In addition they have a �10 an hour terminal in the lobby which doesn't work very well. I had hoped to access my e-mail while Pam attacked hers but I could not make the connection to my ISP. I'm afraid that spam will overwhelm my capacity and any real e-mail messages I get will be returned to sender. I return to our room to find Pam busily responding to the seeming hundreds of people who communicate with her daily.
I head for the bar, order a beer, and get into a friendly discussion with the bartender and his friend about Lance Armstrong and the Tour de France which is being shown on the T.V. set in the bar. Surprising as it may be to non-fans of bicycle racing, Lance is not universally admired, in spite of his miraculous recovery from testicular cancer and having captured five Tour de France titles in a row. Real fans think, since he only races in the Tour de France, he has an unfair advantage over all the other riders. I try to explain that he is just doing what most Americans would do, that is go for the main prize while not worrying about all the little prizes. I use the example of the play-off system in so many sports, both American and European, where there is only one winner and many losers. They don't buy it but we have fun arguing about it anyway.
Pam shows up and on the bartender's recommendation we go to a nearby Flemish restaurant, Sthilderhuis. We have delightful dinner. I try the onion soup and a Flemish rabbit stew which is great. Afterwards we walk to the market square where there is a large concert going on in honor of Belgium's National Day. The music, however, is rap, Flemish or French rap, I can't tell which. After listening and watching for a while, I consider joining the ranks of those who oppose the cultural invasion of Europe by American music. The scene is weird. I would have expected folk dancing and national songs not rap. We leave after a bit and find a quiet corner for a cup of cappuccino before heading to our hotel where Pam can once again feed her e-mail compulsion and I can go to sleep.
Up early this morning to check out and move on to Belgium. Breakfast at this hotel is not the greatest, though they do have fresh fruit. I realize the French are not into breakfasts as the English and Americans are and I was spoiled in England. They could at least have fresh croissants, though. Whine, whine.
The train ride to Paris, Gare d'Austerlitz, is quick, slightly over an hour. We get very confused trying to find a taxi and wait at the drop off point for a while until we figure it out. The taxi driver we eventually capture can best be described as surly. My French is poor so I tend to assume I'm not understood but I have to ask him three times before he will acknowledge that he understands where we want to go. When we get to Gare du Nord, he refuses to accept my �10 note because it has a bank stamp on it. I catch myself wishing I had a counterfeit note with no bank stamp on it to give him.
What is it about Parisian taxi drivers? New York hacks are veritable good-will ambassadors compared to Parisians. This is only one of many instances of problems I have had with taxis in Paris. I've drove a taxi myself, years ago, so I know it's no bed of roses but I always figured angering the passengers would only make things worse. C'est la vie!
The train station is chaotic as are most European train stations. We manage to find a seat at one of the caf�s and figure out how to order coffee and rolls. Pam gets hooked into a long phone conversation with one of her associates in Hong Kong while I try to remind her she is on vacation. Mobile phones are not always a blessing. They are often intrusive and annoying.
We board our Thalys train to Brussels. Thalys are high-speed inter-city trains that travel in excess of 200 kph. We find that the �40 we spent for reservations was wasted. There were plenty of empty seats in first class. I was told by someone that I should reserve seats in the summer but my experience is that reservations are not necessary except on over-night trains where they are required. I believe second class is a different story. Partially, I suspect, because Student Eurrail passes are second class only. Refreshments are served and are complimentary and it is a very comfortable trip.
We arrive at Midi Station in Brussels and I head for the departure board to check the track number for the train we are planning to take to Bruges. Whoops, no such train number. I rush to the nearest information booth to find out how I can get to Bruges. The agent tells me the track number and the time for the next train, about 15 minutes from now, and Pam and I rush to get situated. Later I figure out how I screwed up. There are three train stations in Brussels and as Rick Steves points out, the Belgians can't seem to make up their minds which one they want to feature so there are trains going everywhere in Belgium from each station unlike Paris and London where different stations serve different regions. The train number I had leaves from Central Station not Midi and the internet site I got the information from does not specify the station. I also found out later that there is an underground shuttle between all three stations so I was unduly worried about being stranded in Brussels. Nevertheless, I am relieved to be speeding towards Bruges.
At Bruges, when we get off the train, we try to find an elevator rather than trying to wrestle our bags down stairs. Because she stores her garment bag inside her duffel Pam's bag is as large as a small city and equally as unwieldy going up and down stairs. We find an elevator that deposits us in a service corridor with no directional signs and about a thousand stored bicycles. After wandering around for a while, we stumble out a swinging door and find ourselves in the main terminal. Acting as if we knew where we were going all along, we nonchalantly head for the taxi queue and ask the driver to take us to our hotel, The Grand Oude Burg.
After a great breakfast, we decide to explore Bruges on foot. This is not as difficult as it may seem since the whole inner city covers about one square mile. We start at the Bell Tower, which is still used to mark the time every quarter hour and is slightly skewed: something I plan to document when I can get far enough away to capture it on film. Pam and I decide to not climb the 366 steps to the tower's observation area but instead walk down a delightful side street to the municipal square. You can see pictures of the tower and all the other highlights on my Bruges Photo page.
(Continue)
(Return to EJ's Place Home Page)