After buying a car in Bristol, south west England (a steal at just 600 quid including MOT and Tax until Feb!) - we set off for Dover, on the east coast, to catch a carferry over to France and to begin two weeks roadtripping around the european continent...
We figured buying a car would be the most economical move - as all going well we should be able to sell it on, and get our money back before we leave the UK. We'll also have a lot more freedom than travelling by bus, or train - and it will be a lot easier for Karlos to travel by car, as he was still sporting a broken rib and unable to put his backpack on. As well as all that - we would also be saving a lot of money on accommodation - by travelling in a true backpacker style - sleeping in our car! We'd purchased an air mattress, electric pump, bed sheets, and pillows. We already had sleeping bags - we were good to go. Rock and roll dreams, baby!
Two weeks was never going to be enough, but was always going to be epic...
*
First stop - Amsterdam!
I had been to Amsterdam once before, as an impressionable 19 year old - and couldn't wait to return, with Karlos - who I just knew would love the place. I also knew I would love it even more this second time - being older - and having him with me.
We were amazed at how quickly we managed to get to Amsterdam, from England. Our ferry from Dover to Dunkirque took just 2hrs. We then drove to Brugge (Belgium) and arrived a further 1.5 hours later. By this stage it was evening time though, as we'd had a late ferry, so we found a camping ground and spent our first night sleeping in the car. It was fun! We put the back seats down, our backpacks on the front seats, and pumped up the bed in the back. With the bedsheets and pillows etc - it was so cosy, and quite romantic Karlos, however, simply found it awkward and painful. His rib was still hurting, so getting into the car and onto the bed was difficult, and any slight movement I made - which of course (anyone who's slept on an air mattress will know this) made the entire bed wobble - hurt him. Sleeping in a proper bed was still painful for him though, with the laying down and getting up business - so I insisted it was romantic. And he smiled. In what I took as agreement.
Next morning we had breakfast in Brugge - a city definitely worth spending a few days in if you have the time, as I learned once in 2005 - but we didn't have too much time, so I quickly purchased some Belgian chocolate before we got back into the car for the ride to Amsterdam. Just another couple of hours away...
I really don't know what to say about Amsterdam. Pretty much - in Amsterdam, anything goes! We had a blast there together.
We were annoyed about being ripped off by the camping ground we found - seeing as we didn't have a tent we were charged campervan rates - which was like 30 euros a night! ($60 to those of you in NZ currency - ouch, right!) But we were also desperate to get into the city and explore - so we reluctantly paid, parked our car, grumbled about the fact that 30 euros a night to park up STILL didn't include loo paper in the toilets - like what a complete and utter rip off (and other such grumbles) - and then we caught the free ferry across the river and into the city centre. Aaaah, Amsterdam!
Bikes, bikes, everywhere! It's something that can be explained, but not really understood until you experience it by being there. As Karlos said to me - the bikes rule the roost around here, don't they? And they really do. Fleets of motor vehicles are left palpitating as dozens of cyclists cut them off, dart around them, and over take. Pedestrians are many - but even they too have to watch from all angles in case a cyclist has decided to cross their path. It's amazing to watch, if you find yourself on safe ground. And terrifying if you are new to the scene - as a pedestrian I was almost killed by a cyclist on several occasions.
Karlos and I found one of the many 'Bulldog' coffee shops (a chain of the oldest established "coffee shop"s in Amsterdam) and whilst I ordered an orange juice, Karlos browsed the menu for the tastiest(?) sounding spliff on offer. Coffee shops, in Amsterdam, don't actually sell coffee, just so you know. For a good old cup of char - you'll need to find a cafe. But hey, this is Amsterdam, and Karlos was in serious need of some pain relief - so a smoke was of course top of the agenda. You could probably get high just sitting in those coffee shops, I'd say. The air is thick with smoke, and sweet with the smell of burning marijuana. For those of us who don't like to inhale smoke - you can also order space cakes - chocolate muffins laced with the green stuff. Very delicious - you have to be careful with those!
