When's Your Flight? One Hour? No Problem!

We took the train down to Eindhoven. Our one and a half hour of train ride through the gloomy, grey Dutch countryside led us to a small cute town in the South. Eindhoven has been a big spot of growth ever since budget airline Ryan Air made it their hub in the Netherlands. Later, I found out that the city's benefitted from a highly revered school of design, where students help design much of the city. We arrived much before our flight and had plenty of time to kill, as the security line and visa check took no more than a few seconds. Nick and I were anxious to get out of the Netherlands, and excited for the Italian experience to come, so much so that we played a game called "spot the Italian" in the waiting room for our flight.

As soon as we claimed a pair of seats in the back of a plane, the man in the third seat next to us began conversing with us. This young man, from the Netherlands, who's family was from Argentina, was making a large tour triangle between North America, South America and Rome and he spent most of the time asking us about our impressions of the Netherlands. Before we had finished the conversation, we landed in Rome and found ourselves with our first dilemma. Rome Ciampino airport isn't in the city, so we needed to go by bus down to the center of town (approximately a half hour drive). We approached the desks of the shuttles from the airport to the center of Rome, only to be wooed and coerced by two separate companies that had kiosks side by side ("Hey a-come on! Coma ride with us!"). Never have I felt so wanted, so the illusion was excellent.

We sat on our bus for approximately 40 minutes, seeing shops begin to close for the night and streets that reminded me of those I'd seen in major cities in the US or Amsterdam. We hopped off the bus at Termini Station, Rome city centrum, and made the 3 minute walk to our hostel. This was my first experience staying in a hostel ever! Though my expectations had been predicated on the image of these establishments in the film Hostel, I wasn't particularly disappointed that I wasn't being tortured by attractive hostel workers. We were met in our room by one of our roommates for the night, a young Argentinian man who had been travelling by himself for a few weeks and reaching the end of his trip. He had been in town for a few days, so we asked if he wanted to go get gelato with us, and, with his few days of experience with these roads, helped us navigate to Della Palma, a business that we frequented for the next 3 days to satisfy future gelato withdrawals. They had 40 or so flavors, from citrus based fruit delights to goodies in the chocolate family.

I had arranged an entire itinerary for Nick and myself. Every day had plans from beginning of the day to end, but much of it was reorganized because of the way Rome is laid out. For anyone who's never been, Rome is a city that sprung up from around a plethora Roman ruins. After the fall of the Roman Empire, this area was desolate, with not much cultural or economic activity happening until the Renaissance hit. From there, it was all growth, but much of old Rome still lays in the middle of the city. We awoke early in the morning and walked towards a collection of museums Nick and I were interested in seeing, but along the way became distracted.

In the large enclaves between stretches of road are vast stretches of ruins. Old roman columns lay amongst the ground, seemingly untouched from the crumbling of the vast empire. Constantly, around the entire city was a combination of old and new, ancient and modern. We then decided to enter the nearest building, the Tomb of the Unknown Solider. This gargantuan building towered over the entirety of the city, and could be clearly seen from most parts of the city, especially when standing on other larger structures. The interior was a (free!) museum that exhibited former Italian flags (or at least that's what I think, all of the plaques were in Italian), frescos of Jesus, nationalistic art, as well as an odd photo gallery based on the theme of caves in Asia Minor. The nicest thing about this little detour was that its tallest point gave us a magnificent view of the city, from Vatican City to the outskirts, with many different domes painting the skyline, some designed by Michelangelo, others by contemporaries or students.

Next, we climbed a staircase with a 40 degree incline, only to find that the museums we had initially been headed towards were closed till 4 pm to cater to a large convention. Unfazed by a small closure of tourist activity in a town full of ticketable history, we were approached by a tour guide for a bus tour, which I promptly rejected and continued to walk. Nick, on the other hand, had stopped and talked with the woman, negotiating a lower price than what she petitioned and got us onto a bus tour that may have been one of the best decisions we made in the day. The bus tour, which consisted of 4 customers including ourselves, was hosted by a cunning and humorous tour guide with a strong grasp on English, despite her heavy Italian accent. The tour was excellent, and we were shown so much of Rome that we would have taken for granted. The bus covered a lot of ground quickly, and after one and a half hours, I felt very familiarized with a lot more Italian and Roman history as well as got to see parts of Rome we would have ignored.

