driving in france

Gilli told me about a time she drove to Nice.   She drove around Nice for two hours looking for a parking place where she wouldn’t have to put the car in reverse, didn’t find one and drove back home.    Makes perfect sense to me.

I can’t think of one time I’ve driven in France when I didn’t want to turn around and go back home.   Unfortunately, I’m usually unable to because I often find myself on really narrow one-lane roads that require putting the car into reverse,  Often a cliff is involved.

The ubiquitous manual transmission

Most of the cars here have manual transmissions.   Many car rental places don’t even offer automatic transmissions and if they do, you will pay dearly for one.   But as I have learned, if you share my fear of stick shifts, you’ll also pay dearly without one.

Even though I learned to drive a manual transmission and I understand the concept, when I try to put it into action, my brain gets all flustery.    I swear I lose about 70% of my IQ focusing on my hand to brain to foot coordination.   If I’m driving the car correctly, chances are, I’m using all available brain cells and I won’t be able to answer a relatively simple question that I can normally answer in a heartbeat ( like ‘what do they call that thing over there?’ Answer:   a stop sign)

this is what the French consider an intermediate sized car

Apparently many French people have the same sense of panic when forced to drive an automatic transmission.   I’m told they are at a total loss as to what to do with their hands and spare foot.   Stupid French people!

Transportation, not lodging

Unlike cars in the US, French cars are not designed to provide all the comforts of home.  Cars are smaller in France.   And for good reason….so are the roads.    Some of the cars are so small, you couldn’t live in them unless you were permanently wedged into the fetal position (or amputated your legs, which would make shifting gears even more difficult).

Get off my ass, Frenchie!!!!

In France, if you are not driving above the speed limit, chances are you’ll be enjoying a steady view of french drivers in close detail in your rear view mirror.   Even if you’re on a roadway with lanes and they can easily pass you, they’ll be there.    I’m told it’s not an act of aggression.   They’re not in a hurry or trying to push you off the road.   It’s just the way they drive.   Good to know, but I wish they’d stop.

Road laissez faire

So far, the only road rage I’ve encountered in France has been my own.   The French are actually fairly mellow drivers.   I’ve often checked my rear view mirror to see if the drivers behind me are cursing me, flipping me off or calling the police.   I rarely see expressions of impatience or rage and in the rare instances it usually turns out the driver is from Belgium.

I’ve done things that I’d be shot for on a California road and I don’t even get the finger here in France.   Maybe a quick honk..   But they seem to take all delays in stride. Which I guess is easier to do when you have four hour lunch breaks.

The beauty and splendor of hazard lights

The first thing the car rental personal always shows me when I start the car for the first time and it immediately shudders to a stop is where the hazard light is.  They’re a godsend.  When I stall, I turn the hazard light on so the people waiting behind me will assume the problem is my car instead of me.   It takes a little bit of the pressure off.

Roundabouts

These little arteries are the most mortifying thing about driving in Europe.

Not only do you have to downshift and yield, you have to read the signs in order to get on the right road, because once you’re on the wrong road, god knows when you’ll be able to get off.   You may wind up in Bratislavia before you find a graceful exit.

The only way to survive the roundabout is to stay calm and try to ignore the fact that there are other drivers on the road.   Go around as many times as you need to even if it takes all day.   Relax and remember that the worst thing that can happen (besides a fatal collision with a truck) is you’ll take the wrong road.   And you can always pull a u turn and double back from Bratislavia.

Toll roads

Oh how I love the toll roadways of France!   There are several lanes, they’re smooth and well kept and you hardly have to shift!   Unfortunately, they had to go and ruin it with frequent toll booths that force one to down shift, stop, manuever through little gates, take tickets, pay and do more shifting.

The pay booths are particularly difficult because I don’t understand the signs indicating which lanes you want to be in for your payment option.   You can pay with coins, you can pay a person and you can use a credit card.

There are icons over each toll booth lane indicating whether there’s a human or machine to take your payment.   Don’t worry if you wind up in the wrong lane.   If you stall in an unmanned tollbooth while searching frantically for the correct change, eventually someone will come out and help you.   Don’t expect them to speak English though.

A note about horrid little medieval villages

Who doesn’t love a charming medieval village?   Well, that’s how I refereded to them before I had to drive through a few.   Avoid them at all costs.   Sure, St Paul de Vence is lovely, Antibes totally rocks as do Les Arcs, Les Baux and Arles.   But don’t go there, unless you park well outside the city limits In a spot with lots of space.   Like the Sahara desert

You can always see nice pictures of those villages in books or online.

dubrovnik. heaven on earth, 18 hours a day

When you’re driving into Dubrovnik, you don’t see it coming. Even when you cross the modern, soaring bridge that looks like wishbones, you’re still wondering “where’s Dubrovnik?  Then you drive around a few more curves, take the Dubrovnik exit, look down the windy road, and gasp.    It’s a huge walled city/fortress built on top of cliffs and rocks overlooking the Adriatic. Everything around it is a jewel toned–the lush green suburb dotted by colorful flowers, the sparkling azure Adriatic..

In fact,  the only thing ugly in Dubrovnik is my mood.

katherine rolling eyes at us under photo of man rolling eyes

It’s about 8:00 PM and we’re about three hours later than our scheduled arrival time.

My dad is checking in to the hotel but there seems to be a problem.  But when I ask what the problem is, my dad screams across the lobby (even though I’m only two feet away) for me to” shut up and fetch his goddamn glasses from the car!”. How rude. How disrespectful. How crass. I scream some shrill obscenity back at him, but try to do so tastefully.

After dropping my bag in our room in the scullery maid’s quarters, I storm the old city gates (the Hilton is conveniently located just outside the Pile gate) and head for the nearest ice cream stand. Like any good bartender, the ice cream guy tries to distract me from my problems. He flips my scoop of forest berry into the air and catches it on my cone. I regress about 40 years and giggle in appreciation of his skill.

My cone and I stroll the Stradum, a wide main promenade of shiny marble slabs that gleam like ice. We look in store windows. We get kicked out of europe’s oldest pharmacy (they don’t allow cones, which I consider racist in this day and age). We climb the tiny sidestreets leading up hills to a series of outlooks that are just slightly different from the last one, but all worth seeing.

We pass a wall and a gate, taking us to Dubrovnik’s small stone harbor. I didn’t notice at the time a hulking beheomoth cruise ship lying quietly in wait to devour Dubrovnik tomorrow morning before scuttling off to Venice for her next meal.

