In the Netherlands, there are more bicycles than inhabitants. With a population of around 18 million people, it's estimated that over 23 million bicycles circulate in the country. For many Dutch people, the bicycle is not a recreational activity but the main form of daily transport, used to get to school, work, and even for shopping.
When you think of the Netherlands, tulips come to mind first — windmills, Amsterdam's canals, that picturesque postcard image. What you don't expect is to actually live there, not as a tourist but as part of a family. When I arrived in the Netherlands for a student exchange, I was looking for the storybook version of Holland. I was taught quickly that there was far more authentic Holland in the quiet provincial streets than in the crowded canals of the capital.
My host family lived in Arnhem, a town in the southeast, far from the tourist rush. The first day, sitting around the table eating something local — bread, cheese, slices of cold cuts — the mother of the house told me something I still remember now: "In Holland, we live simply. We don't seek luxury; we seek efficiency and authentic human contact."
One of the first things I was taught was how to ride a bicycle. Yes, because it's not straightforward: here, the bicycle is not a sport or recreational activity — it's the main form of transport. Riding your bicycle to school in the rain, pedalling to work with a bag on your shoulder, stopping at the market to do your shopping — all of this is part of everyday Dutch life.
What surprised me was not just the sheer number of bicycles around, but the way everyone moves with an almost military calm and organisation. The cycle paths are sacred, and cyclists follow the rules with a precision you rarely see anywhere else in Europe. It was like being part of a daily dance: thousands of people pedalling together, each in their own lane, no chaos.
But the true heart of the cultural exchange was dinner with the family each evening. Nothing elaborate: often just bread and cheese, sometimes a simple stew. What mattered was the time spent together, the conversations. The family would ask me about my life in Italy, about food, about traditions, and in turn would tell me how they lived their lives.
I discovered that Dutch friendliness is not cold as it's often portrayed: it's direct, without beating around the bush, but warm and authentic. They don't wait for indirect compliments — if something's wrong, they say it; if they appreciate something, they let you know. At first it took me aback, but over time I understood it was the most liberating thing that could happen.
Many people never visit the rural areas of the Netherlands. Weekends with the family took me to those places: small villages where you still saw real windmills, endless fields of tulips in spring, organic farms where people still work the land with care and dedication. This is authentic Holland — not the tourist chaos, but the slow and mindful rhythm of those who actually live here.
One weekend we visited an aunt's organic farm. There I saw how the Dutch system really works: efficiency, sustainability, love for the land. No showiness, just good daily work.
If I had to explain Holland in one dish, I wouldn't say "tulips" but "cheese, bread and berries." Dutch food is not sophisticated, but it is honest and of quality. Dutch cheese — Gouda, Edam — is appreciated worldwide. I learned to savour it not as a gourmet product, but as part of everyday life, like the wholemeal breads made fresh each day.
During the months I spent there, I tasted dozens of different cheeses, each from a different region. The mother of the house would take me to local markets where the cheesemonger knows your name and knows exactly what you like. It wasn't shopping; it was a social experience.
Another thing I still associate with authentic Holland is the relationship with water. The canals and waterways are not just lines in the landscape: they are community spaces. When people aren't at work or school, you find them sitting on the banks talking, eating something, sharing time with friends and family.
I remember a spring afternoon, just after school was done, when the whole family went outside to sit in the garden overlooking a small canal. We sat there for hours, doing nothing in particular — just being together, watching the water, chatting without hurry. Nothing complicated, nothing touristy. Just real life.
When I left the Netherlands, it wasn't like leaving a tourist experience. It was like leaving a family that had taught me how to live differently. I wasn't taking home photos of tulips or souvenirs — I was taking home the memory of what it means to live with awareness, efficiency and authentic human contact.
That experience taught me that real cultural exchange doesn't happen in museums or famous attractions. It happens when you become part of a community's everyday life, when you taste the bread at breakfast, when you pedal in the rain alongside thousands of other people, when someone at the table tells you the truth without filters.
Back in Italy, I look at Holland with different eyes. I no longer see the postcard of tulips, but the face of the mother who hosted me, the sound of bicycles on the cycle paths, the taste of cheese just eaten. And most of all, the memory I treasure most is of a family who opened their home to me and taught me that the deepest journey is one that changes you within.