The air was thick with smoke that had drifted south and east from wildfires burning thousands of miles away in Canada. It seemed strange to think that something so far away could have such an effect, nonetheless, it was clear that it did. Or not so clear, I suppose.
It must have made things difficult for pilots in Toronto, and as the second delayed flight of the day finally went wheels up we closed our eyes and tried to drift off. The time was after one in the morning, Eastern, and we would land in about six hours in the British Time zone, meaning it would be noon, so sleep was necessary. As we tried to make ourselves comfortable the aroma of tomatoes and chicken began to fill our noses. What the -? I took my noise-canceling headphones off and looked around, noticing our neighbors in other rows with tiny plates of food on their tray tables.
It was almost 2:00 a.m. now, meaning 7:00 a.m. where we were headed. Why were they serving dinner when we needed to sleep? Just then, the flight attendant popped her head up and asked, "Chicken or pasta?"
Eyes half-closed, I grunted and turned away from her in an effort to display my displeasure that she would dare disrupt my dreams with what the airline considered a "meal". She kept moving, unaffected.
I slept and awoke ten hours later, having only gotten five hours of sleep.
London is big. Massive, really, in comparison to Washington, DC proper, though when you consider Maryland and Northern Virginia as part of the "metropolitan area" the scale evens a bit.
It's gargantuan comparing it to the town where I was born, which boasted a population of 800, so for me it might as well be a different planet. The cars and drivers were on the wrong side, the voices sounded funny, and it somehow always smelled like it had just rained on garbage day.
We sat in the back of a cab, bouncing along the M4 highway for what seemed like hours, still rubbing the sleep out of our eyes as we tried to make sense of this alien city. Finally the driver pulled into an access road and jammed the brakes. He popped out and helped us with our luggage and we dragged it across the lobby of the hotel, checked in and threw ourselves onto the king-sized bed, relieved to be lying down flat after a long night sleeping in an airplane seat.
The mighty Thames flowed by just outside our window and on the other side of it stood a row of gothic-looking government buildings, most prominently the Palace of Westminster and Big Ben. In my heyday as a baseball player, I might have been able to throw a baseball and hit them, they were that close. Not that I would, of course, as the MI5 was also right there - I'm sure someone, maybe James Bond himself, would have had something to say about my throwing skills.
After a brief catnap, we walked around the corner to a pub, as one does in this country, and ordered pints, burgers, and fish and chips. Three days later, I would count the number of times I ordered the fish and chips. Five times, plus three salmon bagel breakfasts.
I checked to see if I'd grown gills yet. I had not.
The first few days of our trip we were still "on the clock." Meagan headed off early each day to her meetings and conferences - I found a modern, bustling co-working space and set up shop there, listening to the variety of funny accents behind my headphones. Every sentence seemed to end with "yeh?" or "innit?" Brilliant.
Having visited once before, I did have one particular destination in mind while I was there. Just south of Piccadilly is a short one-way street, Jermyn Street, known since the 1700s to be home to the finest men's clothing and shoe retailers in London. I went before work one morning, the London air warm and muggy, though this street smelled better than others.
In the window of my destination was a display of shiny, dapper brown and black leather shoes and belts and on the walls beyond hung rows of antique "lasts" - the molds the shoemakers would use to create their masterpieces.
A young Ukrainian woman greeted me as I walked in and I told her what I wanted and what size. She hustled away and I sat in a plush leather chair as I waited for her to bring my shoes from the shop's basement. I scanned the shelves of beautiful shoes, wishing I could have them all, appreciating the fine craftsmanship, and breathing in the heavy smell of leather and polish. She came back and helped me slip into the first pair which seemed an inch too big; the second pair seemed to fit just right. I walked around a moment, feeling them out and looked at myself in the mirror.
Brilliant.
Wanting to break them in, I wore them out the door to my co-working space and when the tube was full that afternoon I ended up walking back to the hotel - in all, about 3 miles.
I felt the blister on my pinky toe coming about halfway, but I had no other way to get back so I soldiered on, trying desperately to curl my toe inward to keep it from rubbing against the brand-new, not-yet-broken-in leather.
Waddling through the hotel lobby, I made it upstairs and peeled off my beautiful new shoes, slipped into my old flip-flops and walked to the nearest store for band-aids.
It was our last day in London, our working days were behind us and a train beneath the English Channel ahead of us. While we ate breakfast in the hotel lobby - my third salmon bagel - I pressed the icon for Google Maps to see how long it would take to get to the railway terminal. Twenty-six minutes by taxi, plenty of time. The concierge waved one down and off we went, meandering past the big government buildings, through roundabouts, weaving around cyclists and double-decker buses before being dumped out in front of a gigantic and gorgeous red brick hotel and railway station.
