Travel to Nürnburg

One thing about my travels is that they are so flexible. I have an EU Rail SelectPass, which gives me ten days of travel, as much as I want within each of those ten nonconsecutive days, over a two month period. Terribly handy. As a result of this, I save money and do not need to make my plans horribly far in advance. And, if I miss a train or decide to take an earlier one, or anything else, I can do so and rather easily at that.

This has come in handy once or twice so far when I missed a connection due to a late arrival, and would again prove infinitely useful again this day, my day of travel from Brugge to Nürnburg. We were scheduled to make our way from Brugge (with a few stops, of course) to Frankfurt's airport and train station, or perhaps a train station that's merely really close to the airport. Either way, it was named Frankfurt Flughafen, which means airport, and it was a train station. I'll leave the delicate semantics of it to another time.

Apparently the day I left Brugge was a bad day for Europe. An enormous storm had been ravaging the continent and ended up killing more than a few people. Power outages, debris strewn about, and so on were the general order of the day. I said apparently because the train on which I was travelling didn't see so much as a drop of rain. Grey (gray? I always forget which is the American spelling, and prefer the letter e) skies, to be certain, but no horrible storm from our point of view. Yet the effects of the storm's earlier passing were indeed felt when our train came to a stop perhaps five kilometers from the station. Walking distance, really, even with one's luggage.

This stop was no mere small delay, as the conductor got on the PA and announced to us in no uncertain terms that they were uncertain as to when we'd be going again. It seems that a tree had managed to get onto the tracks. This dismayed everyone but me, as while I did have a travel plan, I was not unduly worried about arriving at my destination at any particular time. As seems to be the case when there is any delay of more than a few minutes, we began to speak to one another in the train. I met a nice woman named Nicole perhaps in her thirties and a girl roughly my age whose name escapes me, and was sitting across from a kindly old man who looked about as stereotypically “Old Man German” as one can imagine without leiderhosen and a mug of beer in hand.

One thing mentioned by the old man and agreed upon by Nicole was that the tree on the tracks was rather unusual as there's a rule somewhere that trees cannot be within 20 meters of the tracks. Of course. It'd keep the tracks from having trouble every time there's bad winds. Or so I said to the others who all agreed with the old man, but I knew in my mind it was a load of baloney. As I type this we're traveling through a forest on a different train and there are trees awful close to the train at times. Myth busted.

Another thing that became stranger still was the next update we got from the conductor. In America if one's plane is late you usually are told the bare minimum of information, probably not actually related to whatever problem there was anyways. Here in Germany they were frighteningly specific. We were told that the train was stopped, and would remain stopped for a rather long time but uncertain how long. The tree on the train tracks was on fire, by the way.

Wait, what? I must have misheard in German, or forgotten what the word was that I'd heard.

I asked Nicole after the announcement if I'd heard correctly. “Oh yes,” she said, rather nonchalant about the matter. The tree on the tracks was indeed on fire. Good job understanding!

My slight pride at understanding the rapid-fire PA system German notwithstanding, I was somewhat concerned, and my concern grew once the conductor came back on the PA, now in English. It seems that not only was there a tree on fire on the tracks but the entire Frankfurt station was a madhouse, with many many trains late or canceled and so on. We were advised to stay on to the Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof (main train station) and transfer there if that was at all doable for where we wanted to go, as once we started going again it'd probably be easier to get around and that less trains were late there. Now that I write this, we might have been near the Hbf and told to stay on to the airport, but I can't remember and fortunately it's not a big detail.

I went on my computer and used my USB internet dongle to try and check the Deutsche Bahn website and find a timetable to see what was late and on time and so on. The site was completely down, probably an inadvertent DDOS (Distributed Denial of Service, basically when way too many people try to connect at once either accidentally or maliciously.) It was at this time I found out Nicole was going to Nürnburg as well, and I asked her if once we arrived wherever she felt was best if I could tag along, and she said yes.

