A Journey to Tulips: Visiting the World’s Most Famous Tulip Growing Regions

The tulip, with its elegant chalice-shaped blooms and astonishing diversity of colors and forms, has captivated humanity for centuries. My quest to witness these spring heralds in their greatest glory led me across three continents, from the mountainous regions where wild tulips still bloom as they have for millennia to the meticulously engineered fields where modern commerce meets horticultural artistry. This year-long journey revealed a story of obsession, economics, art, and the enduring human desire to possess and cultivate beauty.

Turkey and Central Asia: The Birthplace of Tulips

My journey began not in the Netherlands, as many might expect, but in Turkey and Central Asia—the true homeland of tulips. The genus Tulipa originated in the mountains and steppes of this region, where dozens of wild species still bloom each spring, untouched by centuries of human cultivation.

Istanbul: The Ottoman Love Affair

I arrived in Istanbul in April, as the city celebrated its annual Tulip Festival. The relationship between Turks and tulips runs deep—far deeper than the European obsession that would come later. The very word “tulip” derives from the Turkish word for turban, tülbend, referring to the flower’s shape. In Ottoman culture, the tulip became a symbol of paradise on earth, of divine beauty made manifest in the natural world.

Walking through Emirgan Park, one of the festival’s main venues, I found myself surrounded by millions of tulips—not the rigid, uniform rows of commercial Dutch fields, but naturalistic plantings that mimicked how these flowers might grow in the wild. Red, yellow, pink, and white blooms carpeted the lawns beneath ancient trees, and Turkish families picnicked among them, continuing a tradition centuries old.

I met Professor Yilmaz at Istanbul University, a botanist who has devoted his career to studying Turkey’s native tulip species. “People think tulips are Dutch,” he said with a wry smile as we sat in his office overlooking the Bosphorus. “But tulips are Turkish. They grew here for millions of years before any European ever saw one. We had tulip gardens when Amsterdam was still a swamp.”

He showed me historical manuscripts—Ottoman miniatures depicting tulip gardens of breathtaking beauty, poems praising the flower’s perfection, imperial decrees regulating tulip cultivation and trade. During the early 18th century, a period known as the “Tulip Era” (Lale Devri), the Ottoman court’s obsession with tulips reached such heights that it influenced politics, economics, and art.

“The Sultan had tulip gardens lit by tortoises carrying candles on their backs for nighttime viewing parties,” Professor Yilmaz explained, showing me an illustration. “Specific tulip forms were prized—long, needle-like petals, certain color combinations. Fortunes were spent on rare bulbs. It was very similar to what would happen later in Holland, but it came first here.”

He arranged for me to visit some of Turkey’s remaining wild tulip habitats. We drove east from Istanbul into the Anatolian highlands, where spring was just arriving. In mountain meadows and rocky slopes, I found my first wild tulips—Tulipa armena, small red flowers growing among stones, their petals glowing like flames against the gray rock.

“These are the ancestors,” Professor Yilmaz said reverently, kneeling beside a cluster. “All the garden tulips in the world trace back to species like this. They’re adapted to harsh conditions—cold winters, hot dry summers, poor soil. That resilience is built into every tulip genome.”

Over the following days, we searched for other species: Tulipa sylvestris, delicate yellow flowers in woodland edges; Tulipa clusiana, the lady tulip, with white petals flushed pink on the outside; and Tulipa saxatilis, growing in rocky crevices, its petals a soft lilac-pink. Each species had adapted to specific microclimates, specific soil conditions, specific elevation ranges.

“Turkey has perhaps forty native tulip species,” Professor Yilmaz explained. “But many are endangered. Habitat loss, over-collection, climate change—all threaten these populations. When tourists find wild tulips, they often dig up the bulbs to take home. Each bulb removed is genetic diversity lost forever.”

He took me to a conservation project in the Taurus Mountains, where researchers were documenting wild tulip populations and collecting seeds for preservation. In a small facility, thousands of bulbs were being grown from seed, a slow process—wild tulips can take seven years to reach flowering size from seed—but essential for conservation.

“Commercial tulips are all clones, reproduced vegetatively from bulb offsets,” explained the project director, Dr. Ayşe. “They’re genetically identical. But wild tulips reproduce sexually through seeds, creating genetic variation. That variation may contain resistance to diseases we haven’t encountered yet, adaptations to conditions we can’t yet predict. We can’t afford to lose it.”

Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan: The Central Asian Steppes

From Turkey, I traveled northeast to Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan, where the vast steppes hold even greater tulip diversity. Central Asia is considered the evolutionary center of the genus Tulipa, and some botanists believe there may be over one hundred species in this region, many still undescribed by science.

I joined a botanical expedition led by Dr. Petrov, a Russian botanist based in Almaty. Our team included local botanists, conservation workers, and a photographer documenting rare species. We traveled in Soviet-era trucks across landscapes that seemed endless—rolling grasslands stretching to distant snow-capped mountains, the sky an immense dome overhead.

In late April, the steppes exploded with color. Wild tulips bloomed everywhere—not in isolated patches but in vast sweeps of color. Tulipa greigii, with its mottled purple-striped leaves and brilliant red flowers, covered entire hillsides. Tulipa kaufmanniana, the waterlily tulip, opened its cream and pink petals wide to the sun. Tulipa kolpakowskiana, a small yellow species, formed golden carpets in valley bottoms.

“This is how tulips are meant to be seen,” Dr. Petrov said as we stood on a hilltop surveying thousands of blooming Tulipa greigii below us. “Not in straight rows in gardens, but like this—wild, free, part of the ecosystem. They evolved with this landscape, with these grasses and herbs, with the insects that pollinate them and the animals that graze around them.”

The expedition’s purpose was both scientific and conservational. We documented populations, collected GPS coordinates, took photographs and measurements, and gathered seeds from particularly healthy plants. The seeds would go to seed banks in Kazakhstan and internationally, insurance against the loss of wild populations.

The threats here were different from Turkey. Agricultural conversion was the primary concern—virgin steppe being plowed for wheat cultivation, destroying tulip habitat in the process. “Once the steppe is plowed, it’s gone,” Dr. Petrov said grimly. “The tulip bulbs are destroyed, the soil structure is altered, the plant community is eliminated. It can never fully recover.”

We visited a protected reserve where grazing was managed to benefit wild tulips. The relationship between tulips and grazing animals is complex—moderate grazing can actually help tulips by reducing competition from grasses, but overgrazing or grazing at the wrong time can destroy flowers before they set seed.

“Traditional nomadic herding patterns worked with the tulips’ life cycle,” explained a local conservationist, Asel. “Animals moved through areas at certain times, grazed, moved on. Modern intensive grazing doesn’t follow those patterns. The animals stay too long, eat everything, compact the soil. We’re trying to restore more traditional grazing regimes.”

