London, Calais, Bruges, Brusells, De
Hoge Veluwe, Amsterdam, Bruges(ish), De Panne, Calais, London.
That's the Sparknotes version. On a
related note, I would like to point out that Sparknotes is full of
procrastination tools as well as often unhelpful synopses. Did you
notice how this Sparknotes tidbit is also a bit of procrastination
from an unhelpful synopsis? Moving on.
I didn't know a great deal about
Belgium before visiting. People told me to try the waffles. Well,
good. The one thing I had heard of about Belgium was the one thing I
should go do. The waffles were delicious, though. As was the white
asparagus cooked in the Belgian style I ordered for dinner the first
night without knowing what the were. (They put some scrambled eggs on
top. Om fucking nom.)
But food aside, Belgium was delightful
and gave me an opportunity to variously practice my French and just
not know Felmmish. Bonjour. Je m'appelle Jessica. Je suis un mutoun. No,
that is not a prank someone has played on me. I just like to tell
people I am a sheep in other languages.
Bruges is a beautiful smaller city,
known for its lace. It was hosting some sort of fair with carnival
rides when we made our way through, but luckily towards the center,
the buildings muffled the screams. (Good to note if you're planning a
Belgian murder.)
In Brussels, though surely I could talk
about things like the Grand Place, more waffles, and that odd little
boy taking a piss, my favorite bit was the Comic Strip Museum.
Spurred on by Belgian pride for Herge, the creator of the Tintin
comics, the museum offers a brief history of comics, selections of
original drawings, and short bios of some of the more famous comic
artists, including Herge. Tintin and I have been dear friends for
many years. I did not become a fan simply because of the newly
released film, although it has given me reason to shout Tintin and
point at various objects on my travels, where before when I did that
it was simply to confuse metal enthusiasts. My family owns all the
Tintin books, save Tintin in the Congo, which is, of course, the only
Tintin book with a rhino.
After Brussels, Bernard, Sir, and I
headed to the Netherlands to the country's largest national park, De
Hoge Veluwe. (At this point it might be useful to mention that I call
my parents Bernard and Sir. I am sure I once had complicated but
somewhat sensible reasons for doing so, but they have long since
vanished.) I wanted to go to De Hoge Veluwe for the nature and
because the promise of hundreds of free white bicycles to ride around
the park on made my little socialist heart leap. It leapt less when I
discovered there was a fee to get in the park, bringing that
capitalist drive right back.
This brings up to what I will
hyperbolically call the most harrowing experience of my life.
Before going to the park, Bernard, Sir,
and I had gone to a grocery store to get some focacia and salami to
eat for lunch. After cycling through the diverse landscape of the
park, we stopped by a big ass house near a lake to eat. Nearly as
soon as we sat down, six ducks had us surrounded. Though not really
menacing, their squawks made eating a test of wills. Every so often,
Sir would lob a scrap of bread away from us and with a wild storm of
wings, the ducks would converge on the bit of food. One of the ducks,
a female according to Bernard, remained on the wall behind us for
most of the meal, every once in a while one of the male mallards
would fly after her and chase her away. Already nervous by having a
duck behind me, it took a lot of my courage to focus on peeling
another peppered salami slice away from the others and pressing it
into my mouth with a hunk of focacia clutched in my hand. A
mini-tornado erupted over my head and my hair lifted in great swirls.
A small yelp slipped through my lips as the brown lady duck suddenly
flew off the wall behind me, dipped over my head and took off across
the lake.
Amsterdam was next on the agenda. Yes,
I was in the red light district. No, I did not get a prostitute. No,
I did not become a prostitute. In fact, we walked through it without
my even realizing we had done. Sorry to disappoint.
On the way back to Calais, my parents
and I stopped off in De Panne and had a walk along the beach. With
sand clinging to my teeth after a spot of lunch, I was ready to wade
into the water. I had wanted to go into the water in Dover on my
class field trip weeks early as some of you may remember. But now, I
stumbled into the water along the Belgian coast to make up for
missing out on swimming in Dover.
Two crepes later and a train ride
later, I was in London once more for my real farewell tour.
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