Point B to point A

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Point B being Brussels. We'll get to point A in a while, though seeing as this entry is set in Amsterdam, you'd have to be fairly bloody thick to get it wrong.

Anyway. I was at a service station on the road outside

Brussels

Instead of trying to hitch a ride into town, I decided to walk to the center and find a way to contact my host. This was partly because I didn't have a pen to make a sign, and partly because I didn't have a fucking clue where I was going. So, I asked for directions to the center, and a kind old man (who eyed me suspiciously when I tried to take pictures of his sheep, so I rather sheepishly put my camera away) pointed in a vague way towards...somewhere. So I walked there. This turned out to be the center of Brussels in the same way the center of Hafnarfjörður is downtown Reykjavík.
What? You have no idea what that means? Fine.
I found myself in the center of a sort of suburb/edge city thing. It was really more of a small town, with cobbled streets, funky houses, and old people giving me the sort of look you would give an odd-looking stranger if you had lived in a small town with cobbled streets and funky houses all your life. The cobbled streets were probably first cobbled together before the invention of the bicycle, but that didn't deter the huge group of teenagers on bikes, who were obviously taking part in some sort of race. I drew this conclusion from several clues, including the fact that a man in a truck was following the horde and shouting what I assume was a running commentary through a speaker. Another subtle hint was the fact that the riders were all wearing numbers and the kind of spandex you only put on for money, sex, or the kind of power and glory that can only come from beating a bunch of kids at a stupid bike race. They also seemed to deem their testicles an acceptable sacrifice to the cobbled gods of racing, along with their dignity.

I stood in the crowd and watched the bizarre spectacle, but the wince-inducing bumping of nuts on saddles becomes old after a while - in my case about five minutes, in the case of the villagers...who knows. A couple of hours at the very least. In their defense, there seemed to be a lot of drinking going on. Seeing as this was one of those inconvenient weekends in what was essentially a village in a historically Roman Catholic country, everything seemed to be closed except a couple of tanning salons and bars. I ventured into a salon to see if the staff could point me to the Belgian small-town equivalent of a library or any other place where I might conceivably find a computer. They couldn't, since everything was closed. They did offer to look up what I needed on their computer, for which I was extremely grateful, even going so far as to not nick a piece of chocolate from the bowl on the counter.

Whilst I was in the middle of giving a random tanning-salon-employee my username and password for couchsurfing, the owner's three-year-old daughter found a set of permanent markers and proceeded to draw colourful spirals all over everything she could reach, including her own face. The owner finally noticed that her child was quickly turning into a work of modern art, and dragged her towards the back of the salon, presumably to affix a price tag.

Meanwhile, my inbox had been found to contain a message from my host, including his phone number. I took advantage of the offer to use the phone, but only got voicemail. So, after again refraining from petty chocolate thievery, I wandered off to find a way to kill time. I found a bench under some trees, and sat down for a rest and a read.
A bit later I decided to check again, but the salon had closed. I tried a bar, but they swore that they didn't have a phone, so I found another salon. The girl there didn't understand a word I said, but luckily we were both fluent in awkward mime. She pointed me towards a phone, and I made the call. Still voicemail.
I returned to the bench, and was treated to the sound of a band of some sort practicing inside the church hall (or something). I also treated myself to one of the warm, shaken beers I happened to have left over from Calais. I returned to the salon a couple of times to use the phone, but with no luck. That is to say, I made the calls, but got... fucking voicemail. Yet again.
My bench had been usurped by a group of teenage boys - probably freshly neutered from the race - so I sat on a step outside a bank. A girl approached to use the ATM I was inadvertently blocking. After she finished that, she asked if I needed any help. I guess I looked shittier than I thought. I told her I was just waiting to hear from my host - that I'd left him the number at the salon. She wisely pointed out that the salon was closing in a few minutes and offered the use of her own cell phone. I followed her home so she could retrieve it, and waited while she not only called, but got through to my host. Magic. She got the address from him, wrote it down for me, along with the very useful information that it was in the borough of Jette. Which was (and, I presume, still is) on the exact opposide side of Brussels. Cellphone girl pointed me in the general direction of a train station, where I briefly considered trying to sneak onto the next train. I decided against it because I am a deeply moral person, and believe that stealing is wrong. Also, the next train was an hour away and I didn't even know which fucking direction to go. So, I found a bus stop instead, since those are equipped with maps. Apparently the trains in Brussels are only meant for those who actually have some sort of fucking idea where they're heading. Bloody smart-ass Bruxellois (isn't that a disease or bacteria or something?)
I located Jette on the map, estimated that it would take me around half an hour to reach it, and set off. As it turns out, Brussels is uphill. It doesn't matter where you're going, it's all uphill. Yet, I walked. I found it prudent to follow the tramlines to avoid getting lost, and that worked fine until I got to Jette. It took a bit longer that I'd thought - around two hours in all. So, I was pretty fucking tired as I finally reached Jette. Now I just had to find the street, and I could (hopefully) sleep.