Our tour guide recommended us to a nearby, touristy Italian lunch place, where I had an incredible plate of gnocchi. After Nick upset the wait staff by asking for the drinks to come out at the same time as our food, we made our way back to the museum that had been closed in the morning. The National Museum of the Palazzo Venezia is one of the more famous museums in the world, home of much ancient art (from the all too frequent marble and stone busts to physical relics of ancient Rome) and Renaissance paintings.

We left the museum at sunset, having been in there for about 3 hours. Nick, thinking that he read that the museum contained art by Da Vinci, spent 20 minutes or so asking various staff if the museum contained any prints by him. When we said Da Vinci, the staff would squint at us, seemingly unaware of the artist. We'd repeat the name a few times, and one staff member would figure it out and say it to their colleagues in a more Italian accent (Da Vinci!) and they'd all echo with the sudden realization of what we were talking about (Da Vinci! Da Vinci! He's a-no here). We made way back to the hostel for a few minutes more rest and then headed towards an area that one of the most helpful hostel workers showed us.

In the southeast corner of Rome lies the area near the university, where many students go see live music and eat fairly cheap (and from what I saw, mostly Middle Eastern) food. After surveying the few venues we saw, one stuck out considerably. The venue, called Crossover, was a quaint and humorously decorated, small, college-music bar. Many of the walls were littered with photos of commonly found Classic Rock (Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin) and RnB (Ella Fitzgerald, Ray Charles) legends. The act performing was a Flamenco/Brazilian/Latin music duet, with one playing rhythm guitar, singing and taking the role of humorous head-bobber while the other played beautiful lead guitar lines over each song structure. At some points the music became repetitive, but the majority was more than pleasant, and paired with my excellent Italian wine, we were content with our decision. Around 11 pm, the band was as drunk as we were, and we decided to retire to our hostel.

We awoke early in the morning to grab a quick bite to eat and walk to the Roman Forum, a collection of Roman ruins from the capitol center that has been left intact directly in the middle of the center of the modern city. On the way, Nick and I were vastly impressed at a particularly excellent double parking job as seen in the picture here. It was one of many humorous automotive related sights we saw, most of which were as equally frightening as they were funny.

We arrived at the ruins to find that the ruins weren't open until an hour past typical opening time due to a workers strike. While musing at the absurdity of a closed sight of ruins, we struck up a conversation with a couple in front of us, who I'd heard speaking Dutch. For most of our trip in Rome, the Dutch would constantly be in our presence (though admittedly, we did go to quite a few major tourist spots). This couple talked with us about healthcare, and asked us about Obama and the United States system, to which a nearby EAVESDROPPING woman butted in, "Obama just has his hands tied. He could do it if he had more support." At that moment, the gates opened up, and the displeasurable task of responding to this woman was avoided. With that, we grabbed our free audio tour and walked the ruins.

Like many museums we went to in Rome, Nick and I made the mistake of trying to see everything from the very start. Immediately next to the entrance is a small museum, containing artifacts found and restored from the original site of these ruins. We gawked at all the old plates, mosaics, pipes, tile flooring, rings, and jewels for about an hour before actually getting back outside to see the actual forum.

The ruins towered in the sky, and though they appear minuscule when matched against the skyscrapers of the modern age, I found myself getting lost in the size of these arches and columns, marveling at their beauty and grandiosity. But then we hit a figurative wall, one that became so familiar at the Vatican the next day. The forum is humongous, maybe a mile and a half in most directions, so we started to get exhausted from seeing ruin after ruin. We approached another museum gallery, and while we spent an hour in the former, we spent no more than ten minutes in this one. There were so many ancient ruins, but I started to see that the column to the right of me is no different, has no distinction, from the one to the left of me.  Sure, it's beautiful to approach a pillar that's older than Christianity, but at the same time, it's just a pillar.

