Foodstuff – Page 4 – paralyzedbynotcaring

The three big ones

Today I went to the Rijks (rhymes with bikes) museum to see the famous art. This Monet I recognized immediately, though we’d never been introduced.

This VG also needed no introduction.

And finally, the large and in charge Rembrandt, “The Night Watch.”

For the watch. For the watch. For the watch.

This painting is famous not only because of the artist, but also because portraits of militia had all been posed before. This one had action, including a gun going off, a dude cleaning is gear, conversations, and a little girl with a dead chicken. Genius. A rumor says that the half face peaking out from behind the guy in the upper left with his hand out as if to say BUT SOFT WHAT LIGHT THROUGH YONDER yadda yadda is Rembrandt himself. This painting is huge and overwhelming. I moved on to art I could digest without the madding crowd.

I found a few gems. Here is a drunken couple getting robbed.

Here is a landscape with animals.

Such a sweet scene with a camel, some goats, an elephant, a stag, and a–

Hold. The. Bus. I think that might be the last unicorn, right here chillin with grown up Bambi. How is THIS not the main attraction? HALF the “Night’s Watch” is just dark background nothing. This is pure magic.

Art is hard to digest to I went to the Pancake Bakery and ordered the apple pancake.

Yes, the pancake is bigger than my plate. Yes, that is ice cream and powdered sugar. Yes I made the right decision in ordering only one.

Can we talk about condiments for a second.

Cuz America has a lot of condiments. But we do not have a pot with a wooden stick at every table like this.

I don’t know what’s in there. My pancake didn’t need anything else on it, and no one else was using their sticks at their table, so I just stared at it for 20 minutes like a normal person.

I’m guessing it’s nutella? I don’t know! How is it not congealing! This is going to keep me up at night.

After a pancake that I swear was bigger on the inside, I took a walk down a canal. The pancake place was near a semi famous house.

This is the door to the house where Anne Frank was in hiding with her fam. The line to get in to the museum was reminiscent of the line at Disneyland to go see Anna and Elsa, only this line didn’t end with warm hugs. People were lined up as if Anne was going to do a signing. Now, it’s time for some truth telling. Forget all the lies you’ve read so far. The fact is that I have not actually read Anne Frank’s diary. Gasp. Cry. Lookit, I got through school without it ever being assigned; I have had only an obligatory desire to read it; and I’ve read many WWII books, fiction and non, that I know how draining it can be to get in that head space. And, spoiler alert, Anne is definitely NOT doing a meet-and-greet.

So I didn’t go in the museum. Honestly, I think I can do only one museum per day. It’s like looking at a bunch of 14th, 15th, or 16th century buildings. The more you see, the less impressive they become.

“I am not performing miracles. I am using up and wasting a lot of paint.”~ Claude Monet.

The Dutch roadrunner

Today had five trains and three problems, which is actually a pretty positive outcome. The first problem was that there is no good way to time when you are going to be hungry when you know you will be anxious all day. I packed a sandwich and hoped for the best. I ate it while a very not-me passenger on the train had a mental break and went crackermuffins when the train conductor announced we would be skipping his stop. I was just impressed they announced it in English. My second problem was that my Eurail pass counted as my ticket from Amsterdam Central to my accommodations stop, but that meant I had no local ticket to scan to open the turnstile to release me into the Netherlands. An elderly lady observed my problem and shook her head and said “Ha! Do like me!” and when a passenger entered the station via the turnstile, she darted through the closing door like the roadrunner in the coyote cartoons. She was so fast I heard a WHOOSH. She pushed the entrance button and yelled for me to RUN. Already I am a criminal. My third problem is that my airbnb has a waterbed. That’s the thing with traveling you know. Sink or swim.

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)

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.

Epic throwdown, pt 2

By now I am wary of the rail way and could not make myself get up early and go back to the station to deal with getting the tickets for the next parts of my trip. My body said no. So I slept in, relatively, and then bought a two-day pass for Barcelona City Tours. The 13th stop on the tour was the train station, and I almost got off but decided the ticket counter was probably on siesta anyway. So I completed the western tour of the city, including notable locations such as a bunch of stuff from when the Olympics were in Barcelona, a soccer stadium, and some really epic statues. My favorite was of Columbus, who is raising his hand as if to say, what, like it’s hard? He’s such a dick. Love him.

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After finishing the loop I went the mercado and got a salad. I brought it back to my room and crunched it down, though truth be told it was very hot in my room and without ranch dressing a salad is a fight to eat. I decided that, as it’s Friday, I should find the ticketing office today just in case they are closed on the weekends. I found the information booth more easily this time and gave up completely on asking about “Eurail” and instead said “long distance.” This helped a bit, though I still had to wait in line to ask where to wait in line. Such is travelling without prebooked reservations–

–however, after my number had been called I was told that I could get a ticket from Barcelona to Narbonne, France, but not the intended transfer from Narbonne to my destination, Bordeaux. Why? Because the French train workers are on strike. Why? I asked the clerk at the Barcelona station. He looked at God and said, “France.”

