Since we have been to Brussels several times this year alone (been there, seen it, done that), we decided to take the train to Brugge for the day.
Yes, just one hour by train to this charming medievel burg built on the banks of a picturesque river that winds its way through a bucolic counrtyside right off a travel brochure. The perfect day trip. If you can actually get there, that is.
The nearest station to our hotel was a mere ten minute walk they told us. Up the hill, right, then left. Up the hill, right, then lost is more like it. Apparently, the road curving to the right is considered a right turn in Belgium, so we curved to the right, and then turned to the right. Wrong.
Throwing ourselves on the mercy of a passerby (a friendly local), we got a new set of directions and found the station. (All right, we must have looked really pathetic because she led us there). Still, we managed to purchase tickets and find the platform by ourselves (hey, the entire station was under construction and everything was in French or Flemish including the ticket guy so this really was an accomplishment).
As we were congratulating ourselves on a job well done, the train pulled in and we climbed aboard. Finally, we were off!
Well, not really. We went a grand total of one stop before we stopped. For good. Lights, air, passengers, everything off except us. Once again, we were rescued by a friendly local who assuerd us that all was not lost. We could catch the next train to Brugge from the adjoining platform.
Whew. This was definitely not as easy as it looked. But after only one wrong turn and one wrong train, we arrived at our destination.
From the station, they told us, it is a mere ten minute walk to the town (wait a minute, wasn't ths how it all started?). So, off we went, down a winding cobblestone street. No right or left turns here. No turns at all. More like twists, one after the other, nonstop.
Hadn't these people ever heard of a right angle? When they were building the roads, had they gone around every pebble in the way instead of removing it?
After about an hour, I started to feel like I was trapped in some mythical maze just waiting for a minotaur to pop out any second. Things started to look a bit too familiar. "Oh look, there's the Church with Christ's blood in a glass tube (yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking)." Twenty minutes of walking in the oppopsite direction and..."oh look, there's the church--again." Twenty minutes later...well, you get the idea.
Eventually, we decided it was time to catch a train back to Brussels. Easier said than done. Which street had we come in on? Was it the one that started with a G and had sixteen letters (eleven of them vowels) following it, or the one that started with a G and had twenty letters (fifteen of them vowels) following it?
Once again, we looked for a local. "Turn down this street and follow the river," said the first one. "Turn down that street and go over the river," said another.
The third couple didn't say anything. They just pointed, then followed us and whistled when we took a wrong turn (obviously, they didn't speak English. Either that, or they were messing with us).
Suddenly, there it was. Just around the corner(or curve 1,256,439 as we liked to call it) --the train station. And we had just enough time to make it to the platform.
Except the station was under construction, and everything was in French or Flemish, and...once again, we got on the next train.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Lord of the Rings
I am not a Tolkein fan. I've tried. Really I have. I have picked up The Hobbit at least three times and just couldn't get through it even once. I've seen parts of the various movies on HBO...couldn't care less.
My sister, on the other hand, is a huge fan. Books, movies, whatever, it's all good to her. She's hobbit happy.
Which is why it is ironic that it was I, and not her, who ended up on a Lord of the Rings tour last year in New Zealand.
They herded us into four-wheel drive jeeps, each named after a different character in the movie and driven by an extra for whom having that ten seconds of fame has become a life altering experience. (Remember the body face down, without an arm and covered with snow two hours and eleven and a half minutes into the movie? That was me!)
It was Gandolf this and Froddo that and these mountains were the whatchamacallit pass, etc. etc. etc...for four mind-numbing hours. Unsurprisingly, my favorite part of the tour was when we stopped for hot chocolate and cookies.
This year...Lord of the Rings, the musical.
Our last night in London, a group of ten of us decided to see a show. Avenue Q? Spamelot? Chicago? No. No. No. Let's not go see anything that has won seceral Tony awards. Equis? No (Okay, probably a good idea. I don't know if I could handle a naked Harry Potter with horse issues.).
