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.