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)