropped us all off at yet another station. It was at this point I broke one of the biggest travelling rules - never ever let anyone carry your luggage for you! 

A gentleman noticed how I was struggling up the stairs with my two big suitcases. (BTW, I advise against carting a fru-fru (heavy!) wedding dress across Europe.) He offered to carry my luggage up the stairs for me. Naturally you don't want strangers touching your luggage - especially in a foreign country -  so I kept insisting over and over, "No, it's really okay. I'm fine." 

After Jim n' I insisted three or four times, the man whisked my bags from me and started hustling up the stairs in front of me! Jim n' I quickly mounted the stairs on either side of him, ready to tackle 'em for our luggage once we reached the top of the platform.  

Fortunately, he actually was just being nice, and promptly returned my bags back once we reached the top.  Whew!  I suppose we needn't be so skeptical of every stranger... however, the next guy we came across was definitely deserving of a wary eye.

On the next crowded train, we found ourselves seated across from one of the creepiest characters I've ever met in my life. In fact, I think he was the only person who truly gave me the willies throughout our entire European weddingmoon. Well, except for that short Scottish leaper with all the helpful advice in the red light district. But even he was far less sketchy than this greasy character.

As Jim n' I chatted, Jim observed that Creepy McCreepster was constantly looking over at us, listening. Every thirty seconds or so, he'd do this totally disgusting snorting sound. It was enough to make your skin crawl.

When the coast was clear, I looked over to check him out. He was sickly gaunt with stringy hair.  His hands looked dirty and his thumb bled where he had been chewing on it. 

Gross. Gross. Gross.

I wished that he would stop staring at us, but instead he started talking to us. 

He was originally from San Diego, but he moved to the Netherlands after his divorce. He has a young daughter, who he never sees.  He then went into elaborate detail about how people can get away with anything in Amsterdam. 

Interestingly enough, his long-winded ramble about Amsterdam's drug culture did not touch on the more obvious drugs of choice, like pot or shrooms. Rather, McCreepster's apparent expertise was exclusively in the areas of cocaine and heroin.

If it were a movie, I'd totally hack the scene for being too expositional. 

"You know a lot about heroin and cocaine? Really? We couldn't tell!"

Worst of all, McCreep wouldn't stop talking to us. I have never wanted off a train so badly in all my life.  

He tried gaining our confidence, reminding us about how you should never let anyone carry your bags.  Something I already knew all too well. 

So, needless to say, I found his advice particularly interesting when it finally came time to leave the train and he kept asking if he could carry my bags for me. I kept insisting, "No, it's fine. It's fine. It's fine." Meanwhile, my poor little heart could be seen pounding on the outside of my chest. 

What if he grabbed my bags and ran? What would he do with a wedding dress? 

I did my best to keep my distance as everyone crowded to the door.  As we departed the train, I held back, allowing a few others to step off between us. Once we got off, I begged Jim to hold back a while until Creepy got much further away.

Jim wasn't too concerned about Creepy. He was a rail thin junkie. He wouldn't be a difficult target to knock over if he ever tried to grab our bags... that is, if he could ever lift them!

I just worried that he'd have a knife or something, because he seemed a lil' kooky like that. 

Anyhow, the next train came soon enough, but once again, it was so packed, that the Ministry of Transportation (or whoever) directed the train to a different city, where there would be three buses waiting that would take everyone to yet another station.

About 40 minutes or so later, we were dropped off in the middle of nowhere, still in Belgium I believe. Everyone raced for the buses. The competition was fierce! Dust kicked up in to the air, as some people raced down the incline and around the end of the guardrail to board the buses. Alternately, the more direct route that most of us chose was to dump our luggage over the guardrail, and jump over railing and scale down the 5 foot wall.

It looked like we were a small city of refugees on the run.  It was wild... and ridiculous.

Jim n' I managed to make it onto the third and final bus - each of which were crowded to maximum capacity, with people left standing next to the doors on the stairs.

With our four pieces of luggage shared across our laps, it was a reasonably uncomfortable ride to the next station. Of course, it could've been much worse. At least we got seats! About half the crowd was left stranded in the dust along the side of the road.

Here's a picture that Jim snapped from over his shoulder -- the crowded bus and, if you look closely, others being left behind as we drive away.

