the halfway point

Trogir and Split are the halfway point of this trip. This is officially where the Dalmation coast begins. Where North turns into South. This is also where the trip is halfway over. We’ve been tromping through foreign countries together for about a week and half now.

For me, the halfway point is a time of taking stock. This is when I start counting how many days are left and wondering whether I can stretch 3 days worth of underwear into 7 days without washing anything. This is when I wonder if that tickle in my throat is allergies or a cold. Or bird flu (or whatever the next great plague will be). This is where I decide I don’t need to shave my legs again because nobody is looking at them anyways except in this case,  my mother (and yes, she is judging me).

The halfway point is where we start having heated arguments about which direction the airport was in Zagreb. Who had the lamb in that place between Ljubljana and Rovinj. Whether using the the word “Mongoloid” is racist when uttered with a pure heart. A vicious “discussion” about the relative merits of watching college football vs Oprah threatens to end my parents’ 51 year marriage.

This is always a dangerous juncture in any vacation because it’s usually the time where horrible secrets are revealed (my niece likes German boy bands), dreams, expectations are shattered (George Clooney does not have a villa here) and the wounds inflicted earlier in the trip (or in life) become scabs to be picked at.

if you’re traveling with relatives, It’s also the point where you discover great truths about them that explain why your family is doomed to an endless cycle of dysfunction.

One raging disorder reveals itself (again) when we check into the Villa Sikeaa in Trogir. In every hotel so far, my mother has wanted OUR room. Even if the rooms are exactly alike, there’s something about our room that looks better to her. If it’s bigger she wants it, if it’s smaller, she wants it. There’s no rhyme or reason to it, It seems totally reflexive.  Not a day has gone by where my mother hasn’t sighed several times a day and exclaimed “your room is better”. Katherine and I decide to conduct an experiment.

The minute Mom makes the inevitable comment that she likes our room better (often entering the lobby upon arrival), we offer her our room. She takes it gratefully. After we’ve moved rooms and it becomes hers, she’s happy for about an hour. The next time she comes to our room, she looks around and sighs “your room is better.” I’m sure there are deep psychological implications in this story, but I’ll ignore it for now because it makes me laugh (In a hysterical, rocking back and forth, emotionally scarred kind of way.)

Trogir is a great in between place. It’s a medieval village (what a surprise!) and UNESCO World heritage site. The entire old town is smaller than the Lobby of the Empire State building and surrounded by a small canal. It’s packed with tiny shops, a church, ice cream vendors and restaurants. .

On one side of the old town is the market. It’s not as “pretty” as the market in Rovinj, but it has its charm. Here, they recycle old bottles to bottle their homemade grappa and other herbal concoctions. A smart shopper can get a Croatian farmers’ homemade berry and lavender grappa in a classic coke, Herbal Essensence, or Crisco bottle for the equivalent of 3 Euro. In my opinion, that kind of souvenier gives you more bang for your buck than a “Simpsons in Trogir” tee shirt.

On the other side of the old town is the small harbor (a two minute walk), guarded by an ancient stone fort. Our hotel is across the harbor (a 5 minute walk) and affords a great view of the old town. Gorgeous boats park in the tiny harbor. Our room has a birds eye view and I shop for potential husbands in the comfort of my hotel room during the hot midday hours. We’re in the south now, so everything and everyone has a golden glow.

There’s something about Trogir that isn’t conducive to cultivating negativity or wallowing in psychological wounds. The only time I come close to crossing over to the dark side in Trogir is at night when those loud motorbikes blast by our hotel. I spend an hour parked at the window with a big glass of water, waiting to douse the next offender. Thankfully, my attention deficit disorder prevents me from spending the entire night poised at the window in ready-to-splash position.

Split on the other hand, has meltdown written all over it. There’s always a palpable tension in our car when nearing a city, When we round the bend and see Split’s sprawling metropolis, the tension rises into what can only be described as a shrill escalating siren sound in my brain.

I try to drown it out by engaging in a little genial rhetorical chit-chat with myself. “So, this is where Diocletian decided to retire back in 300 AD. Probably a shrewd real estate investment. Highly desirable location. It was probably a lot nicer back then. Without all the communist era buildings, rigs and industrial crap.”