I spent two weeks with the expedition, camping under stars so bright they seemed artificial, eating simple meals cooked over camp stoves, hiking miles each day in search of rare species. We found Tulipa dasystemon, a small white species growing on rocky slopes; Tulipa alberti, with scarlet flowers that seemed to glow from within; and Tulipa turkestanica, which produces multiple white flowers from a single bulb.

The most memorable find came on our last day: a population of Tulipa vvedenskyi, one of the rarest species, known from only a handful of locations. The flowers were enormous for wild tulips—deep red with golden-yellow centers, the petals pointed and reflexed. They grew in a remote valley that required hours of hiking to reach.

“Only a few hundred plants remain in the wild,” Dr. Petrov said as we carefully photographed and documented the population. “Climate change is pushing them higher up the mountains, into smaller and smaller habitat patches. In fifty years, they may only exist in cultivation.”

The thought was sobering. These flowers had bloomed in these mountains for thousands of years, perhaps millions. Now, within a human lifetime, they might vanish from their native habitat forever.

The Netherlands: The Commercial Heart

From the windswept steppes of Central Asia, I traveled west to the Netherlands—the country that transformed tulips from wildflowers into an international industry. The Dutch didn’t originate tulips, but they perfected their cultivation, created thousands of new varieties, and built a commercial empire that still dominates global tulip trade.

The Bollenstreek: Fields of Color

I arrived in the Bollenstreek—the “Bulb Region”—in mid-April, the absolute peak of tulip season. This stretch of land between Haarlem and Leiden has been dedicated to bulb cultivation for over four hundred years, and during spring, it becomes one of the world’s most photographed landscapes.

Driving through the region, I understood why. The fields were striped with color—rows of red next to rows of yellow next to rows of pink, creating a patchwork quilt visible from space. Cyclists pedaled along narrow paths between fields, stopping frequently to photograph the spectacle. Tour buses disgorged visitors at designated viewing points. The air smelled intensely of flowers and damp earth.

I met Jan van der Berg at his family’s bulb farm, which has been growing tulips since 1890. “My great-great-grandfather started with half a hectare,” Jan told me as we walked through his fields. “Now we farm eighty hectares, growing bulbs for the cut flower trade, for garden centers, for forcing. It’s all tulips—we live and breathe them.”

The scale of the operation was impressive. Millions of bulbs planted in precise rows, each variety segregated to prevent mixing, machinery for planting and harvesting, refrigerated storage buildings the size of aircraft hangars, processing lines where workers sorted and graded bulbs with remarkable speed.

“Tulip farming is highly technical now,” Jan explained. “We control everything—soil composition, planting depth, spacing, irrigation, fertilization. We monitor for diseases constantly. One virus can destroy an entire field, and it can spread to neighboring farms. The financial stakes are enormous.”

He showed me the process of “topping”—removing the flower heads before they fully mature. “For bulb production, we don’t want the plant to waste energy making seeds,” Jan said. “We want all that energy going into the bulb, making it bigger. So we cut off the flowers. It seems wasteful, but the bulbs are what matters for our business.”

The cut flowers weren’t entirely wasted—they were collected and sold at local flower stalls, bringing in additional revenue. But watching tractors decapitate millions of perfect tulips felt almost sacrilegious, a reminder that this was agriculture, not horticulture for beauty’s sake.

Jan walked me through the variety trials, where new cultivars were being tested. “Every year, breeders introduce hundreds of new varieties,” he said. “Most will fail commercially. We’re looking for specific characteristics: strong stems that don’t flop, colors that stay true, resistance to diseases, good multiplication rates. A new variety might take fifteen years from first cross to commercial release.”

He pointed out some of the current favorites: ‘Strong Gold’, a deep yellow Darwin hybrid; ‘Barcelona’, a magenta triumph tulip popular for forcing; ‘White Liberstar’, a pure white lily-flowered type. Each variety had specific uses—some for cut flowers, some for gardens, some for pot production, some for forcing out of season.

“The market constantly changes,” Jan said. “Ten years ago, everyone wanted parrot tulips—those frilly, striped ones. Now simpler forms are popular again. We have to predict what consumers will want three or four years in the future, because that’s how long it takes to build up enough stock to sell commercially.”

Keukenhof: The Show Garden

No visit to the Dutch tulip region would be complete without Keukenhof, the world’s most famous tulip garden. This thirty-two-hectare park opens for only eight weeks each spring, during peak bulb season, and attracts over a million visitors annually.

I arrived early on a weekday morning, hoping to avoid the worst crowds. Even so, tour groups already filled the parking lots, and visitors streamed through the entrance. Inside, the spectacle was overwhelming—seven million bulbs planted in elaborate displays, tulips combined with daffodils, hyacinths, and other spring flowers, all set in a landscape of lawns, ponds, and mature trees.

The park manager, Marja, gave me a behind-the-scenes tour. “We plant all these bulbs in autumn,” she explained. “Ninety workers, six weeks of work, seven million bulbs. We have a detailed plan showing exactly where every bulb goes. The colors have to work together, the bloom times have to overlap properly, the heights have to create the right visual effect.”

The precision was evident. Colors flowed and blended—pastels transitioning to bright primary colors, monochromatic sections creating visual rest before the next explosion of varied hues. Tulips were planted in masses and drifts, not the rigid rows of commercial fields, creating a more naturalistic effect.

“Keukenhof is essentially an advertisement for the Dutch bulb industry,” Marja said frankly. “Every bulb here is donated by growers who want to showcase their varieties. It’s a shop window for the world. When tourists see a tulip they love here, they can order bulbs to plant in their own gardens back home.”

She showed me some of the special displays: the Historical Garden, featuring tulips that would have been known in the 17th century; the Oranje Nassau Pavilion, with its lavish indoor displays; and the more naturalistic woodland areas, where tulips grew beneath trees much as they might in nature.

“We’re also about education,” Marja emphasized. “Many visitors have never seen tulips growing, only cut flowers in shops. They don’t realize tulips are bulbs, that they need cold winters, that they come in such enormous variety. We’re teaching people about these plants, their history, their cultivation.”

I spent the full day at Keukenhof, watching how visitors interacted with the tulips. Some took countless photos, posing with the flowers, trying to capture the perfect shot. Others walked slowly, studying individual blooms, reading the labels, making notes of varieties they wanted to grow. Children ran along the paths, delighted by the colors. Elderly couples sat on benches, simply absorbing the beauty.

Haarlem: The Historic Trade Center

From Keukenhof, I traveled to Haarlem, the historic center of the Dutch bulb trade and the location of the famous “Tulip Mania” of the 1630s. This economic bubble—when tulip bulbs reached absurd prices before the market crashed—has become a cautionary tale about speculation and irrational exuberance.