Following the Bulldog we wandered through the red light district - streets of glass doors with red curtains (if the curtains are closed, don't come knocking! If the curtains are open - smile at the pretty lady!). The last time I was in Amsterdam, I was a little shy after several of the ladies came from their doorways and invited me in. This time I was a little offended that none of them invited
me this time. Hahaha. We wandered up and down side streets and back alleys - it's almost as though Amsterdam consists soley of side streets and back alleys - the city is broken by rings inside rings of canals and streets that cross the canal like bicylce spokes. It is very easy to get lost - and, more frustratingly, to find a cool bar but then have no chance of finding it the next day if you
fancy a return visit. Maybe that has something to do with the smoke...
We found a small bar in a narrow side street, and spent a while drinking local beer and people watching. Next door, at another bar, we continuously heard yelps and whoops, and soon realised that the Netherlands were currently playing Uruguay in the world cup semi finals - so off we went next door. It was quite the experience. Netherlands won the game - and the bar, and indeed the entire city came alive with excitement. Cars drove up and down the streets tooting their horns, young men and women ran through the streets singing, and laughing and hugging each other. It went on all night long.
We went to the Cassa Rossa club, and spent a couple of hours drinking and sitting in the front row of a live sex show. It was surreal. Fun - we were in Amsterdam! But also kind of sad - shouldn't I be feeling something? Turned on, turned off - something! But nothing. The men and women came out in turn, to bare all and have sex in a mechanical rhythm that was so far removed from real-life sex it really ought to be called something else. The zombie like eyes of women who do this for a job - night after night, week after week - was what took my attention. They were riding some of the buffest men I have seen for some time... but instead they were having an out of plastic body experience, gazing off at something far in the distance. I felt like I wanted to hug them. Strippers came on and had moments with dildos and bananas and cigars (don't ask) - and I thought - I'm sitting in the front row of a live sex show, with my boyfriend, at a distance close enough to reach out and touch these naked women - shouldn't I be feeling uncomfortable? But I wasn't. "Do you enjoy this Karlos?" I asked. Thinking of the couple of times he's been in trouble with me for visiting strip clubs on lads nights out. "Well," he shrugged - somewhat nonplussed - "it's good to look at isn't it?" And I got it. In that moment, being where we were - I got it. The difference between men and women. We left together shortly afterwards.
We got up to more hijinx that night, and indeed the next night... but the rest of which shall remain between the two of his, hidden by our happy smiles ;-)
We also took time out of the drinking and smoking to visit Anne Frank's Huis (house). We had both recently re-read Anne Frank's diary, as one of the many books we've been sharing on our travels. To visit the building, and walk through the "Secret Annexe" that Anne and her family lived in, in hiding, for 2+ years during the second world war - was humbling. And fairly emotional. We also spent time in the small museum, learning more about Anne's life, her family's life, and her writing. She didn't just keep a diary, she also wrote short stories, and was even in the process of re-writing her diary to make it more publishable. She wanted to be a writer, to touch many, and to leave a piece of her behind after she was gone. My only hope is that, from wherever she is, Anne is aware of her accomplishment, despite her life being so cruelly taken before she could realise it. The legacy she left behind as her diary, and the inspiration she has been, and continues to be, for many people throughout the world, is incredible. I wasn't aware that her father survived the concentration camps, but indeed he did, and was given Anne's diaries after they had been found in the Secret Annexe after their arrest, and saved by a kind lady who worked in the same building. He read them, and decided to honour Anne by sharing her story with the world. He too is an inspiration, and continues to be a positive example of how one can rise above injustice and continue to believe in the good of humanity. Visiting Anne Frank's huis was a highlight of our European trip for me, and well worth the hour-long wait.
In sum, go to Amsterdam with an open mind, and no expectations. Ladies especially. I have a feeling that men will have a lot more fun in Amsterdam with their girlfriends than with a bunch of rowdy stags. Someone that they can share a laugh with, and a naughty moment with, and also go home with. But whoever you do go to Amsterdam with - you're bound to have a lot of fun regardless. And remember - it's not all sex, drugs, and rock and roll.
*
Before we left The Netherlands, we ate a breakfast of bread and gouda - as per the advise of our lovely dutch friend, Mr Frank Wolfkamp. Yum. Dutch gouda is simply the best. Creamy, tasty cheese - simply adding to my argument with Karlos that "european cheese is far superior to New Zealand cheese." That debate continues. He is so patriotic.
*
After the Netherlands, we drove south through Germany en route to Switzerland. I am not allowed to write much here about all that - let's just say I got a fever and did not enjoy the 38 degree temperatures in Frankfurt, and there was an unfortunate event at the border between Germany and Switzerland, which we were lucky enough got away with! But that really is all I can say about that.
