The next morning we woke very early. Way before the sun. At home, this never happens. Unless we have to get up to use the bathroom or the dog needs to do the same. And then it's straight back to bed after that. We aren't morning people, really. Jet lag had us not on Germany time and not really on home’s time either. No man’s time. We readied for the day with showers and packing back up our bags we so hastily tore apart the night before. We were downstairs for breakfast by 8 (my mother could attest to the shock of something like this). Our lovely hosts had the table set with fancy white china and wine glasses. One large white karaf had Orange juice. A silver platter served meats and cheeses. Another silver platter had two white china tea pots with hot coffee. The man, named Mr Grolig, stood and chatted with us best he could in English while we ate. He told us he taught himself English from watching tv and the internet. He said he has visitors from all over the world coming to see the castle. He recounted some of his fondest memories of past guests with a big smile. He spoke of a very large family that came and stayed from Mexico. They sang songs and played guitar during their breakfast. He found that quite entertaining. He chuckled as he told that story as if he was reliving the excitement in his head. You could tell he loved his “work”. He has had folks from Japan and Peru and Canada and America. I'm sure he said many other countires but I don't remember them now.
His wife was short and round and very delightful, but knew very little English. She kept herself busy, out of sight in the kitchen. When she would appear she was cheerful, but quiet. I would have loved to talk more with both of them. They had so much to say, so much I wanted to listen to.
We finished breakfast and prepared for the long walk. The castle was about a three mile hike one way. Short compared to yesterday's wanderings, but long enough to where we had to keep on schedule. We had to make our train to head to Amsterdam at 11:45.
We began our walk out of town, the way we had headed the day before, toward the hotel too booked to put us up. Past the hotel, there was a trail of mud we had to traverse. I had hoped maybe the mud would end, but it never did. My short legs allowed my pants to drag in the mud. I knew I would be a mess when all this was over. We walked along the river for quite some time. It was fast and overflowing. It looked near flood stage. Trees were half engulfed by the water hiding their entire trunks so just the branches peeked out. The trail was narrow with mountain to one side and cliff to the other. A bit unnerving to the clumsy. I'm no graceful swan, especially when you add slippery elements like rain and mud. But, that didn't scare me nor slow me. I let Chris do the worrying about my stability.
In 3 miles worth of hiking, we had talks about who may have traveled the woods before us. German culture. Food. Love. Other things to keep the time passing. After 3 years of marriage, we still have lots to talk about. We rounded a large mountain side that finally revealed what all the walking was for- Burg Eltz. It was beautiful. I was mad my phone was dead. The only pictures I have are what Google provides and what I saw. The old brick and towers stood out from the mountain watching over the large valley. We climbed a great deal of stairs built into the cliff side to reach the top of a rock wall built to lead directly to the castle. The castle gate was closed, tourist season for this place was over. We were able to walk around one side of the castle to see all of the different spires, doors, and windows. The castle housed many families. When a son or daughter would marry, the entire family would come to live in the castle and an addition would be built on for their living space. We stared for a long time, talking about what it must have been like "back then", but also trying to break long enough to recharge before retracing our steps back down the mountain. Sometimes, we were quiet. Just looking to look. At the meadow, at the castle overlooking all the greenery. There were patches of fog floating around, bringing in a beautiful and quiet essence to the entire scene.
Thankfully, we made it back down without any mishaps, other than my jeans being so dirty and muddy. Not in exaggeration, mud was up to my knees! It was enough to get some laughs from some old men back at the hotel as we passed. They asked Chris in German why he didn't carry me. I don't understand German very well, but their laughter and hand gestures translated the message well. Once in town, some old farmers drove by in Mercedes tractors (it seems every moving vehicle in Germany is Mercedes- the buses, the garbage trucks, farm equipment, dump trucks) and they even had some laughs over my muddy pants. Picture it however you will, but it was quite a funny sight. We returned to our bed and breakfast to grab our packs. I, of course, stood outside because of the terrible mess I was. We donned the extra weight and set back toward the empty structure of a train stop. Another 3 mile walk.
Once at the train station, I had to change my pants. I wasn't about to travel to Amsterdam looking more like a gypsy than I already did (our packs and bundled up attire always seemed to get stares as if we may be some sort of stinky drifter). We caught our train for Amsterdam and thus began the next part of our journey.
We arrived in Amsterdam after 7pm. The central train station was packed full of people who knew where they were headed. We did not. Quite the confusion. Chris is not a fan of stopping amidst a crowd so the rule is, "walk until you find a place to plan where to go next". We followed a herd out into the main square where even more people were. Catching buses and trams and riding bikes. Hectic! Somehow we found a place Chris deemed worthy to check the instructions on how to get to our apartment. We hopped a bus and hoped we were headed in the right direction. Traveling by bus with our packs on our backs was always a pain. Our packs were too heavy to easily take off and on in hurried situations and they were too large to really fit both pack and butt on the seat. You end up with about an inch of seat holding your bum. Thankfully, the bus ride was just a few minutes. We had about 8 blocks to walk, and we covered the ground quickly. I wanted to look at everything as we walked, but it was not easy to keep up, watch where I was going and soak in the sites all at once. The central train station had been a real sight, glorious in it's castle-esque structure and detail, but I had no such luck of doing much gazing there either. Enroute is not the time, my heavy pack easily reminded me of that. The owner of the apartment we rented was Amanda. She greeted us at the door with well wishes and apologies for the rain and cold. She was very chatty and welcoming. She walked us up the steepest stairs I had ever been on. As I climbed I could touch the stairs in front of me, much like a ladder. Quite tricky for someone with any sort of balance issues. Add a very heavy, bulky pack weighing you down in the opposite direction you are going and it much becomes like a challenge rather than a regular task.
