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.