The next morning I make peace with the family over breakfast at 8:30, hit the old city by 9:00, by 9:30 I have a brand new tee shirt and a pistachio ice cream cone and all is right with the world..

Then the crowds start pouring in and I get a chance to see the ugly side of Dubrovnik. Between the hours of 10AM – 4PM, the jewel of the Adriatic becomes the jewelry store of     the Adriatic.

Hundreds of cranky men of various nationalities line the Stradum, waiting impatiently outside jewelry stores for their wives. The theme is so prevalent, I start filming them. While capturing one such cranky man in front of a jewelry store. He looks at his watch, “tsks” and glares inside the jewelry shop. Then he makes a threatening gesture in the window and starts to walk away. It isn’t until he stops and storms back that I realize I’m filming my Dad.

After he destroys the video tape, We manage to drag mom out of Richard’s jewelry boutique #3 in Dubrovnik for a refreshing beverage and snack. But we lose her again at Trinity Jewelers and just hope she knows where to return when it’s time to leave Dubrovnik.

It’s hard to believe that 15 years ago the Yugoslavian army left this place in ruins. It’s only from the wall I can see the only visible effects of the war. The predominantly, redder colored rooftops indicate where reconstruction was needed.

The hour and a half walk around the wall also provides eight million of Dubrovnik’s finest views and is best in the morning or late afternoon when the sun isn’t raging. You’ll get an inside look at 1200 years of history as well as a peek at modern peoples’ kitchens and backyards. Someone even has a little orchard growing on the rooftops of Dubrovnik.

cavtat

cocktails on the rocks

 

I also recommend walking through t

he old town early in the morning or late at night when you can hear your footsteps echo; A 40 minute boat ride to the town of Cavtat during the 10-4 Dubrovnik tourist hours, Have lunch on the harbor; Back in Dubrovnik, Have a drink on the cliff rocks on the outside of the Dubrovnik walls facing the sea in the afternoon.

Dubrovnik is a testament to forgetting the past and moving forward. They’ve survived foreign invasions that are hard to imagine. And yet here she is, a beacon on the Adriatic, glowing with the hope that no matter what destruction may befall us, pleasure and beauty can always endure. Sure, there are still grim reminders from past onslaughts. But the tour bus will pick them up by 4:30.

See more pictures of Dubrovnik

the lavender fields of hvar

I’ve been wanting to go to Hvar ever since I knew there was a Hvar. I think the clincher was “the island is covered in lavender fields which scents the air”.

I’m not an island person, but I’m a sucker for a good smell. And lavender has all these amazing properties, aromatherapeutically speaking. It picks you up and calms you down. It’s not only a disinfectant and repels bugs, it also soothes, balances and restores the spirit. It even cures headaches when rubbed on temples and nausea when rubbed onto the fifth chakra (which is the throat…or Achilles tendon, I just rub it on both to be sure). Just think how great it’ll be to be naturally surrounded by it. It sounds like the herbal good smelling therapeutic equivalent of a speedball or Irish coffee.

Hvar itself is an emerald green island under aquamarine skies surrounded by a sapphire sea (in case anyone wants to commemorate the trip in jewelry).

The port in Starigrad looks like a big skating rink, which makes me nervous right off the bat. We aren’t staying in the old town here, so we should be able to find our hotel easily. Unless all the buildings look like skating rinks.

It’s about an hour and a half boat ride from Split to Starigrad, Hvar. And a winding 20 minute drive from Starigrad to Hvar town.

I become downright jittery when the arrow pointing the direction of our hotel, the Podstine, indicates it has only one star. The car trembles with the force of my mother’s shudders.

We pull over so we can regroup from the shock. Our eyes are hollow with horror as we imagine the implications.

Finally Dad breaks the silence and posits tightly, that ”at 200 a night, it can’t be one star. It must be a mistake” Yeah. I rejoin, feebly, saving my strength to break the waves of queasiness lashing at me. I unroll the car window desperately, remembering that the Lavender air should help sooth my nausea. I don’t smell the lavender. The fields must be further inland.

Up until now, I’ve been using the bottle of lavender essential oil strictly for medicinal purposes: repelling bugs, swabbing pink spots on cheeks. But right about now I really need a balancing, soothing whiff. I rub a dab into my temples and breath deeply.

The Podstine is modern and blends in with the stone cliffs overlooking the Adriatic From the lobby off the tiny road.  The hotel is built down, into the rocks, rather than on top of them. The lobby is on the top floor. So are our rooms. Nice, big, bright, clean rooms. With big balconies and sea views. Downstairs there’s a restaurant and café with tables on the deck. And a lower deck for lounging by the side of the world’s most gorgeous swimming pool—the Adriatic, It’s very nice.

Katherine on balcony of podstine hotel, relieved.

That’s one more potential disaster averted.

It’s a pleasant 20 minute walk from the Podstine into Hvar Town, yes, another medieval village. We chose not to stay in the Old town this time because I’d seen Hvar Town on an episode of “Wild on” and decided it would be good to sleep at a safe distance. A good choice since at 3 in the morning you can still hear music blaring from the direction of Hvar town on the hotel balcony.

But Hvar town is cool with the big fortress on the hill above the small harbor. And of course, the little shops. And sometimes the square becomes so happening, it doesn’t seem like the small town can handle it. Like the night they had Miss Croatian Universe Pageant. We catch a part of it on the way back from dinner one night. Katherine becomes offended by and wanders back to the hotel ahead of us. After the Croatian Stephen Tyler performance, the pageant continues. We watch until mom becomes offended that Dad is enjoying it.

Hvar is a good place to read, swim, and wander medieval streets and shops, eat ice cream, nap. But it’s so pretty, you’ll want to nap with your eyes open.

But there is one problem: the air is NOT scented with lavender. Apparently some big fire destroyed all the lavender fields on this side of the island three years ago.

This could be a problem because I was counting on that lavender scent and its soothing properties.

Now you may wonder why I need to be soothed. Hasn’t everything gone remarkably well? Even my biggest concern (plitvice lodging) has turned out happily. Hvar is blissful, what the heck am I so stressed out about?

Perhaps you don’t understand the anxiety involved in waiting for something to go wrong You know it will. It’s only a matter of time. In fact, by your schedule, things should have gone to shit at least twice by now. This is unsettling. You don’t want to be caught off guard. God forbid you should be too happy and comfortable when it happens. And you can’t help thinking that the longer you have to wait for something to go wrong, the worse that something will be.