Once past the cliff of stairs, we entered the apartment.
It was modern. White everywhere.
A balcony overlooked a courtyard.
A walk in shower, normal bathroom. Nothing overtly outstanding, but it would be ours for the next few days and that was exciting. Amanda stayed and chatted about everything the city had to offer. She talked so quickly and so animatedly even I had a hard time keeping up. I'm not sure if traveling had taken me down a few notches in my socialization game or if she really was that much more exuberant than I.
After she left, I only remember falling asleep. I don't remember how I was able to unpack and ready myself for bed, but I remember falling asleep. It was still only 7ish in the evening, so really it shouldn't have been bedtime. By it was for me. And I slept for a very long time. Chris said be contemplated multiple times if he should wake me, but he let me rest. I'm always thankful for his thoughtful gestures. Unfortunately, my gift of rest meant I was wide awake at 5am the next morning. Still in limbo on the time zone situation. Getting up and at em early in the morning had its advantages, though. I'm sure over the years my mom tried to instill that in me, but it never sank in. Being up early has never been a priority of mine, still isn't. But on this trip, being up early has been a bit rewarding. In Amsterdam, we were ready just as dawn was lifting night’s blanket off the city. Light just barely beginning to glow the sky. The air still crisp from the night, the street lanterns all still lit. Everywhere quiet. It felt like I owned the city. Like I could do anything I wanted with no refusal. I could go anywhere I wanted. No one standing in my way, bumping into me, blocking my view or having some pointless loud conversation on their cell phone as they zipped by. Just me and Chris. The streets were ours.
They would be until almost 9am as stated by most shops in the area. This city has seemed to have also adopted my late-morning-start belief system. In this case it was both a blessing and a curse. We enjoyed exploring on foot the empty streets the water canals the millions of bikes locked up in piles along the streets. What we hoped to find was breakfast. Coffee shops weren't even open yet. Chris explained most coffee shops in Amsterdam were not really focused on coffee so much as selling joints (with quite the variety at that!). Coffee was just an added feature to the more sought after commodity.
We walked dedicatedly toward the breakfast place Chris had saved in his GPS years ago when he lived in Amsterdam. He had always wanted to eat there (never did because who wants to eat at a fancy breakfast shop alone?), and now he was taking me to share the experience. It was called The Pancake House. In Dutch culture, pancakes aren't necessarily a breakfast food, so when we came upon the place, it was also closed. We had a little over an hour to kill. When you are hungry, aimlessly walking about is slightly less enjoyable. My stomach seemed to drown out my thoughts as I tried to take in the overwhelming cityscape. We walked past the Anne Frank house. Pausing for a moment to examine the outside. I wish I remembered more of the history I learned in high school so I could truly feel the depth of what I was seeing. I tried to remind myself multiple times of the centuries of history made in all the places I visited. I put into perspective how young our country is while reading plaques dating the buildings and statues we passed. 1100, 1300, 15th century. Earlier even. Long before America was discovered by any European. The age of the places we visited, not any in particular, showed. There seemed to be a wisdom of sorts floating in the air. People were hugely different here. Europe, here.
People eat slow, drink a lot. Enjoy life. America seems so hyped up, so fast paced compared to European places. Each city, each country had its differences, yes. But in large, Europe had a significantly different way of looking about day to day life. I liked it. There was no sense of entitlement because it is not allowed. Or tolerated would be a better word. Or, maybe due to the ancient wisdom passed down, it’s just not even a thought in someone’s mind that they would be “entitled” to anything. Long, long heritages maybe taught more about blessings than takings. People weren't necessarily more polite, just significantly less intrusive with their need to be heard and accommodated. You might be thinking- she experienced the romances of a “vacation”, not to mention visited places where the language wasn’t always English therefore didn’t really know or see REAL life. But--- we don’t do resort touristy vacations. We try to do life the way the locals do life. We aren’t attracted to the fake recreations of travelers. We rather to experience a city in all its realness and discover its hidden treasures only the locals can recommend. Traveling to us is NOT jumping on the tour train (in fact, avoiding it at all costs)- full of replicas and forced expressions of the city’s culture. I’d rather pick up the subtle hints of their beliefs and priorities that bleed out via the places no magazine reports. The places that reveal history without a plaque. The places that tell you stories without a cover charge. We choose to experience real life wherever we go, not escape it. This trip wasn’t about an escape. It was about an experience.