By the end of our walk around the entirety of the grounds of the Roman Forum, we made our way to the Coliseum. It has been immortalized in countless films, been described in myriad books, and talked about for centuries, and all the hype matches its stature. Despite the obnoxious crowds of people there in groups, many which consisted of kids who really wanted to be anywhere but the colosseum, the ambiance of the arena was startling. We spent an hour gazing at the architecture and the layout of the arena, before we made our way to where the Pantheon is.

Before checking out any more Italian sites, we made sure to get some Gelato first. Luckily, our favorite place was a block away from the Pantheon, and we took our delicious cold treats back to the large dome. The Pantheon, a temple originally build to honor the ancient gods of Rome, has over the years become a domain of Catholic worship, yet the building is constantly swarming with people who have come from around the world to see it. As with many of the most popular religious sights in Rome/Vatican, the establishment attempts to keep the building quiet in order to create a holy atmosphere for religious visitors. The consistently humorous trend is that the building is quiet, then a small murmur starts and the volume quickly crescendos to a loud roar, and at this point get hostilely shushed by the staff. The cycle occurs once every 30 or 40 seconds, which we would experience again at the Vatican.

The Days Gone By

The day Sean left, I awoke several hours after his departure to be hit with a sudden culture shock. I immediately recognized how few people I knew in this country, on my program, and at my new school. I was suddenly lost in translation; though the Dutch do speak English very well, the country's signage is in Dutch. My knowledge of the streets around me were minimal and I had no idea what to do with myself during my free time. I sullenly stared out the window, only to find the pleasant sight of a few specks of snow.










Surprisingly, this dilemma was very short lived. That night, I signed up for a practice room in the conservatory, only to find that a combo was meeting there that was taught by a professor I have lessons with. He asked if I wanted to join in, and I gladly accepted, especially since the theme of the group was  Brazilian music. The musicians playing in the group were some of the best I'd heard at the conservatory so far, and we finished with a tune that highly resembled a Jazz standard called "There Will Never Be Another You," a similarity that both the guitarist and I caught at the same time. He and I talked for about forty five minutes after the combo, and, prompted to leave by what looked like a very important phone call, he hastily invited me to a poker game the following night at his girlfriend's apartment.




The poker game was my first exposure to something I really loved about the conservatory as well as most of my travels in Europe. All the people sitting around the table were from around different countries, and we had representation from Spain, Italy and Israel, and one of the girls' roommates came later and had just recently moved here from France. The conversations darted from politics to pop culture and I really got to see where these people came from, which were all completely different environments. Even the two people from Spain were from very culturally different cities (Madrid and Barcelona) and Lorenzo, the Italian guy on my right, grew up in a town in a valley in the Italian Alps. Though I lost all my money (and a little more) that I put in for the night, I had a really great time getting to know a few people and it eased my transition to living alone here in Europe.





The next few weeks went by virtually without spontaneous outings, which allowed me to get situated into a consistent daily plan. I cemented my final schedule of classes and developed a routine around it. Mondays and Fridays have only a singular lesson, so I use those days to do cultural excursions (both by myself and the program I'm on, IES), Tuesday's hold my Latin Jazz ensemble, and then Wednesday and Thursday are full days of lessons. Towards the end of the month, my Dutch class (mandatory by Tulane's request)   added to my Monday and Thursday schedule, but I missed some of the Monday lessons for various trips.








The first Wednesday in February the other IES students came. Until then, only about 20 of us (from the Conservatory and the Art Institute) had been living in our apartment building and our excursions (like the one to Utrecht) were only with a small group of students who I at least enjoyed the company of. The influx of new IES students revealed to me how many of the students on our program are studying abroad here only to smoke pot and travel to other places in Europe. These students, who particularly stand out as being unmotivated and living day to day without purpose, annoy and irritate me upon every meeting with them since they've arrived. I've often heard, "I'm just taking classes cause I have to. It's required for my school," and I get to encounter the prototypical IES student every single morning. More about what I dislike about my roommate in posts to come.