Yeah, like it was going to be that easy. I asked everyone I met, I perused every map I could find, but no luck. It was getting dark, I was tired, and I had been wandering around in circles for an entire fucking hour. I smelled something familiar as I passed a bench. Figuring that it couldn't hurt to ask a random stoner for directions, I approached the shady figure. He shook his head when I showed him the address, but said he had some maps in his car. I briefly considered running away, but followed him anyway. He looked at the map, and after a while another man joined us. Neither had any luck with the maps, but the stoner called his friend over, and with his help we located the street. It turns out that helpful cellphone girl had written it down wrong. To be precise, she had written an S where there should have been an F. To be even more precise, the F she had magically turned into an S was the first letter in the name of the street as written in the index of the book of maps. Which makes it a lot less surprising that it took three people, including two locals, half an hour to find it.
So, finally knowing where to go, I started in the direction of my host's house. Suddenly the stoner called me back, telling me I was going the wrong way. We looked at the map again and discovered that I was, in fact, going the right way. I set off again to the sound of a confused Belgian stoner arguing about how stupid it was that maps didn't automatically adjust themselves to your position. Or he could have been arguing about the weather or the price of pot. Fuck do I know.
I finally found the place and my host explained that it was pretty tough to find it even with proper directions and the correct address, since it is the location of the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix.
After washing my feet -oh,my poor, exhausted, filthy feet- I stumbled into bed and slept.


My hosts were a very nice Greek family, consisting of Georges, whom I'd hosted the summer before, his younger brother and their mother, a somewhat stereotypical Greek one. She didn't speak much English, but enough to ask me almost constantly if I was hungry, starving, famished, in the mood for a bite to eat, or in any way not completely stuffed full of food. When I told her I was fine, her reply was generally along the lines of "Ok, I cook something."
The brother was a typically moody teenage boy, and George and his mother were at work all day, so I mostly just chilled, read, and drank copious amounts of beer. I did go out with George and his friends a couple of times, which was fun (aside from the short visit to a karaoke bar where I bought the most expensive water in the history of anything ever). I also visited a delightful second-hand bookshop (although the bastards charged me a whopping 85 cents for books clearly marked at 75) and went to a barbeque.
Let me explain something. Belgians eat a lot. That doesn't do it justice. I guess I'll have to tell you about the barbeque. Don't worry, it won't take long.