Amsterdam in itself, because of its unique identity, is a largely traveled city. We weren’t unique in our desire to go there. But we rented a flat in a residential area to experience life in Amsterdam, not just view it from the international points of interest. We shopped at the local grocer market. We rode our bikes. We ate at places we stumbled upon in our neighborhood. Granted 2 nights is different than a year or 30 living there, but from the vibe, I’d take up residence there in a heartbeat. Honestly, after tasting different flavors of life around Europe I began wishing the unrealistic wish to live at least a few more lives. All different. Each focused on different directions to produce a hugely different outcome. I’d love the chance to live a life where I focused on education and writing to lead me living in Amsterdam- writing, working, living something so foreign to what I have already lived. I entertained the daydream as if I could pick and choose how that other life would go- and many others, playing out the differences and the highlights- more like a movie than reality. But still, from what I’ve seen, living in another country with a completely different lifestyle looks pretty enticing- even if it would inevitably still include mundane duties and routines (which it would). There’s an atmosphere, an energy from the particular history and culture that cannot be replicated in the States. You can’t read about it, you can’t pick it apart in some social science major- it’s just there and it’s either in sync with what you believe or it’s not. You will only know when you visit the foreign places yourself. You will only reckon with it once you’re in it- and then, you will understand what all other travelers try to explain but can’t. It’s not magical because it’s a vacation, it’s magical because there’s something so deep, so rich resonating from the ground, the buildings and the people that you can’t make it through the city without being touched by it. Regardless of my romantic descriptions, it’s very real. I jive with it. I dig it.
I hoped I would come back different. Changed by the observations I had made. Wandering streets that have housed centuries of lives, living and dying, changes and revolutions, cultures instilled deeper than any I have experienced. I hoped many times that stays with me. I hoped I could bring it back and keep it. It's not seen in any picture I have taken, but I hoped I would be able to see it when I looked in the mirror. When I pour into my marriage and my daughter, I hoped it would be reflected. Now that I’m back, it’s a lot harder than it sounds to keep it. I already feel it slipping away. I feel so far from what I had in Europe. Almost as if it was in another life that I was there. I guess that is part of why I wrote- to hold on to “it” the best I could.
We stumbled upon a beautiful palace encircling a large plaza.
To the side of the palace, was an ornate structure, most likely a church. Tucked in a tiny corner was a chain coffee shop, selling actual coffee. We huddled into its tiny 3 walls [it truly was built into a corner] and ordered our hot drinks. We sat in chairs set up in the plaza, drinking our coffee smoking a morning cigarette.
(Sorry, Mom, I lied, they were for us. But it’s a Europe thing, so it’s ok.) The sun was starting rise and people were coming and going, increasing every 15 minutes or so. I can't say I remember much of our conversations while we sat or wandered that morning. But they were rich in the moment. We enjoyed our down time just as much as the fervent exploring or the determined searching. I'm sure we talked about the old cobblestone worn down by how many billions, trillions or some astronomical number, of feet had shuffled along over hundreds of years. We examined the architecture of the church and the palace. Statues and spires and carvings and doors, all fascinating as a whole and individually. Overwhelming as a whole, actually. Individually, each stone carving, each doorway with it’s storytale of figurines and images were so impactful. It took so much focus just to gaze over one section of a structure. To figure out why the faces and the people and the statues were there. What they were trying to depict? What they were documenting with such ornate art?
We finished our overpriced coffees and figured by the time we meandered back to the pancake house it would just be opening. People were out and about now, riding their bikes with such confidence along cars and crowds of pedestrians. I had a bit of panic rise up in me as I knew we would be renting our bikes next. I have been afraid to even attempt riding a bike in Salem because of traffic, and this entire combination of goofy angled streets with cars and buses and trams and other bikers looked entirely way too complicated. But, Que sera sera. I figured, it will work out and if not, I will have one helluva story to tell about my failed bike attempt in Amsterdam.
As we assumed, the pancake house was just opening up.
A delivery truck was parked right outside. Delivering beer and wine it appeared. The truck was as wide as the whole street. The better way to phrase that would actually be to say, the street was only as wide as the small delivery truck. 7 maybe 8 cars patiently waited behind it as it did its business with the shop workers. No honking horns, or rolling eyes. The cars' drivers appeared calm and nonchalant about the hold up. Reading newspapers, playing on their phones, doing make up. Maybe they welcomed the stop. There's definitely no way you could drive in Amsterdam while multitasking. You would be sure to kill a pedestrian or overly confident biker. This stop may have given them the time they needed to ready or decompress before arriving to work. Bikes were not held up, they zipped in and out of the cars and around the truck without pause. We allowed the truck to finish unloading before going in. We ducked down into the small doorway. One step in and already greeted with 5 or 6 steep steps down into the sunken dining area. It was quaintly decorated with old pictures hung on exposed original brick. Dim lighting from a few hanging chandeliers and red tea lights on the tables set a fantastic morning mood.
The wait staff greeted us and handed out menus. At first glance, I could tell this would be no IHOP pancake house (not that I would want an IHOP experience in Amsterdam anyway). The menu listed funky combinations of pancakes. Things like bacon, ham, cheese and mushrooms stuffed into your pancake. They also had “themed” pancakes that I was quite curious about. What is a COP pancake? Or a PRINCESS one? Or a UNICORN crepe? A FIREMAN one too? I wished Zoe was available to order one for me.
Just to see. Heck, I just wished Zoe was seeing and experiencing what we were seeing and experiencing. I think it all would have been good for her. Good for her growing and developing brain to be introduced to such differentness.
