Last Night in Belgium

I stayed in Brussels on my last night because my plane left kind of early, and I met a fabulous girl traveling alone as well. Her name was Maria, she was from Mexico, and we drank several beers in a pub. I told her that on my trip, I had apologized to everyone for being American, and she laughed delightfully and told me that every American she met always apologized to her, as well, mostly because the U.S. government, in its infinite wisdom, has decided to erect a few hundred miles of fencing along the U.S./Mexico border. Maria said she understood that illegal immigration is a huge problem for the U.S., but in that we disagreed. I argued that if all illegal immigrants were deported from the U.S., the entire economy would crumble. The work illegal immigrants provide is invaluable, I told her. They are, especially in California, the backbone of the workforce.

She diplomatically remained neutral on that point, but she did say, "In any case, it won't work. That much I know."

"The Berlin Wall came down eventually," I said.

"Exactly!" Maria laughed. "You can buy pieces of it on eBay."

We shared stories of our trip -- she had visited Brugge, too, and although she too was enchanted by the town, she said that she, too, had an uncomfortable experience there. Upon ordering a hamburger at a stand, the guy behind the counter mistook her for an American because her English is so good, and said to her, "You Americans, that's all you want, hamburgers!"

Maria is lucky in that she speaks French, and in that language, responded, "If you don't want to serve American hamburgers, why don't you take it off your menu?"

Speaking French to the Flemish is an extra slap in the face, because of a long political history that makes Flanders, in North Belgium, Dutch speaking, and French in the South.

The guy began apologizing to her immediately, and I laughed at the story, telling her that I wish I'd had the guts to say something similar to the guy at the tavern who refused to serve me food.

We exchanged our wild stories of Amsterdam, although hers, admittedly, were much wilder than mine. I did drive by the Red Light District, and I did spend some time in a local "coffee shop," though, and will say no more. :)

Now I'm home, jet lagged again, although this time, the dizzy spun feeling is a bit more tolerable. I have been awake since 7 a.m. this morning Belgium time, and I really can't figure out how many hours I've been awake because the time keeps changing since I had a layover once again in Atlanta, GA ... it's back to work and the daily grind starting tomorrow.

And my Thanksgiving week adventure is officially over.

Goodbye, Holland

Long walk in Vondel Park, the dusk turning the low-hanging trees into fairy tales. Leaves in ponds like lilies.
Smiles of beautiful girls who give me menus in English and hot strong coffee. Flower markets, canals, blue sky, gray sky.
Friendly directions given to me from people with accents in British, Dutch, from Muslim girls wrapped in scarves and Jamaican men who run coffee shops. They whip out pieces of paper and begin writing and circling the proper spots on my map.
Lavender blouse with matching pashima. Hours in the van Gogh museum, dozens of self-portraits; some make him look sad, some make him look crazy.
I need more than just a few days; this city deserves a week.
Next time.

Beer in Brugge

My mood improved dramatically upon leaving Brussels. I took the train to Ghent, and despite being seemingly the only tourist out on Veldstraat, a shopping area close to the university, I met the nicest people while I bought an oversized pair of pajamas and walked in the rain.

In a tavern near the train station, I ordered a Leffe beer, had my pronunciation corrected by the bartender, and my beer bought by a very drunk Belgian postman who introduced himself as Mauricio, but whom the bartender said was named Willy. "Now or never," he said, leering at my chest. "That's the only thing he knows in English," the bartender chortled.

"You're from America?" he asked, and I admitted as much. "Het spijt me," I begged, which means, "I'm sorry." He laughed again and said, "It's OK, my sister lives in Louisiana."

I thought he was joking, but he said she works as an assistant to some type of government official, and I told him I visited there once, and we shared stories of the swamps and the craziness of the French Quarter.

The drunken Belgian insisted on buying me another beer, and the bartender, translating to me, said, "It's on him. Free Willy." I burst into laughter and the bartender was much amused at his joke. "He has no idea what we're saying," he laughed. At that point, Willy or Mauricio or whatever his name is, began to look put out, so the bartender mollified him by bringing him another beer.

When I woke up this morning in Brugge, the sky was an amazing blue. I looked out the window, beyond the tiny terrace in the room at the bed and breakfast I am staying at, and was grateful.

