Chaos Reigns
I left Doolin in a whirl. Guests clinging to the coat tails of my imaginary coat, asking: Where can I buy food? Why isnt the internet working? How many fingers am I holding behind my back? Obviously I should have worn my invisible coat instead – (thats the one that makes me invisible – aka Frodos elf coat, NOT the one I’d picked up in a hurry, that just makes it look like Im not actually wearing a coat)
The bus driver told me off for trying to flag down the bus. Trying and succeeding to flag down the bus that is. Why didnt he just not stop if he didnt want to pick me up? I think maybe he just didnt like my coat – he was definitely a coat-ist. And the kind who pretend they’re not really a coatist, yes, they like all sorts of clothing they say, when really they think their coats are much better than yours. The worst kind.
That night I stayed in Galway at the usually decent Barnacles hostel, yet this night was to be an exception as one fellow room mate insisted on opening the window to let the noise from the raging party street below drill its way into my usually quiet enough head.
I closed the window when I went in the room.
She opened it when she left the room.
I closed it when she wasnt looking.
Alas to be awoken in the middle of the night when she snuck up and opened it again.
Yes it was hot inside but heat isnt loud, so heat is my friend. I considered a window tug of war but didnt know my opponent well enough to be sure that she wouldnt consider pushing me out the window during our duel – she could have been a window pusher for all I knew.
Next morning I dragged myself out of bed at the unseemly hour of 8am in order to catch the 9am bus to Dublin to begin my dash through Belgium and Amsterdam. Blurry eyed and bung-legged, I walked through town to the City Link bus stop outside the tourist office. Or what I thought was the city link bus stop. At five past nine when the bus hadnt arrived and the tourist office had just opened, I enquired inside as to the bus which, as stated on the timetable outside, leaves from ‘outside the tourist office’….
In Ireland, you soon find that stated things dont actually mean what they state. Especially when it comes to buses. 3pm for instance, actually means 3.19pm in Irish, every eejit knows that. And its seems, ‘outside the tourist office’ actually means 50 metres down the next right turn, BEHIND the tourist office. Of course it does.
So I boarded the 10am bus, assuring myself I would still arrive at the airport 1.40hours before boarding. I kept assuring myself until we reached the roadworks. The inevitable roadworks. I tried sneering at the roadworkers out my window but that only seemed to make them work slower (and a few to shake their spades in anger). And so it was that I arrived 42 minutes before departure. Two minutes before the check-in desk closes. At least when I miraculously got to the checkin desk in time I didnt have to wait in any queues, which suddenly took on a whole new importance, considering the two pints of water Id drunken on the bus, and my now complaining bladder.
When I finally found a toilet and rushed in to use it I half expected to find it broken. And not obviously broken with a sign on it stating ‘broken’ (or whatever the Irish for ‘broken’ is – ‘under the weather’ perhaps, or maybe: ‘just grand’) but just convincing enough for me to use it, only after the fact finding myself in some sick scene akin to something from a Ben Stiller movie. But thankfully everything flushed and nothing got stuck. Things were looking up.
I arrived in Brussels in the early evening and managed to find Van Gogh hostel (its just a name, no paintings, no ears, no creative lunatics) despite first somehow reading my map back to front or inside out or something that led me in the complete opposite direction. I had surfaced from the subway, map in hand and tried to navigate the one and only street I needed to travel. I could go left, or I could go right. Of course, I went wrong.
The hostel itself was okay but my room was right outside the bar and it was too hot to close the door….. dejavu. So I didnt get a whole lotta sleep. It was actually really really hot – well in the thirties. So my one full day in Brussels I spent just sweating mostly. Id find a nice corner, stand and sweat. Then move to an interesting statue, stand and sweat. I did have a look around the city and found it has a beautiful historic centre, and a peeing fountain that is a big hit with the Japanese tourists, God youd think they’d never seen a little boy peeing into a fountain before, but little else that left a lasting impression. It was nothing like I expected, previously when Id thought of Belgium….well actually Id never really thought of Belgium at all and therefore wasnt expecting anything in the first place, and so therefore I wasnt in the least disappointed.
On Thursday I caught the train to Antwerp, again not expecting alot but just needing a place to stay along the way to Amsterdam. Oh yeah, and to visit the Little Sister.