The arrangement of adding veggies and meats and cheeses sounded more like an omelet than a pancake. There was a "key" to understanding the menu at the bottom right. Colored dots signified finding sweet pancakes or savory or vegetarian or popular choices. You could locate a pancake and to the left see the dots coding their genre. Although, you could tell just by reading the ingredients what to expect, the coded dots added some sort of comfort in being guided through this new taste bud adventure. We chose 1 savory pancake and 1 sweet. For our savory- ham, cheese and onions (I would have preferred mushrooms). For the sweet-a traditional Dutch pancake with powdered sugar. On our table a large tub of dark brown grainy syrup sat with a wooden spoon in it. The waiter told us it was made from beet sugar and was very popular. We also had a Caramel syrup and regular maple in bottles next to the tub. The ingredients in the bottled syrups were simple. No high fructose corn syrup and no long list of crazy preservatives. Just sugar, maple and maybe a flavoring. No added coloring to make it look a certain ideal way. I found consistently, even though I already knew it to be true, that all European food keeps to the beneficial system of fewer ingredients, less salt, no preservatives and no artificial coloring. No added funky chemicals. Funny thing, it's also incredibly cheaper too. INCREDIBLY. A package of cookies were 85 cents, a half gallon of bottled water was 30 cents, bread was less than a Euro. Meats and cheeses were about 3 Euros. We ate grocery store items like these quite often to save money. We planned one large meal to eat out, the rest were snack items.
The pancakes came out rather quickly. They were larger than our plates. Nearly the size of a large pizza. We chose to try the savory pancake first. I was quite skeptical about liking this odd combination. I'm not one for mixing genres when it comes to my food. I don't like sweet sauces on my meat that should taste salty. I don't like fruit on my pizza or in my salad. Even if they do taste good combined, I don't like to do it. I guess it's a mental quirk I have. But I promised to be open minded regarding food on this trip, so this was the first real test of such promise. I didn't hesitate or skimp on the size of bite for my first. I figured I better just dive right in. To my surprise, it was delicious. The pancake didn't really taste like a pancake. It was more of a flat, crispy crepe used to hold all the ingredients together ever so neatly. I enjoyed the pancake so thoroughly I told Chris I would like to learn how to make them. He chuckled as he does when I make a declaration that very well will never come to pass. My ideal mind likes to wish upon endeavors, but my realistic life usually gets in the way of ever actually doing them. The sweet pancake of course was delightful. I didnt like the beet sugar syrup and elected to eat my half with just the powdered sugar. The Orange juice we ordered was real fresh squeezed oranges. We watched them make it. It wasn't sweet like the sugar loaded stuff you buy from the store. It was a bit tart and had a ton of pulp in it. I sipped it slowly because of those two qualities. But it was very refreshing, just like an Orange.
Back out on the street, tummies full and minds fueled, we headed toward the bike rental shop. I loved looking at all the people. Amsterdam was funky. The people, their style. They made tattoos, piercings and mismatched clothing look so......fitting. There was a hodgepodge of “anything goes” strutting about. I absolutely wanted to join that trend. I think a part of me has never really followed fashion trends because I like to keep things a bit different, but at the same time these people made me feel like I was a sell out. Like I wasn't true to what I really wanted to be. I have made fitting in a priority back home and I definitely think I lost bits and pieces of my identity in it over the years. These unique and careless whimsicals made me want to be free from that. This would be another lesson I'd like to hang on to, being true to my own preferences and rocking what I got instead of always trying to conform to what's expressed by others around me. The bike shop was just around the corner from our apartment, which would be nice when it came time to return them and hustle to find our next travel port. Although, I absolutely didn't want to think of leaving! This place was fascinating and I had only seen a good few hours worth! I was hoping we wouldn't get the "tourist bikes". I had seen many around. They were bright green or bright yellow signifying they were rented and you were dumb to the ways of Amsterdam. I didn't pretend to be suave about this place, but I sure didn't want others to see it so clearly as a neon target. Thankfully the guy gave us two normal, beat up bikes. Mine was white with rust and dings. Chris' was black adorned with the same wear and tear. We had to leave my passport for the entire time we had the bikes. I worried this would conflict with going to a bar, but I tell you now, I was never asked for ID in Europe. They don't do that to anyone. And yet, I never saw sloppy drunks like I have in Vegas or Denver or even Portland. You would think with the liberal outlook Amsterdam has that I would have seen some atrocious behaviours, but by far, Vegas is way dirtier and outwardly more scandalous than Amsterdam. And yes, we went to the Red Light District. Multiple times. But I will get to that later. For now, I was going to have to learn how to ride this creaky bike alongside fast moving cars, oncoming bikers and ignorant pedestrians. In Europe, no one has the "right of way", if you don't go, someone else will. If someone else is going, they don't intend to stop for you, so you wait or you risk injury. Thankfully the streets we had to first ride on were quiet and easy to navigate. They introduced us to the task gently and gave us time to reduce our wobbles and get a grip on the flow of traffic. I felt instantly confident about my ability to maneuver. Maybe it was ignorance maybe excitement, but either way we were headed toward the busy streets of downtown without reservation. The wind felt great blowing on my face as we coasted along side streets leading into the busier areas. It was crisp and cool, making my cheeks rosy pink, I'm sure. We entered our first busy street, zooming alongside cars going the same speed as us. To my right there were parked cars, to my left moving cars. In front and behind there were more riders. I was more worried about the parked cars than the moving ones, to be honest. I was waiting for a door to open just as I sped by only to be brutally halted by its anchored position.