The St. Pancras hotel is attached to the railway station behind it, making the hotel seem even bigger than it is, though it's impressive enough without the station. With 250 bedrooms, plus a variety of other meeting spaces and restaurants, the entire town I was born in could stay there. In fact, the entire town could have flown over on the one plane we came in on, taken the same train into town, and stayed at this hotel.
The rest of London wouldn't have even noticed.
Dodging tourists, buskers, and a bible-beating Brit yelling at us to be saved, we thump-thump-thumped our luggage across the expanse in front of the station and down into the depths, following the yellow Eurostar signage. As we arrived an agent was just opening the queue for the train to Brussels, so we rolled on, slowly toward the security and customs checkpoint.
A cheerful young man sang a song as he attempted to manage the queue of folks waiting to scan their passports. It didn't make much sense but he managed to keep most everyone in cheerful spirits, "Reeeed light, yeeeellow line. Greeeeeen light, scan your passport."
The light was red so we stepped up to the yellow line, waited a moment until the light turned green and stepped forward again to let the machine scan our faces and passports. It determined we were safe, and allowed us to pass through the customs checkpoint while behind us someone else stepped up to scan their passport. As the queue behind us moved through, we were packed into a hot waiting area with a coffee shop and having had only one coffee so far, I purchased two iced lattes as an announcement came through the speakers telling us which platform our train was arriving on. We rolled our luggage up the moving ramp, minded the gap, and found our seats.
Bruges, here we come!
Accurately describing the sound of luggage wheels rolling across small cobblestones is difficult. Not a thump like slats in a sidewalk, or a light clicking like across bricks. The ridges between the stones were deep and made a loud "clug" every time the wheels hit another stone, which all seemed to reverberate and echo all around us as we rolled through the streets of Bruges.
It was dinnertime so restaurants were filling up and I felt eyes burning through me as people sat along the cobblestone streets. Clug-clug-clug. Later, we would learn that locals don't live in the "tourist triangle" of Bruges that we were in, so everyone that was watching us clug-clug through town had done the same thing when they arrived. I felt better.
We clugged along, past the tourists sitting out front of the charming little storefronts and restaurants, most of which had gleaming golden glasses of frothy beers in front of them.
Oh boy, I was ready for a Belgian beer.
The Eurostar was comfortable enough, but warmer than we're used to, the bus even warmer, and as we walked through town the sweat was forming on my brow and my back in the afternoon sun. I could practically taste the beer.
The Van Eyck Hotel was a skinny boutique hotel that was to be our home for the next few days; it was located just off the main shopping street and in close proximity to a couple dozen restaurants and cafes. We rang the bell and a woman came out, handed us a key and a map showing some of the main attractions.
I asked if there was air conditioning in the room.
"Nope!" she said, with a bit of a smirk and a Dutch accent, "But there is a fan."
There was no elevator either, and ten minutes later, after hauling our cluggin' luggage up three winding flights, we were back out on the cobblestone streets. It was much quieter now with our stuff stowed away and every restaurant had their chairs and tables set up outside - they didn't have air conditioning either - so we stopped at the first one that looked good and ordered some cold, blond, frothy Belgian beers.
I wasn't sure yet what I was having to eat but I glanced around and saw deep cast-iron pots seemingly at every table. The waiter said they were the mussels, it was the specialty, they were in season and the chef was specially trained in preparing mussels, so I said I guess I'm having the mussels!
I ordered the spicy Himalayan ones and the huge pot turned out to be like one of those bags in the movies that the magic character keeps reaching into and pulling things out of. An entire colony of mussels was inside the pot and it seemed to never end. I was in heaven.
After wiping mussels and beef stew off our faces and polishing off another frothy Belgian beer, we paid and realized it was still early. Only days away from the solstice, the sun would be out for another two hours, so we went for a passeggiatta - a leisurely walk around the city, over the picturesque bridges and canals, through green parks, all the while admiring the architecture of the centuries-old churches, buildings, and towers.
It's a fairy tale city, innit?
The curtains had to be open to let the cool air circulate in our non-air-conditioned room, and the windows faced east, meaning the sunlight started poking us in the eyes early. As it continued to pour in, we showered, I put a new band-aid on my toe and we walked to an art cafe around the corner which made a decent flat white. Drip coffee isn't a thing in Europe, apparently - everything is made with espresso. Which is fine, but it disappears quickly and sometimes I want to savor the warmth and flavor. We sipped and walked a few more blocks to meet our tour guide for the morning.