Id read great things about a small hostel/folk music bar called De Hetzenketel, but couldnt get hold of them by phone. So I just rocked up and fortunately got a bed at one of the best hostels Ive ever stayed at. Its small and friendly, has a freaky lime green spiral staircase and is decorated with almost 100 witch-puppets. Yes, witch-puppets (De Heksenketel means ‘The Witches Den’). Thankfully they were only decorating the living area and bar, and not hanging over every bed.
Having found somewhere to sleep that night, I set off to find the Little Sister who was rowing at some place called Hazewinkel, in some place called Willebroek somewhere in Mechelen, which Im pretty sure was somewhere in the general vicinity of Belgium – or at least Europe. Every Belgian I spoke seemed to be just as in the dark about this place as I was. I got as far as Mechelen by train, then found a bus driver who didnt speak any English but was happy enough to drive me somewhere into the abyss. He said something like: ‘shteppenschtoppen’ after we’d driven some way and indicated for me to exit the bus. I stepped off and the bus sped away. I looked around…and didnt see anything vaguely related to anywhere named Hazewinkel or anything to do with rowing. I saw several abandoned buildings for sale, and lots of cars driving through unusually fast with no one stopping any time soon. Out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw some tumbleweed go rolling by.
Perhaps I had ignored some sort of Belgian bus-riding custom and offended the bus driver. Perhaps it is customary in a chocolate-loving nation such as this to pay in chocolates, and on realizing I had no chocolates on my person (hard to believe I know) I was promptly ejected from the bus into the wild west of Belgium.
Resigned to my abandonment, I set off in a direction, some direction that hopefully would lead me somewhere where I didnt have to worry about vultures circling my weakening carcass. I didnt have a map but then maps never seemed to tell me anything except that I wasnt where I wanted to be – and I knew that already.
Fortunately I came across a bus-stop with a bus stopped at it. The bus driver told me I needed to catch Bus 227. I checked the timetable, and as the bus didnt arrive for another half hour, I thought Id walk some more, maybe to the next bus stop. I got to the next stop, only to find that no Bus 227 left from here. So I walked to the next one. And the next one. Stupid, stupid. I tried to think about my new predicament logically but at that point the one thing that echoed over and over in my head was ‘when you’re lost, stay in one place and look for a grown up to help you’ in a generic Mum voice. Im a silly, silly girl. And just when I was ready to give up and let the scorching sand of the desert cover over my body, burying me in a nameless grave, I saw an icecream vendor all bathed in shining light up ahead. My savior. Actually no, it was just a mirage. But then through the mirage I saw a gas station. And it was real. And it had icecream. And a nice Belgian man who told me I may aswell just walk the next three kms to Hazewinkel – which he had heard of.
So I took my icecream with me and with renewed hope I walked. I walked like Id never walked before. All cripple-ey with blisters and sunstroke. Probably looked like some kinda new European dance move. And eventually I found her, all lean and fit just like a real athlete. She fed me cookies and chocolates (strict atheletes diet) and I saw her messy room and then I watched her row. And then somehow I found my way back to Antwerp without having to walk too much more.
Antwerp is a cool city. Its kind of like Amsterdam’s younger cousin, who doesnt have a addiction problem and who looks a bit geeky but is actually really cool, its just he doesnt know it yet. It has a beautiful historic centre and a grittier outskirt. Its happening but not pretentious. Theres a retro under-pass tunnel under a river, and a beach bar, and a zoo and a hostel with witch puppets.
The day before I was to head across to the Land Of Clogs, I took a day trip out to Bruges. Everyone Id met who’d been there had raved about how beautiful it is. And everyone is right. It really is a beautiful medieval city. Enough to make the crowds bearable, and despite the cycle-driven portable bar overloaded with drunk English geezers that kept appearing around every corner.
Walking into Bruges is like walking through a very authentic movie set, nothing quite seems real. It’s too clean and perfect, and jam packed with every nationality except Belgian. After an initial walk through the picturesque town along its cobbled streets, I stood in a queue and took a boat tour along its narrow canals, listening to the informative guide giving a history in English, French, German and Italian, during which I tried to look like I understood French instead of English. Just for fun.