Mom swimming in the Adriatic

My family feels it too. And the stress of having nothing major to complain about shows itself in little ways.

My dad simmers with anger because the hotel waiter serves us too much food.

My mother sighs and sadly reflects that my grilled lobster looks better than her grilled lobster, Katherine announces that if she sees another grilled fish she’ll puke. I splash lavender oil on all seven chakras.

When my elbow hits the knob that adjusts the water temperature in the shower, giving me an unwelcome blast of cold water,  I curse god’s tyranny and shower myself in lavender oil.

Sure, we may look rested, tan, well fed and healthy, but we are obviously at the ends of our ropes. And we reek of lavender.

When I get to the check out desk with my luggage, my dad and the guy with a cold sore are conspiring. If we leave now, drive an hour and a half to the other ferry port, we can catch the 11:30 ferry on the other side of the Island that takes us to Drvenek which is only a half hour ferry ride and we’ll end up an hour and a half closer to Dubrovnik than if we ferry back to Split and drive from there as originally planned. It’ll save a lot of time. But we have to go now. There are too many numbers in this plan for my little brain to process.

I ignore the nagging sense of foreboding. There’s something about the math here that isn’t adding up. But I’m a mathematical moron, so I defer to the wisdom of my dad and cold sore guy. Cold sore guy must know more about getting around Croatia than I do. When I look at the map, it almost makes sense. And maybe we’ll see some lavender fields.

We race the island’s narrow winding roads to catch the ferry. Well, my mother is driving, so we race in a safe, leisurely manner. We elected mom to drive the narrow, windy roads. figuring she’s going to be clutching, steering and pumping the breaks no matter who is driving. So we might has well let her actually drive. We’re hoping this will give her a sense of control. On this outing she vacillates between taunting the asshole on her tail to pass her or cursing the old goat in front of her who is driving too slow.

We’re in the middle of nowhere, Hvar (who knew a little Island could be so big?) By now it’s only an hour until the ferry leaves. We’re supposed to be there an hour early and god knows how far the damn ferry port is from here. From every point we see a bay that “must be it.” that isn’t.

Despite the fact I’m sweating lavender, I open the bottle for a few more drops. And at this moment, the car screeches to a halt followed by thud and impact. I pull my neck out trying to catch the lavender oil bottle which has been jolted from my hands.

Everyone in the car is checking their most valuable possession to make sure it’s okay. Mom is checking her lipstick. Dad is patting his Cal Bears fall football schedule. Katherine is checking her face and boobs. And I’m grieving my last drops of lavender which are now a part of the floor mat.

I don’t know whose fault the accident was. I was too busy trying not to be car sick at the time to notice.

The Bosnian guy who slammed into us is nice and concerned. But his wife sickens me. She’s so busy protecting her own ass from possible litigation, she can’t see my suffering. Here I am with an empty lavender bottle and a stiff neck and she’s blithely saying “at least everyone is okay.” Then she tries to imply that my stiff neck and lost lavender are the result of my own negligence because I wasn’t wearing my seat belt. But I was. Jesus, whatever happened to humanity and compassion? My neck feels pretty much better. So feeling fairly certain I won’t be able to sue her for making me an invalid, I can pretend to have lost movement of my entire lower body whenever she looks at me.

We take care of the business and continue to the ferry, knowing deep in our souls that we’re screwed. The feeling is confirmed when we turn a corner, expecting to see the harbor ahead and being faced with a long narrow highway of bumper to bumper cars, all waiting to get on the 25 car ferry.

Judging by our count, we’ll have to wait for two more ferries to get on. The third ferry today departs at 6:30PM. It’s 11;30 AM and the perfect storm has just converged.

Rage short circuits my brain. I’m quiet, but I know sparks are flying all over the car. I want to destroy everyone responsible for this. Starting with the guy with the cold sore guy back at the hotel. Do we have time to drive back, torture him thoroughly and still catch the later 4;30 ferry from Starigrad? The thought makes me carsick. My neck hurts. This is all THEIR fault. Everyone elses. Nobody appreciates me. I’m an idiot. I should never have listened to dad and the guy with the cold sore. I’ll probably GET a cold sore. I’ll need lavender for that cold sore I’m going to get and now I’m out. And mom and dad and Katherine are breathing what little is left of MY scented air! It’s so typically thoughtless. We’re stuck here in the car. For six hours. But nobody stops to think that maybe I NEED that air? Jeez, do I have to actually sit here for 6 hours with these barbarians? Katherine sighs. I glare at her and she sighs again. A big sigh. That’s unnecessary waste of my scented air. MOM! Katherine is pigging my air. Like they care. They’ve always liked Katherine better than me. Why? Why am I forced to endure being stuck on the tip of this godforsaken island, with nothing to do except check out some goddamn lavender fields?

up plitvice lakes without a paddle

I planned this little three generational Croatian adventure. Airlines, hotels, car rental, ferries, you name it. The only place I hadn’t nailed down at least a month in advance was Plitvice Lakes in Croatia. The three huge hotels in the actual national park are handled through the national tourist office and I was told by email, all booked. But “with my patience, they will give me some ideas for other accomadations.” What they didn’t tell me is that I’d have to be patient until the moment we get here.

Nobody I ever met has even heard of Plitvice Lakes. How can it be booked? It’s about four hours from Rovinj, south and inland to Plitvice National Park and World Heritage site. It’s sort of in the middle of nowhere, so the risk is high. It’s supposed to be spectacular. I’m not a woodsy type of person, but for some reason, I mus see Plitvice Lakes. Somehow it will all work out.

After four hours in the car I’m getting a little panicky. There sure are a lot of empty tour buses driving out. Does that mean nobody came or they’re all staying at one of our hotels? What if it’s another three hours to Plitvice the hotels are all booked and we have to find a place to sleep in the dark? What if we can’t find a place and have to sleep in the car? Someone please just throw me off this spectacularly gorgeous waterfall now! Hey, we’re in Plitvice.

They weren’t lying. The place is beautiful and the three huge ugly hotels with separate parking for tour buses really are booked.

Which leaves us two options: go to the tourist office and find lodging or drive through the valley haphazardly looking for houses advertising sobe, zimmers and kamere for the night.

Of course, we make the obvious choice and spend the next hour on the road, discussing the various merits of places with sobe zimmer and kamere signs as we drive past them.

