“At Christmas, the joyous anniversary of Jesus' birth,” Beatrix began, “light breaks through in a world darkened by man's egotism and lust for domination over his fellow man and nature.” Yowza. Pollution was rampant, industrial fumes were stinking up seaside resorts, and flooding rivers had everyone worried about climate change. That fall, nearly 2,000 harbor seals had washed up dead on North Sea beaches, victims of distemper, their immune systems weakened by toxic chemicals. The populace expected the usual bland address instead she jolted them out of their waffle-induced holiday stupor by calling for an environmental revolution on a scale that no other nation had ever attempted. Who knew? The Dutch found out back in 1988, when Trix scooted over to Parliament to deliver her annual Christmas speech. But don't be fooled: Beneath that understated pomp is an ax-wielding warrior-queen with no tolerance for slacking when it comes to healing the earth. Placid and plump, she seems completely benign as she chats maternally with the teenager about his studies. The queen is so close I can practically smell the bouquet of white alchemilla she's holding. It's about mankind's dire influence on nature, one of Trix's favorite topics. The occasion is the 250th anniversary of the Royal Holland Society of Arts and Sciences, a lecture-happy outfit who will present the queen with a new book, Mappae Mundi: Humans and Their Habitats in a Long-Term Socio-Ecological Perspective. She looks terribly pleased to be here, standing between the mayor, wearing a heavy ceremonial medallion, and the nervous, sweating teenage winner of an essay contest. Trix alights wearing a pink checked suit. It seems that nearly everyone in this proudly classless society has seen plenty of their 65-year-old queen officially called “Beatrix, by the Grace of God Queen of the Netherlands, Princess of Orange-Nassau, etc., etc., etc.,” but more informally known as Trix and counts her as one of them. And where's the golden coach, the huge, adoring throng? The crowd numbers a few dozen at best, including a bored pedestrian eating a sandwich and three Indonesian transplants leaning out a window above their restaurant across the street. David Letterman has tighter security than this. The convoy pulls up in front of 17th-century Doopsgezinde Church, where a lone, burly policeman with a ponytail and an earring is standing around, occasionally looking both ways. A pair of punked-out motorcycle escorts ride alongside the car-tall, blond men in psychedelic orange jackets and tight leather pants. Through them, on a late-May afternoon in the central Dutch city of Haarlem, you can see the queen's Princess Di hat, her toothy smile, and, of course, the regal wave that all queens learn at queen camp. It's a roomy dark-blue sedan, and the windows are only slightly tinted, not celebrity-style dark.
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