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Published: December 21st 2005
London, England
Bryan sits on a bench in a London park just after our arrival on April 23.—
May 21st 1986 Cat Ass Trophy: The Journey Continues
The morning we left
Amsterdam was warm and sunny. I remember being excited about traveling through the Dutch countryside — and seeing Marlike again (pronounced Mar-lee-kah). Would she have changed a great deal?
Our train ride was uneventful, Miranda spending the entire time with her gaze directed out the window, trying to catch a glimpse of a windmill.
I couldn't get a sensible word out of her, so I decided to order an Amstel Lager, read my magazine and enjoy the ultramodern train ride. The American newspapers and magazines were full of news about Jim Baker and Tammy Faye. Their glorious "empire" seemed on the verge of collapse.
After a short time (Holland is not a big country), I noticed the train beginning to slow. We were arriving in
Kerkrade. Stepping onto the platform, my eyes searched the crowd for that loving face from my past.
"Bryan . . . " came the greeting. Before any introductions could be made, Marlike continued, "Oh — this must be your new wife. It is good to have both of you to visit
Amsterdam
If you look closely, you can see a Canadian flag on Miranda's jacket. They were very, very popular during the Spring of 1986. with us." The lilt of Marlike's accent made it sound as if Miranda was second or third in a long line of wives.
Our Dutch hostess, who was all smiles and warmth, proceeded to introduce her husband, Jacques. He eyed me up and down in a fashion that lacked his wife's friendliness.
"Where is your other luggage?" Jacques asked politely, wanting to help us with our bags.
Miranda explained: "Bryan likes to travel light. I suspect I am the only woman who has gone on her honeymoon with absolutely no cosmetics!"
"You don't need any," was Jacques' reply, in a voice so smooth and rich that it reminded me of chocolate.
It was enjoyable to be back in
Kerkrade, and fun to share it with Miranda. She was clearly enamored. "Oh look! They actually have cobblestone streets!" she called out as we drove through the narrow lanes. The Kockens smiled indulgently at their American guest, who was so obviously taking pleasure in their hometown.
Marlike's house was as I remembered it, although dankness now permeated the old-world structure. The cold, wet weather we'd experienced in London had affected the Netherlands as well. Miranda couldn't
Marlike
Our Dutch host relaxing with a cup of tea. hide her disappointment when Marlike revealed that the tulips were not yet in bloom.
We followed our hosts up the steep staircase to the top of the house and were shown our bedroom. I had trouble standing straight up, as the ceiling slanted under an angled roof. There was a European quaintness about everything, from the crocheted bed spread to the hooked rugs. Miranda was impressed. She quietly soaked up the ambiance.
"It's exquisite!" she whispered to me, fingering the lace cloth on the dresser.
Strange Atmosphere
Somewhat to my surprise, Marlike and Miranda began to warm to each other (I had feared a personality clash). Miranda made herself available to help with supper while Jacques left to pick up some wine for the evening.
After determining that I could be of little help, I went for a stroll around the neighborhood. Meandering as I walked, I became more aware of the strange atmosphere permeating the town of Kerkrade. It was not my imagination. The streets were totally deserted...shops and restaurants had closed early. The signs posting business hours confirmed this.
My anxiety had grown to near panic. Nor did it help that
Chernobyl
After learning about the Russian catastrophe, Jacques, Marlike and Bryan speculate as to what will happen in Europe. I was now turned around and totally lost. My mind raced as I speculated on the possibilities. Finally, much to my relief, I stumbled across an ancient looking white brick "saloon". All the customers were clustered around a small television set perched above the bar. The man on-screen was speaking a language I didn't understand, so I approached a woman who appeared to be the barmaid, asking her for a translation. Her English was very limited, but I managed to understand one word that she repeated several times: "cat-ass-trophy."
Losing no time, I called a taxi. The driver knew less English than the barmaid. I simply repeated, three times, "68 Pricksteenweg." He accelerated and I prayed that we were going in the right direction. I felt the fool when he delivered me to Marlike's home, right around the corner. The journey took less than a minute. I gave the driver ten Guilders and ran into the house. Marlike and Miranda were glued to the television. It was tuned to an American news network. As I entered the room, Marlike, Miranda and Peter Jennings were all speaking at the same time, producing a frenzied garble.
