Andrew in WonderlandSunday afternoon after updating my journal I let another hotel guest use the computer. He’s American. He wants to bike to a field with a windmill and get stoned. I say that’s great but have no advice for him on where to get a joint, a field, or a windmill. I go upstairs and take the longest shower ever and tell Jack, Juan, and Lindsay that I’m going to walk around Amsterdam and to call me when they get up. Amsterdam has trams running up and down the streets which make me think of modernized streetcars (ala NOLA). Amsterdam = New Orleans x Venice / Vegas. I have chicken and mushrooms for lunch and wash it all down with water. I buy the water from an Indian woman, who’s of course beautiful, and she tells me I’m cute and that she’d invite me home for lunch (curry!) if her parents weren’t home and super-conservative. She wants to hang out Monday but when she gets off work I’ll have left. I almost ask for her number until I remember roaming charges make each minute of phone time a Euro. I leave. I think I’m seeing things, but I’m not. Amsterdam is just full of crazy people. Harmless. Crazy. People. I walk around and look for a t-shirt but can’t find one I like enough. I go into a record store which reminds me of
High Fidelity but can’t find anything I want there either. I go to an Indonesian restaurant. (Food-wise supposedly Indonesian:Amsterdam Indian:London.) It’s closed. I go into the bar next door and order a plate of chicken satay with fries and a salad. And a Pilsener to drink. It’s getting late in the afternoon, so the place is empty except for the bartender and me. She seems busy doing things so I don’t talk to her that much, but eventually she asks me how many languages I speak. Why? She tells me I greeted her in Italian, ordered my meal in Spanish, and am now speaking English. I tell her English, and that I was probably confused by what the other customers (who left) were speaking. When she knows I’m in culinary school, I help her translate the menu for the day to write on the chalkboard. “No, au gratin is the same in every language.” We talk about tourists since she lives in Amsterdam and I live in DC/New Orleans/Firenze. She recommends a spot to hang with locals tonight. I say goodbye and leave. I go into a hookah bar (funnily “Lost in Amsterdam”) and get a jenever oude (old gin). I feel tired. I order a coffee. The bartender tells me I’m cute and the coffee is on the house because I “look like [you] need it.” Two girls at the bar befriend me. We hang out on a side street for a while. I walk around some more. I see a bar called “Bourbon Street” and a street called “Bourbonstraat.” I decide I need to find my friends. But either because of the roaming or the networks or the country codes, I can’t call anyone. Which means they can’t call me. Eventually Juan texts, I text back, and we meet up.
“meet me at the train station and text me back when you get this so I know you do. Find me before I fly away?”
Party HardSunday evening I tell them all about my day. Juan is the most interested and seems a bit jealous. I wish he had gone with me that morning. We go to a square where people are starting to gather. The queen is coming to her nearby palace. We get tired of waiting for her, so we leave. Juan buys fries. We stop at another bar for more beer and some wine. We sit at a table outside by the canal and then smoke. We go back to the hookah bar I was at earlier. Fresh mint tea (amazing) and orange tobacco. Juan and I are hungry so we get “nasi rames” (a six-dish plate) at the Indonesian restaurant that was closed earlier. It’s a late dinner. Jack and Lindsay go back to the hotel. Juan and I get some cake, eat it, and then walk around some more, drink a couple of rum and cokes, and call it a night. On the way home, we walk through the red light district and see a bunch of drunken men dressed as Oompa-Loompas ogling one of the ladies of Der Wallen (“The Walls.”)
Lady: “Hey you, I like you. Come here!”
Young Oompa Loompah: “Me?”
Lady: “Yes, be my victim, be Morticia’s victim!”
Old Oompa Loompah: “You’re a wanker.”
Morticia: “You’re a league of wankers, The League of Muppet Wankers!”
Chillin' like a VillainMonday morning we check out of our hotel at the last minute. We go to the station and buy tickets. We go to a coffeehouse and get cappuccinos and teas and smoke. Juan and I are hungry, and Jack and Lindsay are not. They go for a walk. We go to an Argentinean steakhouse and get steaks, chips, red wine, and bread with garlic butter. We walk around some more and go to the train station.
We’re not meant to leave?Monday afternoon due to late trains, stalled trains, track changes, and other things, we are delayed two hours and switch trains like five times. When we get off in Brussels we debate which stop is the right one. (Lindsay and I took a different one than Juan and Jack did on the way here.) We hop off at the last minute. I am an idiot. (I am also an idiot who is sleep-deprived, dehydrated, and sober with a lot of leftover alcohol in his system.) I leave my backpack on the train. Everything. This is so unlike me. But I do. My wallet, phone, camera, keys, tickets, and PASSPORT. Gone. In less than a minute we formulate a plan. Jack is staying with me. Juan and Lindsay are going ahead to the airport. (Like me, Jack isn’t in college so his grades don’t matter.) Juan and Lindsay hop on a train. Jack and I hop on another one to follow ours. The train with my backpack – thank God – makes its last stop at the next station. Our new train arrives there five minutes after our old train. We decide to go straight to Lost & Found. I tell the gentleman there, and he asks me what’s in my backpack. He goes away for a few seconds and comes back with my backpack. Five minutes. I LOVE BELGIUM. If it was Italy, I’m sure they would’ve said, “oh, check back in a week.” The whole ordeal takes about ten minutes. But apparently they’re a crucial ten minutes because we miss our flight by ten minutes. I feel bad but not entirely because in our 130 minutes of delay, I was responsible for 10. And I even wanted to leave earlier than we did.