We had a prearranged system- I was to ring my bell if I encountered any issue to let Chris know he should look back. Even when I wasn't ringing my bell, I caught him periodically looking back to make sure he hadn't lost his wife somewhere in the hustled mess. I worried at some point his looking back would cause him to wreck, but as time proved, he was much better coordinated than I. I had to follow his lead without question, the speed we were going didn't allow time for argument or course changes.
We entered busier and busier areas, with junctions that were more and more confusing. It seemed rare in the busy square to encounter a 4 way intersection. There were odd off ramps and merge lanes creating 7 way crossings. 6 ways. Turning lanes that turned against my hometown tuition and headed into complete opposite directions. Oy. We approached a suedo intersection. With off ramps and on ramps but no actual turns. Chris took a" left" which was more like a straight, while I was somehow headed on the off ramp. My first instinct was just to swerve from the off ramp to join his decision, but my body was wise enough to pause. The pause meant a car, then two sped past me in the directions they knew they wanted to go. Chris seemed so far away. I stopped and dramatically rang my bell over and over. For some reason, I didn't feel I could correct my mistake and catch up with him. Instead, I hoped he would retrace his path and come save me. I'm not usually a helpless broad, and it’s humorous to me now that all I thought to do was ring my stupid little bell. All panicky like a little girl. But, my sweet man heard, saw my wide eyes from all the way down the street and came to my rescue. Laughing the whole way. He still recounts that as a favorite moment of his on the trip. So ridiculous.
We made it, with no other incident, to the most “touristic” part of town. Along a canal. Beautiful architectures all around. Little shops with crazy weird gifts, "coffee shops" and musician beggars of all kinds. Talented and interesting. There was a certain attraction we were headed there to see. The Sex Museum. That is supposed to elicit a chuckle. Its not as scandalous (yes, it is) as it sounds. I read reviews that it was for those with a light heart and a good sense of humor. I consider Chris and I to fall in those categories, so we went. It was quite a riot. Interesting too. If you think our 21st century heathens have invented new sexual perversions far from the original intended form, I would like to share, no we haven't. I saw art from 500 bc that would suggest we haven't come up with anything new. There were comical practical jokes throughout the building. There were serious displays of art from all different eras and countries. I took tons of pictures (because it was allowed by both staff and my husband- usually those 2 items prevent me from taking too many photos) and because it was just too interesting not to. Obviously, those photos can't be shared here, but I'm happy to share if you're brave enough! (Nothing too crazy, I promise...Sorta)
We moved along with the hoards of people shuffling in and out of shops browsing at all the things vendors would put a price on. This was the most people we had seen packed in one area yet on our trip. Germany seemed empty compared to this. It wasn’t anything frustrating, just an observation.
Then again, we tend to stay away from tourist pits as best we can, so being in this area full of travelers thirsty for the city tour, meant we would be subject to their masses of confusion, photographs, and maps.
We broke away from the herd of people moving along the main walk to explore the surrounding area. There was a beautiful church to circle, an intriguing pub I had to drink at and according to our GPS, the Red Light District was hiding somewhere near. We hunted for a place to chain our bikes up. I’ve never been in a place where bicycling was so popular that parking was more in demand for bikes than cars. Sorry Portland, but you don’t even hold a candle to Amsterdam in this area (or any other for that matter, regardless how weird you try to be!). Every possible pole, ledge, cage, immovable object a bike could be anchored to, you would find at least 3 or 4 piled on top of each other. Along the bridge every inch was crowded with bikes mangled and shoved into a space that would allow them to be attached via chain and locked to the bridge railing.
I’m curious how strangers detangle their massive metal workings from all the others when it is time to unlock and depart. We had to walk our bikes a good 4 blocks before we found an acceptable place to lock up. Our bikes looked like everyone else’s (desirable under every instance but one- I worried we may have trouble re-locating them after exploring.) It would have been different had the bikes been ours. If the dings, scratches and life lived on them were in our memories. It would’ve created an intimacy making it impossible to lose our own bike. You could tell people loved their bikes. One- none of them looked even close to new. Two- they got creative with adding things like decorative seats (also never looking new) and baskets, handlebars and bells. All had color and expressions of their owners' love for them. No two bikes were similar. If I was a cheesy tourist interested in wasting time, I would have taken tons of pictures of some of the interesting bikes I saw. But I wasn't trying to look like one of those tourists, and I definitely didn't have the time. My man moves quickly, and there's a keep up or get lost rule built into our travelings.
We walked, wandered actually, around on the cobble stone roads and walks. We neared the church I wanted to see. It was smack dab in the middle of the Red Light District. I was curious which came first- the sinful streets or the place of worship. Was the church an attempt to save lost souls in the middle of a dark place or were the streets of Red created out of rebellion beyond the church walls? Either seemed a symbol of freedom from the other. As we walked past the front of the church which faced the main road, we rounded to the side of the brick structure. To our left, the beautiful towers and stained glass of the catholic church- directly to our right were little glass rooms with velvet drapes and red lights. Some were empty with but a tall bar stool. Some were not. The first inhabited glass box of a room housed a chubby black woman dressed in ill-fitted lingerie. She was playing on her cell phone. The room next to her was another chubby woman. White and looking to be in her 50's. Maybe a job like that doesn't allow you to age so gracefully? 50 seems a bit old to still be turning tricks, I would assume. Then again, I know very little about the business and the demands of such a product. (At least in this form, anyway.) I was surprised at both- neither were the Victoria's Secret models with smooth dance moves I assumed did this kind of vocation.