I continue to show Karlos just how calm and level-headed I am under times of great stress and uncertainty. It's deciding what to wear for the day that I find to be a particularly arduous and emotional experience.
*
Swizterland.
We were really looking forward to visiting Switzerland. I have always found it to be a refreshing place. On this visit we were to be staying with Karlos' very good friend Brent, and his lovely wife Shona - friends from NZ, who are currently living in Stafa, just outside of Zurich. I was fully expecting the fun time that we had, what I was not expecting - was the heat. Good god. It was high 30s, if not 40 - and I literally had a job to breath. My fever and sore throat probably didn't help. I spent the entire 4 days in a singlet and sarong, and much time swimming in Lake Zurich, which was an impressive two minutes walk from the Westcott's front door. Heaven. I even tolerated the little fish, that I was terrified might swim up my bikini bottoms, as I was so hot.
Shona was on a business trip in the states when we first arrived, and so Brent took good care of us - orgainsing a BBQ by the Lake on our first night, followed by a cruise along the lake to Zurich on day two, for a wee exploration and a huge lunch. The swiss sure know how to make schnitzels, I tell you! They also know how to make cheese and chocolate... I would be morbidly obese if ever I lived in Switzerland. Shame - as I truly could live there. Brent took the time to tell us all about the city and the country he lives in, and with low income tax among other things, I could move there tomorrow.
We had time to relax in Switzerland, we watched movies, spent time on facebook, and swam in the lake, chilling out as best as was possible in 40 degree temperatures!
When Shona came home, we had an awesome day with them both. They took us to a gorgeous swiss town for lunch, complete with cobbled streets and the dingle dongle of church bells. We drove some more, and reached the 'town on the rock'- Gruyeres. This was in a French speaking part of the country - so it was nice to leave 'German-swiss' behind and start to recognise some of the 'French-swiss' words around me. We had had a drink in a bar that looked like the inside of a coffin, with tables and chairs made out of replica bones, and then wandered through an exhibit of an artist that designed the aliens for 'aliens,' and had a weird fascination with male genitalia sticking in and out of various female aproximations. I saw art that really disturbed me. Then we all went to the Gruyeres castle, and went back in time for a while imagining we were ancient Swiss princes and princesses... or something like that.
More cheese was consumed. More chocolate. An even bigger schnitzel! And a couple of days later we were saying goodbye to Brent and Shona, telling them to come back to NZ soon, so we can take them out for tea in repayment. We could easily have stayed with them longer, but I think next time we'll visit in the cooler winter months!
*
France.
Our time in France was pretty much the stereotypical "foreigner's experience." Misunderstandings, miscommunications, and unfortunate encounters with french menus. Our first stop, after leaving Switzerland, was Lyon. A cute city in the south east, where not many people (that we met) could speak english. My high school french was going to have to do.
We found a lovely looking restaurant in the city square, and scored ourselves an outdoor table - to people watch, and to find as much fresh air as was possible (not much, unfortunately - as France was every bit as hot as Switzerland). After asking for "rouge," whilst gesturing 'to drink,' I was presented with a glass of house red, so I felt I was doing ok. Disaster struck at food ordering time however - when the task of ordering from a menu in complete French presented itself. I smugly order 'poisson' (which I knew to be fish), and was proud of Karlos for recognising, and ordering, du boeff (beef). But things weren't to be that simple...
I had to restrain myself from laughter when our waiter brought the meals out for us! My fish dish was scrumptious looking, and every bit as tasty as it looked. Karlos' beef, however... was in actual fact a very large plate of raw meat! Oh it was like something straight out of a comedy sketch show - the english tourists order raw beef by mistake, and are too poilte (or embarrassed) to say anything! So we just smiled at the waiter, grinned at each other, and stared at his plate for a few moments in silence after our waiter had left. "You've got to be joking!" Karlos eventually said. Nope! This is our journey Karlos - did you really expect a boring old plate of cooked beef? Honestly.
He ate it, and - as the story goes - he actually enjoyed it.
After Lyon, we moved inland - to a little town in the heart of France, called Clermont-Ferrand. We found a gorgeous little camping ground, complete with outdoor swimming pool, and spent a couple of days there just soaking up the sun and enjoying the travellers lifestyle. We drank cheap, local wine; ate sweet, juicy fruit; swam; soaked up the sunshine; and read books. I was blissfully happy.
