Holland, Michigan, is the sort of place that takes tulips seriously enough to make you wonder whether you have been underestimating them all your life.

For nearly two months, I had been checking bloom forecasts with a level of commitment I would normally reserve for flights, job applications, or natural disasters.

Spring, to me, had always meant cherry blossoms.

I briefly considered making a proper pilgrimage to see them, but Washington was too far, Chicago was not exactly next door, and I ultimately decided that several hours of driving for a flower was a level of devotion I had not yet reached.

Tulips, however, were already here.

And it seemed faintly irresponsible to live in a town famous for them and somehow fail to look.

So, on a Saturday morning just before peak bloom, I went to Veldheer’s Tulip Farm, which had originally been intended as the beginning and end of the excursion.

Naturally, it was neither.

The farm opened at nine, and by nine it already appeared that several thousand other people had made precisely the same calculation. Near the entrance were the expected displays of bulbs, seeds, souvenirs, and other objects designed to make you believe that you, too, could become the sort of person who successfully grows flowers.

I briefly considered taking one home anyway, then remembered my history with houseplants and decided the tulips had already suffered enough.

The bulbs themselves were unexpectedly earthy—part onion, part ginger, part mysterious medicinal root dug out of a mountain. It was strange to look at them and imagine that these compact, muddy objects would eventually produce something so aggressively decorative.

There were hyacinths, other flowers, and even artwork made in collaboration with local artists. Running a tulip farm and collaborating with painters struck me as an almost suspiciously picturesque way to live.

The entrance to the actual fields was modest enough to lower expectations. It had rained, the sky was gray, and nothing about the first few steps suggested transcendence.

Then the fields appeared.

Rows and rows of tulips opened up in front of me in colors so saturated they seemed slightly unreasonable. There were also cherry blossoms nearby, which felt like receiving a complimentary dessert after deciding not to order one.

So much for my great sacrifice.

The tulips were planted in broad bands of color, with the occasional lone flower standing awkwardly among the others. Naturally, those were the ones I photographed. Perhaps projection was involved.

People had also arrived dressed for portraits. At one point I saw someone in what looked like a Disney-inspired outfit posing among the flowers, and for a few seconds the whole place resembled a village from a fairy tale—or, more accurately, a fairy tale with a parking lot and several hundred tourists.

In theory, the correct way to appreciate a tulip farm is to walk slowly through every row, examining each flower with patience and respect.

In practice, I would rather be conserving my energy.

After what felt like a respectable amount of tulip contemplation, I went to the gift shop.

This was predictable.

I had assumed it would contain the usual selection of floral mugs and wooden shoes, but it was much better stocked than expected. The tiny clogs were especially charming. I now regret not trying them on, though I am unsure what I would have done with that information.

Holland was founded by Dutch immigrants, and the town wears that history visibly.

I know considerably less about the broader history of the region and its Indigenous communities than I should, but aesthetically speaking, the town is very committed to the assignment.

At this point, a sensible person might have gone home.

Instead, I drove downtown.

Downtown Holland during tulip season is less a town than a collective decision to put flowers everywhere. They lined the streets. They appeared outside stores. They emerged from planters with the confidence of a municipal branding strategy.

There were people everywhere, too, and the entire downtown had the atmosphere of a festival that had somehow expanded to consume the surrounding streets.

By then, I had already seen so many tulips that I assumed I had stopped photographing them.

Later, I checked my camera roll.

I had not.

Apparently I had been having an excellent time.

Apparently I also like tulips more than I had previously been willing to admit.

While wandering around, I found Cherry Republic, a shop that seems to have asked a simple question—What if everything were made of cherries?

Cherry wine, cherry salsa, cherry snacks, cherry everything.

I bought the cherry salsa because curiosity has caused me more expensive problems than this.

It was fine, but too sweet for me. I remain loyal to the traditional combination of tomatoes, onions, and the reassuring absence of dessert.

There were, of course, tulips outside the shop.

At this point I began to suspect the town had access to no other flower.

I eventually stopped for food at HopCat and ordered lobster mac and cheese, which was delicious, very salty, and exactly as heavy as lobster mac and cheese has every right to be.

I added an absurd amount of black pepper because apparently I object to richness only after ordering one of the richest possible dishes.

Then, again, I could have gone home.

But a vendor fair appeared.

This one involved roughly 150 small businesses, or so I understood, and because I apparently possess no defenses against tables covered in handmade objects, I went in.

I saw many charming things. I photographed almost none of them.

The photographic record suggests that the main event was a display of knitted vegetables.

They were completely useless and deeply appealing.

By now, the day had already become much longer than planned, which made it the ideal moment to add one more destination.

So I went to Windmill Island Gardens.

This was the place that most fully embraced the Dutch theme:

windmill, small decorative buildings, festival atmosphere, the whole production.

The cloudy weather made the photos look slightly gloomier than the experience itself, but there was something charming about the place even under a gray Michigan sky.

By the time I finally finished, I had walked more than twenty thousand steps.

On the way home, I felt certain that I had satisfied my desire to leave the house for at least several weeks.

This feeling generally lasts until the following weekend.

Still, the day had been worth it. What began as a practical decision—If I am temporarily living in the tulip town, I should probably see the tulips—ended up becoming one of those days that makes a place feel more specific.

I had spent years around New York and New Jersey, where the rhythms, scenery, and local rituals are entirely different. Living in Michigan, even temporarily, has given me access to a kind of regional culture I probably would never have deliberately sought out.

And there is something nice about that.

Would I come back next year?

Honestly, I have no idea.

Michigan winters are sufficiently long and hostile, though, that by the time spring returns, a field full of brightly colored flowers may once again seem like the most exciting thing in the world.

The photos, predictably, do not quite capture it.

They flatten the scale of the fields and lose the strange plumpness of the tulips themselves—the almost excessive fullness of them when an entire farm is in bloom.

Some things remain stubbornly better in person.

Which is inconvenient, but probably for the best.

Until the next unnecessarily ambitious weekend.