So we slogged across town to the west end, arriving fifteen minutes early as they said we should and took our seats. Row R, dead center. Two minutes later, I felt something brushing against the back of my head. As I turned to glare at the person behind me, a hobbit literally climbed over me on his way to the stage. Oh goody, interactive theater. That should make the whole middle earth experience even better.
About ten minutes into it, we were all praying that we were in middle earth or anywhere else besides that theater since the temperature had risen to a balmy hundred and ten degrees.
As we sweated our way through the hour and a half long Act one (our of three acts) with actors speaking Tolkinese as often as English, I fantasized about slipping away and catching Act Two of Harry and his horse. Maybe I could make it in time for the Bert and Ernie characters in Avenue Q to to realize they were gay, or for Roxie to face her big day in court.
Alas, none of that was to be since I was too weak and dehydrared to do more than crawl out the nearest door at intermission like a desert wanderer searching for an oasis and gulp in the cool evening air.
One of our group somehow had the strength left to fight their way to the bar and purchase a couple bottles of water which we debated drinking or simply pouring over ourselves.
Inquiries to the staff confirmed our worst fears...there was no air-conditioning in the theater. But, they offered, there were special vents to draw out the heat. Yeah. Tell that to the people being revived by the EMTs.
It wasn't all bad though, and I did even have a favorite moment in the play. At the end of one of the acts, Gandolf climbs up on a mountain, raises his staff and shouts to the heavens (or the other wizard, or the queen of the fairies or whoever. I'm not sure, but I think I may have slipped into a coma briefly and lost the thread of the plot).
Anyway, what Gandolf did really wasn't important. What was important was what the stage crew did. Bless their little hearts, they put a giant fan in back of Gandolf, a huge block of ice or icy water in front of it and turned it on high, blasting rows A-Z with a cool, wet gale force wind.
That alone was worth the price of admission. Next year, maybe I'll look for a Lord of the Rings jewelry tour deep in the mines of Africa.
My sister, on the other hand, is a huge fan. Books, movies, whatever, it's all good to her. She's hobbit happy.
Which is why it is ironic that it was I, and not her, who ended up on a Lord of the Rings tour last year in New Zealand.
They herded us into four-wheel drive jeeps, each named after a different character in the movie and driven by an extra for whom having that ten seconds of fame has become a life altering experience. (Remember the body face down, without an arm and covered with snow two hours and eleven and a half minutes into the movie? That was me!)
It was Gandolf this and Froddo that and these mountains were the whatchamacallit pass, etc. etc. etc...for four mind-numbing hours. Unsurprisingly, my favorite part of the tour was when we stopped for hot chocolate and cookies.
This year...Lord of the Rings, the musical.
Our last night in London, a group of ten of us decided to see a show. Avenue Q? Spamelot? Chicago? No. No. No. Let's not go see anything that has won seceral Tony awards. Equis? No (Okay, probably a good idea. I don't know if I could handle a naked Harry Potter with horse issues.).
So we slogged across town to the west end, arriving fifteen minutes early as they said we should and took our seats. Row R, dead center. Two minutes later, I felt something brushing against the back of my head. As I turned to glare at the person behind me, a hobbit literally climbed over me on his way to the stage. Oh goody, interactive theater. That should make the whole middle earth experience even better.
About ten minutes into it, we were all praying that we were in middle earth or anywhere else besides that theater since the temperature had risen to a balmy hundred and ten degrees.
As we sweated our way through the hour and a half long Act one (our of three acts) with actors speaking Tolkinese as often as English, I fantasized about slipping away and catching Act Two of Harry and his horse. Maybe I could make it in time for the Bert and Ernie characters in Avenue Q to to realize they were gay, or for Roxie to face her big day in court.
Alas, none of that was to be since I was too weak and dehydrared to do more than crawl out the nearest door at intermission like a desert wanderer searching for an oasis and gulp in the cool evening air.
One of our group somehow had the strength left to fight their way to the bar and purchase a couple bottles of water which we debated drinking or simply pouring over ourselves.
Inquiries to the staff confirmed our worst fears...there was no air-conditioning in the theater. But, they offered, there were special vents to draw out the heat. Yeah. Tell that to the people being revived by the EMTs.
