paralyzedbynotcaring

Fries and Waffles

Lookit, it is impossible to tour Bruges without fries and waffles. They are practically forced on you.

You. Will. Succumb.

So with that out of the way, my first order of business was to send a post card to Daddio. The post office in the main square was closed for renovation, so I did a walking tour to the temporary location. I note this only because the post office worker had no qualms about reading my post card in front of me. He read it, laughed, looked up at me, and then read it again.

Glad I could brighten your day, sir. Or reinforce stereotypes. Or both.

I have learned that there is nothing sacred here.

Then I went to the Church of Our Lady, which houses one of the few works of Michelangelo outside of Italy. This is the Madonna with Child (center).

The statue is smaller than I expected, but very beautiful. There was also of course a lot of stained glass, ornate molding, and famous crypts.

The outside of the church was being renovated, so any picture would be of tarps and scaffolding. And I’m above that sort of of ridiculousness.

Oh, I also saw more soccer maths.

1+1=-0.2 folks. Note that.

You may know that Bruges has a lot of canals. “Bruges” means bridges. The canals are somewhat stagnant and not overly glorious for the most part. I did take a picture at the most photographed bridge in the city. I’ve done my part.

That leaning tower behind me is the belfry I summitted two days ago. It is leaning, too. About a meter, but I can’t tell in what direction.

You will notice that it is SUNNY. The sun was out and devastating people with its merciless monstrosity. People had to eat a lot of ice cream. I mean a lot.

I also went to Groeninge Museum and saw a lot of Flemish artwork. There were the usual upsetting paintings of Christ, capturing either his interrupted childhood or his untimely death. What caught my attention was this saucy piece called “Serenity.”

From what I can tell, the painting suggests that looking at breasts and perhaps touching breasts together is calming.

This one also made me laugh. I believe it is titled “Sheléne’s Former Jobs Now that She’s Gone.”

My favorite painting is called “The Invention of the Art of Drawing.”

Look how intent they both are.

The final room held the most modern pieces, the last of which before you exit is a sculpture of a young woman, clothed, wigged, and painted to look real, sitting on the floor with her head down like she’s crying. I had to skid passed before I became life imitating art imitating life. I can’t get stuck in that post-modern tautology. Not again.

Tomorrow ladies and gentlemen it will RAIN. And also the next day. And the next. And possibly the next. So I will leave you with this healthy dose of anti-rain medication.

Enjoy!

(PS No Demon spotting today)

I am injured

I think with all the running around I did when I traveled from France to Belgium I must have broken my left knee. This knee is making some double cracking noises now at every opportunity. Oh, and it hurts to bend it. Yesterday I took a bus tour of Bruges as a bit of a rest. Twenty euros for a 45-minute ride was a bit much, but as it was raining and the museums were closed, there wasn’t much else in the way of indoor activities other than eating and drinking or climbing to the top of the Belfry. Even though the rain blurred the view from the bus windows and the breath of the passengers fogged the rest, the bus tour was still worth it.

Happy to be on the bus almost seeing the sights!

I considered attempting the Belfry. There was no line. But my knee being broken led me instead to get some fries and waffles. I did a bit of window shopping–there are a lot of shops selling very beautiful, detailed lace works–but in the rain everything becomes a drag and I came back to my airbnb and took a four hour nap.

After a nap and then waking up so I could put myself to bed, I caught the train to Bruge (I’m staying one stop away). Look how cute and put together I was.

My knee felt a bit better, so I stared this behemoth down.

For 10 euros I was permitted to attempt the 366 steps to the top. I started counting but lost track around 7 when I wondered if it was the noun or the verb I was supposed to be counting. A few steps later (nouns) I came upon some descenders and I asked if I was almost there. That made their day and possibly their lives, judging by their screaming hysteria.

Here is the staircase.

Luckily there are a few rest stops along the way to the top. The stairs get more and more narrow and I think a bit steeper as you ascend. A few rooms branch off the stairs and you can sit your ass down and remember you gave yourself asthma and TB just two days ago.

By the time I got do the top I had stripped off both my sweatshirt and my blouse and was wearing my undershirt as an outer shirt and did not care. Everyone else kept their jackets on because they are pod people.

Here I am enjoying the view from the top/dying.

My hair is out of control, makeup long ago sweated off, and I can’t feel the lower half of my body. Look at me at the train station. Now look at me at the top of the Belfry. Don’t tell me exercise is healthy.

Here is the other view you might be interested in.