A bike tour is the best way to tour Bruges. The whole of the city can be seen in about three hours, and on a warm summer day with a light breeze, Bruges is beautiful.
It's probably always beautiful, but on this day, it was particularly so. Trees swayed over the canals in the breeze, flowers bloomed in window boxes and along the stone walls, and there were even swans. Every bit as elegant as depicted in a book or painting, they were bright white and floated down the center of the dark canal with a 'V' shaped ripple behind them that just reached the edge of the canal.
Impossible to turn away from, even the worst tourist can appreciate the beauty of a swan.
Our guide relayed interesting facts about the city's medieval architecture, the unmarried women who have occupied the Begijnhof for several hundred years, the last two wooden houses in Bruges, the Belgian origins of "Wall Street," the wooden statue of Jesus and his knee replacements and Holy Blood, the ancient rich who demanded to be buried inside the church and would later rot and help coin the term the "stinking rich," and even the belief that if there are ever less than fifty-two swans in Bruges, bad things would happen to the city. There are currently sixty-two after a recent bout of bird flu. Fingers crossed.
After the tour and quaffing another delicious Belgian beer, we walked the streets again. Past lace shops and souvenir stands and artists who peddled their wares in the city center. The entire city smelled of chocolate and waffles. And frites.
If it exists, I imagine it's what heaven must smell like.
Bruges exists in stark contrast to London, which smells like fish and sweaty garbage.
It also exists in contrast to its neighboring city, Ghent. While both date back to the 11th and 12th centuries, Ghent is more of a modern, bustling city, while today's Bruges is mainly a tourist attraction.
In the center of Ghent are three Gothic towers, the Belfry, the Church of St. Nicholas, and St. Bavo's Cathedral. Within the walls of St. Bavo's is perhaps one of the most influential paintings of all time, the Adoration of the Mystic Lamb by Jan Van Eyck. It is also known as the Altarpiece of Ghent.
A few months back I opened the door of a Little Free Library on the way out of a grocery store. A bright red book stood out in the center of it, The Omega Factor by Steve Berry. I was looking to read something new, so I grabbed it and went on my way. The book is a Dan Brown-esque story about a missing panel on the Altarpiece of Ghent and what secrets the panel might hold. Thinking it was fiction but wrapped up in the story nonetheless, I eventually Googled and realized that the story was about a real painting and that mystery actually did surround the whereabouts of the panel.
As we planned our trip to Bruges a few weeks later, I thought to myself, hold the phone, the book I'm reading is set in Ghent which is a short train ride away. What's more, the hotel we are staying in is called the Van Eyck Hotel. The painting in Ghent is by Van Eyck - we must go see this painting!
So we did.
Just as "clug" isn't the right word to describe our bags intruding upon our fellow tourists' dinners, I'm not sure the right words to describe this painting.
Absolutely mesmerizing. In the simplest terms.
The tour actually began with an augmented-reality tour of the crypt below St. Bavo's. Ancient artifacts were all around us, and through a pair of goggles with a tiny speaker a woman's voice guided us around the crypt, displaying three-dimensional dioramas of the ancient church, computer-generated videos of Van Eyck's workshop, zoomed-in details of the painting and the process they used to create and restore it.
It also portrayed the repeated attempts throughout history to steal or destroy the piece.
When the AR tour concluded we walked out of the crypt and stepped into the room that held the massive altarpiece.
Twenty-four individual paintings that together comprised a fifteen-foot wide and eleven-foot tall polyptych, it loomed over us encased in what was very likely bulletproof glass, given its history. Illuminated by carefully placed lights, it almost glowed in the darkness of the church.
The color and detail were like nothing I'd ever seen. The monumental proportions and symmetry were breathtaking. Knowing someone had painstakingly thought through every inch of this masterpiece just blew my mind.
It was Sunday and I was having a religious experience in an ancient church. The irony of considering myself an atheist was not lost on me, but there are some things that you just have to appreciate, no matter your beliefs.
Like swans. And apparently, mystic lambs.
St. Bavo's would not be the only church we would be in on this sunny Sunday. We left Ghent quickly, catching the train back to Bruges and practically ran into town to the Church of Our Lady, which would be closing soon, and is home to the Madonna of Bruges, one of the only pieces by Michelangelo that is located outside of Italy, and the only one ever to be moved out of Italy during the artist's lifetime.
I could feel the band-aid slipping off my toe as we hoofed it across the cobblestones once again, slipping in the door and scanning our tickets mere minutes before the last viewing time.