Last night I had five beers, at only 2.50 apiece. Finally tasted a framboise besides the one they sell at Safeway back home, and was blown away at the fresh and cool rasberry taste. I took long walks along the canals and bought my nephew some toys at a wooden toy shop.

In my misery of my first morning in Belgium, I was terribly mistaken -- it is not winter at all. It is the middle of autumn. Here, the leaves fall into the canals in patterns of gold and red and pale green, and in this tiny, preserved medieval town near the North Coast, I finally breathe and the dizzy and crazed jet lag is a million miles away, and I concentrate on the cobblestone streets, breathing in the cold air and I sip coffee in a cafe and watch the November afternoon.

After Antwerpen

It hurt to leave Brugge this morning. I lingered over coffee and "kas" this morning at a cafe in the town square. The morning was too beautiful to describe. The multicolored leaves floating in the canals. The buildings that looked like castles. The smell of the waters, koffie and frites.

When I hear the sounds of a British accent, I find myself relieved, an opposite feeling of what I would feel back home.

In most shops in Brugge, my demeanor must scream American, and I don't know how. I don't carry my backpack, I only come in as myself (like, I'm not even white, I mean) and a few shopkeepers seem to size me up automatically. Once, though, in an Apoteek (one of the few Dutch words I have memorized -- it is "Drug Store," of course, it's always important to know where to find the drugs) a lady looked at my face and said carefully, "Do you speak English?" and I said, "Yes, yes," gratefully.

As beautiful and enchanting Brugge was, I had my moments. Was sexually harassed by a strange Frenchman. Now, I have heard of the European way of flirting, but had no idea it became physical -- the guy actually grabbed my shoulders and demanded a kiss, which I refused to give, as I had only one Kriek (cherry flavored) beer, and really wasn't up to making out with a Frenchman.

And once, I felt my American-ess work against me in a big way when I entered a tavern and asked for a plate of kas, only to be told they served nothing. I took it in stride, swallowed my pride, asked for a "koffie," and moved on. (PS - there was a big menu outside and menus on all the tables. It wasn't paranoia. They really didn't want to serve me. But, in retrospect, I realize it may have had nothing to do with me being American. Maybe they just didn't like psycho girls. Hmm.)

The woman who ran the bed and breakfast I stayed at in Brugge asked me if I had Spanish roots, and I said no, Mexican and Portuguese, and she told me she was taking a Spanish class, and I said, ""Fifty percent of Los Angeles speaks Spanish, but they do not teach it in school," and she said, "Such a pity. Such a beautiful language," and I agreed. Filled with remorse.

In Antwerpen, I had to buy tampons because -- of course! -- I started my period on Monday night, and was greeted most kindly and happily by the girl at the checkout line. Try finding tampons that are labeled in Dutch some time -- I swear, I was in there for 10 minutes, feeling my underwear dampen.

The "bier" is to die for. Kriek is my favorite. Leffe is wonderful. They actually sell Jupiler, the Dutch version of Budweiser, in vending machines with soda. No drinking minimum age here.
After a good lunch in Antwerpen, I arrive in Amsterdam. I say, "Goede Avant" to the taxi driver and I have gotten really good at saying that, and he takes me for a local.

I have to admit to him I am American.

"Et spakt mer," I say, and that is not how it is spelled, but it is how the tour guide book tells me to say it, and he does not understand, but I repeat it until he gets it.

"You are sorry? Why?" he asks, manuevering the streets.

"I am so sorry," I say in English.

He gets it. Right away.

"Because of what? President Bush?"
"Yes," I spit out, but not allowing myself to go any further. I am not ready to cross that line.

"You dislike Bush?" the taxi man guesses.

The word "hate" crosses my mind, but again, I am not willing to cross that line.

"Yes," I say. "Everyone I know. We all dislike Bush.""

The taxi man looks me in the eye and says, "It is no good feeling guilty about things you cannot control.

Grote Markt and Jet Lag in Brussels

I am suffering from my first bout of jet lag, which feels like a low-grade case of coming down from crystal meth, sprinkled with sleep deprivation and a pinch of hangover.. Found myself feeling that weird "spun out" feeling I haven't had since the last time I had crystal meth, many years ago.