I took several more but they are pretty similar. Reddish tile roofs coming up to a jaunty point. Charming and picturesque. Like I used to be back at the train station. One thing I didn’t read about beforehand was that there are arrows carved along the outer molding indicating where other cities are.

Now I know which way to go to get to Klemskerke.

I was able to descend the stairs without much incident other than telling all the people I passed they were almost there. An older gentleman responded with “I can’t tell if you are an angel or a devil.” Another good subtitle for my autobiography.

After that, my legs had turned to pudding, so I rolled into a tea room for a steak and some booze. The food was great, though remind me not to sit down to a meal if I’m in a hurry.

I didn’t feel like doing a lot more walking. I have TB, after all, and jello for joints, so I decided to save the museum for tomorrow. I did see the outside of St. Salvator’s Cathedral, but as per usual I couldn’t find the door to get inside. Here is a lovely crucifixion statue on the outside.

Oh, and in case you are wondering what shoes to wear here, I took a picture of the most flat and walk-friendly sidewalk I’ve encountered so far (other than the people movers–more of those, please).

(PS I have not forgotten the DEMON, but I saw no signs today)

(PPS I am reading The Stand, Europe Through the Back Door, and How to Not Be Wrong: The Power of Mathematical Thinking)

Take the trains they said. It will be easy they said.

Today was a travel day from Eysines/Bordeaux to Bruges/Zedelgem. Bus to bus to train to metro to train to train. The first three proceeded pretty well except the St Jean train station McDonald’s line had the rumblings of a riot. Hungover soccer fans want their nuggets and they want them now.

The first train took me to Paris, where I had to take the metro to another Paris train station to catch the train to Brussels. Online tips said this was a pretty easy process as the metro is right there at both train stations.

This is not so.

There are signs at both train stations pointing you into long, urine-soaked, twisting tunnels that eventually lead to the metro station. This was no short walk. And considering the metro ticket kiosk had already rejected my credit card, my coins, my 5 dollar bill and my pleadings before finally accepting a 10 spot, I didn’t think I had acres of time to get to the next train station to catch the Brussels train. One bright spot was that an Irishman carried my suitcase up a flight of stairs without me asking.

It went downhill from there. I found the right metro line and crammed into the car only to have the homeless passenger next to me pee his pants. I had to make some enemies to escape the widening puddle. This poor man stood there for eight stops. Don’t feel too sorry for him though–I had to stand nearby for 10.

When I escaped the pee puddle metro and found the other Paris train station, I found I had about 20 minutes to spare, so I bought a coca-cola lite for 4 Euros and the remainder of my dignity.

One benefit of my Eurail ticket (the only benefit so far?) is that it is 1st class. The tour books I have read advise against 1st class because it’s so isolated. It is isolated indeed. Gloriously so. I didn’t have to talk to anyone at all AND no one peed. It was amazing.

It was amazing until we got to Brussels, stopped at the station, but the doors wouldn’t open. Everyone was pushing towards the exit, ready to disembark, except the doors would not open. I had to transfer trains here to get on the Bruges train, and I had 15 minutes from the arrival time of my train to the departure time of my next train. The sweat I started sweating smelled of the clove cigarettes and wine of Bordeaux and also garlic, onions, and possibly propane.

When the doors finally opened I tumbled out with all my luggage and walked as fast as I could to the nearest departure screen. My train wasn’t listed. The departure board listed only the departure time and final city–not the train number. Bruges is not the final city for my train, and I didn’t know what was. I found an information desk eight minutes until departure time. He told me the platform and I started running. Three pieces of luggage in tow. Sweat flying off me like in a Gatorade commercial. I came to the gate only to see I had to ascend three flights of stairs. By now I had asthma, osteoporosis, and possibly TB. I don’t know how I got up those stairs. I left my body. I may have dislocated something.

The train came in only a minute later and I had an entire 1st class car to myself.

This was fantastic until a longer than usual announcement came over the PA (in German, I think). I had no one to ask wtf was going on. We stopped in the middle of nowhere for about 15 minutes.

Now, my Airbnb hosts were kind enough to offer to meet me at the train station to pick me up. My arrival time was already a bit late–9pm–and now it was getting later and there is no wifi on the train.

Can I take a time out for a second and say wtf is with the no wifi on the train? How advanced can you be without wifi? What is this, 1982? How hard can it be?

We eventually rolled in to Bruges at 9:30. I miraculously found the correct parking lot and met my hosts, who had checked the board and saw that someone had thrown themselves under the train before mine, so mine had to wait and then take an alternate route. I’m not convinced this person threw himself or herself under the train. I think it was a Eurail passenger who had just had enough.