The second Saturday after Sean left, IES sponsored a trip to see a castle in Utrecht. We met as a group outside of our apartment complex and walked to the bus ( a double decker one at that!) where I sat next to a girl in an empty seat. I introduced myself, and this girl and I engaged in typical small talk at first, talking about where we were from and our family and studies. She was studying International Relations, specifically in the Middle East, where we had such polarized viewpoints that the conversation quickly turned sour and I resorted to staring at the scenery outside. The night before, quite a bit of snow fell over the entirety of the Netherlands, so the drive was highlighted by scenery covered in a thin white coat, and was so beautiful that I could use it as an excuse to avoid more awkward conversation with this girl (whatever her name was).

Despite the beautiful scenery, I was fairly disappointed with what we came to see. The castle was one that had been destroyed before the 19th century, and in the years approaching the 20th century, the heir to the ruined castle set out to rebuild it. Much like William Randolph Hearst, the Haar Castle was a renovation of a castle done in a modern style. So much of the building was built to resemble the old gothic style aesthetically, but utilized modern technology, such as central heating, plumbing, and electricity. So what we got to see on the inside, which was all presented by a tour guide, was the current wealthy estate's home (that the family still uses) and all of the beautiful rich people things they have. Isn't that grand? Sickened by the self-indulgence that this mansion (as well as its numerous visitors) condones, I was even more irritated with hearing the blasé mindless babble from the students in my program that represent everything that the world hates about Americans.

After the castle, we were taken to the city of Utrecht, which is really a wonderful area, and were taken for an authentic pancake lunch. For those of you who don't know, much like the French crepe, the Dutch have turned the pancake into a sweet/savory ordeal, with popular choices for pancakes ranging from bacon, sausage or (what Americans would call) Gouda cheese to fresh fruit, ginger, or chocolate syrup. I gorged on these delectable pancakes and spent the lunch talking with the staff of our trip, who all had infinitely more compelling interests than most people on the trip, and after the lunch we were given the freedom to roam. True to my newly formed tradition, I bought cheese in every location I went and made sure to get recommendations from the vendors. We searched for a place to get a beer and enjoyed a warm spot in the bar and sipped on some Belgian specialty beers.

The next weekend, IES sponsored a trip to Rotterdam as well. During the week leading up to it, we got more snow, and for several days in a row, Nick, Peter and I searched for skates so we could go ice skating on the canal. Though we had no luck in procuring a pair, I made sure that I was able to shuffle a little on the ice and the sight of frozen canals I can only feel immensely lucky to have seen. Families were skating along nearly every frozen canal, children were being pulled in sleighs and chairs across the frozen playground and here we were, a few American's without snow clothes prancing gleefully on the grachten. The snow was delightful to have, though its only downside was that it made biking around Amsterdam a headache.  

Friday, we left early in the morning by train to get down to Rotterdam. Our introduction to the city was a modern art museum. This museum had the whole bottom floor dedicated to a specific artist, who did mostly animation and short films, and had a dark and clever sense of humor. The second floor consisted of pieces that took up physical space, like, for example, one that was called "Bus Stop" and resembled a bus stop and had mirrors facing each other inside that played with the observer's sense of space. The third floor, my favorite, consisted of text on walls, and revolved around the theme "Rules of Conceptual Art" a tongue in cheek collection of various pokes at society.

  

For lunch we enjoyed some Turkish cuisine, potentially the most common style of restaurant you'll find in Europe, and followed our lunch with a personal tour from a man from the Information Center in Rotterdam. The man who guided us, a former architect who designed many buildings in Rotterdam and the Netherlands, was a rotund elderly Dutch man with watering blue eyes and a stubbly grey beard, who's knowledge of Rotterdam were somewhat based historically but mostly from his personal perspective as an active architect in the city. 