A bit of a sweat was beginning to form and it was cool inside the church so we slowed and took our time walking around the enclaves and alcoves, admiring the artwork and sculptures, and eventually making our way to the last section, cordoned off and clearly home to the Madonna.
Softly lit, the sculpture of a woman and child was clearly different than the rest of the marble pieces we had seen up to this point. Not in the least because it, much like the Van Eyck, was encased in thick glass atop a beautifully adorned mantle. The off-white marble was contrasted by thick, dark brown wood structures all around it, making it seemingly float away from the wall.
Even thirty feet away it felt as if you could reach up and adjust the sculpted cloth she wore, or touch her hand and feel the warmth of her skin.
As we raised a glass of wine later that evening, although a bit warm for a red, we took a moment to reflect on the amazing things we'd experienced in just a few days, and clinked our glasses to our next stop.
The "Venice of the North," Amsterdam, would have big shoes to fill. Bruges was magical and the way too warm train to Amsterdam was a rough start. A door malfunction in Breda meant we had to switch trains mid-journey and everything would have to go right from then on to make it to our boat tour.
With over 60 miles of canals, a boat tour is clearly the best way to tour Amsterdam. Bike in Bruges, boat in Amsterdam. A hired car whisked across town in a jiffy - I believe he took some liberties with the rules but honestly I wouldn't know because I couldn't understand what was a road, what was a bike lane, and what was for trains. We hustled up to our room, this one with air conditioning, threw our stuff down and hustled back out the door toward the nearest canal to find our boat.
Anyone who says to be careful and watch for bikes in Amsterdam is not only correct, they were probably close to an accident several times, just like I was. In too much of a hurry to catch our boat and unable to decipher lanes and sidewalks, I was almost run over no less than five times in the first ten minutes.
What looks like a sidewalk is a bike lane in between the sidewalk and car lane, with no real distinguishing characteristics other than the fact there are people on bikes. Crossing car-less streets and standing around gazing at my new surroundings I heard the bells but was only yanked out of the way at the last second by my ever-attentive wife, as she scolded me to watch out.
Stick to boats in Amsterdam - bikes in Bruges.
There are dozens of boat tour companies, some better than others, so choose your tour carefully. Running late, we ended up last in line and we crammed in between two other couples at the back of the boat, directly over the loud engine and we struggled to hear our tour guide over the din.
Thankfully, the cool evening air found us after our cross-town hustle, and gliding through canals and under the many bridges with a cold glass of buttery chardonnay was just what the doctor ordered.
Tall houses danced along beside us as we motored and maneuvered in between houseboats, dinner boats, tour boats, party boats, and paddlers. Coined "dancing" houses because "crooked" wasn't appealing for tourism, the centuries-old structures tipped every which way. Some leaned forward, some to the left or right. Some had downright sunk, pulling the neighboring houses into the depths with them.
The waterways of Amsterdam were just as crowded as the bike lanes and we found ourselves in at least one traffic jam in the narrow canals. The young skipper eventually navigated us back to the dock and we stepped onto the mainland, taking care this time to watch for bikers while we searched for sustenance.
Fried Dutch meatballs, schnitzel, and a bottle of cold white wine on a restaurant patio evened out the rough start to the day and another passeggiatta while the sun kept the late sky bright overhead tipped the scale back in the city's favor.
A rough callus had formed on my pinky toe and a band-aid no longer necessary, but a chance of showers meant my new leather shoes remained safely indoors. Setting about early, we wandered slowly through the Van Gogh Museum, marveling at the self-proclaimed "peasant painter" and his transformation from dark and dreary portraits of the poor to vibrant and colorful self portraits and landscapes, all with his unique blend of color and directional brush strokes.
Six miles across the city later, we sat in a very small bar, soaked with rain, a golden Amstel beer each and a huge Dutch pancake with banana and Nutella in front of us as we remarked on the strangeness of this situation.
Like touring Bruges on a bike we felt we'd seen all that Amsterdam had to offer that day. Street markets with trinkets and fish for sale, sketchy alleyways smelling of marijuana, a memorial to the late trumpeter Chet Baker where he jumped out a window to his untimely death, a memorial to Anne Frank and the house she hid in, a museum offering the history of sex in Amsterdam, the hipster part of town with famous apple pies, and approximately 2.7 million bicycles.
Three bicycles for every one person in Amsterdam, according to the tour guide.
Sitting along the edge of a canal, enjoying a beer after our six-mile walking tour, the skies suddenly darkened and rain started pouring down. An hour's walk from our hotel we were nowhere near a tram, the care hire fares were increasing due to sudden demand, we decided to stay put under an umbrella and were ultimately forced inside when the rain turned sideways and infiltrated our cover.