The further into Split we go, the more panicky I become. Maybe we should turn back now. We’ll NEVER get out of here.. I don’t even know who Diocletian was, why the hell do I need to see his goddamn palace? And just when I think Split can’t get any more horrifying, we find ourselves at the gates of the old town, where cars dare not go. Our hotel is in here somewhere.

The pros of staying in the old city (which in Split is everything within the walls of Diocletian’s place) is you get the place all to yourselves in the evenings when the tour groups have departed. The con is finding your hotel once you find the old city. And as we recently learned, medieval villages and roman palaces were not built for driving.

I decide this is a good place to abandon the car along with everything in it. I clamor out and immediately become entranced by some shiny object at a nearby market stall flanking the old city wall. Mom and Dad are calling me, but I am hypnotized by the bright shiny object. Must watch bright shiny object. Cannot get back in car. Will see you later at hotel. Must. watch. shiny. object.

While they’re watching the shiny object, I vanish behind the gates and into another world. Inside the walls, it’s like a fairy kingdom. Modern life coexists with 1800 year old ruins. Ice cream every two steps, . Blue water and sky peaking in through roman gates. Amazing ruins intermingled with fabulous boutiques!

There’s something about the old town waterfront that reminds me of Nice. The palm lined promenade. An air of grandeur tainted with a whiff of seediness. The ferry docks are right next to the harbor and the walls of the Palace, so the view is a more romantic if you blur your eyes a little bit.

At night the lighting in the old town is dramatic and some group is playing classical music near the entrance of the Palace. It’s not the least bit crowded. I can’t remember the last time I cursed a German. Since we’re staying inside the walls of the old city, we can ignore the rest of Split. We’re taking a ferry to the Island of Hvar tomorrow morning.

Try as I might, I’m not finding the angst here. I’m starting to wonder if I should do something to induce it, just to get it over with. But that wouldn’t be in keeping with my new “let life happen” philosophy and decide against it. I’m sure the meltdown will happen in it’s own good time.

Right now I’m perfectly happy sitting on the waterfront with my ice cream cone looking at a calm sea under a cloudless sky.

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.

 

aimless in amsterdam

Today I’m going to tackle Amsterdam on my own.

Blake shows me the map and points at all the straats, gradts and pleins and tells me where they lead to. I nod like I have a clue what she’s talking about.

One of the things I like to do in a new city (and Amsterdam is for all intents and purposes, new to me), is to go out and wander going whichever direction looks coolest and then figure out where I was on a map later. I’ve tried plotting a day on the map beforehand, but the end result (getting lost) is always the same, so why not just save on the preparation time?

The first thing I see that leads me to believe I’m heading in the wrong direction are huge parking garages in modern buildings. So I turn right. This is a lovely little treelined, area with canals and a lot of the signs say “Jordan”, but I don’t know why. I start seeing little bakerys, little cafes, little shops, little coffee shops. more canals and know I’m headed in the right direction.

I’m starting to notice something unusual…men are checking me out. Men of all ages, not just the decrepit ones. Not only that, a lot of them look really good. One of them is breathtaking (seriously, I can’t breathe when I pass him), with dark blondish hair and smoldering blue eyes. I can even overlook the fact that he’s a bum he’s so gorgeous.

I start to think maybe there’s hope for the old girl after all. Maybe there’s a chance I will have sex again in my life time. I mean maybe there’s a chance I’ll have sex in my lifetime, mom. Of course, I’ll have to move to Amsterdam, but hey, I’m homeless. I’ll tie my belongings to a stick, hop a train and find a refrigerator box. Actually a stove box might be better, it gets cold up here.

I find myself in a pedestrian zone with a whole bunch of little shops, but for some reason, I don’t like it. I walk quickly up the street towards what turns out to be a big square with a church with a big “kiev” poster out front, Madame Tussauds and some other huge building. I head back towards the canals where it’s more peaceful.

But I’m growing weak with hunger. And I have no idea where a good place to eat is. I stop at every place and stare, too faint and indecisive to go in. Finally I choose a little outdoor place on a corner by a canal because the sandwiches look delicious and so does the guy sitting outside having a coffee. I sit down next to him and he smiles and says hello in Dutch. Dang, I wish I knew some dutch. I smile back and not knowing what else to do, look for something in my camera bag. He returns to his newspaper. He helps me order. I thank him and look for something in my camera bag. He helps me order dessert. I thank him and look for something in my camera bag. The sandwich is quite delicious. I wish I could remember the name of the place, but I’ll just refer to it as the good sandwich place with the cute guy I could’ve had if I only knew Dutch. I refuse to even consider the possibility that he was nice to me as one is nice to an elderly lady who is having problems. I smile and say goodbye to him, and search my camera bag one last time.

