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May 12 Friday AM 8º C -- PM 15º C partial clearing Bicycle touring Belgium The folks in Belgium have a very serious face. I've starting calling them Belglums. Sharon says that with their curled-down bottom lip, it looks like they haven't smiled for a thousand years and if they should even think of trying, their face would crack. Even the little kids. We saw a two-year-old girl standing beside her mom on a front door step as we cycled past. When the child saw us, she raised her arm and waved like all the little kids do, but that little face never changed one bit from its sad expression. They are not a smiley people -- maybe they have a poor dental plan in Belgium? Maybe it's the weather? We've been cycling along interlocking red brick bike paths most of the day. They do get us away from the traffic, but it certainly hasn't done anything for my sore behind. I don't know how those racers stand it with their skinny tires. They all wear two pairs of padded cycling shorts though -- long cycling tights with a pair of cycling short pulled over top. At first I thought it was for the cold weather. But now I'm beginning to rethink that it's for the cobble-like bricks. Jersey cows were standing in a field of green grass as we cycled past. One had a huge bag and a face with big eyes that seemed to plead: "Milk me -- please." Another was laying atop her huge udder. Her udder was squished haplessly beneath her. "Obviously making condensed milk," I quipped to my unappreciative bicycle touring partner. As we pulled our lightweight touring bicycles to a halt to buy groceries in a small town we got into a philosophical discussion with the sixty-year-old owner who manned the till. He wanted to know my meaning of life. To experience and learn as much as possible I told him. Greater satisfaction doing what I want for a fuller life. Love of myself and my fellow humans. "No kids?" he asked. "Isn't it natural to have kids?" (Thereby meaning, I suppose, it's unnatural not to have kids?) I told him, being an elementary school teacher, I had thirty children all day and it was relaxing to come home to peace and quiet. "Too much cost to raise children?" he asked. "No," I replied. "Just my choice not to have children." "Where did you get this idea?" he asked. "Your parents?" "No," I said. "It's my own idea." Sharon has eight brothers and sisters and she was born in the first half, so she had plenty of child rearing experience while she was growing up. And I have a brother who is twelve years younger than myself, so I had lots of babysitting and diaper changing experience myself. "Today," the shopkeeper continued, "people have one. Maybe two." He paused, before adding, "One is a catastrophe." I know, I concurred, I see them every day in school. He shook his head. "When they come into the store they want and grab everything." He shook his head again, then begins on a different track, "Where did you get the money to take this trip?" "We sold our house," I tell him. This completely flabbergasts him. He actually held his head in his hands as if trying to make sense of this. "I have old thinking," he finally says. This selling one's house to travel idea had apparently never crossed his mind ... let alone entered it before. After we push off on our touring bicycles, Sharon says she figures it is easy for men to be so high and mighty about having kids, but she doesn't see any men having them. I think we have enough people on this old earth already, and we should be trying to make a better life for the ones that are already here. What about adoption? Instead of the shopkeeper having four kids, why not adopt four? Sometimes, when I go into a store to merely buy some ham and a few slices of cheese, I come out with a lot more food for thought. At lunch we found a bench outside a small town church. The wind still occasionally gusted around and tried to upset my sandwich. As we cycled into town, a funeral procession was coming down main street. The hearse was followed by about 200 townsfolk walking behind in solemn pairs. As we sat munching our ham, cheese, tomato, and pickle on a whole wheat bun other people began arriving at the church. "Mass?" Sharon wondered. "Probably another funeral," I reply. Fridays have them stacked up before the weekend. The Father came along and I asked him. "Wedding," he replied. I wondered how many of the funeral attendees were also invited to the wedding. Same attire. Hmmm. I never thought of that before. Some connection? A man's not complete till he's married. Then he's finished. Tried to mail our weekly installment home, but the postal folks wanted me to put my envelope into one of their special envelopes that I have to buy from them before they would take it. "Give it back," I said, which completely amazed and bewildered them. Apparently no one has done that before judging from their shock and dismay. Cycling across a bridge we looked down to a canal. A paved bike path ran along the canal. Flat and with the wind. Bicycle touring doesn't get much better than that. Now if only the sun would come out. At the end of the bridge we cycled down a steep dirt path and headed west. The canal was great. A few boats were on the waterway. Green trees lined the path. Smooth. Flat. With the wind. "I may have to change my mind about Belgium not being that great for bicycle touring," I told Sharon. The Belgian city of Turnhout had tons of bikes. School was getting out as we cycled into town. Students of all ages rode past in huge waves. No one walks. No wonder. They wouldn't stand a chance against those hordes of bicycles. Saw adults of all ages, kids of all ages, moms with daughters, and entire families riding along the street on their bicycles. Shopping at the grocery store was accomplished with bike bags. We bought a huge loaf of whole wheat bread. A worker will slice the loaf in front of you, if you wish it sliced, with a giant thirty-knife cutter. The slices are so thin I can practically see through them. We have cycled off our Michelin map. I went into a magazine store to buy another. The woman working there asked about our trip. "No kids?" she asks. "Thirty," I reply. One philosophical conversation a day is my limit. We cycled back to the canal bike path. Just as I hit 100 kilometres for our bicycle tour today, we saw a likely looking hospitable stand of trees for free bicycle camping. It is almost dark, so not many people are likely to come along the bike path, and we are just past the industrial section of town, so there shouldn't be much car traffic either. What do you mean we're out of buttermilk? |
