It took us only three days to find an apartment. We engaged the services of a makelaar, which is from the ancient Dutch word for the curved blade used by royal torturers to flay alive captured foreign spies. Rab, our agent, would have been jaw-grindingly chipper by my standards at home. Amid the Dutch, who while not ‘dour’ are certainly brusque, he stood out like a crackhead at a funeral, smiling constantly and waving his arms with the swooping gestures of a magician palming a lit cigarette.

But he had reason to smile; he was finding an apartment for (and receiving a commission from) two rich Americans! We told him our budget; he immediately pulled his car out of a shoebox under his desk and whisked us away. The first stop was a palatial home, clearly intended for expats, well furnished and including a huge wraparound glass-walled shower. Only half again as much as we told him we’d spend.

The second flat, in the same building, was just inches (centimeters?) past our price. And, he pointed out, springing to life like a coin-operated circus barker, it was a ‘monument’ — it included a wall mural painting of a harbor scene, wrapped around the interior of the dining room. “Would you like to live in a monument? It is on a list of monuments. Antique.” I had visions of tour buses outside our door and tourists filing through our living room. Perhaps if we charged them each a euro, we could pay our rent.

We continued on to visit several ‘genuine fisherman’s cottages’. “You know van Khockh?” he asked in his chatty tour-guide fashion. I considered, but hesitantly said I didn’t. Jennifer was smart enough to recognize Vincent van Gogh’s name, though, and said we did. “He lived near here”, Rab said, “and painted here.” Painted the traditional fishwives who still took traditional walks in their traditional fishwives clothes, in this very neighborhood, he continued.

When we pushed to see cheaper places, Rab sadly agreed, and took us to the most dilapidated hovels you can imagine. He suddenly became apologetic for ‘features’ of Dutch homes like small doorways and narrow halls that he had been unaware of before.

I could almost hear him saying, “pick a card, any card” — and I know a force when I’m dealt one. Our choice was clearly bracketed by luxury beyond our range and hovels for only slightly below our range. We thanked Rab and went back to the hotel to confer.

We went to another makelaar, but she had nearly identical offerings and in fact seemed to know Rab. We ended up with the second flat, with monument, (a monument to our own cupidity, I fear) for more than I’m willing to admit. I’m sure it’s above the local going rate in the city, but it appears there are three kinds of apartments in Den Haag: cheap apartments that people who live here get on waiting lists literally ten years in advance for; half again as expensive flats that have half-lives measured in hours; and furnished flats for people with no choice.

But it has chandeliers, enough curtain to keep Barnum & Bailey in business, a lovely garden, and a canal and a park with a public pool across the street. And for a few blissful hours yesterday, it had a neighbor with an active wireless network and a fast Internet connection!