It wasn't all bad though, and I did even have a favorite moment in the play. At the end of one of the acts, Gandolf climbs up on a mountain, raises his staff and shouts to the heavens (or the other wizard, or the queen of the fairies or whoever. I'm not sure, but I think I may have slipped into a coma briefly and lost the thread of the plot).
Anyway, what Gandolf did really wasn't important. What was important was what the stage crew did. Bless their little hearts, they put a giant fan in back of Gandolf, a huge block of ice or icy water in front of it and turned it on high, blasting rows A-Z with a cool, wet gale force wind.
That alone was worth the price of admission. Next year, maybe I'll look for a Lord of the Rings jewelry tour deep in the mines of Africa.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
The Great Bathroom(Loo) Search or We're Closed, Part II
Whenever we travel, we like to get off the beaten path and sample the local food. Last Sunday, this was easier said than done.
After walking from Abbey to Tower and back again(yes, they were actually open!), we were hungry and ready for some authentic British food.
Since we were near Westminster, our thought process went something like this: Parlaiment is here, all the staff members need to eat something besides McDonalds, therefore, if we go back a few blocks into the neighborhood, we should find local places.
It should have gone like this: give up and eat at McDonalds like the other half a million tourists that are here with you.
Foolishly, we set off down a promising looking street lined with office buildings. And then down the next one, and the next one and the next one. There wasn't one restaurant/pub in sight. Okay, maybe everyone really did eat at McDonalds.
By now, we were starved, but we had an even more pressing need: a bathroom. Once again, we thought, "If we keep going, we are sure to find something, anything local." And once again, it seemed as though we should have opted for the Golden Arches.
Finally though, the Vodaphone stores gave way to authentic English pubs and restaurants that just oozed local flavor. Only one problem...they were all closed!
Panic began to set in as we had flashacks to the previous Friday. First the major attractions, now the restaurants. What was next, the hotels? Would we return to our hotel that night to find yellow police tape stretched across the doors forcing us to wander the streets of London forever, unable to tour, eat or sleep?
Forcing ourselves to take deep breaths, we resumed our search (a bit more desperately now since we really, really needed a bathroom at this point.) Then, we saw it...an open Starbucks. God bless the USA and our giant food/drink chains. But wait. No bathroom. How do they sell eight hundred different types of drinks, but have no bathroom? What kind of sick practical joke was this?
Apparently, it was one being played on us by Cafe Nero(the European equivalent of Starbucks), Bootz pharmacy and the eight other places we tried. Do English people not need bathrooms? Exactly how big are their bladders?
Just when we were beginning to despair, we stumbled upon a local pub that was actually open (I guess they didn't get the memo). It was every man for himself as we barrelled our way through the pub to the loo, which was a single as (bad) luck would have it. Since Tim's need was greater, he went first, which gave me time to size up the place.
Small, dark and crowded with people eating mushy peas, chips, meat pies, and some things I was afraid to look at too closely, that lovely day old ale smell, greasy walls and sticky floors. Yep, an authentic local pub. Perhaps a bit too local.
"What can I do for you, milady?" came a voice from behind me. Milady? Clearly, I was not blending in. I explained to the bartender that we had wanted a table, but shucks, they seemed full up so...
No problem, he assured me and, with a flourish, he led me to a recently vacated table, pried off the dishes left by the last occupants and bade me sit down (I don't normally use the word bade, but I somehow feel it's appropriate for "milady" to do so).
Tim reappeared at that moment, unable to achieve his goal and, by mutual consent, we bolted. Suddenly, Mickey D's was looking pretty darn good.
Rounding a corner a few minutes later, we came upon it. Light and airy, quaint and charming with geranium-filled flower boxes, exposed oak beams, gaslamp era inspired fixtures, red laquered door, two loos-no waiting. The Holy Grail.
And the best part was, they had hamburgers on the menu.
After walking from Abbey to Tower and back again(yes, they were actually open!), we were hungry and ready for some authentic British food.
