While the flights themselves are horrendous, waiting in line is (in some ways) even worse. RyanAir and EasyJet's check-in system is notoriously strict; if your bag is not exactly 30x55x20 cm (or whatever the limit is), your fine is more expensive than the value of everything in your luggage. Every single suitcase is checked in the metal box, and there are always clusters of people off to the side who don several layers of pants and sweaters in an oft-futile effort to make their suitcase fit. Since there is a strict one-bag rule (no purses!), my trick has always been to wear a coat and hide my bulging purse underneath it. As I approach the check-in lady, my trepidation increases to an almost debilitating level--will she spy the purse? Will I be forced to repack my entire backpack in front of the waiting line? Will she care? Thankfully, the check-in ladies have never noticed (or always turned a blind eye to) my purse, and backpacks are rarely forced into the metal box of doom--that fate is generally reserved for suitcases. Many people, if their suitcases do not fit, choose to toss their belongings rather than pay such exorbitant fees--by the time all passengers board, the trash bins are chock full of old shoes, socks, bottles of toothpaste and lotion--anything easily replaceable.
The nervousness increases exponentially as the line moves towards the check-in lady; in line to my flight to Brussels, I'm sweating underneath my four sweaters and coat. The purse bulging under my coat could be mistaken for an outrageously large and misshapen backside, a humpback, or as a contraband Second Carryon Item that would earn me unmitigated wrath. Thankfully, I passed through the gauntlet unscathed, and slept the whole way to the land of Belgian chocolates. We decided all Belgian people were mean when the first two currency exchange employees were caustic and rude, but we changed our minds when the next three people were helpful in directing us to our train to Bruges.
While waiting for our train, we were drawn to a bakery in the station. We couldn't help noticing the beautiful young man at the checkout--we giggled at the register, and while walking away I impulsively whispered to Aashika, "I dare you to tell him he's cute--I dare you!" Aashika is much more proper than I and refused my proposition outright, so I qualified it: "I'll tell him I think he's cute, and all you have to do is agree." This, apparently, met Aashika's standards for propriety, and we ran up to the counter, told him he was very cute, Aashika mumbled her agreement, and we fled in terror and excitement. The boy was disappointingly unmoved; his "Thank you" was cordial but almost practiced, as if silly American tourists did this every day. In any case, it was our first time hitting on a stranger, and we felt daring, exciting, and like thoroughly modern women.
Our hostel in Bruges boasted a receptionist who may have been very high, but we dropped off our things and wandered the city for the afternoon. Bruges is beautiful and relaxing, cobblestone streets and brick buildings and expensive shops. One cynic told us that if every "handmade in Belgium" piece of lace displayed was actually made in Belgium, every citizen would be making lace 24/7. As we soon discovered, Bruges is the prime tourist destination for all middle-aged European couples. We had a fine time spying on interesting-looking couples, and pointing out which ones we would someday become. Aashika picked a pokey old man and his very stringent wife for me; I retaliated by assigning her the fate of the couple who seemed unable to travel faster than 2 steps per minute.
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| I found the frog prince! Alas, it appears we were not meant to be. |
Our second day in Bruges was our prime touristy day. We wanted to climb the famous tower in the center of the city, but it is horribly crowded by 10am. Unfortunately, we woke up late, but instead of forsaking our destination, we rushed out of bed and into the streets of Bruges without so much as a shower. I compensated by putting on my contacts and attempting to smear on eyeliner while we were standing in line for the tower; the middle-aged women surrounding us looked on with great disapproval ("you dare go outside without your face on?"), while their husbands merely laughed.
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| Bruges from the tower. |
A Vietnamese festival popped up overnight in the center of town, so after climbing the tower and getting some lovely views, we stopped by and learned how to carve soap for free (of course, this is after I bought pre-carved soap. Oops.). We sat at a table with our teacher, an adorable Dutch boy, and two cool old ladies from a small island nation of 6000 people off the cost of France. They were twins, and regaled us with hilarious stories of their lives together. The younger, slightly more adventurous one, told us about when they visited a nudist beach at the ripe old age of 70; instead of going completely nude, she decided to tape tassels to her nipples--to be honest, I'm not quite sure if that would improve the situation. A bout of rain made the tassels droopy and the tape itchy, so she ended up scratching her nipples in the middle of the beach! Aside from that episode, the twins had traveled the world together; their sisterly devotion was beautiful. Their sense of adventure was also so inspiring--I want to be a cool old lady like that someday (perhaps minus the nude beaches ;) ) After promising to each other that we'd never lose our sense of adventure, we biked to a small town called Damme; it was a lovely ride on a tree-lined pathway, very rustic and beautiful.
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| The daredevil twin sisters in Bruges. After meeting them, I wasn't so afraid of getting old. |
That afternoon, we took a train back to Brussels; we arrived at our hostel and used our womanly charm to nab a free room upgrade from the front desk man. We were meeting Aashika's French friend for dinner, and invited along our new roommate, Mike. We walked around the city and saw such relics as the statue of the peeing boy and his sister, the peeing girl. The peeing boy statue has several legends around it, each more fantastical than the next. The first says that a small boy was lost, and the person tasked with finding him said that he would make a statue of the boy doing whatever he was doing when he found him. I imagine he did not expect such an unusual result. The second legend goes that enemies had buried gunpowder around the outskirts of the city, planning to blow up the walls so they could invade. When night set, as they were trying to light the gunpowder, the boy saw a light from way up above and aimed for it, saving the whole city. Whatever the case may be, the statue was disappointingly tiny for all the hype. We also learned about the sister statue of peeing girl, supposedly made for the express purpose of drawing the excessive crowds away from the peeing boy. Poor little sister.
Left: The peeing boy statue. Awkward. Right: The peeing girl statue. Even more awkward.
Our attempts at maintaining proper behavior at dinner were all for naught; America has rooted its uncouth tendrils too deeply for a few weeks of Europe to dislodge. To the great dismay of Aashika's French friend, Aashika requested a to-go bag for the rest of her dinner; mortified, Aashika's friend slipped some money on the table and loitered outside, waiting for us to finish the ignoble task before she would recognize us as friends again. After dinner, we bought some beers to drink while sitting out on the central square, and promptly realized we had no way to open said beers. Some flirting with bartenders solved that issue, but our next mistake was more grievous. We walked into a cool-looking bar with colorful flashing lights, and were confronted with twelve pairs of eyes all staring...at Mike. At least a dozen very fashionable men with perfectly styled hair and skinny jeans appraised him; we dared him to wink at a particularly lascivious-looking one before we fled for the sake of our sanctity. A trip to a dance club finished off the night, and I now know what it feels like to swim in a tank full of sharks. I was female and I was alive, and that entitled me to an entourage of several dozen men who kept trying to steal me away from each other. In spite of the many men trying to cut in, I spent the majority of the time learning how to Latin dance with a portly Latin graduate student who was the best dancer I have ever encountered.
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| We made friends at the hostel! |
The next morning we dragged ourselves out of bed, totally exhausted after sleeping for less than 5 hours, and put ourselves on a tour of the city with a sarcastic, entertaining guide. Approximately three minutes after the tour began, the heavens decided to open the floodgates and release a waterfall onto us mere mortals. We tourists huddled under 16th-century awnings, leaving the tour guide to bear the brunt of the storm and shout over the torrents flooding the streets. Our mid-tour break occurred in a comfy little bar, where we met a former investment banker who hated his 100-hour work weeks and quit in favor of traveling around Europe. Unfortunately, we had to leave the trip early in order to catch our flight to Portugal for the final leg of our journey together...