France, you are now my enemy. This is worse than the time Anthony Bourdain said he didn’t like chicken nuggets. Outrageous.

Sources close to my heart hope that the strike will end soon because it also involves the garbage company. Lil Bro texted me with “just take a taxi.”

Let me google that for you, Lil Bro:

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So I have a ticket to the south of France and then… ? Not sure what to tell my Airbnb in Bordeaux. “Hi, I’d love to keep my prepaid reservation, but your country’s trains aren’t running until question mark, sorry”?

And what about, I don’t know, the rest of my stops?

I’m not thrilled at not having plans, especially now when it is clearly not my own fault. That salad has been doing the salsa in my stomach. I continued reading Rick Steves’ guidebook to distract me, but he lets this bomb loose: “Make yourself an extrovert, even if you’re not.” Get out of my comfort zone, huh? Is 9000 kilometers still not enough?

Here is a pretty picture of the Placa Catalunya to remind myself that this should be fun:

These fountains do tricks.

Tomorrow I’m going to a museum and a beach for realsies, not just looking at them from a bus. Take that, Rick Steves.

“Out of your vulnerabilities will come your strength.” Siggy Freud.

En route

So far so good except for both my bag and my body failing the security test and requiring further investigating, almost falling asleep on the plane only to be awakened by a baby who suddenly realized it’s still a baby, and walking a few miles around the Dublin airport before sitting under the flickering light of the boarding display in despair. One bright light was a security lady who said “Just go wait at the pub then!” and shooed me away. This lady is an angel.

I did find my gate, though. Not to worry. I wasn’t reading the subtext:
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A few other delights happened, like my hair getting caught in a nightmare of accordion action on the boarding tunnel (how? what? how? three excellent questions), which I think gave me whiplash; a teenage boy standing over me in the aisle casually looking down my dress until I asked him about his SAT score; and Ian, who sold me a smoothy at the Dublin airport and then asked if I wanted a smoke break.

Other than eating beef stew airplane food and a lack of sleep the likes of which I have not dealt with since grad school, all is well.

Bu there are sill miles to go before I sleep.

Packing and other impossibilities

I leave tomorrow. I’m leaving. The. Country.

As I was separating everything I want to pack into piles, Lil Bro came in my room to observe. He then spent an uncomfortable amount of time trying to teach me to flick my pocket knife open in a sweeping jabbing motion. To do this is simple: I just need to stop being left-handed and caring at all about my nails. Honestly I am bringing a knife to open challenging food packaging and to pry my case off my cell phone to remove my sim card. Lil Bro advised me to perhaps consider buying pepper spray, and then he ambled out to check on his frozen chicken Alfredo.

Food was also on my mind and was my first item to pack. I am worried every meal in Europe will be covered in vinegar, so about a fourth of my suitcase is filled with foodstuff.

Did you spot the ketchup packet? I might bring more of those. You just never know.

Then it was time to color code my psychoses.

Blue for every day, light blue for trouble, white for emergencies, and so on.

Next I checked Pinterest and learned the right way to roll/origami my way through the heap of black clothes I’m bringing. The eight black shirts I packed are rolled into torpedoes lining the bottom of my suitcase. Rolling got a bit tedious and unrealistic–I’m not going to pack this painstakingly every time I need to catch a train. So then I just forced everything else on top of the row of rolled shirts.

That bra is a 36DD for scale.

Today around 6PM, I tried to check-in to my flight, which leaves tomorrow at 5:30PM. After entering my flight information, the Aer Lingus website rejected my check-in with this gem:

As this flight is departing in more than 30 hours, if you choose to check in now for this flight there is a charge for seat allocation (unless previously purchased seats). Alternatively you can check in online for this flight within 30 hours of flight departure time and avail of free seat allocation.

First of all, can we please take a moment to deal with the phrasing “avail of free seat allocation”?

Now, I have recently become mediocre at math, so I know this message is nonsense. I checked back again a few minutes ago–10PM–but the same malarkey manifested. I am displeased and unimpressed. The FAQs said that a transatlantic flight is eligible for check in 24 hours prior to takeoff, but the website still failed this test. I would like to avail of free bullshit. I’ve been spending so much time worrying about how to navigate the ridiculosities of the Eurail system that I completely forgot to fret over the plane ride.

I must remember that “in nonsense is strength.” (Breakfast of Champions, Kurt Vonnegut)

It might serve you well to remember that, too, when reading these posts.

As for reading, I read a few poems in Imitations by Robert Lowell before returning it unfinished to the library.

Now I am going to lie down and start the long process of saying good bye to my bed.

Category: Foodstuff