I met Dr. Anne Goldgar, a historian who has studied Tulip Mania extensively. “The popular story is exaggerated,” she told me over coffee in a café near the Grote Markt. “Yes, tulip prices rose dramatically, and yes, some rare varieties sold for enormous sums. But it wasn’t quite the economy-destroying frenzy of legend. It was more limited, affecting mostly wealthy merchant classes, and the crash, while painful for those involved, didn’t cause widespread economic catastrophe.”

She showed me historical documents—sales records showing a single bulb of the variety ‘Semper Augustus’ selling for 6,000 guilders, more than ten times the annual income of a skilled craftsman. “But this was for the rarest variety, at the peak of the mania,” she explained. “Most tulips sold for much less. And remember, these weren’t just flowers—they were breeding stock, investment vehicles. People were speculating on future bulb production.”

The most valued tulips during the mania were “broken” varieties—flowers displaying dramatic stripes and patterns caused, unknown at the time, by a virus. The unpredictability of when solid-colored tulips might “break” into striped forms added to the speculation frenzy.

“Ironically, the virus that created these prized patterns also weakened the bulbs,” Dr. Goldgar said. “Many of the most expensive varieties from the mania period no longer exist—the virus eventually killed them. Modern varieties showing similar patterns are usually created through breeding, not viral infection.”

She walked me through old Haarlem, pointing out buildings that had housed bulb merchants and taverns where trades were conducted. The city’s wealth during the Golden Age was built partly on tulips, and evidence of that prosperity remained in the elegant canal houses and grand public buildings.

“The Dutch didn’t invent tulip cultivation, but they industrialized it,” Dr. Goldgar said. “They developed techniques for producing bulbs efficiently and in quantity. They created a distribution network reaching across Europe. They turned a beautiful flower into a commodity. That was their real innovation, more lasting than the mania itself.”

Lisse: Modern Breeding Programs

In Lisse, I visited several modern tulip breeding companies, where the creation of new varieties continues with scientific precision. At Lefeber B.V., a breeder specializing in Darwin hybrid tulips, I met head breeder Pieter, whose family has been breeding tulips for four generations.

“Tulip breeding is art and science combined,” Pieter explained, leading me through greenhouses filled with experimental crosses. “You need an eye for beauty, an understanding of what the market wants, and patience—lots of patience. From making a cross to having a commercially viable variety takes twelve to fifteen years minimum.”

He showed me the process: hand-pollinating flowers, collecting seeds, planting them, waiting years for the seedlings to reach blooming size, evaluating thousands of seedlings to find the rare few worth keeping, building up stock through vegetative propagation, testing in different climates and conditions.

“Of every ten thousand seedlings we grow, maybe one will become a commercial variety,” Pieter said. “Most are immediately discarded—wrong color, weak stems, disease-prone, poor multiplication. We’re looking for perfection, and perfection is rare.”

He took me through the trial fields, where current projects were being evaluated. Some crosses aimed for specific colors—darker purples, cleaner whites, unique bicolors. Others focused on form—fuller flowers, more interesting petal shapes, novel textures. Still others prioritized practical characteristics—earlier or later bloom times, stronger stems, better forcing quality.

“The market for tulips is global and sophisticated,” Pieter explained. “Growers in Japan want different things than growers in California. The cut flower industry wants different things than garden centers. We have to create varieties for all these markets.”

He showed me some recent successes: ‘Pieter de Leur’, a dramatically dark purple variety that had become hugely popular; ‘Bastogne’, a bright red with a yellow flame pattern; ‘Apricot Emperor’, an unusual peachy-orange color rarely seen in tulips before.

“Color is chemistry,” Pieter said. “Tulip colors come from pigments—anthocyanins create reds and purples, carotenoids create yellows and oranges. By understanding the genetics of pigment production, we can predict what colors might result from specific crosses. But there’s still an element of chance, of surprise. That’s what makes it exciting.”

The Aalsmeer Flower Auction: Global Distribution Hub

My Dutch journey concluded at the FloraHolland auction in Aalsmeer, the world’s largest flower auction and the beating heart of the global cut flower trade. This massive facility processes millions of flowers daily, including vast quantities of tulips during spring season.

I arrived at 6 AM, when the auction was in full swing. In an enormous hall the size of several football fields, flowers moved through on carts—millions of stems, bundled and sorted, passing before buyers who sat in tiered rows facing enormous clock displays.

The auction uses a descending price system—the clock starts high and ticks down until someone presses their button to buy. “It’s called a Dutch auction,” explained my guide, auction employee Thomas. “It rewards quick decisions and knowledge of market values. If you wait too long hoping for a lower price, someone else will buy.”

We watched tulips flow through—’Strong Gold’ at 32 cents per stem, ‘Barcelona’ at 28 cents, ‘White Liberstar’ at 35 cents. The prices fluctuated based on quality, quantity available, time of season, and dozens of other factors. Buyers represented wholesalers, retailers, and exporters from across Europe and beyond.

“Most of these tulips will be in shops across Europe within 24 hours,” Thomas said. “We have logistics systems that can get flowers from this auction hall to flower shops in Stockholm, Paris, or Munich before noon tomorrow. The supply chain is incredibly efficient.”

He took me through the sorting and processing areas, where workers graded tulips by quality—stem length, bud size, freedom from defects. Lower grades went to different markets—grocery stores versus florists versus high-end hotels. Nothing was wasted; even the lowest grades found buyers.

“The Netherlands exports over two billion tulips annually,” Thomas said. “Not just cut flowers, but bulbs for gardeners worldwide. It’s a one-billion-euro industry. And it all started because our sandy soil and mild climate happened to be perfect for growing bulbs, and our ancestors figured out how to do it profitably.”

North America: New World Adaptation

From the Netherlands, I traveled across the Atlantic to North America, where tulips have adapted to diverse climates and created their own traditions. While tulips aren’t native to the Americas, they’ve become deeply embedded in North American horticulture and culture.

Ottawa, Canada: The Capital’s Gift

I arrived in Ottawa in early May for the Canadian Tulip Festival, one of the world’s largest tulip celebrations. The festival has unique historical roots: during World War II, the Dutch royal family found refuge in Canada, and Princess Juliana gave birth to Princess Margriet in Ottawa. In gratitude, the Netherlands has sent 10,000 tulip bulbs to Ottawa every year since 1945.

The city was awash in color. Major’s Hill Park, Commissioner’s Park, and Dow’s Lake were planted with thousands of tulips—over 300,000 bulbs creating spectacular displays. Unlike the regimented rows of Dutch fields, these were planted in sweeping drifts and masses, integrated into the landscape.

I met Jean-Pierre, Ottawa’s tulip bed coordinator, who oversees the planting of all these bulbs each autumn. “It’s a massive logistical undertaking,” he said. “We have to plan the color schemes, calculate bloom times so everything peaks during the festival, order the bulbs, organize planting crews, deal with winter damage, handle spring maintenance. And we do it all knowing the entire display lasts only about two weeks.”

