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Last of the Friendly Belgiums Sharon had a stomachache all night and didn't sleep much. She went to the toilet and reported "I mustn't chew my food. It looked like whole kidney beans. Next time I'm going to save time and trouble by just dumping the can straight onto the ground. Cut out the middle man." "Uh. Thanks for sharing that with me honey." Conversation must be a little slow when one had to resort to discussing bowel movements with their partner. Sharon wanted to see Bruges as it was the city she had been reading about in the Dorothy Dunnett series and Bruges was reputed to be Belgium's most picturesque city. The canal led from Sluis to Bruges. Many people were fishing. There were so many I wondered if it was the first day of the season. Out to catch the dumb ones. Only the smart ones would be left next week. The fishermen were clad in camouflage clothes. "Me big fisherman. Hunt giant herring." We followed the canal bike path right into Bruges. Near downtown we found a little park with three benches. Japanese tour groups went by on the canal. A group of school kids waved vigorously as they passed. Sharon and I walked downtown admiring beautiful views of the canal. We wandered through parks and a convent with an intriguing variety of roof lines. In the late afternoon we took a boat tour. It was a good way to see the buildings and city from a different angle and a great way to get me in the good books with Sharon. She loved it! As an added benefit the guide turned out to be humorous. He warned us not to stand up to take pictures because we went under many low bridges. "We always lose a couple of Japanese tourists each summer. They get so busy making good photographs, they forget about the bridges," he explained. At one point our guide directed our attention to seven buildings standing side by side, each was built in one of the seven architectural styles of the city. Sharon talked me into taking one of these canal boat tours. It turned out to be a great way to see another side of Bruges. At one point, our guide directed our attention to seven buildings standing side by side, each built in one of the city's seven architectural styles. We were also fortunate to get a humorous escort. He warned everyone not to stand up when taking pictures because of the many low bridges we crossed beneath. "We always lose a couple of Japanese tourists each summer," he cautioned. "They get so busy making good photographs, they forget about the bridges!" Being on all that water made me have to go to the washroom. We spotted an attended pay toilet with various currencies stating how much it cost to use the facilities. Five hundred lire was posted. I dug through my change and found one thousand lire. Sharon went in. When I went in the lavatory attendant asked if I have a thousand mille note. When I said no she took my lire but looked at it in a vile and disgusting manner. Sharon came out. The attendant accosted her for other change, but Sharon had none. "If the currency is on the board then they shouldn't hassle customers when that is what they get," Sharon said when she returned. Belgium had been our favourite country for rude and obnoxious people. We headed for Zeebrugge to catch the night sailing to Felixstowe in England. We followed a pleasant bike path until it abruptly ended at a four lane highway with zooming cars and freight trucks. We warily rode along the shoulder to the ferry terminal. At the terminal I bought tickets for $65 each. Our bicycles were free. The price included a movie and a seat for the night. Before we left I wanted to spend my remaining Belgian change. I had fifty-four francs, about $2.70. There was a self serve cafeteria inside the terminal. On the board it said Chips (Crisps): forty francs. "I would like some chips," I said to the cashier. "Do you want chips or do you want crisps?" she asked. "What's the difference?" I wanted to know. "Chips are deep-fried potatoes, crisps are like this," she said, holding up a bag of potato chips. "I'll have chips," I said. She gave me a slip with the number 13. An ominous sign -- I should have expected trouble. I went and sat down to wait for my number to be called. It didn't take long -- we were almost the only ones in the cafeteria. That should have been another clue. I had barely got myself sat down when she called out "Thirteen." At the cash register she rang in sixty francs. I pointed that the board read forty francs. Besides, I only had fifty-four francs. "That's for crisps," she said. "Chips are sixty francs." Shoot. I was short six francs. No where on the board did it say Chips or their price. "I only have fifty-four francs," I told her. "Is that okay?" "No. It's sixty francs." The six francs I was short was equivalent to thirty cents. "I don't have sixty francs. I thought they were forty francs," I tried explaining. She was an understanding sort. "You ordered them. We made them. You'll have to pay the full amount!" The beady-eyed pencil necked manager came over to see what the ruckus was about. "Do you have any other money?" he asked. "We take marks or French francs too." "I think I have some French francs," I said. I went to look in my bag. I returned with a French coin that I had scrounged from the bottom of my handle bar bag. The manager looked at it disdainfully. "It has to be a bill," he sniffed. I repeated my story with him about how it shows forty francs on the board for chips (crisps) and I thought I was ordering chips for the same price. Where did it say that deep fried chips were sixty francs? Not even frites, what every other place in Belgium had called French fries were listed on the board. "I only have fifty-four francs." He was already well aware of that fact. He berated me: "You are not the first to try this." No kidding I thought, your sign is pretty misleading. "If you do not pay the full sixty francs you will not be going on that ferry. I know you have more money!" he spat venomously. "People do not travel with so little!" Geez, I thought, we travelled for a week in Italy with no lire at all. Hell, we had travelled pretty much in every country at one time with not one red cent. Looking across the counter I realized I was not dealing with a rational human being. He was the equivalent to a pit bull that needed three bullets lodged in his brain before his jaw would relax. The vein on his forehead was pulsing. The man in line behind me was buying a beer. I quickly told him my plight and asked if he could give me six francs. "Sure," he said. "No problem." "Thanks. You just saved my butt." "Don't mention it." I placed the six francs on the counter with the fifty-four francs that were already there. The manager slowly counted each coin while removing them from the counter. I took my chips with a polite "Thank you." That was the way Canadians dealt with people who shit on them. We thanked them. If someone bumped into me I said "Oh, excuse me." If I ever had amnesia and was lost in another country they would know right away I was a Canadian. "Well, he's incredibly polite and he knows the name of the Prime Minister." Our politeness drove our American neighbours crazy. Maybe that was why we did it. As I turned away, the manager hissed something to me in German. What was it with the German insults? Didn't they know that insults were far more effective in Italian? For crying out loud, an insult in German sounded like something had lodged in the back of one's throat and one was desperately trying to remove it. I was hoping something had. I dug into the cold greasy chips. If I asked nicely would he warm them up for me? We loaded with the motorcycles, meeting the pair closest to us, Vannah and Rita from Germany on their Harleys. Where was he when I needed him in the cafeteria? I bet he wouldn't have put up with the hassle I did. They were going to the Isle of Man, then to Scotland. "Lots of mosquitoes in Canada," Vannah said. Pointing to Rita he said: "I'm her little mosquito. Poke, poke, poke." Sharon was extremely fatigued. In the sleeping lounge we found two seats by the front door near a group of teenage boys on a school trip. Sharon shoved in her ear plugs and closed her eyes. One kid got caught drinking beer. Then the adult supervisors left. Probably to drink beer. Swearing started. The second time I heard the F-word a leather clad motorcycle dude leapt up and grabbed the potty mouthed kid by the scruff. "I've had enough of your foul mouth. Who's in charge?" he demanded to know. Another kid went out and got the fearless leaders. Accommodations were made for the bikers to move to another room. The leader asked us if we would like to move too. Sharon opened one eye and nodded. I was still wound up from my chips escapade and couldn't sleep, so I passed my time writing in my journal until the lights went out at midnight. I tried to sleep. An announcement broke the silence: "The movie "Wyatt Earp" will begin in ten minutes." I went off to meet fellow insomniacs. |
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