Since we were near Westminster, our thought process went something like this: Parlaiment is here, all the staff members need to eat something besides McDonalds, therefore, if we go back a few blocks into the neighborhood, we should find local places.
It should have gone like this: give up and eat at McDonalds like the other half a million tourists that are here with you.
Foolishly, we set off down a promising looking street lined with office buildings. And then down the next one, and the next one and the next one. There wasn't one restaurant/pub in sight. Okay, maybe everyone really did eat at McDonalds.
By now, we were starved, but we had an even more pressing need: a bathroom. Once again, we thought, "If we keep going, we are sure to find something, anything local." And once again, it seemed as though we should have opted for the Golden Arches.
Finally though, the Vodaphone stores gave way to authentic English pubs and restaurants that just oozed local flavor. Only one problem...they were all closed!
Panic began to set in as we had flashacks to the previous Friday. First the major attractions, now the restaurants. What was next, the hotels? Would we return to our hotel that night to find yellow police tape stretched across the doors forcing us to wander the streets of London forever, unable to tour, eat or sleep?
Forcing ourselves to take deep breaths, we resumed our search (a bit more desperately now since we really, really needed a bathroom at this point.) Then, we saw it...an open Starbucks. God bless the USA and our giant food/drink chains. But wait. No bathroom. How do they sell eight hundred different types of drinks, but have no bathroom? What kind of sick practical joke was this?
Apparently, it was one being played on us by Cafe Nero(the European equivalent of Starbucks), Bootz pharmacy and the eight other places we tried. Do English people not need bathrooms? Exactly how big are their bladders?
Just when we were beginning to despair, we stumbled upon a local pub that was actually open (I guess they didn't get the memo). It was every man for himself as we barrelled our way through the pub to the loo, which was a single as (bad) luck would have it. Since Tim's need was greater, he went first, which gave me time to size up the place.
Small, dark and crowded with people eating mushy peas, chips, meat pies, and some things I was afraid to look at too closely, that lovely day old ale smell, greasy walls and sticky floors. Yep, an authentic local pub. Perhaps a bit too local.
"What can I do for you, milady?" came a voice from behind me. Milady? Clearly, I was not blending in. I explained to the bartender that we had wanted a table, but shucks, they seemed full up so...
No problem, he assured me and, with a flourish, he led me to a recently vacated table, pried off the dishes left by the last occupants and bade me sit down (I don't normally use the word bade, but I somehow feel it's appropriate for "milady" to do so).
Tim reappeared at that moment, unable to achieve his goal and, by mutual consent, we bolted. Suddenly, Mickey D's was looking pretty darn good.
Rounding a corner a few minutes later, we came upon it. Light and airy, quaint and charming with geranium-filled flower boxes, exposed oak beams, gaslamp era inspired fixtures, red laquered door, two loos-no waiting. The Holy Grail.
And the best part was, they had hamburgers on the menu.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Welcome to London...we're closed!
As we do the first day in any city, we took a hop-on, hop-off bus tour around London to get the lay of the land.
After consulting a map, we decided to get off at Westminster, check it out and then walk along the water to the Globe Theatre, stop at the replica of Francis Drake's ship, and finally pop over to the Tower.....a good stretch of the legs after seven hours on a plane.
First stop: Westminster Abbey. Ahh, the history, the architecture, the guard outside barring us from entering. "So sorry. We're closed for today, but come again." No problem. We'll just hop a jet and come back next weekend. It's not like it's far or anything.
Over the bridge, across the street, down the stairs to the water and then a lovely walk along the river to the Globe...that went on, and on, and on. It was beginning to dawn on us why this was not included on the bus tour...the tank couldn't hold enough gas to get us there and back! Maybe we should have brought our passports because surely we had left England and crossed over into Scotland by now.
Finally, we arrived. Home of Shakespeare's plays, famous performances by infamous actors, docents outside barring us from entering. "So sorry. We're closed due to a special performance. Do come back again and see us." Yeah. You're on the list. Right after I replace the shoes I wore out getting here!