Rotterdam has a much different feel than the rest of the Netherlands because of how recent all the work done in it is. During the Nazi invasion of the Netherlands, they mostly bombed Rotterdam, and the buildings of the old city were leveled to the ground, and were replaced after the war in what was called (ironically) "Manhattanization." The Rotterdam residents looked to make their city high-tech and aesthetically beautiful, and the design of the city reflects how much they care about the look. There's constant construction in the city, and it's clearly one of the biggest cities in the Netherlands. We didn't get to do much as far as activities in the city, but the tour was so engaging that I really enjoyed being in Rotterdam. Halfway through the tour

The next weekend, my cousin Raquel came to visit Amsterdam while looking at a potential educational opportunity at the brand new film institute. She brought her friend Sophie with her and the 3 of us got to spend a lot of time together, taking in some sights that I've already seen, but mostly just enjoying the company of each other. I met them Friday in the Niewmarkt to get some beer, after I took us in a large circle, looking for a bar that I wasn't particularly sure I knew the location of, and after a few Dutch brews and insightful discourses on European politics, we made our way to the Cafe Alto, a premier Amsterdam Jazz club, to see a friend perform. Saturday, I met the two of them for fondue and Sunday we all went to the Rijksmuseum to see some of that great old Dutch art. On Sunday I saw them off to their train and resumed my school routines.

Why Wednesday Wrapped It Up

Sean was approaching the end of his trip. I deluded myself up to this point that our European excursion would never end, but sure enough the final hours came. Wednesday is the day in my schedule that starts early in the morning and ends late in the evening, so I was unable to meet with Sean until the evening, where he decided to have us get some Dutch pancakes.

We settled in the eatery that was attached to the lobby of the Prince Hendrikke's Hotel, where a stately and dapper man waited on us in a somewhat contemptuous way. He seemed rather miffed that we didn't order any drinks, but was happy to take our order. Sean got himself one drizzled in peaches and sugar and got me a pancake covered in slices of ginger. These pancakes were absolutely delightful and whetted our appetites for something more.

We returned to the area near my apartment and walked around, looking for somewhere pleasant to eat. Our walk took us to where Sean was staying the first few nights he was in town, and we were stuck between a Chinese restaurant and an Italian place next door. Our most recent Chinese meal led us to the latter choice, and what a choice it was.

This restaurant was run by a homely and rotund woman of about 60, who said nearly nothing to us but "Aushtublieft." The meal consisted of a first round of homemade bread and butter and full courses of Italian favorites, all complemented with the best tasting bottle of wine I've ever purchased. Sean and I reflected on the entirety of his visit and this dinner provided the perfect closure to our two weeks together.

We arrived back at the apartment, where I quickly crashed, and Sean stayed up all night packing and keeping himself busy. Sean awoke me at 4 am to say goodbye, where I embraced him in a moment of tender thanksgiving, truly pleasured by his presence during my first month in Europe. After this moment, I said something foolish and humorous, though in my half-asleep state, the exact phrase has completely disappeared from my memory. And with that, he left and I was back to living alone.

Topping Titillating Tales from Tuesday

Tuesday, Sean and I started the day in a cloud of lethargy, barely getting up before the crack of noon. We slowly made our way to Chinatown in Amsterdam for lunch. For those interested, Chinatown can be walked in roughly 5 or 6 minutes, from the end of its one block to the other.

Emma hadn't prepared to meet us, so we entered the Chinese restaurant with the cheapest menu and relaxed over a cup of tea. I ordered and, as Sean described it, "dazzled the waiter" with my limited Chinese abilities, and we were pampered the whole meal. Emma brought her fine self around, and we drank pots and pots of free tea, while enjoying the restaurant to ourselves.

That night, Bram, a family friend of Sean's, took us around Amsterdam to see what the night held.

The Sandman Slowly Slips in our Schedule

Exhausted from our Bruges trip, I forced myself awake to get to my noon course, whereas Sean slept in till beyond when I left. We arranged a meeting spot, planning to see the Rijksmuseum and get lunch after my course. That day, I was exposed to more mind boggling exercises in my pursuit of knowledge of advanced rhythms.

Inconveniently, I received an email Sunday night to begin lessons with my piano instructor that evening, which initially seemed to take away from how much time we'd have at the gallery. We made a joint decision that lunch near the museum was the plan, and sat at a friendly cafe, where I was met with one of the most overly packed sandwiches of my semester on the continent so far. I was able to maneuver the Goat cheese, lettuce and local veggies overstuffing the French roll, I was outdone in my estimation of the quality when we first arrived, which was already high.