Then we decide that this isn’t really furthering our cause and venture into a few of the nicer looking driveways. Only to be rebuffed. Sometimes they hold up a “No” sign. Sometimes they shake their head and glare. We even get chased down one driveway. We can’t help but take it personally, even though the places really do look full. My mother takes to muttering “yeah, well, screw you, too!’ as we beat our retreats.

This leaves us no choice. Somebody is going to have to get out of the car and talk to a Croatian.

I’m tired and blame not having reservations here on Croatia. And I blame mom and dad, of course, because this whole trip is their fault. If they weren’t paying for this trip, we wouldn’t be in this mess.   Let them deal with it. I’ve dealt with everything else. I’m too frazzled and frail and delicate to cope any more. Katherine stays in the car in solidarity with my frazzled, frail delicateness…or maybe just to stake out her spot in the car to sleep tonight.

When mom and dad emerge from the tourist office looking triumphant, my heart leaps in hope. “There’s a house with two sobes with bathrooms and everything. Right over there” (they wave vaguely in a direction). My heart sinks in despair.

Our lodging is supposed to be about 20 minutes outside the park, way up a winding road on cliffs we could easily fallen to our deaths from. I’m happy to say we don’t die and find the place relatively easily.

It’s almost disgustingly picturesque. A small farm with a vegetable patch, some chickens, ducks geese, pigs, turkeys, goats, kitties, dogs and a brand new litter of three rolling puffs of fur. It’s a veritable petting zoo. We’re overlooking a gorge or valley or some other natural formation I don’t know the name of. I’ll tell you one thing, no tour bus could get up here.

The rooms are fine. Probably 1/2 star.   There are some ants but we give them a good splashing of pure Croatian lavender oil and hope they’ll go away, The environment is a lot nicer than the groddy hotels that rejected us. And everyone knows that the scent of lavender is balancing and soothing.

The smiling proprietress gives us a short tour in Esperanto. She points to herself and says “Mama”. She points to my mother and says “Mama”. She points to the puppies’ mother and says “mama”. We now know everything we need to know and settle in for the night.

I take a deep breath of the lavender scented room.   As long as these aren’t flesh eating ants, I think we’ll be okay.

 

you gotta love these quaint goddamn medieval villages

We’re spending three nights in the village of Rovinj. Our hotel is in the middle of the medieval old town where attempting to maneuver a car gives mere mortals a nervous tic. You don’t see many SUVs let alone Hummers in this part of the world.

The Angelo D’Oro, is probably the closest thing to a boutique hotel you’ll find in this neck of the woods. It’s a converted townhouse. Homey. Small. Decorated with antiques. It’s got a garden where breakfast, drinks and dinner is served. There’s also a tiny covered porch area near the roof great for kicking back and enjoying the view or a book.

The other recommended hotel options are outside the walls of old Rovinj in big old communist block buildings which offend our sensibilities. The main downside is instead of having the luxury of a paved path to a pool, our hotel choice forces us to walk up the narrow street past the church courtyard to the edge of Rovinj and climb down some rocks to swim in the Adriatic. Here, People sunbathe on the rocks that jut out from the cafes bars homes and churches overlooking the sea. They look like happy flesh colored seals in unbecoming bathingsuits. I love the picturesque-ness of it. And the sight confirms my deeply held belief that humans are not meant to be a sunbathing species. But damn that water looks good.

I particularly like the outdoor market in Rovinj (just outside the wall). The fruit and vegetables all look particularly luscious, big and ripe. And they have great looking bottles with herbs and fruits in them that facinate and tempt me even though deep in my heart, I know they’re grappa. It’s the only market I’ve seen that sells colorful strings of various whole, raw seasoning…laurel, different colored hot peppers, garlic and other stuff that are really beautiful in the simple arrangements The first day in Rovinj we bought fruit and stuff from the market and had lunch on the hotel roof porch.

I’ll always remember Rovinj because my first work of art is acquired here. For my birthday present (like the trip isn’t enough) my parents bought me An oil painting done by a local artist of a couple of rowboats parked in front of a pair of shuttered townhouses in “downtown.” Rovinj. The painting seems kind of impressionist, so I particularly like it. But I’m sure I’ll curse is existence when I have to take it back to Paris, or worse, the US (not going to think about it).

On our second morning in Rovinj, my dad and I break from the pack and drive to Pula to see the ampitheatre and a medieval village or two. We find our way easily and check out the well preserved remains of the roman colloseum. It’s up there with Rome, Verona, but this is probably the nicest location. Kind of a northern Naples. There’s an old town, an old church, an old forum and old medieval streets. And the school where James Joyce taught for five minutes and developed an aversion to the region (he must have had the same problem with Zagreb airport we did).

On the way back we take the scenic route. The road winds along a rocky green shores dotted with picturesque medieval villages and steeples. It’s a Sunday but we figure we’ll stop at one of the little restaurants in one of the villages for lunch. Obviously, my dad and I are the crazy adventurous ones in the family on this trip.

We wisely opt for parking outside our chosen village and look for our restaurant. We can’t find it and everything looks closed. We look confused and an Italian family visiting Croatian relatives offers to show us where the restaurant is by walking us there.. It gives the 10 year old girl a chance to practice her English. She is also the only one in the group with any crossover translator abilities (except me, with my new Auvers inspired gift for mime).

After a few minutes of trying to draw the girl who has clearly been put on the spot out of her shell, she tells me haltingly in English that “it is very important to be good at another language.” I nod encouragingly. “ Yes! That’s very good! And true!” Unfortunately, those are the only words she knows in English and 10 more than what I know in Croatian or Italian.

Nonetheless, It’s a lovely interlude. Visualize it: two families from different cultures strolling along the Croatian coast (maybe in silhouette) together on a Sunday afternoon. One of them is gesticulating wildly.

The restaurant is closed like everything else in this damn medieval town. We escape to the car before the family can invite us to have lunch with them. All this pantomiming is more exercise than I’ve had in years. I’m physically and emotionally exhausted.

We escape to the car, and the moment I let my guard down, I take the wrong turn.

I’m suddenly driving in the pedestrian area of the goddamn medieval village, with no apparent legal exit (of course there’s no legal exit, there’s no legal entrance). And since it’s Sunday, there are no helpful vendors directing me towards the correct exit in an effort to keep me from backing into their displays. Fortunately, there are a couple of kids and cops out, who direct us when we get our car wedged between several goddamn quaint medieval buildings. Is the air-conditioning on? I’m sweating like a pig.