He explained the challenges of growing tulips in Ottawa’s climate, which is significantly harsher than the Netherlands. “Our winters are much colder—often -30°C. Most tulip varieties are hardy enough, but some tender types struggle. And our springs can be unpredictable. A late frost can damage emerging shoots. An early warm spell can cause premature blooming, before the festival.”

The festival draws over 500,000 visitors annually, providing significant economic benefits to Ottawa. But Jean-Pierre emphasized it was about more than tourism. “The tulips represent the friendship between Canada and the Netherlands,” he said. “Every spring, they remind us of that history, of how Canada provided safe harbor to the Dutch royal family. It’s a living memorial.”

We walked through the displays, where Canadian families strolled among the flowers, many stopping to read the informational signs explaining the festival’s history and the meanings of different tulip colors in Dutch culture. The atmosphere was festive but respectful, celebratory but mindful of the deeper significance.

Skagit Valley, Washington: American Fields

From Ottawa, I traveled west to Washington State’s Skagit Valley, where commercial tulip cultivation creates one of North America’s most spectacular spring displays. The valley, about an hour north of Seattle, has a climate remarkably similar to the Netherlands—mild, maritime, with rich alluvial soil perfect for bulb production.

I arrived during the Skagit Valley Tulip Festival, when a million tulips bloom across multiple farms. The largest, RoozenGaarde and Tulip Town, have become major tourist attractions, with display gardens open to the public alongside their commercial growing fields.

At RoozenGaarde, I met Bill, whose family emigrated from the Netherlands in the 1950s specifically to establish a bulb farm in the Skagit Valley. “My grandfather saw the potential here,” Bill told me. “The climate, the soil—it was like being back in Holland, but with more space, less competition. He started small, just a few acres. Now we farm over fifty hectares.”

The operation was similar to what I’d seen in the Netherlands but on a smaller scale and with more focus on the tourist experience. “We learned we couldn’t compete with Dutch efficiency in pure bulb production,” Bill explained. “The Dutch have centuries of optimization. But we could offer something they can’t—the experience of seeing tulips in this setting, with Mount Baker in the background, in a more relaxed atmosphere.”

The display gardens were beautifully designed, with tulips planted in flowing beds, pathways meandering through the flowers, benches positioned for optimal viewing. Unlike Keukenhof’s formal perfection, this felt more approachable, less intimidating.

“American garden culture is different from European,” Bill said. “We’re more casual, more about personal enjoyment than formal display. Our visitors want to walk among the flowers, touch them, photograph themselves with them. We design for that experience.”

He also showed me their commercial fields, where tulips grown for bulb production created the famous striped landscape visible from nearby Interstate 5. During peak bloom, traffic slowed on the highway as drivers gawked at the spectacle, sometimes causing accidents.

“It’s become a victim of its own success,” Bill admitted. “We get half a million visitors during the festival. The local infrastructure wasn’t built for that. Traffic is terrible, parking is impossible, and we’ve had issues with visitors trespassing into growing fields to take photos. We’re working on solutions, but it’s challenging to balance tourism with agricultural production.”

Holland, Michigan: Dutch Heritage

My next stop was Holland, Michigan, a city founded by Dutch immigrants in 1847 that has maintained strong connections to its heritage, including a passionate embrace of tulips. Every May, the city hosts the Tulip Time Festival, featuring millions of tulips, traditional Dutch dancing, parades, and cultural celebrations.

The festival began in 1929, initiated by a biology teacher named Lida Rogers who proposed importing tulip bulbs from the Netherlands to beautify the city. What started as a small local celebration has grown into one of America’s largest and oldest tulip festivals.

I met Gwen, the festival director, who showed me around the city during preparation week. Workers were planting thousands of last-minute tulips, setting up stages and vendor areas, and preparing for the expected 250,000 visitors. “Tulip Time is identity for Holland, Michigan,” Gwen said. “It connects us to our Dutch roots, it’s an economic driver, and it’s simply beautiful. The entire community comes together to make it happen.”

We visited Windmill Island Gardens, home to an authentic 250-year-old Dutch windmill imported from the Netherlands, surrounded by over 100,000 tulips. The combination of windmill and tulips created a scene that could have been transported directly from the Netherlands—except for the American flags and the views of Lake Macatawa in the distance.

“We work with Dutch bulb suppliers to import varieties not commonly available in American garden centers,” Gwen explained. “We want unusual colors, unique forms, varieties that make people stop and say ‘I’ve never seen that before.’ It differentiates us from other tulip festivals.”

The festival also included traditional Dutch elements: klompen (wooden shoe) dancing, street scrubbing ceremonies, Dutch costumes, and vendors selling stroopwafels and poffertjes. For many Dutch-American residents, it was a way of connecting with their heritage while sharing it with the broader community.

“Tulips are more than just flowers here,” said Dirk, a local resident whose family had been in Holland since the original immigration. “They’re a symbol of who we are, where we came from, the hardships our ancestors overcame to build new lives here. Every spring when they bloom, we remember that story.”

New York Botanical Garden: Cultivar Collections

My final North American stop brought me to the New York Botanical Garden in the Bronx, which maintains one of the world’s most comprehensive tulip cultivar collections. Unlike the mass displays of festivals, this collection focuses on preservation, education, and showcasing tulip diversity.

Curator Dr. Francisco led me through the spring display, where hundreds of varieties were planted in carefully labeled beds. “We’re trying to preserve tulip history,” he explained. “Many older varieties have been lost as fashion changes and growers discontinue them. We’re collecting and growing historical cultivars, creating a living library of tulip diversity.”

He showed me sections devoted to different tulip classes: Single Early and Double Early tulips, developed for forcing and early gardens; Triumph tulips, the most popular class for commercial production; Darwin hybrid tulips, known for their large flowers and bright colors; Parrot tulips, with their frilled and twisted petals; Viridiflora tulips, featuring green stripes in the petals; and Species tulips, the wild forms and their close derivatives.

“Most people only know a few tulip types,” Dr. Francisco said. “They see what’s in garden centers—usually Triumph or Darwin hybrids in standard colors. But there’s so much more diversity. There are tulips that bloom in March, others that bloom in May. There are tulips six inches tall and others three feet tall. There are tulips that multiply readily and others that barely reproduce at all.”

We spent hours walking the beds as he shared knowledge accumulated over decades. He pointed out ‘Queen of Night’, a deep maroon tulip so dark it appeared almost black; ‘Spring Green’, a white viridiflora with green flames; ‘Apricot Parrot’, with its extraordinarily frilled petals in shades of salmon and green; and various species tulips, including Tulipa tarda, a small yellow and white species that multiplies enthusiastically.

