En Suisse

Frequent comment: “Are you going to take your bike?” (incredulous look at either the weather or what I’m wearing; I have a penchant for skirts and heels). “Of course I’m biking. I always take my bike.” (that would be why I am standing here holding the bike….) The next morning: “Did you make it home okay?” “Sure, I was home in 10 minutes, you?” “I hiked for 45 because I missed the last bus/tram and couldn’t find the night bus.” “HAHAHAHAHA…sucker.” Buy a bike, people, it makes your life worthwhile.



Europe is fun for its internationalism: there are so many little tiny countries all over the place. It’s like you can barely sneeze without it landing on someone from a different linguistic group. In the distance from California to Kansas City you could drive from Stockholm to Rome, New Mexico is about as far away from New York as Poland is from Portugal, and Colorado has 75% the land area of Germany, and 1/16th the population. I like to try to impress people with my a) basic math skills, b) tenuous grasp of geography, and c) conviction that spending eighteen hours in a car to go on vacation is FUN. It’s considered quite bad form to make fun of the Luxembourgians, Andorrans, Liechtensteinians, or for that matter the Dutch of the Belgians for how unbelievably tiny their countries are. Luxembourg, for example, has as a population comparable to a mid-sized city—and that’s the whole country! Somehow they still feel compelled to have three official languages—and one of their own!



I am an equal opportunity offender, so I try to spare no punches, (particularly in light of the crap I get about my own country, about which everyone is a self-styled expert without the most of them having spent more than a two-week vacation in either New York or Las Vegas/California.) Super tiny country jokes always go over well with these citizens, as well as the accusation that their language, be it Dutch, Flemish or Luxemborgish, is actually an f’ed up dialect of German. Asking the Swiss (or Bavarians for that matter) if they speak “normal German” is something they might take from me but never from an actual German. I think for both of them (the Belgians, the Dutch and the Swiss, and certainly the Austrians) the Germans are just annoying and overbearing, and nothing would be better than beating them at football or being able to definitively prove that one’s own country has the best cheese or chocolate. Because noting else matters. Beating the Germans at football (soccer) wouldn’t be bad either. From the German perspective, the Dutch make cheese and live in trailers, the French make cheese and complain a lot, the Austrians just talk funny, the Swiss are arrogant and the Belgians are supposed to be nice but a bit linguistically and politically confused, and they have good beer, and apparently the cities are pretty as well but you wouldn’t know because Germans don’t ever go to Belgium. I was greeted with outright incredulity when I said I went to Belgium on holiday, as if I had suddenly become a head case. Conversely, the Dutch and Belgians I had met had pretty much never been to Germany either, except perhaps as a child with the family in one of the aforementioned trailers.

This all has absolutely nothing to do with the Swiss, for the sole fact that the Swiss don’t much notice that the rest of Europe exists. They have large quantities of melty bubbly cheese which smells of feet, they have chocolate to rival the Belgians, and yes everything is horrendously overpriced but they are living in the best country on earth, so there. For the rest of Europe, though, they are serious (more so than the Germans) and rich. That’s bad enough, they speak funny German, slow French, Italian, and something else which no one can remember what it’s called.

Q: What does the postcard from a Swiss vacationer say?
A: Having a wonderful time. Where am I?

Q: What do you get when you cross a Swiss and a lawyer?
A: Well…there are some things even a Swiss won't do.

Q: Did you hear about the new epidemic among the Swiss?
A: It's called MAIDS - if they don't get one, they die.

A Swiss guy, looking for directions, pulls up at a bus stop where two Englishmen are waiting. "Entschuldigung, können Sie Deutsch sprechen?" He asks. The two Englishmen just stare at him. "Excusez-moi, parlez-vous français?" The two continue to stare. "Parlate italiano?" No response. "Hablan Ustedes espagnol?" Still nothing. The Swiss guy drives off, extremely disgusted.

The first Englishman turns to the second and says: "Y'know, maybe we should learn a foreign language…"

"Why?" says the other, "that bloke knew four languages, and it didn't do him any good."



In Heaven the cooks are French, the policemen are English, the mechanics are German, the lovers are Italian, the bankers are Swiss. In Hell the cooks are English, the policemen are German, the mechanics are French, the lovers are Swiss, and the bankers are Italian.

So where DO you live? - Part I

Ein kleiner HINWEIS: Since I last posted, I have been quite a few places. I spent time in Ghent, Belgium, went on a crazy 3-day trip to Paris with my new friends from Bruges, went back to Ghent for a festival and on to Amsterdam before returning to Germany. My Ami-friend in tow we cruised the Rhine, chilled in Freiburg, sightsaw in Konstanz, did a wine-tasting in France, sailed the Baltic and will be off soon to Berlin via Hamburg and Prague via Dresden. Whew.