So I settled in for the long haul, as it seemed that whether or not a large storm was in the area at the moment we would remain there for quite some time. I jokingly said we could all watch a movie, and everyone looked at each other and then to me and asked what I had. Huh. Well, the Pirates of the Caribbean movies, all three, in German. Oh yes, that will do fine, let's watch the first one! In English!

English, huh? I'd been stumbling around with German for a good couple hours during the train ride so far with the old man and then continued on with Nicole and the other girl since we'd stopped, and we could have been speaking English? Ah well, it was awful good practice and opened me up to code switching when I needed it now. (Code switching being the sudden change of language, perhaps even mid-sentence, in my case used when I don't know a particular word in German.)

So I loaded up PotC into my computer and put it on English but with German subtitles, as I think the old guy's English was not terribly good. But we all agreed that the voice acting is always best in the original language. I set the computer on a little table in the train and we all sat on the opposite side and watched the movie. It was fun, actually, and really helped the time pass. We finished the movie perhaps ten minutes before the conductor got back on the PA and said that the tree had stopped burning and had been moved from the track, and we'd be on our way soon. Hooray!

The rest of the train trip was relatively uneventful, and we stayed on past the first stop and got off at Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof (I think, as I said it might have been the airport) where things picked up again. The station was completely packed to the gills, people everywhere. I stuck close to Nicole since she knew German better and had more motivation to get home quicker. We passed right by the service desk which had literally hundreds of people in line, a crazy sight. We found a timetable board and then a train that would bring us to Nürnburg, arriving fairly soon if all went to plan. It somehow did, and we got on that train while hundreds of other travelers would be stuck waiting for directions from the service desk for hours possibly. Hooray for savvy traveling! The rest of the trip to Nürnburg was also uneventful, and Nicole and I watched the third Pirates of the Caribbean movie together, getting most of the way through before we arrived. On that note, I really like this new computer I have, the battery lasts for well over 6 hours even when watching movies.

Brugge

My trip to Brugge brought me first to the Antwerp central station, and whilst moving to change trains I noticed an unusual little kiosk selling an unusual good. Waffles.

“Waffles?” I thought to myself. “Who the hell sells waffles in a train station?”

It took me perhaps a good five seconds of looking at the thing before realization hit me like a ton of bricks. I'm in BELGIUM. In Belgium they have Belgian waffles. Of course.

I immediately went from being confused to being excited. Belgian waffles! Oh boy! I rushed over to the kiosk and took a gander at the offerings. Plain, with syrup, and then the infinitely more appetizing choices, covered in white or dark chocolate. I ordered with white chocolate, and was asked a question that only could be asked by someone completely in tune with my wants and desires could possibly ask:

“Do you want your waffle covered in hot chocolate, or one that's already cooled?”

The two choices were both immensely appealing but the answer stood out easily in my mind. Warm, gooey white chocolate all over my delicious Belgian waffle.

And it was delicious. So sweet, almost sickeningly so, but so incredibly good. The waffle was not drenched in the chocolate, which was nice, so when I was finished with the waffle there wasn't a pool of the warm sauce in the tray I was given. Not overkill, and I appreciated it.

Arrival in Brugge was no less of a treat. I got in a taxi and asked for a nice-ish hotel, and rather than simply whisking me away and dropping me off somewhere, he called and made sure the place he suggested had rooms available. Not a big thing, but a nice touch that further lends me to the idea that everyone here is extremely nice. The hotel itself was not terribly extravagant and well priced, with a decent room. There was no laundry service but when I inquired and was told no, the woman at the front desk (also the owner) said she'd happily put my things in anyways and so I got to have some clothes cleaned, which was wonderful.