“Species tulips are important for home gardeners,” Dr. Francisco explained. “Most modern hybrid tulips don’t perennialize well—they bloom beautifully the first spring, then dwindle. But many species tulips and their derivatives will naturalize, coming back year after year, even multiplying. They’re true perennials, not the disposable annuals most tulips have become.”

He also discussed the challenges of tulip preservation. “Tulips must be grown to be preserved—you can’t store them long-term as seeds like many plants. Bulbs must be dug, stored properly, and replanted regularly. It’s labor-intensive. And if we lose a variety—if the bulbs succumb to disease or adverse weather—it’s gone forever unless someone else is also maintaining it.”

The collection served multiple purposes: education for the public, preservation of genetic diversity, and research into tulip cultivation in urban conditions. “Cities are getting hotter due to climate change,” Dr. Francisco noted. “We need to understand which tulips will tolerate these conditions, which won’t. This collection helps us answer those questions.”

China: The Asian Market

From North America, I returned to Asia, this time traveling to China, where tulips have become increasingly popular in recent decades despite no native tulip presence or historical tradition. The Chinese market for tulips—both cut flowers and bulbs—has grown exponentially, creating new opportunities and challenges.

Beijing: Spring Displays

I arrived in Beijing in April for the city’s tulip festival at Zhongshan Park, adjacent to the Forbidden City. Hundreds of thousands of tulips were planted in elaborate displays, drawing enormous crowds of Chinese tourists eager to photograph the flowers.

The scene was distinctly Chinese—families posing for elaborate photo shoots with the tulips, professional photographers with extensive equipment capturing every angle, vendors selling tulip-themed souvenirs, and a general atmosphere of enthusiastic celebration entirely different from the more subdued European or North American tulip festivals I’d visited.

I met Li Wei, a landscape architect responsible for designing the Zhongshan Park display. “Tulips are still relatively new in Chinese culture,” he explained. “We don’t have the historical associations that Europeans and Middle Easterners have. For us, they’re exotic, foreign, representing modernity and connection to the outside world.”

He described the challenges of growing tulips in Beijing’s climate, which is harsher than ideal tulip conditions. “Our winters are very cold, which is fine—tulips need cold. But our springs are dry and dusty, and our summers are hot and humid. Tulips evolved in areas with cool, wet springs and dry summers. We have to work against the climate.”

The solution involved treating tulips essentially as annuals—importing pre-chilled bulbs from the Netherlands, forcing them in greenhouses for precise timing, planting them out just before bloom, then discarding them after flowering. “It’s not sustainable or economical for home gardeners,” Li Wei admitted. “But for public displays, for the impact we create, it’s worthwhile.”

We discussed Chinese aesthetic preferences. “Chinese gardeners like bright colors, dramatic displays, novelty,” he said. “The subtle pastels popular in Europe don’t excite Chinese audiences as much. We plant more reds, more yellows, more bicolors. We create patterns—flowers arranged to form characters or images. It’s a different aesthetic tradition.”

Shanghai: Commercial Production

In the outskirts of Shanghai, I visited one of China’s growing number of domestic tulip production facilities. While the Netherlands still dominates global bulb production, Chinese growers are developing their own capacity, both to serve the domestic market and potentially to compete internationally.

The facility, run by a Dutch-Chinese partnership, was attempting to adapt Dutch tulip production methods to Chinese conditions. Manager Zhang showed me around greenhouses filled with tulips in various growth stages, from newly planted bulbs to plants ready for forcing.

“We’re learning,” Zhang said frankly. “The Dutch have centuries of experience we don’t have. But we have advantages too—lower labor costs, proximity to the huge Chinese market, government support for agricultural development. We’re investing heavily in training, in technology, in understanding what works here versus in the Netherlands.”

The operation faced significant challenges. Disease pressure was higher in China’s humid climate. Local soil had to be heavily amended to create the well-drained, sandy conditions tulips prefer. The summer heat was intense, requiring expensive climate-controlled storage for bulbs during dormancy.

“Right now, we can’t compete with Dutch bulbs on price or quality,” Zhang admitted. “But we’re improving every year. And there are varieties bred specifically for Asian climates that perform better here than European varieties. We’re working with breeders to develop tulips adapted to Chinese conditions.”

He showed me experimental plots where different varieties were being trialed. Some showed promise—strong growth, good flowering, reasonable disease resistance. Others struggled, their foliage yellowing prematurely or flowers failing to develop properly.

“Tulips aren’t native here, so we’re essentially forcing them to grow in conditions they didn’t evolve for,” Zhang explained. “But humans have been doing that with plants for thousands of years. With time, selection, and breeding, we’ll develop tulips that thrive in China. It just takes patience and investment.”

Kunming: The Eternal Spring City

From Shanghai, I traveled southwest to Kunming, capital of Yunnan Province, known as the “City of Eternal Spring” for its year-round mild climate. Kunming has become China’s flower-growing center, and tulips are part of that industry, though they face different challenges here than in Shanghai or Beijing.

I visited a large commercial operation growing tulips for cut flower production. Unlike bulb farms in the Netherlands or Washington State, this facility focused entirely on producing cut stems for the Chinese and Asian markets, with no interest in selling bulbs.

“We import bulbs from the Netherlands, force them in controlled environments, harvest the flowers, and dispose of the bulbs,” explained the operations manager, Chen. “It’s not sustainable from an agricultural perspective, but economically it makes sense. Tulip cut flowers command high prices in Chinese cities, especially during Chinese New Year when red tulips are particularly popular.”

The facility was enormous—acres of greenhouses where tulips were grown in precise conditions, their bloom times staggered to ensure year-round production. Cooling systems simulated winter cold, lighting systems extended or shortened days to manipulate flowering, and climate control maintained optimal temperatures.

“In Kunming’s mild climate, we can produce tulips any time of year,” Chen said. “We’re not limited to spring like growers in seasonal climates. That gives us a competitive advantage. While Dutch growers are dormant in summer, we’re producing tulips for the Asian market.”

The cut flowers were stunning—long-stemmed, perfectly formed, in every color imaginable. Workers harvested them at the “pencil stage,” when buds were colored but not yet open, packed them in boxes, and shipped them to major Chinese cities, where they’d arrive within 24 hours.

“The Chinese cut flower market is growing rapidly,” Chen said. “Rising incomes mean more people can afford flowers. Weddings, corporate events, home decoration—demand keeps increasing. Tulips are especially popular because they’re associated with European elegance and sophistication.”

He acknowledged the environmental concerns. “Importing millions of bulbs annually, using them once, and disposing of them isn’t ideal. We’re exploring whether it’s possible to grow bulbs domestically, or to regenerate used bulbs for a second year of forcing. So far, the economics don’t work—Dutch bulbs are cheap enough that it’s not worth the effort to reuse them. But as environmental awareness grows, that may change.”