A Happy AccidentSo
Monday night we got stuck at the airport. The check-in booths and ticket booths were closed. The gentleman at the information desk told us the next flight to Pisa was at 6:40 in the evening on Tuesday. Backtracking to the train stations to check out train schedules would’ve been stupid because we could’ve gotten stuck there and trains would’ve taken over a day to get home when the alternative was relaxing where we were and taking a one-and-a-half-hour flight. The gentleman told us we are welcome to stay at the airport for 20 hours or whatever it was, but that if we wanted he had information on nearby hotels. He called the two nearest ones for shuttles because a five-minute taxi ride would cost us 20 Euro. “And that’s ridiculous,” he said. Very kind of him. The hotel shuttle services didn’t answer, so he called a third one, which was a bit further away. He said it’s a nice hotel with free shuttle service and showed us a brochure which looks like a boutique hotel and reads like a bed & breakfast. He told the driver to meet us by a red mailbox outside the airport to avoid the bus and taxi traffic. Then the information guy walked us out to the stop and waited with us to make sure we get the right car. (How awesome is that? This country rules so hard.)
On the way to the hotel, we found out from the driver that all the restaurants in the area were already closed, which sucked because we were starving. At the hotel, he took us inside and got behind the counter. (It was a small but pleasant place, and at this point I realized he was either manager or, more likely, the owner.) He booked our room and gave us two keycards. At this point I caved and just asked him if he had any bread and jam and water we could have. And he said of course he would give us food and to follow him. He took us to the dining room and told us to take whatever we want. “Don’t be shy. You’re young men, and you’re hungry. Take more.” We took our loot back to our room, and I comment to Jack that it looked like an indoor picnic or something out of a fairy tale. They were taken into the castle and fed eggs, cheese, waffles, and fruits? The fruit selection was impressive because we just got a quick sampling and had apples, oranges, bananas, and lychees. The owner knocks at the door. He has brought us warm towels and cold beers. We thanked him again and talked a little bit. He asked where we were from and we tell him The U.S.A. He smiled, and I thought it was a rueful “I hate you guys” smile, but it wasn’t. He thought we were German (Wangelin) and Spanish or Latino (Marin) and not American. He asked where in The States, and we told him Chicago and DC. He’d never been to DC, but he loved Chicago. On the way out, he told us he’d been to The States 17 times, and assures us he liked it and liked Americans. I tried not to creep him out when I told him how highly I thought of Belgium and Belgians. And then I told him good night and thank you very much in French. I’ll never forget his answer:
“Good night. You are welcome. I will never forget what Americans did for Belgium during the war.”
I was genuinely touched by this, as was Jack. It’s one thing to hear a patriotic American like Giuseppe talking about how great The U.S. is, but it’s a completely different thing to hear a foreigner (a European even!) talking positively about The U.S. And he treated us so well. We felt like we were staying at an uncle’s or a family friend’s. Like his guests and not his customers. Anyway, we watched TV – cable TV with a remote control and over 30 channels and everything – and eventually fell asleep. At some point around 3AM, Juan texted to let us know he was back in Italy, and we were glad we got stuck in Belgium.
Vacation extended... by forceTuesday morning when we woke up, Marc (his name, we learned) had a buffet breakfast prepared for us in the dining room. The same fruits were out, but I noticed in the morning sunlight that aside from the apples, oranges, bananas, and lychees, there were also: Sliced honeydew (which I don’t usually like but was very good), strawberries, grapes, peaches, apricots, figs, dates, quinces, and various dried fruits. And that’s just the fruit table.
There were also hardboiled eggs, waffles, three cereals, four cheeses (one made by monks), five breads/pastries, every kind of jam you can imagine, a homemade grapefruit jam, milk marmalade, Nutella, peanut butter, other nut spreads, different milks and yogurts, (orange, mango, guava) juices, every kind of Twinings tea, assorted selections of hot chocolates, coffees, candies, and chocolates.
I’d never been so excited to eat breakfast. And I love breakfast.
After breakfast, Marc gave us a map and annotated it. Good and non-overpriced beers here, the best chocolates here, the most beautiful buildings there, etc. He drove us to the airport and told us to call if we had any problems. While checking out, I snuck a peek at the guest book and apparently everyone (like me) had nothing but praises to sing. If you’re ever in Brussels, consider staying here. You won’t regret it.
HOTEL SOUTH
206 Chaussee de Gilly
b 6043 Charleroi Ransart
Tel +32 (0)71 256565
Fax +32 (0)71 256560
info@charleroi-hotelsouth.be
http://www.charloioi-hotelsouth.be
The ticket lady told us there was only one seat left, so we booked it for Jack and I was first on the waiting list. She said it shouldn’t be a problem for me to get on the flight but to check back later, and that the next flight was Wednesday morning. We decided to spend the afternoon wandering around Brussels with Marc’s map. All the sign and map names were in both French and Dutch. We walked around the Grand Place / Grote Markt, stopped by the famous Manneken Pis (peeing little boy fountain) and got Guldenberg (au fut) beer and Herve Doux and Bouquet des Moines cheeses at the nearby bar Marc had recommended, we stopped by the store of Pierre Marcolini who we were told was the best maker of Belgian chocolates, we bought a small dark chocolate mouse cake with orange cream and praline shards, we ate that in a small park and walked around the Koninklijk Paleis / Palais Royal and then made our way back to the airport. At the airport, the ticket counter said the flight was delayed ten minutes they needed ten more minutes to let me know whether I could board or not. At this point, I would’ve been happy to go back to Hotel South and chill out with Marc and his wife and son. But I do get to board. And Jack and I finally return to Italy, a few hundred Euro poorer but completely convinced it was all worth it. It was. That was one of the best and craziest (extended!) weekends of my life.
The Great Escape
No pictures yet. But soon I’ll put up my greatest album ever. The Europe Album: Barcelona Spain, Friesing Germany, London England, Amsterdam Netherlands, and Brussels Belgium.