The gallery of the Rijksmuseum was stunning, albeit small. The museum had plenty of small hidden gems, something I was keen to notice after only expecting to see Night Watch, Rembrandt's piece of great magnitude that deserves some recognition. There was a collection of art truly inspired by and made by the Far Eastern countries that the Dutch had contact with. One item in the style of the fine China designed with blue paint on ceramic was a violin constructed so masterfully and beautifully that it was my favorite thing I saw. There were baskets made exclusively of ivory, Rembrandt masterworks and other very characteristic dutch art.

Despite our worries of my constricted schedule interfering with our museum visit, we left the sliding glass doors so typical of the European castle with more time than we could have expected. I departed Sean and had him meet me in front of the Conservatory and Library area of the dock, where we left to go see a showing of Roman Polanski's newest film, Carnage. This film peaked my interest, since it featured some of my favorite actors to watch and I had previously no awareness of its release. The humor and screenwriting were so entertaining, the performances excellent (with the Jodie Foster character's out-of-control-crazy personality) and the environment, a lavish theater that allowed Sean the luxury of drinking a terrible glass of wine in a movie theater. It was one small step for Sean, one giant leap of stress on his liver for organkind.

Still exhausted from the Bruges excursion, we called our night early and finished Jaws which was started on the way to Amsterdam from Bruges. With the still potent horror of Jaws, I attempted to go to bed and get ready for my early afternoon class and my meeting with Sean later in the day.

Yeah, I'm Taking Pictures Of My Food

Sunday was our second and final day in Bruges. We awoke early in the morning, though of course not as early as our desired wake up time, and made it to the streets by about 945 am. Coincidentally, places in Bruges don’t open up until at least 10 am on Sunday, so we were the first customers in a restaurant that advertised “Belgian waffles.” As soon as I took a bite of my diabetic nightmare, a waffle covered in cinnamon roasted apples and a healthy dollop of vanilla ice cream, I recognized that getting Belgian Waffles may be like getting French Fries in France. The meal was so sugary sweet and so unhealthy, it can’t be something that the Belgians had been eating since the inception of the country.

We then spent the rest of the morning looking for everything we could do in Bruges. Unfortunately, the thing that I was most anxious to see in Bruges, the tower that Brendan Gleeson jumps from in In Bruges, was closed for renovations, and many other sights were closed on Sunday, since religious observance of Christianity still exists in its un-Americanized (bastardized) form.

The first stop was the Bruges town hall, the center of the city that had been standing since the town’s inception in the 1100’s. One of the fascinating pieces was a portrait of the room, which nearly looked identical to the one we were standing in, that housed a large audience of people (possibly politicians at the time of the painting) as well as representations of the paintings that were still hanging in the room with this painting. So it was a painting of paintings that was so….

Then, we shuffled next door to see several large portraits hanging from the walls of another central Bruges building. Large portraits of people that looked like George Washington and Thomas Jefferson hung up on the lavish marble walls of this gorgeously decorated building. The last thing really of note was the portrait shown here. Tell me if you see what’s weird about it.

On the walk to the next thing we were seeing, we stumbled upon a large stone tower that resembled something straight out of Damascus or Jerusalem, and was so aptly named the Jerusalemkerk (Jerusalem Church). We weren’t able to go in due to it being a holy day, and we walked past it to see our next stop: the Folklore Museum.

I’ve seldom seen a more blatant misnomer. Sean and I assumed, under the title of the museum, that it would be a gallery in reference to the creation and maintenance of folk tales throughout the centuries, especially in Bruges. We arrived to see a museum that highlighted the aspects of every day life of the Bruges citizen in the early 20^th century. Each room had a theme, and some even had unpleasantly life-like manikins of people who’s professions were shown (cotton weaver, barrel maker, tailor, etc. ).

Each room had several interesting things to see, from gorgeous handmade pipes and canes to Converse shoes (?) and intricate lace, a specialty of Bruges. The layout of the museum was bizarre and included two courtyards, one that had pictures lining the walls of men at a cross-dressing gala or gathering.

Though unsettled by the bait-and-switch, the Folklore Museum was actually one of the most rewarding activities in the town and we spent so much time there that we needed to make a lunch stop before doing anything else. Upon walking around and browsing each menu (and their astronomically priced entrees), we settled on a restaurant that I’m sure was that of a hotel, yet they had reasonably priced food and the atmosphere seemed pleasant enough.