Okay, we're now two for two. On to the next stop. The Golden Hinde. The ship Drake sailed around the world (yes, it's only a replica, but someone did sail it around the world and at this point, we're willing to take what we can get).
Down the waterfront till the walk ended, up the street, along a corkscrew medievel cobblestone street and there it was.
The actual Golden Hinde on the prow, the proud masts reaching for the sky, the guy in period costume barring us from boarding. "So sorry. We're closed today due to a special event on board. Please come back another time.
Grrr. Three for three. Maybe we should have just gone to the England exhibit at Epcot. That way, we could have actually seen something British.
Despite our batting average and our aching feet, we decided to press on to the Tower(actually we had no choice. The bus didn't come over here, we couldn't find a taxi and the hike back would finish off a marathon runner in peak condition.)
Twenty minutes and who knows how many blisters later (we stopped counting after they outnumbered our toes), we arrived at the Tower of London. The tragedy, the infamy, the ticket agent telling us that we had missed the last tour and the Tower would be closing in a half hour. "So sorry..."
We didn't wait around for the rest of the speil, but I was beginning to understand why the kings of England beheaded so many people.
As we trugged across the the cobblestones and up the hill to the bus stop, we saw it pulling out. But wait. The underground was right there. Maybe we should just take the tube back and hop on the bus again tomorrow.
Up the stairs, follow the ramp, turn the corner to the metro entrance. Ahh. The convenience, the timeliness, the gates and signs barring us from entering. "Tower stop closed for today."
So glad I came to London.
After consulting a map, we decided to get off at Westminster, check it out and then walk along the water to the Globe Theatre, stop at the replica of Francis Drake's ship, and finally pop over to the Tower.....a good stretch of the legs after seven hours on a plane.
First stop: Westminster Abbey. Ahh, the history, the architecture, the guard outside barring us from entering. "So sorry. We're closed for today, but come again." No problem. We'll just hop a jet and come back next weekend. It's not like it's far or anything.
Over the bridge, across the street, down the stairs to the water and then a lovely walk along the river to the Globe...that went on, and on, and on. It was beginning to dawn on us why this was not included on the bus tour...the tank couldn't hold enough gas to get us there and back! Maybe we should have brought our passports because surely we had left England and crossed over into Scotland by now.
Finally, we arrived. Home of Shakespeare's plays, famous performances by infamous actors, docents outside barring us from entering. "So sorry. We're closed due to a special performance. Do come back again and see us." Yeah. You're on the list. Right after I replace the shoes I wore out getting here!
Okay, we're now two for two. On to the next stop. The Golden Hinde. The ship Drake sailed around the world (yes, it's only a replica, but someone did sail it around the world and at this point, we're willing to take what we can get).
Down the waterfront till the walk ended, up the street, along a corkscrew medievel cobblestone street and there it was.
The actual Golden Hinde on the prow, the proud masts reaching for the sky, the guy in period costume barring us from boarding. "So sorry. We're closed today due to a special event on board. Please come back another time.
Grrr. Three for three. Maybe we should have just gone to the England exhibit at Epcot. That way, we could have actually seen something British.
Despite our batting average and our aching feet, we decided to press on to the Tower(actually we had no choice. The bus didn't come over here, we couldn't find a taxi and the hike back would finish off a marathon runner in peak condition.)
Twenty minutes and who knows how many blisters later (we stopped counting after they outnumbered our toes), we arrived at the Tower of London. The tragedy, the infamy, the ticket agent telling us that we had missed the last tour and the Tower would be closing in a half hour. "So sorry..."
We didn't wait around for the rest of the speil, but I was beginning to understand why the kings of England beheaded so many people.
As we trugged across the the cobblestones and up the hill to the bus stop, we saw it pulling out. But wait. The underground was right there. Maybe we should just take the tube back and hop on the bus again tomorrow.
Up the stairs, follow the ramp, turn the corner to the metro entrance. Ahh. The convenience, the timeliness, the gates and signs barring us from entering. "Tower stop closed for today."
So glad I came to London.
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