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June 1 Thursday cloudy-sunny 25º C Bicycle touring Belgium Sharon has a stomachache all night and doesn't sleep much. Next time we have chili, she says she is going to save time and trouble by just dumping the can of kidney beans straight into the toilet -- cut out the middle man. In Sluis, the first Belgium town (or is it the last town in the Netherlands?) depending on whose perspective one is looking from, we try to spend all our remaining Dutch coins as we don't need the souvenirs to carry on the next portion of our bicycle tour. I succeed by buying a loaf of bread, four salads, and a post card. Sharon tried to get in to see the church, but the woman on duty is only showing groups today. "Come back Saturday," she says. Um, Saturday being a couple of days from now, I'd say we're going to have cycled a long ways down the road by then. Sharon buys a pair of insoles to help cushion the hard layer in her cycling shoes. She has been complaining for the past couple of days that her cycling shoes are rubbing her heels raw. Sharon wants to go to Brugges as it is the city she read about in the Dorthy Dunnett series. Not only that, but it is reputed to be Belgium's most picturesque city. We cycle tour along a canal that leads from Sluis to Brugges. Easy cycle touring in Belgium so far. Lots of people are out fishing in the canal as we cycle by. Maybe it's the first day of the fishing season? There's so many. Out to catch all the dumb ones, as John Tanaka from Princeton BC would say. Only the smart ones will be left next week. Somewhat amusingly, they are all clad in camouflage clothing. Me big fisherman. Hunt giant Herring. Which reminds me. Today in Sluis, on main street, right out in the open a guy had his Mercedes parked. I guess having a Mercedes parked on main street isn't all that strange ... he was standing at the back of his Mercedes with the trunk open. His wife was sitting in the front passenger seat staring straight ahead -- like she wasn't going to be part of this. He takes something out of his trunk. He tilts his head back and eats something. "Is that herring?" I wonder. Naw. Must be a sandwich. We cycle past just as he holds up a herring covered in onions. He must have had a Big Herring attack. I wonder if they sell these things at the local McDonald's. The way he was scarfing those fish down I'm convinced the guy is part seal. In Brugges we cycle right into the city following the bike path along the canal. Near downtown we cycle up to a little park with three benches. We occupy one for lunch. Groups of tours go by on the canal. One is a group of kids who wave vigorously to us as they pass. We lock our touring bicycles to a railing and walk downtown. There are some beautiful views of the canal. We walk through parks and a convent area. I am intrigued by the various rooflines. We take a boat tour. It is a good way to see the buildings and city from a different angle. The guide is humorous. He warns us not to stand up to take pictures as we go under the many low bridges. "We always lose a couple of Japanese tourists each summer," he jokes. "They get so busy making good photographs they forget about the bridges." At one point, our guide shows us seven buildings beside each other, each built in one of the seven architectural styles of the city. We pass by our bikes, still locked to the railing. Who would want to steal a couple of dirty overloaded touring bikes? Two girls are sleeping on the benches. When we return after our tour to our bikes, the girls are still there. We find out one is from California; the other D.C. They are doing the Eurail thing they tell us. Hmmm. I think I'll stick with bicycle touring. We bid them bon voyage and cycle off for Zeebrugge to catch a night sailing to Felixstowe in England. We're following a pleasant bike path when abruptly our cycle path ends at a four lane busy highway with zooming cars and freight trucks. We cycle along the busy highway's shoulder to the ferry terminal. It feels weird to be cycling beside behemoth diesel-spewing hunks of metal again after cycle touring for so long on scenic, placid, bicycle touring pathways. At the ferry terminal I buy tickets for 1300 Belgium francs each. Our bicycles are free. So we're set to continue our bicycle tour in England for about $65 each, including a movie and seat for the night. Beats sleeping on a park bench, I'd say. Before we leave, I want to spend my remaining Belgian change. I have exactly 54 francs. There is a cafeteria inside the ferry terminal. On the menu board, it says Chips, with Crisps in brackets beside it, for 40 francs. I say, "I would like some chips." She says, "Do you want chips or do you want crisps?" "What's the difference?" I ask. (I really should have been asking which ones are 40 francs.) "Chips are deep-fried potatoes. Crisps are like this," she says, and shows me a bag of potato chips. "I'll have chips," I say. She gives me a slip with number 13 written on it (truly not a lucky number). I go and sit to wait for my number to be called ... which shouldn't be long, since we're about the only ones left in the cafeteria. I was right. I barely got seated and she calls 13. I go up to the till to collect my order and pay. She rings it in. 60 francs. I point out the board says 40 francs. She says, "That's for crisps. Chips are 60 francs." Nowhere on the board does it have Chips and their price. "I only have 54 francs," I say. "Is that okay?" "No," she says, "it's 60 francs." The six francs I am short is equivalent to about 30¢ on a $3 order of chips. "I don't have 60 francs," I say. "I thought they were 40 francs." "You ordered them; we made them; you'll have to pay the full amount!" she snaps, more than a little testily. A beady-eyed pencil-necked manager has come over to scope out the situation. "Do you have any other money?" he asks. "We take marks or French francs, too." "I think I have some French francs," I say. I go back to our table and look through my handlebar bag. I return to the till with a two franc coin -- more than enough to settle my bill -- that I scrounged from the bottom of my handlebar bag. The manager looks at the coin disdainfully.