After the boat tour, I walked to the square and stood in a queue to climb the bell tower. I dont know why I keep climbing bell towers. It’s some kind of tourist attraction compulsive disorder I have. By the time I reach the top of the thousands of stairs my heart is pounding and my vision is blurry so I cant enjoy the view anyway. What is worth three euros though is taking a break on the middle level on the way back down and watching the faces of the exhausted people on their way up change from relief to despair when they realize no, they havent reached the top….
Once on level ground again, I stood in a queue and bought some frites. Which look just like chips, taste just like chips, smell just like chips, but sound better and cost more.
To finish off the day I took a walk a couple of blocks out of the tourist zone where the real Brugians live, which was eerily quiet after the buzz of the centre.
After Belgium I was headed for Amsterdam – first stop Schiphol airport to pick up the other Not Quite As Little Sis arriving from Ireland for our Sisters Week Away which is not quite as Oprah as it sounds.
Turns out the God of Chaos had repaired his tracking and navigational system and hastily zoned in on my whereabouts to continue his work. I arrived at the airport around seven pm, the time Sis was due in. To find the flight had been delayed to nine pm. Okay so I’ll get some airport cuisine into me, buy a book and wait around. But nine pm became 10 pm which eventually became 11 pm which became…you get the idea. But Sis arrived and we go to get the train into Amsterdam and its supposed to leave at 12.01am. But its not moving. And there are people standing around looking like people look when there is a problem with a train.
We left the airport after everyone had finished with their standing round looking complexed, at maybe 12.40am, arrive in Amsterdam at 1am and are refused a taxi ride because apparently we are not going far enough. New taxis keep pulling up to the growing group of people waiting, each with a nervous look in their eye, all probably wondering like myself how the hell they ended up outside Amsterdam train station at 1am.
Thanks to a rare honest and friendly taxi driver we finally made it to the hostel StayOkay Vondelpark (which is open 24hours). Little Sis was looking very tired so I tucked her into bed and read her a bedtime story. Well first I tried to tell her that 1ost 23 year olds read their own bedtime stories and tuck themselves in – but she wasnt having any of it.
Next morning we set out to explore the city. On the way into town we came across a square and performing in the middle of this square was the most entertaining busker Ive ever seen. Dressed in rainbow tie-dyed tights with matching singlet, a tall be-mulleted man danced to his own beat – despite the accompanying music. He was feeling the vibe man. Sometimes he felt sad. Sometimes he felt happy. Sometimes he felt like a monkey (as demonstrated by his swinging in tree and climbing lamp-post routine). Sometimes he flew, sometimes he crawled sometimes he really freaked some innocent bystanders out. If you are in Amsterdam and you see this man, give him money.
My memory of the trip gets a little hazy at this point (no pun). We spent the next few days hitting the sights along with the rest of America and most of Europe, and seeking out suitable umbrella purchases. I remember we went to the Van Gogh museum where people assumed that because we’re tall its okay to push infront of us, yes I enjoy viewing the sunflowers through a headful (and occasional mouthul) of unwashed hair. We also went to the Anne Frank house, which was very moving despite the crowds. The crowds in someways made the experience more sombering as we were herded single file through narrow corridors and from room to room drawing some disturbing comparisons.
And we admired the canals and the bikes and tried not to look at the overweight prostitutes (guess they dont have a lot of room to exercise in those little window boxes) when we took a wrong turn into the Red Light district, looking for a church of all things. A church that was padlocked not suprisingly.
As we did all this in the rain our trip required the purchasing of two large umbrellas, our prized possessions which we managed to carry around with us and which we decided we needed to bring back to Ireland on the plane and which I havent used since…But you never know when youre going to need an oversized weildy pain-in-the-arse umbrella.
We took our first trusty umbrella with us when we went to see Littler Sis race in the Junior World Rowing Championships. With prompts from Mother via cellular telephone technology we cheered her team on from beneath our giant plastic friend and because of us they won their heat. They went on to come second overall, which means as you read this you are all only two degrees of separation from a world-class athelete.
Our last night in Amsterdam we had dinner at a cool little vegetarian restaurant called Green Planet, before getting our gear together ready to leave the next morning. And leave we did. I dont recall any dire disasters on the way home as we flew from Schiphol to Shannon so perhaps my personal God of Chaos had decided to lay off for a while. Or perhaps he’s just saving it all up for a rainy day…..
Tags: Travel
Em
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