It was only 3 or 4 in the afternoon, so most of the rooms following were empty. These glass humanquariums were stacked one right next to another down the street, wrapping all around the church. I find it interesting for those to be in the church looking out or in the glass rooms looking straight on to the place where people say God lives. Does the scenery for either looking out affect their perception of what they live for? Does the contrast invoke any insight or thought? To me, the two usually seem so far apart from each other (geographically) that it creates an out of sight out of mind way of going about business. Maybe this layout is how it should be. No ability to deny the other's existence. Recognition does some powerful things. Ignorance does too.
The church was not the only "out of place" establishment in the area. Every 4 or 5 glass window would abruptly end to a buzzing pub or fancy restaurant. Bakeries were common to see as well. So- buy your bagel and coffee prior to mass, then join your mother for a fancy lunch. Follow it up by an encounter with a glass room and a beer at the pub. Sounds so....clashing. I tell you, some of the restaurants were so fancy you wondered how they got stuck (or opted for) such a location. Some of the bakeries looked so cute and innocent with their sweet treats so specialized, you had to question if they were naive to their whereabouts.
These streets went on and on for blocks and blocks and alley upon alley. It was quite the intriguing area. Something new and shocking around every corner.
Walking along the cobblestone was really starting to affect my bad ankle. There are times I feel my body is revolting against my mental youth by invoking elderly physical pain. Throughout the trip, I've had mini battles with my back and ankle, but I've ignored them- pushing on. Unfortunately, cobblestone is a crazy terrain and it sure was doing its damage. I hate admitting defeat, especially to my body, but I had to be smart or I would reach a crippling state. We had easily walked 5 or 6 miles for the day, including the morning's roamings, so it wouldn't be total concession to take a break, right? Chris threatened multiple times on the trip that when we get back I am having the surgery my doctor advised me to have 2 years ago. I can only imagine the damage I have done in the last couple years, not to mention this trip. Stupid old body. I'm scared of such an extensive reconstructive surgery with screws and rods and nearly a year of rehab. I partially rebel against the procedure for the simple fact that I feel like I'm not old enough to be falling apart, I'm not ready to admit I already need joints fixed. But the pain does get pretty bad. I do look quite silly hobbling along trying not to let it stop me. Pushing forward with a changed walk just to prove I can still "walk".
We began making our way back to where we thought our bikes were. It's never good to push yourself to your breaking point THEN have to push even farther searching for relief (it would have been different had we known exactly where relief was, instead, we were only guessing). It's the searching without certainty that magnifies the problem. Every wrong turn, every doubted direction. I led us so far in the wrong direction, when we finally discovered a landmark revealing where we were, we had about a mile to retrace.
Realizing you went the wrong way is frustrating enough- add excruciating pain on top of it and it's infuriating. By now my ego was totally humbled and I looked like a well-dressed beggar just hobbling alongside a sympathetic kind man. Ridiculous scene. Chris' directing found us the bikes and I was ever so grateful. I was done with cobblestone for a bit. We took our bikes and whirred around the city streets in the cool autumn air.
We visited a few grocery markets. Exploring their particular selection of cheeses, meats, breads, cookies and whatever else we wouldn't normally find in the States. I'm not a huge fan of their meat. Fatty, sometimes raw, just overall questionable looking. We stuck to what we knew we would like. Cookies, crackers and cheese. There wasn't a chocolate in the place I didn't want to try. All of their candy looked exciting. The wrapping- retro. The combinations- unique. Drinks were another fun item in Europe. Everything was so cheap. Everything looked so thirst quenching. The extensive selection of beer- all new to our taste-buds. The mysterious wines all local all exciting, even if they did taste similar to the ones we loved back home. Juices all natural, organic and untouched by gallons of sugar. We purchased our findings, strapped them to the back of my bike, and headed back to the apartment for a bit of rest. We knew the evening would be a late one! Last night in Amsterdam and we definitely hadn't soaked in enough.
Waiting for transportation, that is. We couldn't afford to risk being late, that would mess up quite a string of things. There were benches to sit on, outside. We sat and waited like the others who had arrived before us.
After about a half hour, a man dressed in what we could assume was a uniform signifying he was our bus driver, walked up to our waiting area. He was very tall. Husky. Long curly hair to the middle of his back. Dark sunglasses sitting on a broad face. Smoking a cigarette, drinking coffee (or at least, what I hoped was coffee). He strongly reminded me of Penn Jillette or maybe Meatloaf. He waited right along with us until exactly 12 when he was scheduled to allow us on the bus.Not a minute before.
As we waited for the clearance to board the bus, a van pulled up. 3 middle eastern men unloaded a giant box very carefully. They waddled unsteadily to a bench behind us to the far left,
away from our peripheral vision. It would be too obvious if we turned around to watch what more was happening. The box was made of slats of wood. You could slightly see between the slats, revealing an overflowing amount of pink bubble wrap. The kind with the largest of bubbles. The kind you want to lay all about the floor to dance upon creating a unique beat of clicks and pops. Whatever was in that box was mighty fragile and mighty heavy. 1 of the men left the other two waited to board the bus. We exchanged some whispers both agreeing it would be unnerving if they were on our bus.