So that’s how easy, comfortable, sanitary, logical, and safe rail travel is on a normal (non-strike) day, folks. How come you haven’t signed up yet? For realsies.

Walking around and looking around again

I lucked out with the weather today and was able to walk the streets without having to avoid the rain. My first stop was the Musée des Beaux-Arts; as I descended the bus at in front of the museum, I was overwhelmed yet again by soccer fans.

Broken Heineken bottles were all over the sidewalk. Men dressed in green were yelling and singing and eating pizza. That guy on the right was hell on wheels. Finally I escaped into the museum where, for 4 euros, I could sit and stare at art.

Here is some art to star at.

I believe this is baby Jesus pretending to be happy to get flowers when what he really wanted was a bottle. He really was a saint.

Here is another one I couldn’t stop narrating.

What the hell is going on here. I think it might be from Greek mythology or General Hospital.

Center Man: This dress is hers. I was just modeling it to amuse her child.

Left Man: This doesn’t seem on the level. I’m out.

Right Man: I thought we were going to get lunch…?

Woman: MY child? I should have swiped left.

Baby: I just want a head in proportion to my body!

Honestly with so many Jesuses out there, all these pictures start to look pretty similar. I started to skim over the paintings until I came upon this masterpiece.

That is MEAT! Meat, glorious meat! See, people have been capturing images of their food since long before Instagram.

Here are some modern images of food.

I found a bakery.

What’s that? You want a side angle?

This is me enjoying the view of all the sugar.

After I was sufficiently sugared I walked around and looked around. It miraculously wasn’t raining and I managed to see the cathedral, which is massive.

There are also a bunch of archways throughout the city. Each one seems to commemorate a victory of some kind. You’d never know the French had ever lost so much as a bet with all these arches standing around.

Yes that is actual honest to god sunshine. I was very happy as evidenced in this picture.

Feelin pretty good, walking up Victor Hugo Street and feeling all smart until I see this.

On the one hand I appreciate that it’s in English…

Until I see THIS

THE MARK OF THE BEAST! THE BEAST IS FRONT-FOLLOWING ME!

(Front-following is when someone copies what you were clearly going to do had you had the time to do it yet, as in when a former classmate front-followed me into writing a gothic romance novel. It’s very annoying and almost impossible to prove as the very nature of front-followers is to make YOU look like the stalker. Infuriating.)

So, as I pack up for tomorrow’s journey to Bruges, Belgium, I have to wonder where the beast is lurking. I will be ever vigilant if one can be vigilant with this much wine.

Putting the bored in Bordeaux

It looks like the French strike has lifted! I bought my ticket to Bruges (leaving Sunday), so I won’t have to worry about spending the night on a bench with a bunch of drunk soccer fans.

Unless I feel like it.

So, the good news is I can stop worrying about the trains. The bad news is, starting tomorrow, the buses may strike. C’est la vie.

I did some much-needed supply shopping after I secured my way out of the country.

This is an unpronounceable tiramisu-like delicacy I bought to celebrate.

This is a sandwich. Did you know that bacon is a universal word?

Despite my absolute joy at the prospect of not having to deal with the French rail strike anymore–it’s been causing me stress since my arrival in Europe–I didn’t really feel like walking around Bordeaux and looking at all the limestone. Many of the buildings have faces carved into the facades and it’s a bit creepymuffins. Also, there was thunder, lightening, and spurting rain. Kinda took away the joy of wandering.

I did however notice a few gems as I scurried to the bus station. A place named “Inglorious bar-star” and another named “Sexy! sex!” [Sic]

There are still hoards of soccer fans roaming about in gangs. You’ll know them by their matching outfits and jaywalking. Other than owning the same Giants shirt at RS, I am not sure I have ever purposefully dressed identically as my friends for any reason. In my adult life, that is. But there is no reasoning with soccer fans. I overheard one say to the other, “It’s about a 10 hour drive, mate, which for us means 4 days.” I am not sure what type of math this is but it seems soccery.

So, sightseeing was abandoned for buying local wine at the grocery store and enjoying it while watching it rain. If I was prone to boredom, this would be dangerous. But I’ve never been bored in my life. There are just so many things to worry about.

Cheers.

Pardon my French

Today I took the bus to Bordeaux and was greeted with a ticker sign saying that the buses will strike starting Saturday. Merde.I just checked to see if they have Uber here; they do, but the nearest car is 18 minutes away. Not the best thing ever. France is annoying me a lot.

