I got off to a bad start because turning the Segway over to Air France for shipment turned out to be less than totally confidence-inspiring, the employees never having dealt with one of these before. Still, they were all very nice and I got a vigorous giggle out of the young women at the business class lounge when I told them I'd given up trying to pronounce French correctly and was going to Amsterdam to work on Dutch.

This illustrates the difference between French and German attitudes about Americans learning Dutch: The French think it's silly while the Germans think its sinful. Just kidding....mostly.

My flight companion is a young French neurologist returning from a convention in SF, who tosses his stuffed backpack and skateboard into the overhead bin alongside my stuffed backpack and control bar for the Segway, which is my second carry-on item since I didn't want it banged around loose in the bottom of the box they put my Segway in.

We chat over a delicious meal, by far the finest food I have ever eaten in an airplane. I cannot resist ordering the foie gras appetizer, and it turns out to be a perfect piece I can only describe as a slab...or maybe a foie gras steak. Having eaten all this foie gras beside a doctor, I really had no choice but to have the fish as the main course, and it was unexceptionable.

Between bites I learn that this is really an exciting time to be a neurologist because major advances are happening right now in the treatment of Parkinson's, Alzheimer's, and MS. No cures, but some significant slowing down of the progression of all three, and exciting possibilities in the pipeline. I also notice that this is a really exciting time to be seeing a neurologist if this guy and the pack of others in business class he was joking around with are any indication as to what French neurologists are looking like nowadays. I had assumed they were members of some kind of athletic team. Track and field. That lean, buffed look. Yow!

After dessert, we medicate ourselves, and I must admit that I experience a soupçon of envy over the rapidity with which his kick in before mine take effect. I always knew in my heart that doctors kept the best stuff for themselves, but I'd never seen proof. Blessedly, mine take over before I start gnashing my teeth.

We emerge in time for breakfast, which is, alas, back to normal airline food. My omlette, in fact, is downright rubbery and I quit eating it after core samples from every region come up similar.

When I debouch at De Gaulle, I am disappointed to see no wheelchair awaiting me, but figure it can't be all that far and shuffle along hugging the shoulder as every person on the packed plane passes me on the left. I am exhausted by the time I get to the main floor, and I drag myself to the nearest office and ask for help. It turns out that my connecting flight to Amsterdam is two buildings over, so they call for a shuttle bus which eventually arrives and takes me to the correct building.

I am stopped at the security check and told that my control bar assembly must be checked. I point out that I have just carried it on Air France from San Francisco. It must be checked. I speak to the supervisor. It must be checked. I turn around and see that there is a kilometer long line for the checkout counter and that I cannot possibly get through this line in time to make my flight. It must be checked. How could they have known of my diabolical plan to take up religion, become a fundamentalist, knock forty years off my age, uncripple myself, and take control of the aircraft by brandishing the plastic handlebar assembly from a Segway? Curses, foiled again!

A kind young security woman takes me in hand and somehow gets my control bar checked. I try to give her a twenty in appreciation. She refuses, saying, "It's my job." I offer her the extra box of fresh cherries that I had stuffed in my pack (there are more in my suitcase) even though in spite of her help I have missed my flight. She accepts. I have the sense that in Europe at this time of year, a little charm and a box of cherries could get me laid...were I on the market...and the make. Have some fresh cherries, m'dear.

They schedule me for the next flight to Amsterdam...in three hours. I give them Rina's number and ask them to warn my welcoming committee. I go to the gate and sit in the closest available chair, so exhausted that I fear going to sleep and missing another flight. Fortunately, the chair is not comfortable enough to sleep in, and I awaken over and over as I pitch forward.

Three hours passes rapidly in this fashion, and soon I am able to board. I am asleep before the plane takes off, and the entire flight is a blank. I come to as the plane lands at Schipol. I get off and immediately find my control bar on the carousel, all beat up and missing the caps over the function change button and the recharge port. I grab it and amble across an endless plain to the baggage office to inquire about my suitcase and the Segway, which I had been told had been sent ahead on my scheduled flight. No, I am now told, they were held for the flight I was on. I shuffle back across the plain and yes, my suitcase is on the carousel. The gigantic box containing my Segway is nowhere to be seen. I trudge back to the office and present my claim check for a 32 kg. package. They have no record of this package.

I explain the value and importance of this package. They have no record of this package.

They tell me that missing baggage usually turns up the next day....and if not then, within five days. I fill out some forms. They give me some papers. I give them Rina's phone number.

I drag my suitcase, backpack, and control bar through the security exit and find Hans, Rina, and Rafaël, long-suffering souls who are at the terminal for the second time since Air France didn't call until after they'd left. They help me to the train, and we take a taxi to Spuistraat 72, where I face the prospect of 29 more days of glorious vacation. I give Rina and Rafaël their presents, but otherwise I do not unpack.

To keep from thinking about the nightmare life here will be here without the Segway, I agree to walk the two long blocks to Albert Heijn with Rafaël to lay in some groceries. It crosses my mind that I may well be leaving them for Hans and Rina, but I am trying hard to be positive about this.

I must say, Albert Heijn takes my mind off my troubles. There are few things I enjoy more than grocery shopping in other countries. Actually, it would be a great exaggeration to say that I mind grocery shopping in America, but over here it's always fun, perhaps because I am combining the pleasure of buying food with the pleasures of seeing new packaging and presentations, discovering new foods, and building vocabulary. I also find it fascinating to compare prices. Fruit is more expensive here, but some other things are so cheap I do doubletakes. Like the Echte Zaanse Mosterd that I raved about in Dutch in Three Weeks, still available and only €0.85 for 335 grams. That's nearly a pint!!!! Or a 350 gram whole smoked mackerel (Albert Heijn house brand) for €2.60.

Note: That € character is the symbol for the euro. It's an abbreviation of the "€€K!" that people say when they see hotel prices.

It's also good to go walking with Rafaël because what with his short legs, the pace that we can maintain and the distances we can go are about the same.

By the time we get back home, it's ten at night and I am twitching with fatigue but still not sleepy. I take two ibuprofen, two lorazepam, two cyclobenzaprene, a melatonin...and a trazadone to make sure. They work. [Hmmmmm. Remind me to edit this before my doctor sees it. She worries so. That's bad enough, but she also looks at me that way.]