I arrived fairly late in Brugge, and went outside to see a beautiful town square type area, with the setting sun. A big fountain and a large modern sculpture were there to see and plenty of nearby restaurants as well. I went into one at the recommendation of the hotel's owner and was not disappointed. A sumptuous meal of mussels, too many perhaps even for me, and a very good but unusual French onion soup. The soup came without the usual bread or croutons or cheese or anything in it, but rather on a rather neat plate along with the soup. It was a bit of a do-it-yourself, and I thought it was very well presented and a neat twist on a simple dish. It was here that I think it finally really sunk in that in this part of Europe (including Germany) side dishes are fairly nonexistent. Often a meal comes with a very small side “salad” that is hardly worth eating, and sides as we know them in the US are not there at all. I was beginning to miss broccoli.

The next day I left and walked the same way I did the night before, as that was the direction of all the sights in the city. But the square had completely transformed overnight (or rather probably early in the morning) to a bustling crowd of people and large automobiles, most of which looked a lot like RVs except with sides that opened to reveal little shops on wheels. Cheeses and meats were the main attractions, with some of the big vehicles toting clothing and a few other assorted goods. But mostly it looked like a mix between a French Quarter butcher's shop or cheese shop, a carnival, and an RV lot on football day at a university. Very interesting and the smells were amazing.

Next I went off to the chocolate museum here in Brugge after some leisurely walking around the city. It was interesting, nice, but not the wowing experience of the one in Köln. I think it'd be hard to top that, but still. This was more of a normal museum, with dioramas and a smattering of artifacts and the like, and was enjoyable. One thing that this one had that the one in Köln certainly did NOT have, though, was chocolate sculptures. Big ones. There was a perhaps 4/5 scale chocolate Obama there, various other people and some cats and other animals and abstracts. That, I will admit, was extremely impressive.

As part of a package deal, though, the chocolate museum came with entry to the potato and fry museum. Belgium is known (apparently) for its French fries, which are called a variety of things there but never French fries. I'll just refer to them as fries here out of respect for the Belgians. I entered with joy and childlike wonder painted across my face. As anyone familiar with me knows, I like potatoes. A lot. Eating them different ways is all fine and dandy, of course, but just potatoes as a whole I find very interesting. And so I went on a mystical journey of discovery through the museum, with an entire floor devoted to the humble spud and its history. Where it came from, how it came to Europe, how it gained acceptance, and more. This beat the heck out of the chocolate museum here, in terms of interest to me as well as in overall quality of the place. The second floor was all about fries and Belgium, which (they maintain) were first created there. They came to be French fries, so it was said, because French-speaking Belgians during the WWI gave some to some Americans. I don't know if that's to be believed, but I absolutely agree the Belgians make better fries, and they're served with pretty much every meal. I was ecstatic, and I am sure my cholesterol level was less than pleased with all of the fries I've been consuming.

My stay in Brugge was a short one, but I would happily go back there in an instant. The city was full of what I now know to be typical Belgian kindness, the food was amazing and the city has plenty to see. I think Belgium is kind of a forgotten country in America, when people consider taking a vacation abroad. Paris and France are huge destinations, the UK for its familiarity and certainly not its cuisine, and perhaps Germany and Spain or the Netherlands, specifically Amsterdam. Those are the destinations in mind when Americans consider going abroad, but rarely if ever Belgium. Let me say that Belgium has gotten a bad rap in our eyes from the horror we call Brussels sprouts. Such a nasty food marring our view of an extremely friendly country full of incredible other foods. And I think I was well told by those I met before coming to Brugge that it and not Brussels is the place to see. I hear Brussels is just another big city, but Brugge is (and I can attest) certainly so much more than a place to store people.

Achel and the Monastery

Bright and early...ish, after breakfast had stopped being served, I woke up in my amazing hotel room. I got ready and made my way downstairs in due time before off on my trek to the Achel monastery, whose actual entire name is far too long and hard to pronounce to put here. Upon coming downstairs a very friendly woman (I would later find out she was the wife of the very nice man that welcomed me to the hotel, both of whom are the owners) greeted me and said she was sorry that breakfast was already over. I told her it was no problem, since it was perhaps now 11 AM, and she offered to make me some tea. How nice!