The Middle East: Desert Tulips

My journey took an unexpected turn when I received an invitation to visit tulip projects in the United Arab Emirates and Israel—places where tulips would seem impossibly difficult to grow, yet where dedicated horticulturists were making it happen.

Dubai: Engineering the Impossible

I arrived in Dubai in January, when the extreme summer heat had subsided into pleasant winter warmth. At the Dubai Miracle Garden, I found what might be the world’s most unlikely tulip display—millions of bulbs blooming in the middle of the Arabian Desert.

The garden’s director, Mohammed, explained the extraordinary measures required to grow tulips in this environment. “Everything is engineered,” he said, gesturing at the vast displays. “The soil is imported. The water is desalinated seawater. The bulbs are pre-chilled in the Netherlands before shipping. We plant in late November, they bloom in January and February during our coolest months, and by March when heat returns, they’re gone.”

The scale was staggering—over a million tulips in elaborate designs, including a full-scale Emirates A380 airplane covered entirely in fresh flowers, tulip hearts, peacocks, and various structures all created from blooming plants. “We’re not limited by tradition or conventional thinking here,” Mohammed said with evident pride. “We ask ‘What’s possible?’ and then we engineer solutions.”

Those solutions were expensive. Enormous quantities of water—precious in the desert—kept the tulips alive. Climate-controlled storage facilities held bulbs awaiting planting. Workers monitored soil moisture, temperature, and plant health constantly. The entire display was essentially disposable, lasting only a few months before being removed and replaced with heat-tolerant plants for summer.

“Critics say it’s wasteful, environmentally irresponsible,” Mohammed acknowledged. “And they have a point. But Dubai is about pushing boundaries, showing what human ingenuity can achieve. These tulips prove that with enough resources and determination, you can grow anything anywhere. Whether you should is a different question.”

The visitors—mostly tourists and Dubai residents—seemed enchanted rather than concerned about environmental implications. They posed for countless photos, marveling at seeing tulips in such an unlikely setting, the flowers brilliant against the desert landscape and modern skyline.

Israel: Mediterranean Adaptation

From Dubai’s engineered excess, I traveled to Israel, where a more modest but perhaps more sustainable approach to tulips in challenging climates was being developed. In the hills near Jerusalem, I visited a research station where scientists were working to adapt tulip cultivation to Mediterranean conditions.

Dr. Sarah Goldberg, the project lead, explained their goal. “We’re not trying to create massive commercial production,” she said. “Israel will never compete with the Netherlands in bulb farming. But we want Israelis to be able to grow tulips in their gardens, to enjoy these flowers without enormous expense or environmental impact.”

The challenge was Israel’s climate—hot, dry summers and mild, wet winters, essentially the opposite of what tulips prefer. “Tulips evolved in areas with cold, wet winters and hot, dry summers,” Dr. Goldberg explained. “Israel has warm, wet winters and hot, dry summers. The timing is backwards.”

Her team was testing various approaches: selecting varieties with lower chilling requirements, trying species tulips from warmer parts of their native range, experimenting with artificial chilling and carefully timed planting, and even attempting to breed new varieties specifically adapted to Mediterranean climates.

“Some species tulips show promise,” she said, walking me through trial plots where various tulips were being evaluated. “Tulipa agenensis, which is native to this region, obviously does fine. Tulipa systola from Iran handles our conditions reasonably well. Some of the Central Asian species that evolved in areas with hot summers seem adaptable.”

The results were mixed but encouraging. While the plants didn’t achieve the massive blooms and perfect form of Dutch hybrids grown in ideal conditions, they survived, bloomed, and showed potential for improvement through selection.

“We’re also educating home gardeners about realistic expectations,” Dr. Goldberg said. “If you want Dutch hybrid tulips in Israel, you need to treat them as annuals—plant pre-chilled bulbs each winter, enjoy the bloom, then replace them. But if you want perennial tulips that return each year, you should choose species tulips or varieties bred for warm climates, and accept that they’ll be smaller and less spectacular than catalog photos.”

She showed me a demonstration garden where various tulip types were planted alongside informational signs explaining their care requirements and limitations. “Gardening is about working with your environment, not against it,” Dr. Goldberg said. “Tulips can have a place in Israeli gardens, but we need to choose the right tulips and have appropriate expectations.”

Japan: Eastern Aesthetic

From the Middle East, I traveled to Japan, where tulips have become surprisingly popular despite no historical connection to Japanese culture. The Japanese approach to tulips reflects their broader aesthetic sensibilities—meticulous attention to detail, appreciation for transient beauty, and a willingness to embrace and adapt foreign elements.

Toyama Prefecture: Tonami Tulip Fair

I arrived in Tonami, a city in Toyama Prefecture on Japan’s west coast, for the annual Tulip Fair held each spring. Toyama produces the majority of Japan’s domestically grown tulip bulbs, and Tonami is the center of that production.

The fair showcased over 3 million tulips in elaborate displays that reflected Japanese design sensibilities. Unlike the sweeping drifts and naturalistic plantings common in the West, these were precise, almost architectural arrangements—tulips planted in perfect grids, color-blocked into geometric patterns, combined with carefully pruned shrubs and precisely placed stones.

I met Tanaka-san, a third-generation tulip farmer whose family began growing tulips after World War II. “The Dutch taught us,” he explained as we toured his farm. “After the war, Japan needed to rebuild its agriculture. The government invited Dutch bulb experts to teach Japanese farmers tulip cultivation. My grandfather was one of the first to learn.”

The Japanese bulb industry remained small compared to the Netherlands, focused primarily on domestic consumption. “We can’t compete with Dutch efficiency or scale,” Tanaka-san said. “But Japanese consumers prefer domestic products when possible. They trust the quality, they want to support local agriculture. So we maintain a niche.”

He showed me his growing fields—smaller and more meticulously maintained than Dutch farms, with hand labor still common for many tasks that would be mechanized in the Netherlands. “Japanese farming is often about quality over quantity,” he explained. “We grow fewer bulbs, but each one is carefully tended. Our customers appreciate that attention.”

The variety selection reflected Japanese preferences. “Japanese gardeners like unusual forms and colors,” Tanaka-san said. “Parrot tulips are very popular here—those frilled, twisted petals appeal to Japanese aesthetic sensibilities. Viridiflora tulips with green streaks are also favored. Simple single colors less so.”

He also grew tulips specifically for forcing in pots, a huge market in Japan. “Many Japanese live in apartments without gardens,” he explained. “Potted tulips let them enjoy flowers indoors. We select compact varieties, prepare bulbs specifically for forcing, and provide detailed care instructions. It’s a different market segment than garden bulbs.”

Tokyo: Urban Integration

In Tokyo, I discovered how tulips had been integrated into urban landscapes in distinctly Japanese ways. At the Imperial Palace East Gardens, tulips were planted in formal beds, their rigid upright form complementing the garden’s structured design. At Showa Kinen Park in western Tokyo, over 230,000 tulips created more naturalistic displays in the park’s enormous grounds.