Wandered around the Grote Markt for most of the morning. On the flight from Atlanta, where I had a layover, I'd brushed up on my Dutch (Goede Morgen! Dank u wel.) only to learn that most everyone in Brussels speaks French. I quickly switched to "Bonjour, merci." Luckily, almost everyone in Brussels is also multilingual, and I've encountered only 2 people who didn't speak English and it was OK. They seemed to understand "Thank you," and I am just hoping correct change has been given at least most of the time.

It was bitterly cold when I stepped out of the Cetraal train station. The sun finally poked its head out of the stormy sky around 2 p.m. By that time, I was making myself comfortable in a tavern, drinking a wheat beer and smoking a cigarette.

Stupidly did not bring shampoo because I figured I'd be able to buy some here, only to discover that most everything is closed on Sundays. Oh, would give anything to be able to wash my hair right now.

Though Belgium has an internet reputation of being super-friendly, I can't exactly say that's been my experience. However, it is alltogether possible I have been glaring at everyone due to the jet lag.

Funny, I never even used to really believe in jet lag. Like some people don't really believe in PMS or fibromyalgia. But here I am with that spun out feeling and a strange type of headache right above my eyes.

Plan to drink a lot of beer when the pub at the hostel I am staying at opens in 2 hours, and then shower and possibly wash my hair with the bar soap I brought, then get a long sleep before I head out tomorrow morning.

The truth is, early this afternoon, before the sun and beer came, I was cranky and beginning to feel a bit depressed. Why exactly am I in Brussels in the dead of winter?

I called Lisa, who is still in Italy. Her boyfriend said I should take the train to Italy, but no, I've got reservations set up. A plan. Lisa has perked up since the last time I spoke to her, told me that jet lag can last days and the best thing I can do is knock myself out tonight and sleep for as long as possible and get back on schedule starting tomorrow. "You're going to be fine," she chirped. "You're going to meet people tonight! You're going to have a great time." Her optimism made me feel like giving her a long-distance kick.

The truth is, I almost felt like crying as I was leaving the Grote Markt, which was sparsely populated with tourists and reminded me a bit of every open market I've ever been to.

Ouch, my head hurts. My back hurts from the 8 hour flight from Atlanta. I ate a weird sandwich at a nearby sandwich shop and took a couple of Xanax, which I am hoping will help settle the weird, spun feeling.

Bought a thick hat at the Markt and two postcards. Tomorrow, it's on to Brugge.

An Evening in the West Village

You find yourself making your way down to the Village again. This time, to meet a friend of your good friend Randy in Seattle. The girl's name is Patti and you have never met her, but she returned your phone call and promptly invited you to dinner, which thrills you, because you were expecting to spend tonight alone.

Anyways, you get lost in the West Village streets bordering SoHo, and everywhere you see, there are people crossing streets, waiting in lines, entering and exiting bars and restaurants and tiny shops and some of them are chic and some of them are wearing sensible shoes, and some of them are wearing crazy stilettos, and you walk around in circles, 'cause it's a bit easy to lose your sense of direction down in the lower part of the Village, where it's not grid-like. It's a Saturday night and Jersey Boy is now, less than 20 hours later, an extremely funny anecdote you tell Patti when you meet her, and you make her laugh.

You put your name on the waiting list, and the two of you find each other immediately -- "I'll be wearing green glasses." "I'll be wearing all black." You hug like long-lost friends. She suggests a nearby bar while you wait for your table, and thrills you when she orders a pint of Sierra Nevada. You decide to stick with soft drinks.

An hour later, the two of you split a gluton-free pizza made of rice dough, with pesto and piled with feta, goat cheese, mozarella, zuchinni, sun-dried tomatoes.

The two of you share stories of Randy, of Seattle, of boys, and exchange contact info and again, it strikes you that this city feels so very much like a place where you could really belong.