On the way back to Rovinj, all I can think of is how nice it would be to have an ice cream cone and a paved path to a swimming pool. But noooooo, because we’re staying in a goddamn quaint medival village I have to walk up the street carrying a towel and climb down some rocks to swim. Which also requires wearing a bathing suit in a public place.

Once we get back to Rovinj and have a quick lunch, I resolve to brave it. The street, stairs and rocks are easy. It’s the bathing suit and water part that are hard. I finally am in position to dive in. I dip my foot in and goddamn, the water is cold. Goddamn unheated Adriatic water. I take the plunge and dunk my whole body in. It’s blue. It’s clear. It’s refreshing. I’m swimming in the Adriatic. I can see my feet and fish. But they’re not scary fish (in fact, they look delicious). My feet are another story.

I look up and see the quaint little medieval village looming above me. The sun sparkles on me and the water around me. Goddamn, this is good.

 

traveling in a pack

I usually travel solo.

There are a lot of reasons for that. The most obvious being I’m single. Also, a lot of my trips have been the result of a sudden decision that if I don’t go Tunisia in the next week, I will spiritually perish. It’s really hard to convince a friend or loved one who doesn’t know what continent Tunisia is on, that they should drop everything and fly 9 hours to see it (it’s worth it, by the way).

I’ve heard people wax poetic about how traveling with someone is so much better than traveling alone because you’re SHARING the experience.

I tend to believe if part of your concentration is focused on the person or people with whom you’re sharing the experience, that dilutes the core experience. But that could just be a lonely old hag rationalizing.

I do have empirical evidence to support my theory. On one of my first “big” trips, I went sailing off the coast of Turkey with a soon to be ex-boyfriend now refered to as “Toxin” (nothing personal, of course). That was 15 years ago when all anyone knew about Turkey was Midnight Express and the most exotic place I’d ever visited was England.

I remember very little about the cultural coolness of being in Turkey from that trip. The truth is, It took two subsequent trips to Turkey on my own before I figured out exactly what my route with Toxin was and what villages and towns we visited.

It’s not that I didn’t remember visiting those places. They were clearly imprinted. There was the beautiful place where Toxin got really, really drunk. The beautiful place where I was full of seething rage. The beautiful place I was seasick. The beautiful place where he was nauseous. The beautiful harbor where I wasn’t getting enough attention, the beautiful place where I proved useless in the galley.  The beautiful place where I was happily in love.   The beautiful place where I almost crashed the boat.    And the beautiful place I had the nightmare about fleeing Toxin and trying to get back to the US from godknows where I was in Turkey without any money. Not that I didn’t have a great time and I’m not eternally grateful to Toxin for the trip. I just wasn’t viewing the amazing experience through the clearest lens (it was as fogged up as hell.)

The point is, for better or worse, traveling with people changes the experience. I’m prepared for that.

Right now, we’re headed for Rovinj, which is described as a stunning medieval fishing village that juts into the sea like an exclamation point. The old town still bears the influence of the many empires that captured it over the centuries. It’s surrounded by clear teal blue water and to die for views. One legend has it that Rovinj floated away from Venice at one point or another. It’s about a two hour drive. I’m definitely excited to get there. We all are.

There are supposed to be some interesting sights on the way between Ljubljana and Rovinj.

postojana caves

The Postojna and Skokjan Caves are near the Slovenia/Italy border and sound amazing. They elicit deep discussion. Some of us get a little claustrophobic. And what if the mandatory guided tour is too long and we can’t escape because we’re in a cave? what if we get lost in a cave? That would be horrible. Can you imagine having a heart attack lost in those caves? And there are probably stairs. Lots of Dark, narrow, clammy stairs. And i we stop to see the caves, do we go to Postojina or Skokjan? Which one is better? It would be horrible to make the three hour detour and later discover we went to the lesser cave. That would just be too painful. Hey, didn’t we just pass the exit?

Our next potential stop, Koper. A medival town on the 30-mile Coast of Slovenia. It says it’s a 20 minute detour. But that’s what they said about Zagreb Airport. Can we risk loosing the three hours to get here and 7 hours to get back? It doesn’t sound nearly as charming as the next medieval town on the way.

piran

Next potential stop, Piran. A medieval town that’s supposed to be more charming than Koper. It’s also on the Slovenian coast, but further off the highway. We don’t like the name. It sounds shifty. Didn’t we just skip a medieval town? Why did we skip that one? Is this medieval town supposed to be more charming than OUR medieval town? Can’t we just go there?

We skip Umag because nobody has gotten to U in their travel guides’ list of places to see in Slovenia.

Not wanting to be total wusses, we do exit the highway at one point for a detour visit to the Porec, a charming Medieval town on the Croatian coast. But it’s closed, in preparation for

porec

some boat show. Well, it’s not really closed. The parking lot is full and we’re waved towards another parking lot which turns out to be over a mile walk from the old town, and it’s hot and screw them.

After Porec, we’re never quite sure we’ve found the right road to Rovinj or are even traveling in the right direction. This prevents us from making further scenic route attempts. So if any of the charming Medieval coastal towns of Istria complain that they don’t have enough tourists, blame it on Porec.

We dare not venture a meter further off the mapped route than necessary or we we’ll never see Rovinj in this lifetime, So the roadside mom and pop farmhouse type inn somewhere between Ljublana and Rovinj seems the perfect place to assuage our now raging hunger. (We were planning to eat in goddamn Porec.)

I don’t know the name of the restaurant, but it’s very picturesque. A hearse is the only other car in the make due parking lot. (looking back, I can’t believe I didn’t take a picture of that).

I’ll never remember what I’m having for lunch. It was either meat or fish. It’s pretty good though.   I will remember that one of us had cramps, that lunch really hit the spot, and we hope we don’t get food poisoning.

During the trip we also contemplate stopping at several rest stops and gas stations before finding one that appears up to our discerning standards (clean, not groddy, do they sell Pringles?).

I do happen to notice that the countryside is beautiful. I steal a moment to savor the rolling hills of a sunsoaked, dusky wine region with the legs of a sparkling Adriatic shore.

rovinj (we’re almost there!)

When we see the isle- town of Rovinj from a far we feel pretty darn smug. It only took four hours, not including the lunch stop to get here. Mission Accomplished! We pat ourselves on the back for being such worldly travelers.

With that success under our belt, we surge onward. It only takes another three hours to find our hotel.

 

zagreb is lovely, now get me the hell out of here

My dad and I allocated ourselves two hours to get our rental car, pick up my mom at the hotel, pick up my niece at the airport and head up to Lake Bled in Slovenia.