Sean greeted the waiter with, “How are you?” to which the waiter seemed perplexed and contorted his face to show us so. Awkward moment aside, we order our food and reflect on our trip so far, talk about what Sean and I talk about and wait for our food. All the while, there is a family sitting behind Sean that’s ordered copious amounts of food, with their plates nearly full, who seem to be content with how much of it they ate. The waiter came around and took their plates, which seemed to be untouched when they passed me, and I became aware of how droll their conversation topics were, which were spoken louder than the soft music coming from the speakers.

Upon receiving our food, a heap of pasta with fresh local vegetables stewed in tomatoes and Sean’s Croque Madame, we took out our cameras to add to our photos from the trip. At that very moment, the girl sitting at the unpleasant table behind Sean blurted out, “Look! They’re taking pictures of their food!” She said it with such an obnoxious sneering tone, that Sean began to raise his voice at the girl, but I tried to get him to avoid the conflict and we did.

The next stop was the Gruuthuse. This mansion, which was built to accommodate the family of the people that owned the rights to beer making (an extremely lucrative business in medieval Europe), now houses an extensive collection of Bruges exclusive art and artifacts, from unique playing cards to some more lace. The thing that was most striking about this whole exhibit was the location of one specific item. In the first room in the museum, on the wall is a tapestry, in the middle of the room is a model of some of Bruges, there’s an old pot under the stove, and tucked away in the corner, like it was a forgettable trinket was a LIFESIZE WORKING GUILLOTINE. This machine, awe-striking in its power and existence, and still slightly stained with blood from its use was sitting in the corner like it was nothing. I was just astounded at how soft-spoken the exhibit was about it.

The rest of the day consisted of a few art galleries, preparations for the trip home and a visit to a recommended chocolate shop. This shop, which the man working at the desk at our hotel said made the best chocolate in Bruges, stood out from the 50 or so chocolate shops we had encountered every few steps. Besides their elegant display of all the chocolate, the hyper-friendly service, and the excellent selection of chocolate, next door was something exclusive to their business.

In the shop next door, owned by the same chocolate shop, was a room with large glass windows seen from the outside where two men stood all day crafting each piece of chocolate by hand. Some of the elder master’s works stood on the shelves: a soccer ball made of white and dark chocolate, a chocolate butterfly, chocolate geese, a chocolate palm tree and other confectionary wonders. Walking in, I half expected the man to be unpleasant, grumpy about having to make chocolate all day, but completely surprised me with how polite and inviting he was to us.

With the sun setting, we made our last stop in Bruges. There was a small wine and cheese shop that had this salmon casserole dish in the window on Saturday, which we saw while looking for our hotel. We went inside and were greeted with the Belgian hospitality that we had grown to expect, and the women working easily convinced us, with free samples and recommendations, to buy about 40 euro worth of cheese and food. The moment we came in was the moment that they had just renewed their supply of the casserole and I had been lucky in the timing, or I would have gone home empty handed.

On the train back, Sean and I ate some of the things we bought. The salmon casserole was cooked salmon and egg wrapped in smoked salmon, and was some of the freshest fish I’ve eaten in a very long time, and the block of Oude Brugge cheese I had was the best dairy product I’ve had in Europe. The two days in Bruges were packed to the brim, but on the train ride back, I knew I was glad that we had made it.

Somehow I believe, Ken, that the balance shall tip in the favor of culture, like a big fat fucking retarded fucking black girl on a see-saw opposite... a dwarf.

 

6 am, before the sun came out, we rushed to Central Station in Amsterdam, catching a train that took us from Amsterdam to the beautiful Belgian city of Antwerp, which until arriving in it's lavishly painted station, I had no intention of visiting. The station was several stories tall, with beautifully engraved marble balconies, and a full station's worth of busy, day to day, Belgian traffic. With the timing working the way it did, we arrived in Antwerp station roughly 10 minutes before our next train, which allowed us to locate the correct train platform indicated by the train timetables all over the station (as well as an escalator that was both vertical, as if they were stairs, as well as horizontal, all in the same mechanism!). We settled into a comfortable place in the cab, and patiently waited to arrive at our final destination: Bruges.

