We’re flip-flopping along the cobblestones, trying to catch the streetcar headed to Linz Hauptbahnhof.

“Did you remember to grab the tickets?” I ask, jogging the last few stairs.

Dylan sprints behind me, toggling his pack, and says, “No, Dad, I forgot. I’m so sorry, Dad!” he says, casting a dejected look down the tracks.

It’s a truckin’-it kind of day, trying to make every second count. Just that morning, we talked about how each of us had duties, divvied up to make everything go smoothly. The tram tickets were Dylan’s job. I’d make sure we had our passports and other important items, like the iPod and crispy, fresh bakery snacks.

The trolley leaves without us and we fish around for a few Euros to plunk into the vending machine. I stifle the impulse to give a stern rebuke. Instead, I opt for the patient approach: “it’s important to be organized when you’re traveling abroad. You have to make a list, and double-check it before you go. Sometimes, you don’t get a second chance when you’re traveling.”

He takes it all in stride, and when we arrive at the Frankfurt airport, I discover that I’ve made the bigger blunder. Somehow, I misread the time on the ticket for what was to be his first-ever solo flight, a quick one-hour trip to Dublin, where he’ll meet his mom for the rest of their summer vacation together with cousins, aunts and uncles in Ireland.

But we’re an hour late. I can see Dylan fighting back a grin and tears at the same time, thinking about my morning lecture on being organized. Luckily, there’s an evening flight, and with the help of a friendly Lufthansa ticket agent, we re-book and settle in at the terminal, chewing Gummi Bears, playing video games and watching the world stream past. I’m probably more nervous than he is about his solo trip. At age 10, Dylan takes flying for granted. He’s been across the Atlantic more times than he can remember.

You don’t know lucky you are, boy!

My girlfriend, Leigh, has been traveling in independently, and her flight is scheduled to arrive in Frankfurt just before Dylan’s departure. Once he’s safely in the air, Leigh and I will cash in our 14-day Eurail voucher and head for Amsterdam and then the Wadden Islands off the coast of Holland.

July 8: Texel Mystery meat

After a good night’s sleep and a hot shower on the train, we stumble into a flat, wet Amsterdam daybreak. We ramble on foot most of the day, past the floating flower market and few houseboats with grapevines and veggie gardens on the deck.

Stocked with a few goodies, we jump on a commuter train to Den Halder. Between the train station and the Texel ferry, we wander past a mile-long dockhouse, now home to a maritime museum. The windows offer glimpses of the country’s ship-building tradition, crowned during the East Indian trading area.

On the ferry, I look for the most exotic snack in the vending machine. It’s a travel hobby of mine, so I choose the mysteriously labeled Red Band packet. From the outside it looks like it could be a powerful laxative, but it turns out o be a delicious chocolate-mint. I duly note the discovery in a journal, alongside the scribbles about the kid clutching a toy dinosaur as his dad, in sailor-striped sweater, lifts him from the back of their bike.

Pocket-size Texel is at the southwestern end of the Wadden Islands, (Frisian Islands), a patchy swath of dune barriers that shelters the mainland from the open sea. The island sits at the end of the Waddenzee, a tidal mudflat and wetlands ecosystem stretching 500 kilometers northeast to Denmark, covering about 10,000 square kilometers. The vast patchwork of streaming sea gullies, tidal channels and salt marshes, nurtures millions of sea and shore birds.

We’re looking forward to exploring the coastal dunes, protected by national park status, and also looking for possible ancestral roots: Leigh’s last name is Wadden, so, who knows, we might find a long-lost relative. As she walks off the ferry in Horntje, her golden hair streams in the Atlantic breeze. With her nose to the sea, I sense a flash of Viking blood, knowing that the sea-faring warriors from the north settled some of these coastal towns.

The bus circles the island, dropping us at De Koog, where we check into a comfy inn at the beachfront hub for cycling and hiking in the national park. Mid-summer light lingers late this far north, drawing us to the meandering beach where the orange sunset afterglow shines against a backdrop of purple clouds mounding over the sea.

We’re thinking about a deluxe seafood meal, but among a few Dutch other quirks, we learn that restaurants mostly shut down at 8 or 9 p.m. That leaves Happy Burger, a native fast-food joint, where glaring fluorescent neon lights from the adjacent bowling alley, along with a techno-pop rendition of Do-Re-Mi, jar us back to the 21st century. We munch on a plate of ubiquitous krokets, breaded, deep-fried packets of what we skeptically view as mystery meat in a creamy sauce. It’s Holland’s own national fast food, and easily washed down with a draft Heineken.

July 9: ‘Keen dribble’

Our plan the next morning is to cycle a leisurely lap around the island, and there’s no better place to do it, with bike shops dotting the roadside and a pancake-flat countryside threaded with dedicated trails and a simple grid of roads. Holland has a rich bike culture, expressed through the ease by which moms and dads often carry two youngsters along with a load of groceries and a bottle of wine in a handlebar basket. Juggling a meter-long loaf of bread and carrying on a cell phone conversation all at the same, they casually dismount while still rolling up to their stop.

I venture out in early morning, stopping for a cup of coffee with froth so thick that the little cookie served on the side floats for more than a minute while scan yesterday’s Herald Tribune. At the bike shop, I ask about the weather.

“Keen dribble!” the owner says with a smile, guaranteeing a nice day for our tour. “There’s no bad weather, as the Germans say, only bad clothes,” he reassures me.

We mount the late-model Gazelles, admiring the nifty and super-comfortable touring bikes with components integrated into the frame and sheltered by lightweight housing. Leading the way, Leigh heads north on the coastal path, toward the lighthouse at De Cocksdorp, where an opening to the sea allows the tides to flood the coastal plain behind. On the beach there we munch olives, feta, flat crackers and more mystery meat, this time packaged as a creamy salad.

We search out a sheltered spot in the dunes, with bees buzzing in patches of soft pink flowers, and settle down for a nap, laughing with the sheer happiness of discovering this serene and scenic spot. A few inches away, one of the bees stops, doffs a tiny top hat and says “Guten Tag” in flawless German. “I’m so happy to be here, collecting on this gorgeous day. My Queen is going to be so happy,” he buzzes at me before flying away.

Flabbergasted, I try to get Leigh’s attention, but her delicately freckled nose is buried deep in her favorite reading material — a guidebook.

“That does it,” I say to myself. “I need to be a travel writer. That’ll catch her fancy!”

Near the lighthouse, the air is abuzz with the sound of kites. It’s another small wonder on this magical island, a place where the breeze is so steady that people come from all over to pace their kites through swirling loops and spinning dives, the atmosphere vibrating with the electric buzz of the kite strings taut against the wind. Down the east side of the island, along dikes and past ancient windmills, the road are so flat and straight that we often hold hands gliding along, even leaning over for a kiss at the risk of a crash.

At Oosterend,, we duck into a lively harbor bar for a thick slice of apple cake, coffee and a shot of the local liquor, brewed with a mix of island herbs picked in local fields. Back across the center of the Island through Den Burg, the largest town, and back to the coast for the final leg, a strong southwest tailwind makes the last few kilometers a breeze. We miss out on the restaurants once again but tumble into bed tired and happy, dreaming about that big seafood platter.

Little do we know that we’ll end up with a Belgian Waffle instead. Check back for the next installment, wherein our intrepid travel duo tracks down a tasty treat in Brussels.