Psycho Girl, Jersey Boy and Hell's Kitchen

Psycho Girl was in New York City exactly four nights before someone called her "psycho," and let's just say, it's really only funny when Psycho Girl says it first.
Remember that boy I made out with on Tuesday night?
**********
Friday, October 6, 2006 was poised to be the best night ever in my entire life. I left the Village around noon and checked in too early at the too-chic Midtown hotel I was staying at for just one night. While I waited, I read a Zadie Smith book, since I'm going to see her give a discussion on failure tomorrow.
I bought a beautiful black scarf from one of the street vendors in Times Square. It was rush hour by then and the streets were just flooded with cars and taxis and people.
**********
I couldn't decide what to wear for my big night out, a night I've had planned for weeks. The black wrap-around dress was too tight and the blue dress didn't seem right.
The silvery-blue-flowery low-cut blouse with peasant sleeves and a black skirt is what I eventually chose, and eye makeup I rarely wear.
5:40 p.m. and I was ready.
**********
Walked exactly two blocks and it was windy, crazy windy and crazy fucking cold. I had no jacket. In a city of infinite resources, I located the street vendor I bought the scarf from earlier. He had hauled out long poncho-type things. I could hear his partner telling a tourist that they were cashmere and from Scotland, which accounted for their $30 asking price. The vendor looked at my handbag and with his trained eye understood that I knew very well they were not cashmere, and that the "Made in Scotland" tag had most likely been sewn on by an immigrant in a nearby sweatshop, and so he made his pitch differently and honestly: "It's very warm," he said, wrapping it around my shoulders and showing me how to throw one end of it over my left shoulder.
As I walked up Seventh Avenue, warm in the piles of black fabric and fringe, amid the glow of the lights, I began to feel a bit like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. Either that, or I was hearing the tinkling melody of the Sex and the City theme song in my head.
It felt wonderful.
**********
When I got to the restaurant, I didn't recognize it, because it didn't look anything like it did in a recent movie I saw. The doorman opened the door for me and I walked in, just a little excited. The maitre' di greeted me and asked if I was expecting someone. I said, "No." "Reservations?" he said. "Yes," I replied. He directed me to the man with the book.
I was escorted to my table, and fawned over for the next 90 minutes. More water, Miss? Ëxcellent choice, Miss! Very good, miss.
I savored that meal like I can't remember ever doing so before. Every bite was like this heavenly pleasure, an explosion on every taste bud.
Before I got through my second course, the waiter was offering me champagne on the house. I was so stunned, I had to ask him to repeat it.
The dessert and coffee came out with a flourish and different plates and saucers for all the creams and sugars and pastries.
Before I left, I took a book of matches with the "21" insignia and lit my cigarette outside the restaurant.
**********
The theater was just a few blocks away. My seat was amazing and the production itself was fucking spectacular. The show's called "Wicked," and during intermission, after my cigarette, snuggled into a plush seat in the lobby, I saw myself at my very best.
Can I describe the feeling? I cannot.
**********
When the show was over, I lingered over every sidewalk. Blinked and choked back tears. Because I was so goddamned happy, happy like I feel every time I hug my nephew, happy like I felt a long time ago, or happy like I never thought I'd feel.
And that's when I got the text message from the guy I made out with on Tuesday at the Beauty Bar.
**********
He's originally from Long Island, but now is in Jersey City, and he and his hot friend both have those weird accents that us West Coasters just think of as "New York," and they actually use terms like, "I'm just busting his balls," and you laugh because you cannot believe people actually talk like this, and because you can't believe you actually took the subway down to the Village to meet them. They have two girls with them, a lithesome blonde who the hot friend is almost certainly hooking up with tonight, and a pretty brunette with their same accent, who has been friends with Jersey Boy for years because they grew up together.
Jersey Boy tells you that the girl is married now, and indeed, she does leave at 2 a.m. and hugs you and kisses you on your cheek.
At that point, there's just the four of you, and Jersey Boy's been drinking for several hours while you're only on your third beer and he's getting way closer than you would like, and the only reason why you don't kick yourself for not going after his hot friend is knowing from the way he is looking at the blonde that it wouldn't have mattered.
You tell them where you are staying that night, and they groan because like true New Yorkers, they despise the "touristy area," that made you nearly weep with so much love before. You think about how even at home, in Santa Monica, you love the Third Street Promenade even though all Westsiders claim to dislike the throngs of tourists who find themselves there year-round.
Nonetheless, when you explain that as much as you would like to, you cannot go to the Beauty Bar because it's simply too far away, the three of them immediately offer to accompany you uptown and suggest a bar they know.
The girl pays for the cab over the hot guy's protests.
Jersey Boy insists on holding your hand and even after he helps you out of the cab, his hand remains linked with yours.
Hot guy tells you a funny story about the bar you all are about to enter.
Once you're all inside, the girl shows you where the bathroom is.
You can't believe how nice everyone is.
You can't believe that the myth of the rudeness of New Yorkers is just that -- a myth.
Despite Jersey Boy's hands and lips going where you really don't want them to go, you're having a great time, until you step outside for a cigarette and promptly fall on the sidewalk due to a step you didn't see, and you feel a frightening, painful twist in your left ankle, and that's when you immediately begin to freak out, a zillion thoughts going through your head and some making their way out of your mouth: Oh shit, oh god, oh no, did I break it? I'm fucked if it's broken, did I bring my insurance card? Oh no, oh fuck, I don't even want to move because if I do, and it's broken, I'm fucked, hell, I'm fucked if it's sprained!
And that's when Jersey Boy, his eyes completely bloodshot, his hair askew, his accent now just a bit nauseating, says the words that slam those coffin nails into whatever it was you were having or were going to have with him:
"Calm down. You're acting a little psycho."
**********
It's 4:30 a.m. and I'm alone, on the rooftop of my hotel and my ankle is not broken but I am more than a little humiliated and pissed off and the argument that ensued with Jersey Boy's comment and ended with me storming off, is replayed over and over again in my head. I'm crying. I'm kind of hysterical.
Because I love it here, and Jersey Boy ruined it!!!
**********
And this morning, in the cab on the way to the next hostel in Hell's Kitchen, you are cursing yourself for ever giving Jersey Boy the time of day, you're mad, you're hurt, your ankle is fine to walk on, as long as you don't lean to the left, and you cannot fucking believe the breakdown in communication the previous night that left you weeping with sadness and frusteration at the end of what was beginning to be the best night of your life ...
and that's when Jersey Boy text messages you, asks you how your ankle is, and asks you if you want to have drinks later on tonight.
**********
You laugh.
The sound of your own throaty laughter sounds good to your ears.
Today is windy and sunny and beautiful. You walk around the neighborhood and the edge of the Upper West Side.
You drink a diet Coke in the stairwell and smoke a cigarette and watch the cars and taxis and people going past.