Even fewer people in Clermont-Ferrand spoke english - and whilst there were moments it became a little frustrating that we couldn't really communicate effectively - for the most part it was great for escapism. People around you are having a multitude of conversations, but you haven't the faintest idea what they are talking about - so you can easily zone out. I felt thoroughly relaxed, and at peace and would really liked to have stayed longer.
Our lack of French did prove to be a slight bother on the motorways, however! We had casually driven through a toll booth, took a ticket, and drove on. Several miles later, we approached another toll booth. Seeing as our English car is right hand drive, the ticket machine was on my side (the left) and so I had to put the window down, lean right out, and put our ticket into the machine. Amount owing: 15 euros, or some such amount. Far out, that's steep! I swiped our joint credit card. Not accepted. I tried my personal credit card. Not accepted. (The machine only took cards, not notes or cash, typical). I tried Karlos' debit card. Not accepted. I pressed the help button and when a lady's voice appeared I asked: "Que'est que tous parle anglais? Je ne parle pas le francais." No. She didn't speak english. By this stage we had a queue several cars long behind us. I pressed the help button again when she dissappeared. Same drill. She couldn't speak english. I tried our cards again. Nothing. A man got out of his car, behind, and tried to help. He spoke to the lady in the help button, and sounded rather angry. I looked at Karlos and giggled. Cars started tooting behind us like a symphonic orchestra. The french are not patient at all! I laughed some more. A young lady arrived who could speak english, sort of, and tried my cards again - not accepted. A man in a very large truck sat with his hand on the horn for about a minute. I gave him the finger. Eventually, the lady who came to help asked for my passport - then she told us to drive through, and stop at a building on the right where we would go in to pay and get my passport back. (At least that's what we hoped she was saying! It was Frenglish). A quarter of an hour later we were once again back on the road - after getting my passport back thank goodness, paying with our credit card that had decided to work all of a sudden, and laughing at the expense of several wound up French motorists! What a farce, honestly.
Paris.
Paris really is quite lovely. We arrived late afternoon, one overcast day, and the Eiffel Tower suddenly sprung out between rows of grey and brown buildings. I had been to Paris before, but this time I was really excited. Paris in the summertime would be really something, I imagined...
We found ourselves driving up the Champs Elysees, I couldn't believe it! I was grateful Karlos was driving, and very proud of him - traffic is 4 lanes wide and motorists are crazy in Paris. Cars pull in front of you to cross three lanes, if they feel like it; vans cut you off with a spilt second's warning; and stupid men on mopeds - don't get me started! But it was glorious. Karlos did well. And I sat back and watched in awe, as we approached the Arc du Triomphe and Karlos cooly crossed the 4 lane roundabout - not forgetting he was driving on the opposite side of the road, in a city he had never been to before, with non-existent road markings, and motorists leaving us guessing as to the roadrules - he did really well. Best driver in the whole world! I filmed a short moment of us riding on the roundabout. It was something else.
We spent the next couple of days doing the typial Parisian things - picnicing under the eiffel tower at night, watching it sparkle and twinkle when the lights were turned on. Riding the metro along old train lines, and watching well dressed women, wondering where they were going. We ate croissants aux ammand, pain au chocolat, and wandered amongst paintings and sculptures and hoards of other tourists in the Louvre. We walked down pretty tree-lined streets along the Sienne River and admired the city's pretty architecture. We wandered into the Latin Quarter, reached the Catherdral du Notre Dame, and had some drinks on a canal boat anchored beside it. We didn't leave Paris before we had eaten eclairs. Karlos dropped his on the floor right outside the shop, so he had to buy another, without hesitation.
We left Paris, happy. And we headed back towards England - in the direction of the north - where a few days later we would be spending time with my family. I was so excited.
We enjoyed our time in France, very much. I would actually like to return there someday, to spend longer than a week. Perhaps a few weeks... in a country villa... drinking fine wine, reading french novels, and popping out each morning to buy freshly baked baguettes from the local bakers, and riding home with them balanced precariously in my bicycle's front basket. This is not just how they depict France in the movies - this is exactly how French live. Making every day tasks into something beautiful. Turning life into art.
C'est la vie de la francais, et c'est formidable!
~ Comet xo
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