How hard can it be to find the airport in a city with only two main roads, a population of less than a million and the airport is a mere 10 miles from the center of town?   It looked so simple when the cab driver did it yesterday.

We find Europcar in minutes, get our car and promptly got lost on the way back to the hotel. Well, not lost exactly as much as caught in a maze of one way streets. While the walk to get the car took no more than 15 minutes, the car ride back took an hour. We rush to check out and start the 20 minute trip to the airport.

A word of warning about Zagreb: the signage is awful. Especially the signage to the airport. We circle every roundabout within a 30 mile radius of Zagreb and try every single option twice..

We ask directions 20 times, get 20 different routes, and almost drive into 5 ditches (okay, the truth is, we actually DID drive into two of them). None of them lead to the airport, although we might have more luck following the ditches. Halfway to Hungary, we stop at a gas station, and while the attendants are unable to help us, a kindly woman who speaks English gives us detailed directions and draws a map, which we still manage to screw up.

My mother and I giggle nervously as my dad yells at us to stop as it affects his concentration. Then my mother and I quietly wonder how much concentration it takes to drive into a ditch, which makes us howl with laughter and Dad madder which causes us to swerve dangerously, which makes my mom and me laugh, which makes my dad madder… You can see, it’s a vicious circle.

We’re constantly on the lookout for tell-tale airplanes taking off or landing to give us a hint of which direction to drive, but Zagreb international airport doesn’t have a lot of traffic. None from what we could tell. By now, we’re two hours late, without cellphones and imagine Katherine an exhausted weeping pile waiting for us. Our only hope is that her plane is delayed. At this point our conversation is limited to “left, no right, no straight ahead” “tee hee hee” shut up” “guffaw”, “this is awful,” “goddamn Croatians”and “pooooooor Katherine.”

After breaking every traffic law in Zagreb, pulling god knows how many illegal u turns and risking our lives as well as the lives of countless innocents, we finally make it to the airport.

We look in the coffee shop, no Katherine. We look in arrivals, no Katherine. And then we hear her dulcet tone: “I don’t know you, I’m going back, NOW!” And there she stands down by the “parking lot” with a small duffel bag slung over her shoulder looking very tired and cranky.

She handled it all very well. I probably would have stabbed me in the stomach with an airplane fork when I hugged her. Especially considering that her luggage had been lost somewhere between Frankfurt and Zagreb. But it’s possible her hatred for the airline diluted her hatred for us. So we might be safe until the luggage comes. And maybe by then, she’ll be so happy to get her luggage, she’ll forget how hideously late we are.

The drive to Lake Bled is tense, mainly because we we’re afraid of getting lost again, but crossing over into Slovenia, we relax a bit. And once we see the mountains and the beautiful countryside (and the sign indicating Lake Bled ahead) the relief is palpable. When we finally round the corner that reveals the lake with the mountains behind it, it’s like new years in the car (without the champagne, of course—we were dangerous enough on the road without the liquor).

We find the Villa Bled (our hotel), which was one of Tito’s retreats. Its architecture is definitely communist inspired, but the surroundings are inspired by God (if you believe in such a thing). While checking in, we complain about our difficulties finding Zagreb airport from the town center and the man at the desk nods knowingly, telling us he had similar problems once. Despite the language barrier, we’re able to bitch together about those backwards Croatians before being led to our rooms. Like I always say, there’s nothing like a little contempt for a third party to bring people of differing cultures together.

The room is nothing like the one in Zagreb. It’s nothing lavish, but it’s fine and clean and has a balcony with a heartbreakingly beautiful outlook of the lake. Katherine takes a long bath and I sit on the balcony gulping in the view and fresh mountain air. Yeah, this is the life. The scenery is pristine, the colors vibrant. The lake is blue and crystal clear. The air is crisp and clean. Boy, I wish I had a cigarette.

if it’s 7pm tuesday, it must be belgium (again)-roadtrip to brugge, the shocking conclusion

I leave Ternuezen fortified by a full tank of gas, wafflenstroopen, chocomel and a good strong brew from the local coffee shop.  Any sense of direction I had when I arrived has mysteriously vanished.   Even with the vast North Sea guiding me, somehow I manage to take a turn that puts me on an exit-free path to the tunnel under the vast grey expanse orwater. This is particularly frightening since I can’t see any land where the end of the tunnel emerges.    But what really mortifies me is the possibility that there might be a toll on the other side of the tunnel.

My mind races hysterically as I hurtle towards the tunnel entrance.    I consider pulling over and waiting for the whole thing to blow over.   Or maybe a helicopter rescue.    Then next thing you know, I’m in the tunnel.   The first thing I think of is Princess Diana and slow down.   But there are no other cars in this tunnel and I’m in a hurry to get to Brugge, so I speed up.   It feels like I’ve been in this tunnel for years.   And frankly, the scenery sucks.   And I see no indication this tunnel ends anytime soon.   Dear God, what if this is some timewarp and I’ll end up back in 13th century England.   Or another planet.   Maybe I took a wrong turn and this is the Chunnel.   Maybe I’m dead and the vast expanse of water I’m driving under or through is the River Styx?   What if I’m the last person on earth?   What if I never make it to Brugge?   Who will take care of the kitties?

After what seems like an eternity, I spot the light at the end of the tunnel (or is it a mirage?).   Once I hit daylight, all I want to know is how to get off this thing.   And it looks like my only hope is the toll ahead.   I stop and tell the woman in uniform my plight.   I don’t want to be in Zeeland.   I took a wrong turn.   I want to go back (I point in the opposite direction my car is headed.   And I don’t want to pay the toll.   She takes my passport and tells me where to exit to get back on the highway.   They will give me my passport back when I get to the toll going the other direction.   It works and I’m back on the right side of the water again, looking for  a sign that I’m heading in the right direction.

I cheer when I pass a sign that tells me I’m back in Belgium. My anticipation builds as the kilometers to Brugge displayed on the signs dwindle down to a sign that says “Brugge”, followed by long stretch of road flanked by beautiful, shady green trees. The scene beyond is golden fields dotted by little oasis of trees and cute homes. I wait for the sign “centrum” to guide my way. And wait. And wait. I start to pass little hotels. A parking area, that I assume is for tourists. But no centrum sign. I see a church looming and figure this must be centrum. Old European cities always have an old church at centrum. But as I grow closer to the church, it looks cute and quaint, but nothing like the pictures I’ve seen. Where are the canals?