I met with landscape architect Yamamoto-san, who had designed several of Tokyo’s major tulip displays. “Tulips fit Japanese aesthetic preferences,” she explained. “They bloom briefly, reminding us of mono no aware—the awareness of impermanence, the beauty of transient things. Like cherry blossoms, tulips teach us to appreciate the moment, knowing it will pass.”

She described her design philosophy for tulip plantings. “I avoid randomness,” she said. “Western gardeners often plant tulips in casual drifts, trying to mimic how they might grow naturally. But tulips don’t grow naturally in Japan—they’re completely foreign. I embrace that foreignness, planting them in deliberate patterns that acknowledge their artificiality.”

Her designs featured strong color blocking, repetition of forms, and integration with architectural elements. “Tulips are sculptural plants,” she said. “That upright stem, that perfect chalice flower—they’re almost architectural themselves. I design with that in mind, creating compositions where the flowers’ geometry relates to surrounding structures.”

We discussed the challenge of tulips’ brief bloom period in urban landscapes. “Public gardens need to look good for months, not just the two weeks tulips bloom,” Yamamoto-san said. “So we design layered plantings—bulbs beneath deciduous shrubs that leaf out as the tulips fade, companion plants that emerge and hide the declining tulip foliage, succession planting with later-blooming bulbs. The goal is seamless transition.”

Sakura and Tulips: Competing Beauties

An interesting aspect of tulips in Japan is their relationship to cherry blossoms—the nation’s most beloved flower. In most of Japan, tulips bloom slightly after cherries, creating a second wave of spring color just as the sakura petals fall.

“For traditional Japanese, cherries are supreme,” explained cultural historian Professor Nakamura, whom I met in Kyoto. “They represent everything we value—transient beauty, renewal, connection to seasons and nature. Tulips are foreign, new, without that deep cultural resonance.”

Yet tulips have found their place. “Younger Japanese are more open to foreign influences,” Professor Nakamura continued. “They see tulips as exotic, elegant, sophisticated. Tulips represent connection to European culture, to globalization, to modernity. For many young people, tulips are actually more appealing than traditional Japanese flowers precisely because they’re different.”

This generational divide was evident at the various gardens I visited. Older visitors congregated around Japanese maple trees and traditional plantings, while younger crowds photographed tulip displays extensively, often in elaborate poses clearly intended for social media.

“Japan has always been good at adopting foreign elements and making them Japanese,” Professor Nakamura said. “We did it with Buddhism, with tea, with so many cultural practices from China and elsewhere. We’re doing it now with tulips. In another generation or two, they may feel as Japanese as anything else.”

Australia and New Zealand: Southern Hemisphere Challenges

My journey’s final chapter took me to the Southern Hemisphere, where growing tulips requires overcoming not just climatic challenges but the fundamental problem of reversed seasons. Tulips need cold winter dormancy to bloom properly, but in Australia and New Zealand, winter comes when bulb suppliers in the Northern Hemisphere are actively growing, not shipping dormant bulbs.

New Zealand: South Island Solutions

I began in New Zealand’s South Island, where the climate in regions like Canterbury and Central Otago more closely resembles tulip-friendly conditions than most of Australia. Cold winters and cool springs create possibilities, though challenges remain.

At a bulb farm near Christchurch, I met James, who grows tulips commercially for both the cut flower trade and home garden sales. “We have to work backwards from Northern Hemisphere suppliers,” he explained. “We need bulbs in autumn—March, April—for winter chilling and spring bloom. But Dutch growers are busy with their own season then. We have to order far in advance and pay for special handling.”

The solution involved refrigerated shipping, careful timing, and accepting higher costs. “New Zealand tulip bulbs cost more than in Europe or North America because of logistics,” James said. “But New Zealand gardeners are willing to pay for quality local products.”

He’d also begun propagating some varieties locally, harvesting bulbs after flowering, storing them through summer heat, and replanting in autumn. “It’s labor-intensive and we lose some bulbs to summer heat,” he admitted. “But for popular varieties, it makes economic sense to reduce dependence on imports.”

We toured his display garden, where he trialed new varieties for New Zealand conditions. “Not all Dutch varieties work here,” James explained. “Some need longer or deeper cold than we reliably get. Others break dormancy too early and get damaged by late frosts. We’re learning which varieties are reliable for South Island conditions.”

The most successful were Darwin hybrids and Species tulips—both relatively cold-hardy and adaptable. “Ironically, the most modern, highly bred tulips often perform worst,” James said. “They’re optimized for Dutch conditions and don’t adapt well. Older varieties and species tulips are often more forgiving.”

Melbourne: Botanical Garden Innovation

Flying to Australia, I visited the Royal Botanic Gardens Melbourne, where horticulturists had developed innovative techniques for displaying tulips in one of the world’s most challenging climates for these bulbs.

“Melbourne is terrible for tulips,” head horticulturist Alison told me bluntly. “Hot summers, warm winters, unpredictable spring weather. Everything tulips hate. But Melburnians love tulips, and the Gardens needed to showcase them. So we developed workarounds.”

The solution involved treating tulips essentially as annual bedding plants, but with scientific precision. Bulbs were imported from Tasmania—Australia’s coldest state, where bulb production is possible—pre-chilled in specialized refrigerated facilities to simulate winter, planted in late winter, and enjoyed for a brief spring display before being removed.

“We plant about 50,000 bulbs annually,” Alison said. “It’s expensive and labor-intensive. But the public response is enormous. People come specifically to see the tulips. For many Melburnians, especially immigrants from Europe and North America, tulips are nostalgic, reminding them of home.”

She showed me the planning that went into the displays—detailed maps showing variety placement, bloom time calculations, color theory applications, integration with existing permanent plantings. “We get one shot at this,” Alison said. “Unlike perennials that we can adjust year to year, once these tulips are planted, that’s it. They bloom, we enjoy them for two or three weeks, then they’re done. So the design has to be perfect from the start.”

Environmental concerns bothered her. “The carbon footprint of importing thousands of bulbs, chilling them artificially, treating them as disposables—it’s not sustainable,” she admitted. “We’re exploring alternatives. Maybe focusing on species tulips that might perennialize in Melbourne’s climate. Maybe reducing the scale. Maybe supplementing with native Australian bulbs that provide similar visual impact without the environmental cost.”

Tasmania: Australian Bulb Production

My final stop was Tasmania, Australia’s island state, where cold winters and cool summers create the only Australian climate suitable for commercial bulb production. The Bloomin’ Tulips festival in Wynyard showcases Tasmania’s small but growing bulb industry.

I met Rob Ellis at his farm in Table Cape, where he grows tulips for both cut flowers and bulb sales. “Tasmania is Australia’s answer to the Netherlands,” Rob said with perhaps slight exaggeration. “We have the climate for it—cold enough winters, cool enough springs, and our isolation means fewer disease problems.”