It was a fine, sunny day when we set sail from Brussels. Our fearless crew consisted of myself, Georges, his mother and her friend. Our trusty ship was actually a car, which is exactly like a ship, except smaller and less sturdy, with a distinct tendency to sink. Luckily, Belgium has roads now, so there was no need for a ship in the first place.
We drove to the countryside, and arrived unscathed at our destination, which turned out to be a farm in the middle of nowhere. Once there, it was revealed that the simple country folk didn't speak English, so I mostly talked to the dogs, who at least knew a few words. Just don't ask them to take a physiology class or direct a light opera. Why you would, I have no idea, but at least I warned you. I didn't have too much time to worry about the language barrier, since the merciless onslaught of food began almost immediately.
First up: drinks. I was offered my choice of soda, soda, wine, wine, sparkly wine, water or port. I chose the port. A bit later beer was offered and I gratefully accepted, since I'd somehow managed to forget that I fucking hate port. The garden table we sat at was loaded with snacks, including cheesy puff-type things, chorizo, and some sort of insanely delicious quiche. Then they started serving grilled chorizo and cheese skewers, and then grilled prawns (which I managed somehow to rather messily mangle open without serious injury. Damn natural protection mechanism. Stupid nature, trying to keep the deliciousness from me).
After that, we moved over to the dinner table, where they pulled out the big guns. And by "guns" I mean food. First of all, the table was loaded with side dishes; grilled potatoes, salads, vegetables, sauces, et.c. Then we had chicken, I think (it's really all just a blur of food). It was delicious, and I was feeling pretty full when they brought over the lamb chops. I didn't pay too much attention to any sheep I might have seen in Belgium, but judging by the these chops they must be the size of cows. I squeezed in a bit of lamb, but since apparently Belgians think that you're not full unless you're actually, literally, physically exploding, they brought out sausages. Huge fucking sausages. Two kinds. I politely declined, explaining that contrary to legend, Icelanders tend not to have stomachs that can hold the equivalent of an entire family dinner at one time.
We got a brief respite before dessert was served, so I was able to shift some organs around to make space for the delicious home-made icecream, pie, baklava, chocolate, more beer, the entire banana crop of Belize, and coffee.

After this hours-long food-porn fest, we headed back to Brussels. Where Georges' mother promptly started cooking. Once she noticed me lying on the floor, twitching violently, she explained that she wasn't actually cooking for us, but some old lady nearby. Honestly, it wouldn't have surprised me if she'd roasted a whole goat, just in case any of us got peckish.


Now, as you may already know, I was relying on the services of Western Union for money. On my last Friday in Brussels my mother wired some money, but of course somebody had decided it would be a good idea to lengthen the weekend by keeping the damn place closed. You see, this was right around some shitty Christian holiday of some sort, probably celebrating something stupid like a guy getting sucked into the sky or not dying or something. Whatever the reason, this meant that I couldn't get at my damn money. That in turn meant that I spent a fairly long while reading the sign over and over, staring at my empty pack of cigarettes, making weird faces, and cursing the damn church.
But, as you may be starting to realize, I am endowed with magical powers. So it was that a woman aproached me, concerned that if I kept making these faces, one would stick. When she realized that I didn't speak French, she stopped another woman in the street and asked her if she could translate. They listened to my tale of woe, told me that there were other Western Union offices in Brussels, and asked if I needed anything in particular. I told them that I was fine, but I'd really like a cigarette. Neither of them smoked, so the English-speaking woman did what any normal, sane person would have, and bought me a fucking pack of cigarettes. Of course, she also repeatedly asked if I needed any food, but as she was Belgian, that was pretty much a given. After this insane stroke of luck, and after repeatedly offering this woman her choice of vital organs, soul and/or first-born as a sign of my gratitude, I went back to the house and had my poor, suffering mother look up the other Western Union offices in the area. I wrote down the addresses and headed out again.
The first one was also located in a closed post office. The second had moved years ago. The third was a glorified phonebooth, staffed by a man who just repeated the word "telephone" over and over again until I left. The fourth was boarded up.

I did manage to get money by having my mom change the name on the order to that of Georges' mother and borrowing the amount from him until she could pick it up the following Monday. You see, Georges was planning on going to Amsterdam with some friends and offered me a lift. Around noon on Saturday, we set off, and after a few hours' drive I arrived in the wonderfully wonderful, beautiful, awesome, fucking brilliant city of

Amsterdam

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Photos

She's a fruit-eater
Who brings an apple to a bar?

Belgians in a bar
From right to left: Georges, me, Eric, Belgians.

Belgian sky
The view from the garden. Lovely.

Belgian country-dogs
The dogs also had a lot of food.

Dog again.
Aaaaw. She wants food.

Dog
Eating food, probably.

Bruxellois dog
Happy? Why, yes! This is how the Bruxellois express happiness. By drooling on a pavement.

Point A
Guess. No, seriously! C'mon. Guess! Guess, you bastard!