I know by now that I must resist every instinct I have to stop, turn around, consult the map, so I keep driving. I’ll know when I hit the Bruges I’m looking for. But this is quite a build up. It’s near 6:15 and I’m getting panicky. I keep going, cursing the Belgians again. But this is the freaking suburbs. Where the heck is Bruges? All these signs say this is Bruges, but where the hell is the damn Bruges I’m looking for? Just as I’m about to weep, I look ahead and see several towering, ornate church spiers like a mirage in the distance. Buses pass me with routes displayed that indicate I’m actually heading towards centrum! Oh happy day!

The old city of Brugges (zentrum) is actually a surrounded by a river .   Little cobbled bridges cross from new to old and I dare not cross them in a car, because even if cars are allowed in there, the streets will be very narrow and I don’t want to scrape my rent a car on some ancient building, so I find a place to park around the perimeter.   I head towards the bridge that crosses over to the fairy towers.

I cross over and enter the enchanted kingdom.   I stagger towards what I hope is the center of town, lightheaded with joy that I’ve finally arrived.   As it turns out, the lightheadedness is hunger. I need food. NOW! And though I’m weak and feeble with hunger, I do know for sure that I want to eat somewhere outside so I won’t have to miss a precious moment of daylight in Bruges. That caveat doesn’t narrow the choices down much. Once again, the important decision of where to eat ids determined by which establishment I almost faint in front of.

I collapse at the nearest table and face another decision my hunger leaves me too frail to handle. What to order.. Even though I’ve been fantasizing about Belgian waffles with maybe some strawberries, vanilla ice cream and chocolate sauce, my metabolism currently screams out for some sort of protein. And lots of really cold, fizzy, sparkling refreshing beverages. A beer would actually be good now, but if I have a beer I will definitely die if I try to drive back home afterwards.

I pathetically order a croque monsieur, frites, some fresh orange juice and soda water. The only word I can find that describes my dining experience is “hoover.” I wait for the protein and carbs to kick in. It was an act of desperation. So American of me.

The young girls at the next table are talking and blowing smoke in my face. Now, thanks to my experience shifting and driving at the same time, I have the coordination to hate the girls, and watch the floor show that is Bruges simultaneously. It’s like a dollhouse. Not like Amsterdam where there’s a gritty looking bum or two amongst the picture postcard scenery (or a fat naked pseudo-chick in a window). It’s just pure picture card scenery. Even the people are all pretty. And more stylishly yet tastefully dressed than what I’ve seen in Paris or New York. This would be a great place to be rich and slightly innocuous. Hmmm, maybe this is where I should search for my new love interest. Hell, I’ll marry anyone who can offer me a life of wealth and innocuousness.

I love Bruges but I don’t LOVE it. But I do wish I could spend the night. At over E300/night, it’s not even a consideration. It’s almost 8PM now, growing cloudy and I begin to worry how to find my car since I have no idea how I got here. Either I must find a husband immediately, or start thinking about heading south.

I pay the waitress the E16.00 for the grilled cheese sandwich, fries and juice and figure I’m entitled to enlist her help. I don’t know what language these people speak, but it sure as hell isn’t French. I describe the entrance I used to enter Bruges and she gives me a map and draws some circles. Luckily, words like “fairy castle” and “moat” bridge the lingual chasm.

I take one last stroll, noticing among other things that my second favorite cookies in the world (Jules Destrooper, cinnamon butter biscuits)  that happen to be made in Bruges cost 15% more to buy in Bruges than they do in Auvers. What is wrong with these Belgians anyways? How can it cost more NOT to transport them? This place is really expensive. And E.30 every time you pee can really add up. Maybe that’s why it’s so pleasantly untouristed. Until now I just chalked it up to bad advertising. Or it could be a plan to keep the riff raff out. Which reminds me I have to leave.

At 9:30, I decide it’s time to head back in the direction the waitress and I believe the car is. I don’t want to drive when it’s dark, but am resigned to it. Miraculously, I find the car easily. Finding the right road back to Lille is another story. I’m halfway to Brussels before I realize I should have turned off at Belgian Gent. Obviously towns named Gent of any nationality town are a thorn in my side.

I head back towards Gent, cursing the Belgians yet again.

The rest of the ride back to Auvers is pretty uneventful. I drive towards a big storm which looks really cool with the cracks of lightening in the distance. But the actual stormed misses me by miles…no, kilometers. Trucks light my way. I piss off a woman at a rest stop for almost killing her children by mis-shifting (what a bitch!). I don’t get lost again and make it home by about one thirty in the morning. All in all, I think I drove about 6 hours longer than I had to, essentially doubling the road time. But I didn’t die. And I’m pretty sure the car is unscathed.

As a short side note, One difference in the three countries I visited could be seen clearly in my rear view mirror. The response to my driving mishaps and general slowness in France and Holland was generally tolerant amusement. In Belgium I could see a lot of inpatient finger tapping and “tsk”-ing going on. Occasionally a horn would burst forth. I reacted like any good American and flipped those drivers off. But I never once resort to headlight butting, at least not on purpose.

After a good night’s sleep, and some major dawdling, I return the car which has been a source of freedom, but also an incredible burden.

When the guy at Europcar finishes inspecting the car and tells me “c’est bien” I feel a burst of pride and accomplishment mingled with relief. It’s a heady combination. I leap up in the air, pump my fist a few times and shout “oui!, OUI.” The way I’m cheering, you’d think I just won the World Cup.

Tunnel notes: Turns out the tunnel I was trapped in is called the Westerschaldetunnel and at 6.6km (approx 4.1 miles).    It only seemed like the longest tunnel in the world.   The real longest tunnel in the world is the Laerdal Tunnel in Norway at 15.2 miles.

One last word of warning: Those passive aggressive Belgians have one final trick to get the rest of us totally lost in their country.   Some of the highway signs indicate the old time dutch name for Lille (Rijsel), rather than “Lille”.    Beware!   Lille=Rijsel.

lost in the nether regions–roadtrip to bruges (part 2)

I wake up at 6:15. I refuse to even think about it, I’m going. I must liberate myself from this fear of stick shifts. I must see Bruges (Brugge). Today.

I’m on the road by 8:00AM. And lost by 8;15. I probably could have gotten lost sooner except there’s construction work being done on the familiar road from Auvers to Mery sur Oise across the bridge. I think I stalled in virtually every town in the Val d’oise region, from Taverny to Beauvais.

