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Published: October 3rd 2005
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Balls to England
Sal and Mick relive childhood memories in the children's play area on the ferry from Hull to Rotterdam Sal, Mick and Ann made their way to mainland Europe by boat from Hull in England, to Rotterdam in Holland, incidently the biggest port city in the world (it really is massive). Prior to leaving England, we hired a right-hand drive car, as we rationalised that it would be less confusing than driving the left-handed equivalent.
Upon disembarking from the ship, it soon became apparent that driving on the right-hand side of the road was a very, very strange experience, certainly one only to be undertaken by the confident driver. We made our way passed several million windmills before arriving in Amsterdam, a wonderful city of about 500,000 people. With Ann having served the entirety of her driving suspension earned in Scotland, we threw the keys to her and hoped for the best. Ann’s apparent mantra of “If in doubt, stick to the left” led to some pretty amazing games of chicken between our Ford Festiva and the massive trucks which were everywhere in Amsterdam.
In our search for accommodation, we ventured a short way out of Amsterdam to the picturesque village of Landsmeer. Not enamoured by the idea of driving around on the left hand side of the
Follow that bike?
Photo taken during our low speed pursuit of an 80 year old cyclist in Landsmeer road and hoping to see a sign for accommodation, Ann flew into a post office and came out with some octagenarian who promptly hopped on a bike and peddled off. Ann said, “I think he wants us to follow him.” What then began was one of the most bizarre pursuits Sal and Mick have witnessed, as we drove after the old boy down street after street. At one stage, about five people on bikes pulled out in front of us and the dilemma of determining who to follow as well as staying on the right hand side of the road proved almost too much for Ann. Eventually we came to the house that was supposed to be the Bed and Breakfast, which was apparently news to the women who owned the house. Showing a spirit of generosity which we found abundant in Holland, she ultimately put us up for the night.
Holland is an incredible place, with more than 40% of it’s land mass being below sea level. Everywhere you look there is water - canals, lakes, big pools of water … Anyway, Amsterdam is punctuated by a number of concentric canals which radiate out from the tourist/drug/sex district
Big foot
Sal and Mick sit in possibly the world's biggest wooden shoe in Amsterdam at it’s heart. The city has a real village feel, with very few cars, but hundreds and hundreds of bikes. Despite it’s international reputation for sleeze, it is a very clean city in which we felt very safe.
The smell of cannabis is everywhere, with most coffee shops selling joints of Moroccan and Skunk along with lattes and cappuccinos. At one café, known as Chocolat (famous for their chocolate and vanilla hash cakes), we observed a very relaxed golden Labrador (who we ascertained was owned by one of the staff members of the shop) wandering amongst the stoned customers eating all the crumbs dropped from the hash cakes. Apparently the hound is a big fan of Bob Marley records.
Whilst in Amsterdam, we visited the Vincent Van Gogh Museum, at which time Mick and Sal (previously life members of the Philistine Club, Sydney Branch), were treated to the incredible work of VVG. Very impressive.
About this time, it crystallized in Mick’s mind that in order to speak Dutch, one only needed to put on Sean Connery’s thick Scottish accent and speak in English. On the way home, we hopped on a bus and Ann asked for three
Mashed Lab
An extremely relaxed Labrador outside Chocolat, a hash and cannabis cafe in central Amsterdam tickets to Landsmeer, the village in which we were staying. The driver looked at her as if she were speaking Swahili. Enter Mick, visualising Connery’s naughty monk from “In The Name of the Rose” and says, “Laaarnschmeeeer”, to which the driver replied, “Ah, Laaaarnschmeeer, of coursh” and handed us three tickets. If you ever plan to go to Holland, hire some early Bond movies and perhaps some other works from Sean’s back catalogue - Mick guarantees it will assist dramatically in communication.
From Holland we drove south into Belgium, but apparently it was closed for the day (there was some national holiday on and we could not find a single business, not even a pub or service station, open) so we continued on into France. It was on this journey that Ann regaled Sal and Mick with her flawless grasp of the French language. Indeed, when it was just the three of us, it was very difficult to get a word of English out of Ann.
Paradoxically, whenever Ann was confronted by a French speaker, her linguistic abilities seemed to desert her, with the phrase “DO … YOU … SPEAK … ENGLISH” followed by a nudge to Mick,
Culture vultures
Sal and Mick express their artistic sides at a massive chateau in regional northern France who would say, “Je m’appelle Michel” (My name is Michael - the only thing he could remember from high school French). Thankfully, most people spoke English.
After all we had heard about the rudeness of the French, and particularly the Parisians, the hospitality of that country was incredible. As long as you made an effort to speak French (the old chestnut of “Parlez vous Anglais” works a treat), the average person in the street was more than willing to help you out.
With Ann serving another driving suspension, Sal and Mick carved up the French country side before entering Paris. This is quite simply the most ridiculous city to drive in. Every car (except ours, thankfully) has enough panel damage for even the most optimistic loss-assessor to write it off and there appears to be no lanes and, well, no road rules at all.
After ditching the car, we made our way about town on the famed Paris underground. One of the lighter moments was when Sal had to pay a Euro to go to a toilet which she described as looking as if someone had “spread Nutella all over it”, whilst Ann entered as well, believing
Culture vulture II
Sal shows that is not that difficult to be an artist's muse whilst in Paris it to be a lift up to ground level.
Really, the toilets on the continent are ludicrous. In Holland, the toilets have what Al, Sal’s brother, once described as a “presentation platform”, upon which you do your business, apparently stand back and admire your work, before flushing that bad boy away. And France - let’s just say they are not spending the money you have to pay to enter the toilets on the cleaning bills.
Anyway, Paris was fantastic, with the day we spent in the city centre being the day that the Lance Armstrong and the pellaton of the Tour de France made their way up the Champs d’Elysees to the finish line and the chequered flag.
Post script: Upon arriving back in the UK, Ann was handed back the keys and soon realised that the Fiesta was desperately low on fuel. We pulled into a quaint little Yorkshire village and Ann drove up to a drunk on a bench and said, “Do you know where the nearest petrol station is?” The drunk looked at us with the kind of confusion born of too many flagons of methylated spirits and grunted. So Ann, true to her
Sal and Ann outside Louvre
Had to put in one non-silly picture on this weblog form said, “essence, essence” (petrol in French), proving once and for all that French is best kept for those who can’t speak it.
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