Sure, you can accuse me of a bit of racial profiling, I don't even feel bad about it. The two men didn't smile, at least the glances I did catch of them, I never saw a soft facial expression.
We lost interest in our dramatic assumptions and began chatting quieting to each other, Chris and I. As we talked, one of the men began to wander slowly in our direction, stopping directly behind us. He lit a cigarette and hovered closely for what seemed forever. Chris motioned for me to stop talking- I assumed it was because I was speaking in English. I muttered a few sentences in french and he seemed slightly relieved. We sat quietly (because I know very little French and Chris even less- so no conversation could be had). The man remained behind us. Not moving. His buddy yelled something to him in a harsh tone and he wandered back to their big box. No luggage, just the big box. Meatloaf Penn signaled we could begin loading up. We snatched up our bags as quickly as possible. It's not a graceful process for me to pick up my pack and go. It's an awkward ordeal of heaving and hoeing and
throwing weight to one side to balance while I try to find the arm hole of my bag while keeping my coat from bunching up under the pack. I wasn't quick. It had to have been humorous. And I hated it. Each and every of the 500 times I had to do it, it was quite the commotion. Sometimes the finger of my glove would get caught somewhere and it would take tugging and uncanny bends of my arms to re-situate enough to get it unstuck with my hand still in it. Backpacking was a romantic notion. It sounded unconventional and appealing in the forefront, but in reality, it was quite the nuisance. I would have still called what we did "backpacking" even if we had used more mobile luggage such as rolling suitcases. The concept of backpacking was more about hopping from place to place with spontaneity rather than the actual act of carrying a stupid back pack. But something about my backpack made me feel less of a tourist and more tough, I suppose. Even under all that weight, after all the jumping and twisting I had
to do to put it on, I felt rugged. Adventurous.
We put our packs under the bus and boarded. The bus was very nice and pretty spacious. The seats were comfy and we even had a little tray in front of us as well as foot rests.
No greyhound bus was even close to this cush. Maybe this bus ride wouldn't be so bad after all. We sat in the seats next to the bathroom, which meant we had more room for our legs to stretch out. The bathroom was actually "downstairs". This bus was a bit of a double decker. We sat above, the driver sat below with a few rows of seats and then the bathroom was midway through the bus. It took about 5 stairs to reach the little cubbyhole water closet. It was small, but adequate. Similar to an airplane bathroom. We got settled in and began staring back at our original concern. That box and its owners. There was only one guy with the box now. His buddy seemed to have disappeared. Chris said he would be more nervous if only 1 of the original 3 boarded. I spoke the only bit of logic I could think of "A bus to Paris with mostly French and Dutch people can NOT be the target of anything more than some road rage at worst. I'm sure whatever they are doing, it's fine. Worst case scenario, they are transporting something less than legal to be used in a better fashion
rather than a bus en-route to Paris." We both knew we were still interested in how this suspicious thing would play out. The single guy carried that giant box from where he had been standing toward the bus. I can only assume what happened next. There was quite a bit of chatter- in a language I didn't understand. Back and forth- questions and answers- you could tell by the fluctuations in tone.
More chatter with stronger tones. And... I don't think they ended up getting on the bus. I never saw them the rest of the trip. Maybe I did and just didn't recognize them without their cryptic box.
But I'm fairly, at least partially, certain they didn't end up riding. We find it slightly funny now. Our concern. Our attention to try and fill in the blanks to a possibly
suspicious but probably not suspicious situation. On our trip, we had an Irish priest tell us that he felt like Americans were so paranoid. And, this moment, proved it. We are. With or without reason, we just are. Our airports prove it too.
We traveled by train, bus, boat and plane- and never encountered the pat down force search in which we experienced in the American airports. We were traveling from country to country, but they didn't seem to care. They didn't even stamp my passport
in every country. (Which honestly was a bit disappointing because I was really hoping to rough that crisp new document up a bit while trekking all over Europe. Unfortunately, I think I got a total of 3 stamps out of the 6 countries we traversed.)
The bus began to move and we felt the excitement of heading to a new place rise up in our bellies. Although that could have also just been hunger left lingering in the bottom of our stomachs from a skimpy hasty breakfast. We listened intently to understand where the next stop would be. We had been so focused on getting to the obscure location of the bus park that we didn't pack water or lunch for the trip. We had had a light breakfast of the remains from what we purchased at the grocery store, but it was just some meats and cheese and crackers. We couldn't make out much of the jumbled information broadcast over the crackly intercom. Hopefully, somewhere in his mumbling between French and English he was saying we would have a break along the route. The ride itself wasn't bad. We read. We played on our phones. We talked. We looked out the window at the scenery. We slept. Then we looked at the time- only 2 hours had passed. Oy. I decided to use the restroom. Even though I hadn't had anything to drink.
It was a way of passing time I suppose, a way to stretch my legs, a way to change scenery. I don't know. Using the bathroom in a moving bus takes a bit of balance, which I don't have. The bus jerked and swayed and bumped and turned sharply. It was...entertaining. The toilet paper was near empty. Thankfully, because I was just killing time and using this as an excuse to get up out of my seat, I barely needed any (too much information?). But I knew, on a trip lasting 5 more hours, the remaining 7 squares were NOT going to last. I made my way up the stairs from the little "break room" and back to my seat.