I made it to downtown Bordeaux in time for a deluge that soaked the meandering soccer fans. That umbrella purchase yesterday was just in time. I took the tram to the Palace de le Bourse, but I couldn’t find the palace. You see, every building on the waterfront has a very similar facade–four story limestone. I walked right by the palace twice. It was raining pretty hard, in my defense. When I had incontrovertible evidence that I had indeed found the palace, which houses a museum, I could not find the museum’s entryway. I found an information desk within the palace and asked where the museum is. The informative lady asked if I spoke any French AT ALL? And the museum is right in front of me? The only door right in front of me was the exit, which I went through before I revealed exactly which French words I do know.

Never found the museum, but I had a wine bar in mind and walked a few blocks in the rain towards it. I came by a full tourist information center and bought a ticket to the city bus tour.

Differences between French and Spanish city bus tours:
France expects you to wear seat belts
France checks your purse for forbidden items before you get on the bus
Spain provides disposable earbuds
Everyone else on the French bus was at least 65
No on-and-offs in France
Spain had wifi on the bus

Even though the French bus was a bit too heavy on the rules, I am glad I got a tour of the city. I don’t think I would have gone across the river otherwise.

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The view from the bridge was pretty spectacular once it stopped raining for five seconds. This is the River Garonne. #Cloudporn.

This, Saint-Michel Basilica, is the third tallest church spire in France. It’s the only thing this tall in Bordeaux because in Bordeaux you can’t build over 4 stories because they want everything to remain the same as it was in the 18th century. Limestone and rococo and shitty wifi.

The bridge has 17 arches, one for each letter in Napoleon B’s name. Vive le resistance!

Then we came to this stunner.

Ho-ly shit. This thing is so high, storm clouds were swirling around it. That’s Liberty up there slashing through prices or chains or gender roles or something, I can’t really see that high, and then down at the bottom, it’s just chaos.

Water spurting from statue horse nostrils. I. Can’t. Even.

This spicy meatball was right next to one of the “fan zones” set up for the Euro Cup soccer fans who have swarmed Bordeaux with their wigs and flags and high socks. I walked by the fan zone, which was set up in a big courtyard. Along the perimeter you could buy refreshments, and in the center there was a large area with picnic tables. A lot of fans, mostly dudes in red, were watching a game (0-0, I checked) on a megatron. I was walking along the center of the courtyard towards the wine bar I had in mind when disaster struck. Someone scored a goal. The courtyard turned upside down like it was a snowglobe and every beer-drinking, flag-waving, wig-wearing lunatic jumped from his seat, threw his beer, and screamed and yelled and ran and moshed right in the middle of the courtyard.

Where I was now cowering.

It wasn’t just a stand and yell sporting crowd affair like you might expect at AT&T park. This was like if everyone in the bleachers at AT&T grew into a troll, took acid, and was given 44 seconds to live.

I was too surprised to be scared but soccer fans are scary.

Though, upon further reflection, that may have been the first goal they’ve ever seen.

Soccer is like that.

Though I was covered in beer and PTSD, I found the wine bar and did that to the nth degree. I even managed to catch the right bus on the first try.

France is trying to break me but I’m hard to break when I’ve been drinking.

Shopping in France

Yesterday was a travel day and not much of interest happened other than me getting lucky because of soccer (finally, a redeeming quality from a snoozer of a sport). The Euro2016 is happening and Bordeaux is hosting some games. Because of that, there was a special train from Narbonne to Bordeaux to accommodate soccer fans. I was on a train filled with drunk, singing, smelly soccer fans, but it was ok because I was on the correct train. And the singers helped me with my luggage. Thank you, soccer. Now carry on with your exciting 0-0 gaming.

I have discovered that buses and trains in not America do not have the same type of people on them. For example, unlike on MUNI, I didn’t think it was likely I’d get shanked at any moment. Also, people got up from the handicapped seats for elderly or pregnant people without having to be asked. I guess what I’m saying is it’s civilized. I am still me, though, so the whole time I’m checking the stops against the map, anxious that I will miss my stop or that the bus won’t actually stop at my stop or that I am on the wrong bus or that this is actually the movie Speed.

My airbnb is a full apartment in Eysines, a bit west of Bordeaux. The good thing is that I have so much space to myself. The bad thing is that the buses are on semi-strike here as well, so there are fewer buses to catch to Bordeaux and they don’t run as late as usual. Ce sera baiser, France.

I looked at a few places I want to visit in Bordeaux, (a palace but mostly wine bars) and then walked to the grocery store. Two notables about the store:

Tomatoes look like this.