The 40 minute adventure took us to the next station, where everyone rushed out to the platform. Over the next hour or so, the platform number changed three times. This meant that the mass of people would have to bottleneck down a set of stairs, through a hall, and up a set of stairs to get to the appropriate platform. 

It was horrible. 

The third time the platform number changed, two men decided to simply run across the tracks instead of taking the congested stairs.

Unfortunately, this is illegal. 

An official-looking guy came out and started yelling at them.  Both the younger guy, who seemed to be in his early 20's, and the business man, who might've been in his late 30's, started mouthing back. Next thing you know, the younger guy starts swinging at the railway official! The businessman stood a safe distance away, cursing - probably about how his day suddenly got a hell of a lot worse. Meanwhile, everyone over at our platform started yelling,  "Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!" and shouting at them to stop.  

Holy drama! What a gong show!

Security came out and escorted both men inside and that was the last of it. 

By this point, I was exhausted and hungry. Fortunately there was a vending machine nearby. I scrounged up my euros and went over to take a look-see. I had firmly settled on a bag of paprika potato chips, (which more-or-less tastes like BBQ, only I liked it a little better).  But then I noticed what the guy in front of me was getting. They looked like mini waffles.

I figured that there aren't many opportunities to purchase waffles from a vending machine, so why not live on the edge, right?

I opened the blue packaging, not expecting much. But then I was swiftly overcome with the sweet taste of heaven. Each cookie was made of two paper-thin waffles stuck together with a delicious caramel syrup. Chewy, tasty... the best cookie I've ever had in my life! 

Then again, it had been a ridiculously long day. At that point, I probably would have had the same love at first bite reaction to paprika chips. In an alternate universe, I'm sure I'm writing a love note to paprika chips right now... 

Anyhow, long story not so short, I fell in love with these cookies... stroopwafels... and soon found myself on a mission to purchase a bag of them before we left Amsterdam. I wanted to bring back a pair of clogs as a souvenir. Instead I brought home two bags of stroopwafels. 

But of course, with something so delicious, you HAVE to share. And so I shared my 20 delicious stroopwafels with my friends and family, who all seemed to enjoy them almost as much as me. 

After I had quickly run out of my favourite Dutch cookies, I tried to locate some in Kelowna. I found some in the grocery store... but they really weren't quite the same.  A little bland. 

A few months later when I went back to Ottawa, I was staying at my friend Heather's and she had thoughtfully bought a bag to share. Both Heather and Aissa got to taste the real thing while stalking us through Europe. ;) Unfortunately, this time the stoopwafels were bland and hard. We couldn't force a whole one down if we tried. 

I was heart-broken. 

Will I never get to taste another stroopwafel again? How can I live without this cookie in my life? Will I have to order some straight from the Netherlands just to get the real thing? (Don't laugh. I looked into it - purely out of interest, of course. I wasn't seriously going to order anything... anytime soon.) 

I guess it's like they say... 

If you love something, set it free.  If it comes back to you, it was meant to be.

Like two ships that pass in the night, stroopwafel and I were nothing more than two trains who passed quietly in the afternoon on that random crowded platform (exactly one year ago today... or maybe it was yesterday? I can't quite remember.) I could only hope that the stars would align again so I could inhale my dear sweet stroopwafel's caramelly essence once more.

And that time has finally come!

My sister's former boss grew up in Holland, and she often goes to a Dutch store in Ottawa. So, Amy, Anne and another lady took a little road trip and bought me some authentic stroopwafels!!! Isn't that nice of them? 

Apparently this couple makes them right in the store. They last 4 months if you refrigerate them, or a year if you store them in a sealed box in a cool dry place.

The above information is very important to me because Amy sent a little more than a few stroopwafels.... she sent me 11 packages, for a total of 110! The entire package weighed a total of 8 pounds! It is seriously the stroopwafel motherload and I don't know how I'm ever going to eat them all!?

Fortunately, the ones my sister sent me taste the best out of the three Canadian brands I tried. (Even though they're not quite perfection... I'll take what I can get.) 

Gawd, could you imagine if they didn't taste good at all? What the hell would I do with 11 packages of hard n' bland stroopwafels? (Gosh, even though they taste great, I'm still asking myself the question of what to do with them all!) I guess they'd make great stocking stuffers for Christmas... as Dutch-themed door stops. (Actually, Sinterklaas may still drop a package or two off in a couple stockings this year.)

And that's the story of Stroopwafel and me.