He won't take it. "It has to be a bill," he sniffs.
I go over my story with him about how it says 40 francs on the
board for chips (crisps) and I thought I was ordering chips for
that price. Where does it say that deep fried chips, or frites,
as they are called everywhere else in Belgium are 60 francs?
I tell him again that I have only 54 francs, even though he is
already well aware of this fact. I realize that I'm not dealing with a really rational human being. He is like a pit bull that would have to take three bullets in its brain before its jaw would relax. There is a fellow in line, buying a beer. I tell him my tale of woe and ask if he can loan me six francs. "Sure," he says. "No problem." "Thanks a bunch," I say. For a while there, I was thinking I may be sleeping on another ferry dock. "Don't mention it," he says. I place all the money on the counter. The manager slowly counts each and every coin while taking them off the counter. I take my chips and say, "Thank you." As I turn, he growls something in German. What is it with their German insults? I think insults are far more effective in Italian anyway. In German, it sounds like something has lodged in the back of their throat and they are trying desperately to clear it. Then again, maybe something had. I eat my now cold chips. I consider asking if he would mind warming them up for me? We are supposed to load our touring bicycles with the motorcycles. When we do, we meet Vannah and Rita from Germany, riding a Harley. They are bike touring on the Isle of Man for a week and then their off to bike tour Scotland for three weeks. "Lots of mosquitoes in Canada," Rita says when she learns where we're from. "I'm her little mosquito," Vannah says, pointing to Rita. "Poke, poke, poke." Sharon is very tired. We leave our touring bicycles in the storage area and find seats in the sleeping lounge. If a blanket is on the seat, that means the seat has been reserved. We find two unoccupied seats in front of a group of teenage boys who are on a school trip. Now why would the seats near a group of teenage boys be vacant? Funny that, eh? Sharon shoves in her earplugs and closes her eyes. Soon, one kid is caught drinking a beer. Hey, these school trips are just like our old ones ... but I think we used to wait till the supervisors were out of the room. The adult supervisors get up and leave. Probably to get a beer. Swearing starts from the teenage troupe. About the second time I hear the F-bomb dropped, a burly motorcycle guy in leathers, seated behind Sharon and I, jumps up. He grabs the foulmouthed teen by the scruff of his shirt and tells the kid he's had enough of his foul mouth. "Who is in charge?" the motorcycle tough guy demands. Someone goes out to get the fearless leaders. Soon, accommodations are made for the motorcycle couple to move to another room. Later, the leader comes over and asks if we would like to move too. Sharon opens one eye and nods yes. We move. I write in my journal. The lights go out. I try to sleep. Too quiet. I miss the kids' swearing. It is midnight. An announcement says the movie "Wyatt Earp" is starting in the cinema. In English too, I bet. I get up and go to watch the movie. In Brugges we had to go to the toilet. We saw a pay one with various currencies posted on a sign at the toilet's entrance. It has at attendant sitting outside (See? You think you have a lousy job, but then someone, somewhere, always has an even shittier one). For Italian currency, 500 lire is posted. I dig through my change and find a thousand lire. I give Sharon 500 lire. Sharon drops her money on the collection plate and goes in. I do the same and go to go in. The lavatory attendant asks me if I have a 1000 mille note. Nope, I say. She looks at the Italian lire we have put on the plate in a vile and disgusting manner. Sharon comes out of the lavatory. The woman hassles her for other change. Sharon has none. Sharon tells me that she thinks that if a currency is listed on the board, then they shouldn't hassle the customers when that is what they get. If they don't want Italian lire, then don't put Italian lire with its price on the board. Belgium has been the worst country, by far, for rude and discourteous people we have had the misfortune to meet on our European bicycle tour. Even the so-called obnoxious French have been far friendlier and kinder ... especially when they learn we're touring France by bicycle. |