The rosé section looks like this (that is just the rosé section).

I decided not to go to Bordeaux proper today and just enjoy the patio at my airbnb with my groceries.

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Which means I am eating BREAD and life is wonderful. Do you even know how good bread is? Bread from France? FRENCH BREAD? You don’t. You don’t know. You couldn’t possibly. You need to come here and eat this bread.

The forecast is thundershowery so I bought an umbrella. Oh, and I can’t figure out how to lock the front door of my apartment so I barricaded it with empty bottles like a local/pro.

I learned sortie means exit and going in that door doesn’t win you any friends.

I’m trying to talk myself down from the cliffs of panic about trains. I will soon not have to deal with the French, and so far I’ve eventually gotten where I need to go, right?

Wine is helping with this process. Santé

“Success is going from failure to failure without losing enthusiasm.” Churchill.

Lists, pt 2

Things I’m happy about:

How comfortable my new sandals are (17000 steps!)
How I brought my medium suitcase, not the large one
How many snacks I packed
Finding the Seat61 website

Things that are pissing me off:
French rail strike
Spotty wifi
Pay-to-use toilets
The French language
The apocalyptical wind in Narbonne right now
Eurail “help” centers
Lack of elevators at train stations or hotels
How 1 & 2 dollar Euros are coins
Nightsweats
Meatsweats

Walking around looking around

Today was my last day in Barcelona. I wish logistical issues hadn’t clouded my time here. It’s a fun city if you can endure the heat. I walked down La Rambla and took a left at Christopher Columbus to head to Barceloneta beach. Along the way I met this thing.

A child was pointing at it and crying.

Baceloneta, part of old Barcelona, is a bit winding and narrow as you would expect. It smells like salt and laundry soap.

The curving roads were a bit disorienting but I eventually found the beach. It was 22 degrees Celsius and people were swimming, sunbathing, playing soccer or volleyball, or just drinking a lot.

I touched the Mediterranean Sea for the first time in 17 years.

A bit cold.

I haven’t been feeling all that wonderful and consequently haven’t eaten much in the way of local fare. My stomach hasn’t been up to it. Today, though, I was on a Paella or Bust mission.

Bust. (Good subtitle for my autobiography, that)

Two places were out of Paella. I stayed at the second place and ordered shrimp tapas.

These shrimp were a bit uncooperative at first and a dog kept staring at me while I was trying to delicately pry off the legs and shells.

He looked away as soon as he saw me take out my phone. Isn’t that always the way.

My iphone pedometer says I walked 17,000 steps today. Time to put my feet up and rest.

Tomorrow I go to Narbonne to try to negotiate a ticket to my actual destination, Bordeaux. Maybe the strike will be done by then…?

A bit of weird

The train situation is still up in the air and out of my control despite a reasonable request I sent to France via tweet. So, today, I got back on the tour bus and went to MNAC (Museu Nacional d’Art de Catalunya). I went through the modernist halls first and was greatly disturbed by a painting of a cherub Cupid gambling. This explains so, so much. I didn’t take a picture because I want to forget it. The rest of the museum has a lot of religious art–frescos, paintings, sculptures. There were a lot of somewhat strange looking Jesuses, my favorite of which is this–

This Jesus seems super chill, even though in the upper left panel a ghost is riding a horse, in the upper right, people are arguing with laundry, in the lower left, auditions for the Haunted Mansion, and, look, on the lower right, a demon is trying to give sleepy Jesus a snake gift. All this and the center Jesus looks like he’s fresh off the Santa Cruz beach. Chill.

Outside the museum is a great panoramic view of the city. My face is blocking it in this picture.

There were ESCALATORS down the hill to a fountain. I escalated down and waited for the fountain to turn on, but it never did. This is called the Magic Fountain. It magically did not feel like performing this afternoon, so I got back on the bus. I’d been on the whole tour before and was able to look around more thoroughly. It was then that I started to notice some weird things. A pizza place called “WHY?” and a clothing store called Vague, for example, caught my eye. Then I saw this spicy meatball.

What. The. Hell. The tour guide didn’t mention this HUGE stone sphere sitting precariously on top of a mall by the sea. This thing is one hurricane away from pin balling its way through the city. How is this not in every disaster movie.

And finally, a block from my Airbnb, I spotted a message.

That’s right, the mark of the Devil, in the flesh, in an ally off La Rambla. You heard it here first.

Also, the Devil speaks English. The more you know.

Author: paralyzedbynotcaring