The rain let up and we were dry enough to venture out again, so we turned a few corners back to the main market square. As we looked around to get our bearings and decide what was next, a couple came toward us.
With a population of almost a million people and an extra few thousand tourists, there should have been no way that we would happen across the same couple we were huddled up next to just three nights before in a potato bar 150 miles away.
But there they were!
On their way to a coffeeshop, though not necessarily for coffee, we said hello to our new old friends, chatted briefly, and parted as we did before, ne'er to see each other again. Perhaps.
In times past, upon arriving in a new country, a person would first go to an ATM, bank, or money exchange in order to get cash in the local currency. In London, pounds would have been necessary and with the consolidation of Europe's money, the Euro would have been needed in Belgium and Netherlands.
In London, I withdrew ten pounds, but only because with the recent passing of the Queen we wanted a souvenir with her face on it. I spent half on the two iced lattes in the train station, leaving a shiny coin and a five-pound note as mementos.
For every other transaction a simple tap of a card or cell phone kept us moving. Beers in Bruges? Tap. Lacy tree ornament? Tap. Boutique hotel? Tap-a-roo. Pancakes in the rain? Give it a little tappy.
Bus trip out of town to visit windmills? You guessed it.
Tapping our way onto the 291 bus early on our last day in the Netherlands, the driver whipped us through the suburbs and out to Zaandam, a small city just a few miles north of Amsterdam that was home to a chocolate factory, a clog factory, and several working windmills.
It is also home to a beautiful couple who ferries locals and weary travelers with sore pinky toes from town to the windmills for a mere three euro, and, thanks to me, now knows how to use their tap machine.
It was another beautiful day, warm, with a firm breeze that was plenty to keep the sails on the windmill moving quickly. Tapping our phone at the entrance to one of them gave us a tour of the inner workings which, to be honest, were a bit scary. Metric tons of thick wood moved with purpose all around us, turning massive gears and wheels, smashing linseed into pulp and continuously pounding other thick pieces of wood that squeezed out every last bit of oil.
A well-worn and creaky ladder led us to the deck behind the spinning sails. A sign with a skull and a single word, 'STOP', hung on a single piece of rope about six feet from the sails and, well, our likely death.
From far away, windmills look like something from a Disney movie. Up close they are simultaneously amazing and terrifying. Like swans and mystic lambs, they're impossible to ignore.
Once again weary from our walking tour, we arrived back in Amsterdam and stepped onto another boat tour. Less crowded with a silent electric motor, attentive bartender, and a quippy Dutch skipper, this boat ride far exceeded the first and we learned more about the city we'd spent three days in on the ride than the entire time we were there.
The route was a little different than the first, taking us through the Red Light District. I'll skip the gory details but our favorite fun fact was about the "pimp priests" who would wait in the church across the street for the women to open their red curtains and rush out to usher the men into the church to pay their penance.
Two (or maybe three) Tulip Spritzes later and feeling bubbly, we made our way across town to another Dutch treat: an Indonesian restaurant. A feast was presented to us, called Rijsttafel, which consisted of fish, beef, prawns, chicken, rice, and vegetables in various forms and spiced to perfection. Originating in the Dutch East Indies, now Indonesia, the meal came to the Netherlands in an effort to show cultural wealth to visitors, and became a staple in the city of Amsterdam.
Stuffed and buzzed, we meandered back to the lounge at our hotel. It was the longest day of the year, we had a bottle of wine as a gift from the hotel as a result of a broken bathtub, and we found a Chet Baker playlist to serenade us as we once again reflected on our days.
Though Amsterdam's reputation precedes it as perhaps a place of loose morals and parties on boats, we reached a bit deeper, finding a culturally rich and quirky city that we enjoyed very much.
I'll fast-forward through the last two days, much of which was spent traveling. We did enjoy a final meal - similar to our first night in fact with pints, burgers, and fish and chips - at the oldest pub in England and the only one to bear the Royal name (which may or may not have been obtained by blackmailing a king.)
When we arrived back home, my brain couldn't stop moving. Jet-lagged and a little wired, I tried making sense of our trip. We scrolled through our pictures, reliving the experiences, and reminiscing about the details.
But there was too much that happened, so many beautiful little things.
I needed words and pages so I started to write. I expected this to be a short post but as I wrote I decided that my goal was to be as descriptive as possible, both so I could remember the feeling one day of being there, and also so hopefully anyone reading could feel they were there with us.
I hope you enjoy.
Bon voyage!
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