A guy went in after me. When he was finished, he had some trouble closing the door. He finally just slammed it shut and moved along. A girl came shortly after. I wanted to warn her of the possibility there was no toilet paper, but I didn't.
Instead, she couldn't open the door. She tried and tried. I decided to use this moment as excuse #2 to get up out of my seat. I tried to open the door too and couldn't. I'm guessing the door trouble the gentlemen before us had was--- he locked it! She seemed defeated like any girl would if she really had to go and couldn't. I felt bad for her. But she just returned to her seat. I wanted to suggest she go ask the driver for a key, but I worried she didn't speak English. Eh, it probably saved her from the problem she would have encountered with the toilet paper anyway. I figured, when we stopped I would mention something to the driver. (about the locked door and the toilet paper- hoping I wouldn't be blamed for either).
Hour 3.5 came right about Brussels, Belgium. We were stopping there to pick up more travelers. I sighed a big breath of relief for the upcoming break. We wove in and out of interesting buildings, cars, streets and people sewing deeper and deeper into the city. Looking at a new place, trying to soak in as much of the cityscape as possible
as the bus sped along took my mind off my ever growing desire for food and water and the opportunity to stretch my legs. We arrived at the "bus station" which looked more like a mall entrance. There were great looking food places all around. The first announcement to come over the faulty intercom system was, DO NOT GET OFF THE BUS-
WE ARE PICKING UP PASSENGERS AT THIS TIME ONLY. A few other things were muttered about a future stop and where our break would take place. I slightly panicked, but I reasoned that we would still get our break. No one is that heartless to force riders to stay put for more than 4 hours, right?
Passengers loaded onto the bus, completely filling every seat. The atmosphere instantly changed from a quiet, comfortable ride, to a packed, stuffy one. I could smell the rain from their wet coats, hair and scarves. It made the once clean, circulating air seem so--- dense and stifling. Before, the bus had over half the seats empty. Now every single one was occupied. More than ever, I was wanting this break. I was done gazing with the hour introduction to Brussels. I wanted off the bus. I wanted to eat. I wanted water. But- to my dismay as quickly as the bus loaded, the bus began to depart. I was hoping there was maybe a planned stop just down the road, you know, someplace less crowded, less busy. I figured that was smart of the driver to take us to a less congested area to take a break. I decided I would be a bit more patient to let the driver do his deal. He knew what we was doing, regardless of what his mess of hair said about him. I tried to let the thought go, to just wait without waiting. I tried to think about things OTHER than food and water. Half hour passed. Then an hour. We had now been on the bus for 5 hours with no water and no food and a locked bathroom door with a dangerously low toilet paper supply. I figured maybe the driver was going to stop at a "midway" point between the last stop and our final stop, that seemed reasonable, I suppose. We kept busing along. We cruised quickly, zipping in and out of traffic as if we were a just another car. If I hadn’t been so annoyed with this heartless Meatloaf guy I would have given him props for his dexterity in driving. I had actually noticed in all the buses we rode thus far, the drivers were, in my mind, extremely talented. They whipped around tight little corners, bolted down one lane width streets, and parked as if they were no bigger than a fiat. MULTIPLE times I was certain we would hit a pole or at least jump the curb as the driver cut in between items I myself would have been nervous to navigate with just my car. They drove dangerously close to other vehicles without a flinch. They were fast and precise. None of the words I am using currently would describe any of my bus experiences in the States. Precise. Bolt. Whip. Dexterity. Nope. These words describe the geometric and physics masterminds that have ever so perfectly calculated each angle and curve along with their speed. They seemed to know the dimensions of their big old bus better than I know the dimensions of my big old hips. After 28 years of knowing my body, I still have trouble clearing corners without a massive hit and run collision.
We pulled off the main interstate and started driving down a winding side road. It headed toward a rest area. I felt some glee rising up. I felt a bit of joy starting to tickle my pallet. Water! Maybe even food! A bathroom with enough toilet paper for all! Or at least most! We drove by the rest area. My overly optimistic mind said “don’t worry, he’s taking you to a better place. That rest area looked gross, and vending-machine-less. Just you wait. Just you wait to see how smart this bus driver is.”
I didn’t get to see the smarts of the bus driver. Ever again. IN FACT, that bus driver was taking a detour to some hotel, where he in turn got off and traded with a different driver. That was it. Just a captain's trade off. Penn was off to his comfy hotel and a new guy, looking exactly opposite of him was taking over. The two greeted each other as if they were brothers. They laughed. Hugged. Talked. Said hellos and goodbyes like this was a joy ride. The new, short, skinny driver got on the bus to assume business as usual. And that was that. We headed back to the interstate as if stopping hadn’t even crossed the mind of either driver. Maybe I was supposed to push some sort of button. Maybe someone was supposed to ask to have the privilege to a break from the cramped ride. Maybe the driver assumed no one wanted one. Maybe, just maybe, it was somewhere on the booking website that I was supposed to plan sufficiently for a long bus ride and that is why everyone else seemed to have ample fluids and snacks to keep them happy. Well, I finally gave up on the idea of stopping. I resigned to journaling and interspersing a few games of Plague between thoughts. I’m a viral and bacterial champion, so unfortunately, killing off the population wasn’t as exciting as when I first started the game. (If you have no idea to what I’m referring, look up Plague Inc on Google and you will realize I’m not a terrorist… mostly.)