Twenty minutes into the train ride, the ticket collector comes to our seat asking for our passes. She takes a glance at our tickets, furrows her brow, and looks back at us. She hands us our tickets and plainly states, "It's impossible for you to be on this train."Despite the strange nature of that statement, we figured out what she meant and we were told then to get out at the next stop, a tiny Belgian town named Lier. Here at this station, I saw something I never would have seen in the United States: a conductor of a train was waving to the small children waiting on the platform as if we were living in some children's show on PBS that has the words "Happy Time" in it. We sat on the platform, where we waited for roughly half an hour for a train back, and thus forty five minutes later found ourselves back at Antwerp Station. There it was another two hours until we left for Bruges, a train that ran infrequently since it was both Saturday and a less than central location.

We finally found the correct train, boarded after we had fully identified it's correctness, and promptly arrived in the town of Bruges, roughly three and a half hours later than we had planned (which unfortunately was 10% of the trip planned). We made due with what time we did have in the afternoon, and found our hotel promptly, got a strong lunch of croques- a French dish that's popularity has caused it to spread as a culinary staple in many regions surrounding France. The croque, of which Sean Malin has an unhealthy obsession, is basically the French version of toast, typically loaded with ham and eggs, though sometimes with variation, as my smoked salmon croque proved. Belgium is in a strangely unique position in this region of Europe, as it is one of the newer countries, one that initially was part of the Netherlands and split off due to its uniqueness, and is equally influenced by French culture and history.

So here we were, late in a new place, and decided that the best course of action was seeing as much as we could before everything closed (which was around 5 or 6). The first thing we went to see was the Basilica of the Holy Blood, a church that was built in the mid-12th century, and exhibited nearly every stereotypical quality of European churches that you can imagine: stain glass windows, grandiose artwork lining the walls, familiar architecture of the pre-Renaissance architects. What really stood out though, is an item that this church contains. The basilica's contents, "the holy blood" is a vial that supposedly contains a few drops of Jesus blood! This container, which looked to me to be straight out of Star Trek, had a few drops of congealed red liquid that hundreds of thousands of people must visit every year. To many, this signifies physical existence of the one that they devote all of their efforts in life to, their personal savior.

"Although the Bible never mentions Christ's blood being preserved, one of the apocryphal gospels asserts that Joseph of Arimathea preserved the Precious Blood after he had washed the dead body of Christ. The daily making present of the Blood of Christ during the Mass was central in the religious life of the Middle Age in Europe. If genuine, a relic of the Blood of Jesus would be of utmost significance, a uniquely important witness to Jesus’ Passion and a perpetual reminder of the historical character of the Christian Gospel."


Despite my skepticism of the legitimacy of the object that was presented in this basilica, I was still in awe and reverence of the atmosphere present. This was the most sacred I ever could perceive a christian structure could be; it was so separated from the profane existence of the christian individual experience. The atmosphere of the church was similar to the ones I had felt in Buddhist temples in China, in that there was a certain sense of spirituality truly felt that many try to artificially create all over the world in other forms.

Once leaving the building, we had found that all of Bruges had shut down, as far as historical sites were concerned. Sean and I, appreciating the beauty of this city that had been preserved throughout its history decided to take a walk along one of the canals. This stroll may have the most beautiful part of the trip, as we got to the see the lovely canal homes, lavish buildings that typically were pedestrian in their importance to the average Bruges resident, and humongous windmills that were unbelievably monstrous, though all were closed since it was the winter.

We then looked for a place to end our night, as we needed to get some food in us. We passed up on the "La Taverne Brugeoise" (La taverne bourgeoise, it was so bourgeoise). We found a moderately middle eastern place that had some truly delicious food and was being staffed by what must have been an 8 year old male child and a little girl no older than 4. Somehow, despite the child labour, I was able to enjoy my meal. We found an Irish pub to get a few drinks and then called it a night to get up at 9 and see as much of Bruges as we could in our 9 waking hours that we had left.