Finally, the babbling women
The Netherlands
Miranda and Bryan find the weather in the Netherlands a bit cool for late April. Miranda is disappointed: where are all the tulips? quieted down as Peter continued his newscast: "...the catastrophe seems to be centered somewhere in the Soviet Union near Kiev. Monitoring stations report the large cloud of nuclear radiation is extending across northern Europe..."
That evening we all sat quietly drinking wine, and listening to the BBC. Marlike, who was employed by SOS Worldhandle, told us she believed the incident at Chernobyl would kill millions of people over the next 30 years, not just in Europe, but around the world. Furthermore, she explained, none of us knew how much information was being suppressed.
My wife was nonetheless determined that nothing was going to interfere with her honeymoon: "If a cloud of radiation is drifting northwest, we'll go southeast," she explained, obstinately. "I'm not leaving Europe without visiting the romantic French Riviera. Besides, this is certain to make our trip very affordable." It would be over two weeks before Gorbachev would address the nation.
Nice
Miranda was right on both counts:
Nice was enchanting and inexpensive. We found a bargain at the Hotel Ideal Bristol, with the Mediterranean Sea a short walk away. Our first two days were spent exploring. Miranda couldn't get over the
fact that the blue of the Mediterranean was really the color of the pencil-crayon of that name she'd used as a child.
"Look here, Miranda," I said as she stepped out of the shower, "there's a nice restaurant mentioned in LET'S GO. Do you want to try it?"
"Sure!" she enthused, wrapping a fresh hotel towel around herself. "It'll be great to try some authentic French cuisine."
Miranda quickly finished dressing and we found our way to the restaurant. It was crowded and popular with the locals, signs which tended to bode well. A table became vacant and we were seated promptly.
Chez Martinique was clean, yet full of genuine Gallic atmosphere: the simple decor spoke of a house in the country. Little English could be heard in this truly French Provencal restaurant, so Miranda was relieved to see our menus had English translations.
I decided upon pork medallions in a white wine sauce and Miranda selected
Boeuf Bourguignonne. Each of us chose a small carafe of wine, hers red, mine white. I ordered for both of us entirely in French, having learned that this always elicits a positive response. The French have a passionate
pride about their language and culture.
Just as I concluded giving our order to the petite, dark-haired waitress, our attention was drawn to a commotion at the entrance.
"Ya mean ya got nowhere fer us ta sit?" a loud, twangy, voice rang out. "We're only gonna be in Nice (it rhymed with mice) this one evenin' and we gotta try some native food!"
Miranda muttered under her breath, "Gimme a break!"
To our horror, the hostess headed in our direction, and asked politely if we would share our table because every other seat in the room was filled.
The sour look on Miranda's face spoke volumes, but I ignored her and told the hostess we'd be pleased to help out.
The Thin Man
A very tall, thin man with sandy-blond hair and a wispy mustache strode purposefully across the small restaurant followed by an extremely short woman in a frumpy, bag-like dress who pumped her legs rapidly to keep up. Miranda began to memorize the dessert menu with much concentration.
"Ya'll bin very kind," the man boomed. "Ya do speak Anglish don'cha?"
I smiled and nodded as Miranda glared. "Actually,
The Swiss Alps
Miranda watches the world flash by as we head through Europe by train. my wife was born in New York State and I'm Canadian."
"Really! What a coincidence!" he shouted as he sat. "We're from Arkansas. I'm Jack and this here's Gail." He continued to arrange his gangly limbs in the chair. After a few moments his eye caught my clerical collar.
"Have you bin saved, brother?"
Why me, Lord, I thought, regretting my decision to share the table. Miranda had turned pale. In a polite tone I replied, "Yes, I have experienced the metanoia of which you speak."
"But have ya accepted Jesus Christ as your personal Savior? Are ya born again? Have ya asked Him into yer life? D'ya recall at what moment ya were saved?"