New York, New York!

This is my second night in New York, and even though this morning I was hungover, wearing the same clothes I'd been wearing since I got dressed Tuesday morning because my airline "misplaced" my baggage in Chicago, even though I was trying to find a brunch spot and the one I wanted to go to was closed and I ended up eating a weird omelette at a hole in the wall instead, and even though since I had no change of clothes nor shoes, I was stuck wearing the ridiculous high wedge sandals I'd worn on my flight(s), and since I was not just normal hungover but still-kinda-drunk hungover, I tripped and fell on the sidewalk on Second Avenue ... I felt very comfortable. It was warm this morning and I was sweaty and I felt very comfortable.

I don't want to use a loaded word like "home," but what I can say is that as soon as the cab made its dramatic lurch on 14th St. Tuesday night, I looked around at the brownstones and bars and bright lights, and dozens, hundreds of people out and about at midnight, and I felt something very similar to what I felt when I visited Seattle for the first time.

Not "home," but a feeling of comfort.

Checked in, and upon the advice of the front-desk girl, beelined down the street to the Beauty Bar, where I had two pints of Octoberfest before a really good-looking guy started buying me drinks. Unfortunately, his good looks intimidated me, which is why I ended up talking to his friend most of the time and then later ended up making out with him in a doorway.

The good-looking guy gave me his card and it was maybe a sign -- the guy's a literary agent and told me to send him my manuscript, while I told him that if he thinks it sucks, I want to hear that it fucking sucks, and he was delighted and called me a masochist.

Went to a farmer's market in Union Square. Finally got my luggage delivered. Had dinner at a place called Gotham, which I found in a book called "Table for One," a series of good places to eat alone in different cities. Thumbs up for sure -- great food, excellent service, and then I went to a place I found under 24-hour coffeehouses, only to find that it is actually a sweet little bistro. Had coffee and read the Village Voice. While I was in there, it began to storm, crazy with lightening flashing against the tall buildings. I had an umbrella and walked in the rain. I stopped in a doorway to have a cigarette as I watched people rush by, and I felt a little warm from the coffee and the soft music at the bistro, and I was soaked when I got back to my room and it all felt very romantic.