Therefore, ladies and gentlespoons, I present to you for your entertainment: all that I remember from my trip. More or less.

Alsjeblief means PLEASE in Dutch and is not a sneeze. Interestingly, Dutch is not German and Flemish may or may not actually be Dutch. Watching the movie 'in Bruges' WHILE in Bruges is pretty cool, but some of the jokes don't translate. But just because Colin Farrell is Irish I could marry him...



The Gentse Feesten is a music festival in Ghent. I was only able to go for one night but it was absolutely amazing, and we listend to a salsa band while sipping Mojitos. Interestingly, we managed to make the alcohol tent shake by jumping up and down on the concrete block anchoring it to the pier. People kept looking around, confused, but no one figured it out that it was us, mwa hahahaha. I didn't get to bed until 4 AM, and somehow thought I would be on a train to Amsterdam at 6.30 the next morning. Think again. Interestingly, the day after I was there a building blew up when a truck hit a gas can, but thankfully only two people were injured. Still, Ghent was gorgeous and the music was fantastic. I know what I'm doing next summer....



Paris, and likely France as a whole is one giant tourist destination. What, pray tell, is the point of building Disneyland Paris if the entire fricking country is a theme park? Visiting Notre Dame is like touring Epcott itself---tourists of the world, unite! Still, there are lots of lovely corners not innundated by sneaker-toting, overweight Americans (watch ,,In Bruges'' for lovely commentary on tourists, heh). After a few days of Belgium, though, it was nice actually speaking and understanding the language de jour--my Flemish leaves lots to be desired, though my French was okay. I even played tour guide for a bit, though I was apparently unable to find the Notre Dame. We spent our evenings on the banks of the Seine and at Montmartre with some bottles of wine, some Belgian beer, baguettes, cheese, and snacks. There was a firebreather at Montmartre, and on the Seine there was the (somewhat random) combination of tango, folk dancing (looked like organized hopping around), and a bachelor party. There was also some young dude distributing hand wipes, who ended up (later in the night and severly inebriated) telling me his life story. ,,je suis chanteur, je suis skateboarder..." and even had (half) of a skateboard to prove it.



The hostel we stayed in in Paris was quite good by hostel standards and phenomenal by Paris standards (woe unto ye who does not read hostel reviews.....eeek). Only downside: a bit far out on the end of the metro in the 20th district, which wasn't shady, just--- far out. But the metro runs until 2 AM, so you can always get home--- except on the days it doesn't run until 2 AM, namely Sunday, which is when we were on Montmartre. We found ourselves considering several closed metro stations and a bus stop at Pigalle, where we considered the merits of taking a taxi halfway across Paris for seven people versus taking the night bus. I argued for the night bus and figured out which ones to take, but the whole project took about 2 hours and involved stuffing the ladies of the group (interestingly, there were two named Kelly and two named Agnieszka) into a phone booth and letting the guys drive off the homeless dude at Gare de l'est at 3 AM. Yay. He was harmless, homeless, and annoying.

Amsterdam is gorgeous. It's called the venice of the north, but I prefer it to Venice because people actually LIVE in Amsterdam. Lots of bikes, canals, bikes, canals, bikes, water, weed, bikes, and canals. I had an amazing host (all of my hosts were amazing) who took me to a singer-songwriter evening at her favorite place in A'damm. We also went to some fantastic cafes (NOT coffeeshops) with ecclectic furniture, fantastic food and great atmosphere. Must go back, must go back.



More coming.

En Belgique

So I made it alive to Bruselas, which is what the Spanish call what the French call Bruxelles and everyone else calls Bussels. I didn't want to actually GO to Brussels, just to Belgium, but the place is so small it was hard to avoid. After an email mixup I had to be rescued by my couchsurfing host, J., who picked me up from Charleroi to avoid sending the poor tourist alone on the trains. And also because he had some kind of train pass. Anyways, we made it back to Bruges okay and went by the pub to meet some his friends in his VW bug (confusingly, the kind with the trunk space in the front and the engine in the trunk). The car is like the love child of an angry motorcycle and a bumper car, with enough noise to scare the pedestrians, the appearance of going twice as fast as it is going, and only half a seatbelt. The first pub we went to was full (it only had about six tables and was located in the smallest street in Bruges) and the second was closed, so we ended up at a third one, and a fourth one... Anyways, my goal in life became to try as much Belgian beer as possible, and we started a list. As the two days in Bruges progressed, I think my hosts were proud of how far I'd gotten. I only have about 340 kinds left. The farther we progress in the evening, the worse the handwriting of the biere du jour.