The scale was modest compared to Dutch or even New Zealand operations, but the quality was impressive. Rob’s tulips were exhibition-quality, with strong stems, large flowers, and intense colors. “We can’t compete on volume or price with imports,” he said. “But we can offer Australian-grown products, fresher bulbs with shorter supply chains, and varieties selected specifically for Australian conditions.”

He was particularly excited about developing an Australian tulip breeding program. “Right now, every variety we grow originated elsewhere,” Rob explained. “But what if we bred tulips specifically for Australian conditions? Selected for heat tolerance, lower chilling requirements, resistance to our specific diseases and pests? It would take decades, but it could create varieties that transform tulip growing in Australia.”

He showed me his experimental crosses—a small-scale operation compared to Dutch breeding programs, but a start. “I’m selecting parents that show heat tolerance, that break dormancy reliably with modest chilling, that have survived several years in Tasmanian conditions,” he said. “The first seedlings are just flowering now. Most will be discarded, but maybe one or two will have potential.”

We discussed the economics. “Tulip breeding is a long-term investment with uncertain returns,” Rob admitted. “But someone has to start. If we wait for Dutch breeders to develop varieties for Australian conditions, we’ll wait forever—our market is too small to interest them. So we do it ourselves, slowly, learning as we go.”

Reflections: The Universal Tulip

Standing in Rob’s Tasmanian field, watching him evaluate seedlings that might become the first Australian-bred tulip varieties, I reflected on the extraordinary journey these flowers have made. From Central Asian mountains where they evolved over millions of years, tulips spread across continents, became objects of obsession and commerce, triggered economic manias, inspired artists and poets, and adapted to climates and cultures far removed from their origins.

What makes tulips so universally appealing? Their beauty is undeniable—that perfect chalice form, the luminous colors, the smooth petals that seem almost artificial in their perfection. But many flowers are beautiful. Tulips offer something more: versatility, reliability, and timing.

Tulips bloom in spring, when humans everywhere are hungry for color after winter’s drabness. They’re among the first bold colors of the new season, heralding renewal and possibility. Their upright form stands out in the landscape—they demand attention rather than waiting to be discovered. And they perform reliably, blooming almost without fail if given minimal care, rewarding even novice gardeners with spectacular results.

Economically, tulips became the perfect commodity. Bulbs are durable, surviving months of storage and shipping. They’re easily multiplied through vegetative propagation, allowing valuable varieties to be reproduced identically. They store concentrated energy, enabling flowers to bloom with minimal resources after planting. And their breeding responds readily to human selection, producing endless variation while maintaining reliable performance.

Culturally, tulips carry different meanings in different places. In Turkey and Iran, they represent paradise, divine beauty, perfect love. In the Netherlands, they symbolize national identity, commercial success, the triumph of human ingenuity over nature. In North America, they signal spring’s arrival, suburban prosperity, connection to European heritage. In Asia, they represent modernity, sophistication, global connection. The same flower, countless meanings, each shaped by local history and values.

Yet in every culture I visited, certain themes recurred. Tulips represent hope—the hope that spring brings, the hope that investing time and effort in planting will be rewarded with beauty. They represent aspiration—the desire to possess something beautiful, to create something lovely, to participate in aesthetic experiences. And they represent connection—to nature’s rhythms, to cultural traditions, to global networks of commerce and exchange.

I also witnessed the challenges facing tulips and those who grow them. Climate change is disrupting traditional growing regions, making cultivation more difficult in some areas while potentially opening possibilities in others. The environmental cost of treating tulips as disposable annuals—common in warmer climates—raises sustainability questions. The concentration of production in the Netherlands creates supply chain vulnerabilities. The loss of genetic diversity as commercial production focuses on a narrow range of popular varieties threatens future adaptability.

Yet the tulip industry and community are adapting. Breeders are developing varieties for changing conditions. Conservation efforts are protecting wild species. Researchers are finding more sustainable cultivation methods. And passionate individuals worldwide are maintaining diverse collections, preserving genetic resources and historical varieties that may prove valuable in unpredictable futures.

The people I met on this journey—from Professor Yilmaz protecting wild tulips in Turkey to Rob Ellis breeding new varieties in Tasmania, from commercial growers in the Netherlands to festival organizers in Ottawa to researchers in Israel—all shared a fundamental love for these flowers. They recognized tulips’ commercial value, but they also appreciated their beauty for its own sake, their connection to history and culture, their ability to bring joy.

Tulips teach us about globalization—how living things move around the world, adapting to new environments, creating new meanings, generating new economies. They show us how nature and culture intertwine—how wild species become cultivated varieties, how flowers become commodities, how beauty becomes commerce without losing its power to move us.

They also teach us about patience and cycles. Tulips cannot be rushed. They require cold dormancy, proper timing, respect for their needs. They bloom spectacularly but briefly, reminding us that the most beautiful moments are often fleeting. They return year after year (or fail to, teaching different lessons), marking time’s passage, connecting us to seasonal rhythms often forgotten in modern life.

As I concluded my journey, I carried with me not just knowledge about tulip cultivation and history, but a deeper appreciation for how flowers shape human experience. Tulips have triggered economic manias, inspired masterpiece paintings, created entire industries, connected distant cultures, and brought simple joy to countless gardens. They’ve shown humanity’s capacity for obsession, our drive to possess and control beauty, and also our willingness to devote enormous effort to creating and preserving things valued purely for their loveliness.

In a Kazakh meadow filled with wild Tulipa greigii, in a Dutch field striped with commercial plantings, in an Ottawa park celebrating international friendship, in a Tokyo garden where careful design showcased each bloom, in a Tasmanian farm where one man pursued a decades-long dream—in all these places, tulips connected me to something fundamental about human nature. We need beauty. We create it, cultivate it, preserve it, share it, sometimes commodify it, but ultimately value it for reasons beyond utility or profit.

The tulip’s journey from wild flower to global phenomenon mirrors our own evolution from local to global, from traditional to modern, from isolated to connected. These flowers remind us where we’ve been, show us where we are, and hint at where we might be going. And each spring, when they bloom again, they offer the same promise they’ve offered for millions of years in mountain meadows and for centuries in human gardens: that beauty persists, that renewal is possible, that hope is justified.

The world of tulips is vast—encompassing wild species on remote mountainsides, research laboratories pursuing genetic secrets, commercial operations growing millions of bulbs, botanical gardens preserving diversity, home gardens where individual bulbs are planted with care, and everywhere people who find in these flowers something worth their time, attention, and love. My journey revealed that world’s breadth and depth, but also its unity—a global community connected by shared appreciation for these remarkable flowers, working in their various ways to ensure tulips continue to bloom, continue to delight, continue to connect us to nature, beauty, and each other.