Fortified, I hit the canals.

I remember seeing the Amsterdam historical museum nearby and head in what I believe is the direction. I wind up walking by a coffee shop the Dutch guy on the train recommended—Abraxas (at least that’s what I think he said, who can tell with those accents?). I decide to check it out, despite the fact I feel a little weird going in alone. I sit down and self-consciously survey the surroundings and clientele. It’s very casual with people from all walks of life. Some rasta types, college backpacker types, Ed Begley Jr types and regular old tourist types. Before I know it, I’ve become best friends with the people at the next table. They’re three alums from the Thunderbird school of business who are having their annual reunion in Amsterdam. All three of them live in London and all work in investment banking in one capacity or another. Jessica wants to quit and become a writer and meeting me is some sort of signal from the universe. Is the universe signaling me to become an investment banker?

When I find myself in a jewelry store with them picking out a necklace for Lloyd’s new girlfriend of three months (but he thinks it’s serious), I know it’s time to go to the museum.

I find my way to the museum with the skill of a local. And promptly get lost in the museum. 

The Amsterdam historical museum doesn’t contain art per se. It displays things pertaining to Amsterdam’s history. Some of the displays are sort of interactive, like a recreated 15th century room that the visitor can enter in and make themselves at home for a moment. During the Anne Frank portion of the museum, I stand in front of a roped off section contemplating it’s meaning. Is it a display showing how the Jews were isolated? Turns out it’s just a roped off portion of the museum. When I realize my mistake, I laugh out loud—probably not the best thing to do in the Anne Frank section.

After the people who give me dirty looks pass, I somehow lose my sense of direction. I feel like I’m in one of those crazy houses where all the planes don’t meet perpendicularly. I pass another roped off portion, and see two Japanese people on the other side, one riding a standing bike (a display, I believe), the other taking her picture. Are they a display? If they’re a display, why are they Japanese? Wouldn’t they be Dutch? Unless the display was about when the Japanese came here after world war II. Did the Japanese come here during WW II? I read the description babout how the bike riding thing in Holland started out as a playful protest against gridlock. Maybe the fact that the Japanese are riding the bike is a playful response to the onslaught of Japanese automobiles in the world?

I can’t stand it any more and ask the Japanese point blank if they’re a part of the display. I interpret their look of confusion, surprise and horror as an inability to speak English. Of course, it’s entirely possible their reaction is based on the fact that they DO speak English.

Their shocked, confused, horrified reaction shocks, confuses and horrifies me to the point that I lurch off in the opposite direction, like a drunk on a floor that’s shifting.

I find three plastic chairs in the next room. They’re facing a TV screen. Peace at last. I sit down and watch the screen. It seems to be a list of destinations and departure times. I look at all the cool destinations and I wish I was going somewhere cool and exotic. Ah, Madrid, Casablanca, Bangkok. Rio. Finally I realize I’m sitting in a display about Schipnol airport and I already AM someplace cool.

I feel as though I’ve been in the museum an eternity. I finally find my way out and stumble out into the light of day. It’s almost 4:30, so I head back towards Al and Blake’s. Through the bloomenmarket (the flower market) and the red light district, where scantily clad women (I think they’re women) stand in the window and try to sell their rather unattractive wares. I consider this might be a career opportunity for me since my old body still looks much better than most of these bodies for sale. But when I see a hooker gesture to a prospective client “five euros”, I decide advertising pays better.

Once again, I realize I’ve made a wrong turn and head in the opposite direction.

I fall in love about four more times before I get back to the apartment. I reverse direction about six.

Later that evening, as Al, Blake and I wander the streets and canals at twilight, I think Amsterdam truly is like Disneyland for adults. I expect to hear children singing “it’s a small world after all” around the next corner. Instead, we find a restaurant named Barok. I have perfect pink lamb with couscous and this amazing layered pancake dessert (these Dutch know their pancakes).  I don’t know if it was the lack of potatoes, or the “coffee” I had earlier, but it was one of the best meals I’ve ever had.

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)