Miranda turned to look elsewhere in the restaurant, but I knew she was more than likely rolling her eyes in that way she does when perturbed.
The cute, little waitress shrugged almost imperceptibly. I smiled at our guests, trying not to show my exasperation at their impertinence and asked gently, "How do you know you are truly born again?"
At this point both Jack and Gail hesitated, but recovered quickly. Gail announced with pride, "We speak in tongues."
Rhine Cruise
Going south on an all but empty boat to get out of mainland Europe due to the Chernobyl disaster! "That's not Scriptural," I responded politely. "The Bible tells us that everyone who loves is born of God. The fruits of the Spirit are love, joy, peace, patience, kindness and so on. True faith is more than being a 'resounding gong' or a 'clanging cymbal'".
Neither Jack nor Gail disagreed with me but they both became very quiet and sat back in their chairs. I could see a silent signal go from one to the other.
At this point our waitress returned with our meals, and took the order of our new table mates.
Jack eyed my plate suspiciously. "What's that?" he asked.
When I explained that it was pork, a look of sheer disgust crossed his face. "Don'cha know pig meat's unclean? 'Says so in the Good Book!"
"But didn't Jesus go on to say that what comes out of a person's mouth makes him unclean — not what goes in?" I countered, trying not to raise my voice or sound preachy.
"Bryan, can't we change the subject?" Miranda asked plaintively. I looked over to see that her food was untouched. My wife was now beet red, her face reflecting her anger.
Florence, Italy
Fine Dining at the Trattoria Unfortunately, it was at that moment that our wine arrived.
"All alcohol is sinful." This time it was Gail who was berating us. The waitress seemed chagrined. Her dark, triangular eyebrows shot far up her forehead, making her look both shocked and apologetic as she backed away. Miranda's anger had grown to rage, so I did not expound on Jesus' first miracle in Cana.
Jack, reading my mind, explained very patiently that Jesus and his followers drank only "non-alcoholic" beer and wine. Our "friend" from Arkansas went on and on.
Meanwhile, our flustered waitress had been eyeing us from the other side of the room. After conferring with the maitre d' she slunk back, cautiously, to our table. "Perhaps Monsieur would like to return his meal and reorder?"
Then in French, she apologized and explained that my meal, as well as Miranda's, would be without charge. She further told us that we'd be welcome to come to Chez Martinique for drinks any time during the rest of our stay . . . also without charge. Miranda did not have a full grasp of the French language, but her eyes immediately brightened at the words
sans charge.
Florence, Italy. *Distortion: Travelblog photos are best viewed with Internet Explorer
Bryan poses in front of Michelangelo's David in Florence, Italy. Even southern cities such as Nice and Florence were no longer considered safe from the fallout, so we continued south to the Greek islands. Both of us reordered. My wife requested the most expensive meal on the menu. Jack and Gail seemed mollified as I sipped my large glass of milk.
"We only want y'all to be ready for Jesus when he comes," Jack told us, with compassion in his eyes. "Ya knows he's comin' real soon. Brothers Swaggert and Lindsey tell us the Messiah'll return with the restoration of Israel. An' since Israel's already bin restored, we know the hour's at hand!"
This time I didn't even bother looking at Miranda, sensing that she was not pleased. With a look of pure bliss, Gail dug a booklet out of her large purse, entitled: "
88 Reasons Why the Rapture Will Happen in 1988". The discussion continued late into the evening.
Later, as the two of us undressed for bed, Miranda described the experience as the worst in her entire life. "Why did you let them go on and on?"
"Some of their reasoning actually makes sense," I replied without thinking. "I really enjoyed Hal Lindsey's book, The Late Great Planet Earth, and according to the
Dry Bones Prophecy, the Jews are to return to Zion at the end of the age."
"I hardly believe Gorbachev's birth
Il Duomo. *Distortion: Travelblog photos are best viewed with Internet Explorer.
Florence: The architecture of the Basilica di Santa Maria del Firore (Il Duomo), especially the dome, is almost indescribable. mark is the sign of the beast!!"
In an effort to change the subject, I began to massage Miranda in a way she liked. The evening was salvaged . . . .
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PetroXXX
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