My tour of Bruges was eclectic and lovely, passing canals, old gates (more on that later), old buildings, more old buildings, and lots of restord guild halls, courthouses, pubs, stores, and everything else. The place is like a living museum, full of picture-perfect buildings and masses of tourists. I can't help but take pictures, but at least I had a local guide to tell me everything and order things in Dutch if we wanted them. We ended up at the brewery in Bruges (Brugse zot beer) where we shared a table with some French tourists from Caen, a young couple, and a Belgian friend of my host. Our conversation was mostly in French for the benefit of our guests, though J., his friend A. and I all spoke english to each other, I spoke German with A., and J. and A. spoke Flemish to each other. Confusee... anyways, we agreed to meet the Frenchies at the main square at 9, and J. and I went home.




I wanted to go for a little run down the street, but J. had a better idea and told me to change and get in the car for a mystery trip. We drove through little hamlets and villages, between fields, left right left right ("where the heck are we going?" "I'm not telling, you will see"). We parked in a little town called De Haan (I think) which has won awards for being the prettiest coastal Flemish village. How you evaluate something like that is beyond me.... in any case, the place was out of a postcard and possessed several kilometers of wide beaches, firm sandbars and little streams running though it, which resulted in the best run I've ever had--absolutely gorgeous scenery (welcome to the North see!), great ground, perfect temperature... several people were riding or driving horses on the beach, and it was absolutely lovely. Makes me want to learn Flemish and move there. Anyways, it was a bit of a run to make it to the market on time, but we found our French friends and went back to the tiny pub of the night before, where you could get a paricular kind of beer only available at this pub and of which you are only allowed to drink three as they are so strong.



After the Frenchies left we went to another place, the Marquee, of the night before, and "on the way home" we landed at Bras, from where we tumbled out several hours and several rounds later. On our bike ride back we passed the old town gate which, miraculously and without explanation was unlocked, so we felt obligated to fully investigate and climbed up the tower (this is not for tourists, so don't get any ideas!) for a good view and some sleeping homeless people. We found a bicycle in the basement, which we liberated before setting off home.




We tried to get out relatively early the next morning, as I wanted to go to Ghent, but as we had gotten home at 5 AM it was a bit hard and we were a bit tired (though not as tired as M., who had been with us, as he got home at 5 and had to work again at 8 AM). We visited him at the supermarket where he worked, and he brought some pastries which we ate at one of the tables of a furniture store, known in the town as being the owners of the wooden monkey statue that someone liberated one night and put in the town roundabout. It was eventually returned but after public outcry the owner himself returned it to the roundabout. And then I went to Ghent.



I had a bit of an issue with the bus system in Ghent and ended up in Zjinwarde or somewhere that wasn't Ghent and was spelled with too many js for its own good. Feeling very lost and out of place I approached the bus driver with my destination "zuid" written on a piece of paper, at which he violently shook his head, told me to get off (in the middle of nowhere) and carefully told me to take bus 5 back to town. But I made it and my host V. picked me up at the bus stop. We spent the evening doing a walking tour of Ghent, visiting the old Nunnery and the old town, the canals and some of the unviersity buildings. We had a drink at a pub on the main square, we walked farther and here and there and took random streets. Ghent has many, many beautiful streets full of old buildings, but also does a fantastic job of combining old buildings with modern or renovated buildings, and the whole place (being a student's city) is full of life and people and cafes. There are almost 300 cafes in Ghent.




We went to an art gallery-cum-restaurant for dinner, where I had a lovely little omelette and salad for the whopping price of 4,50 euros. After dinner we had a drink at V.'s local bar and dodged the rain. Back at her place we played a bit of guitar and collected some warmer clothing before heading out for another stroll through the old town and another drink at a tiny tiny pub which looked like an ecclectic mixture of grandma's pottery and a biker bar--rock music and blue fillegreed tiles. The pubs and the bars here are amazing and each one is practically a work of art. There is one which plays baroque music and has rococco architechture, another with 70s sty;e kitchm and lots of homey, friendly places. I had a beer called Kwak, which is known for its peculiar glass. Some cafes make you give them your shoe as guarantee that you won't steal the glass:



Our walking tour of Ghent the next day commenced early, and I am pretty sure we walked down every street in Ghent at least once, some of them twice or three times. We visited the castle and the cathedral and the churches and the squares, guided by a map for alternative travellers which guided us to such destinations as the "lovliest tree in Ghent" and the place with the "best vintage postcards" and crazy small hole-in-the-wall shops and places. We discovered a statue of one of the noose-bearers (apparently some people were about to be hanged and were paraded about town, and someone liberated them but they were already dead, and then the liberators themselves were executed, or something like that...) with a cast-iron hard-on. We found quiet streets next to the water and watched the preparation for the Ghent festival, which will be the next ten days or so and will make me rearrange my plans to see it for at least one night on my way back from Paris.