I finally find the right freeway at 9:30. By this time I’m exhausted and consider pulling over to take a nap. But I can still hit Bruges right around 12:30 if get moving now. I have no problems during the drive from the correct freeway entrace to Lille. The rest stops are lovely, the signs are clear and the freeway is uncrowded. Except for trucks which generally stay in the left lane and leave me alone.

I have a brief panic attack in Lille trying to reconcile the exit signs with the ones mapquest told me to use. Fortunately, I accidentally take the correct turn and find myself in Belgium, on the road to Gent. Which is according to my calculations, exactly where I want to be. It is now almost 12:30, and I should be in Bruges before 1:30, if I continue to drive like I have been (which is pretty much like a little old lady).

This is a beautiful country. Very green and manicured and well to do looking. On the down-side, the rest stops invariably charge .30 Euros to pee and there were condom machines in the ladies room, but no tampon machines. Aside from feeling inconvenienced, it strikes me as somehow sexist. I may never forgive the Belgians for this poor first impression.

When I hit Gent, I’m overjoyed. It should only be another 20 minutes to Bruges.

Wouldn’t it be ironic if I got hit by a truck now? I slow down a little and figure I’ll make it to Bruges in another hour. Right around 2:30. That should be plenty of time, especially considering it stays light until 10PM in these parts.

After driving another 45 minutes, I notice there’s another road sign to Gent. Have I been driving in circles? Where the hell is Bruges? Fortunately, according to the sign, I’m practically in Gent, so I should be able to figure out where I went wrong from there.

I start passing what looks like an endless industrial section, with huge plants and a vast grey expanse of water as far as the eye can see. It kind of reminds me of pictures I’ve seen of the Gulf Coast…in the middle east, I mean. This is weird because Gent seemed pretty well inland when I passed it the first time. Maybe Gent is bigger than I thought.

I head onward past miles and miles of really depressing terrain, until I hit a tiny little village at what appears to be the end of the world. It’s kind of dilapidated and lazy looking. Certainly not the Gent I’ve seen in photos. There’s even something vaguely Middle Eastern about this town…the slightly downtrodden edge to it. The barely decorated cafes that seem vacant except for a few guys out front smoking, drinking and chatting.   Maybe I got caught in some twist in the time/space continueim.

 

The road seems to end here. I go back and try every variation of the roundabout before getting here and either end up on another road with a sign that says it leads to Gent, a vast expanse of water or a kilometers long aluminum building with trucks in front too many to count. Or a toll bridge leading to Ooestepoopergarpen, or something.  All I know, it wherever it is, it must be north, which isn’t where I want to go.

I figure the little town at the end of the earth is my best bet and head back, cursing the Belgians for their crappy signage and cursing the radio station for playing that freaking “junk in my trunk (uh-huh-uh-huh-uh-huh) song (and I use the word ‘song’ loosely) yet again. Are Americans responsible for bringing this retarded craftless ditty into culture? No wonder the world hates us. Obviously the DJ at this station is trying to provoke all out war against us. And if I hear this song one more time, I’d probably join the fight against us. Maybe that’s what happened to John Walker Lindh (American Taliban).

I storm into town…well, considering my mastery of the manual transmission, lurch is more like it. I stop at the nearest café and ask two guys sitting out front pretty much verbatim ‘where the hell am I and how do I get to Bruges?

Gent, Belgium

Gent, Netherlands

They patiently fill me in, draw me a map and show me which direction I should go to get to Bruges.

What I want to know is why nobody up until now mentioned the fact that there is a Gent Belgium and a Gent Holland and they’re within 45 minutes of each other (when you’re trying to get from one place to the other as opposed to by accident).

I can’t believe I’m in Holland. And now I’ll have to drive another hour backtracking to get to Bruges. Goddamnsonofabitch! Searching desperately for a bright side, I figure since I’m in Holland, I should really take the opportunity to find some of those delicious wafflenstroopen cookies I love. Two wafers filled with caramel that I’ve only tasted the like of in Holland.   I don’t know what makes them so delicious.   I’ve searched everywhere for them and have found only pale imitations. Now that I’m here, I’ll forever feel a gaping loss if I leave Holland without more of those cookies. But this town doesn’t even have an open grocery store. I figure I’ll hit a town on my backtrack and I can still be eating Belgium waffles in Bruges somewhere around 3:00.

I wind up in a town called Ternuezen which is on the water, but much more pleasant than Dutch Gent. I scour the town and finally find a store that sells the coveted cookies and am pleased to note they’re much cheaper here than in Amsterdam. These are called stroopwafels, but look and taste exactly the same. I get a couple of bags and congratulate myself on making the best of a bad situation. I figure I’ll make it to Bruges by 4:00.

On my way to the car, I pass a coffee shop and make a flash decision to make a better situation totally awesome.   I am in Holland, after all.   According to my calculations, I’ll can be in and out of there in 15 minutes and make it to Bruges by 4:30.

I leave the coffee shop on schedule.   An hour later, when I remember where I parked the car, I’m faced with a task more daunting than any I have faced before on this roadtrip—yes, I must fill the gas tank.

During my wafflenstroopen search, I spot a Texaco nearby, so I know which direction to head. The trick is finding a road that agrees with me.

A half hour later I pull up to the self service pump and spend fifteen minutes adjusting the side mirror views until I realize that it isn’t the mechanism for unlocking the gas tank (which is the key…duh).

I spend another 15 minutes trying to fit the nozzle in the gas tank hole until I realize that it’s the guzzle for trucks, not cars. I spend another 10 minutes trying to get the car in front of the right pump, and another 5 minutes adjusting the car’s position so the nozzle actually reach the place I need to insert it.

 

lunch

When I enter the place to pay, there’s a bunch of crappy seven eleven type food which awakens my stomach. Now that I think about it, I’m punchdrunk from a combination of hunger, stress and waking up too early for my delicate system. I’ll never make it to Bruges alive if I didn’t put something in my stomach now. Something more substantive than a wafflenstroopen. It has to be something I can swig down really fast and keep driving. Something that coats my stomach. That only leaves one option once I scratch pepto-bismol from the list: chocolate milk. In addition to their unparalleled wafflenstroopen, The dutch have a rich, creamy, delicious chocolate drink called chocomel that I totally forgot to crave until now. I swig the chocomel like a person who has been stranded in the desert introduced to her first water in days.

I head towards Bruges, feeling mildly bloated, but sure I can make it by 6:15 for my Belgian waffle.

 

 

***

roadtrip to brugge, the shocking conclusion (if it’s 7pm tuesday it must be brugge)