Over tea the woman brought me a map of the area and told me how to get to the Achel monastery, explaining that this was a small town and the few buses in the area were not even running that day. Fair enough, it looked to only be about five miles or so.

I thanked the woman (I never did get her name) for the tea and began my trek, immediately coming back in to get my umbrella since there was a bit of light rain. I would have rented a bike, except I couldn't figure out where one does that (and am not entirely convinced it actually existed) nor would I have done well biking in the rain, holding an umbrella.

In due time I circled back again, remembering I had no cash at the time and would likely need to only pay in cash once at the monastery. Fortunately I was near a bank and had no trouble getting some money and soon resumed my journey. I walked and enjoyed the day in spite of the rain, and took some pictures and video along the way for later reference.

When in France in 2008 I biked with my family through many small villages, some fairly similar to this one in size and feel. One thing I noticed that I had not seen outside of France in Europe were signs saying that one is entering and leaving a town. A white sign with a black picture of a town, perhaps of the town you are entering, and the name awaits you as you come in. As you leave the same sign is there but with a red stripe through it. I saw these signs here in Hamont and Achel, the two little joined towns in the area.

Eventually I made my way to the monastery, and saw two somewhat distinct halves. A part that looked like a church, with its steeple and stained-glass windows and such, as well as presumed buildings for the monks in which to house themselves or something. I did not visit this part, it did not seem terribly open. The other half, the one I went into, was more or less a long rectangle of buildings, all connected, and decidedly brown in color scheme. Barrels and beer kegs were in a garage on the right and a long shop on the left. At the end was a small courtyard with plenty of tables and chairs and umbrellas stacked against the wall to keep out of the rain. I knew and had later reaffirmed for me that this was not exactly the ideal season for tourists. The brewery, which I could see just past the courtyard, was attached to the cafe, which I entered. Inside was a fairly unassuming row for sliding trays down to grab foods and order at different stations, a cooler with drinks, and a cash register at one end. I ordered a spicy meat sandwich, being told it was very good, and the blonde beer. Two beers were available here, both brewed here and not readily available elsewhere. The only other place I saw a beer from here, and only the blonde, was in a 6-pack of Trappist beers for sale later in Brugge.

My sandwich came soon, and I was taken back by its appearance. Imagine, if you will, a patty with three raised ridges going across the shorter of the two lengths of the meat. It was strange-looking, but I dove in. And boy was I glad the look didn't stop me, it was really good. The beer went wonderfully with it, and after finishing I had the dunkel (dark) beer, this one only available here and nowhere else.

Another very very good beer, both of them were amazing really. Yet despite the Trappist claim (substantiated by others!) for the beer being world-class, I would say this was perhaps only a step or two above a “good” beer one can get back in the states. Undeniably good, yes, but not so good as to be good enough reason to travel hundreds of miles from the other cities I visited to walk for miles in the rain and sit in a nearly-empty cafe just to try these beers. Which, actually, made it even more worth it. I went a distance that so very few have and indeed even would. All for the story and the beer and the experience. And I loved it, all of it.

After finishing my meal I left and walked around the parking lot, seeing a big sign. I went over and looked closer and it was a map of the monastery, of course. It showed the various buildings and nearby paths and such, and showed that the Belgium/Netherlands border actually crossed through part of the monastery! I went walking down a road in the opposite direction of town for perhaps two minutes before coming across a dotted line in the middle of the road, on a diagonal. It was the border, clearly marked with a BE on one side and NL on the other. So, of course, I danced on the border and hopped from one side to the other and stood straddling the line. Of course. One must do these things when one has the opportunity.

I really enjoyed my time there despite this being a town with so little to “do” there. I walked back to town and got a ride to the train station from the guy that welcomed me the night before after checking out, and hopped on a train to Brugge. While waiting for the train there was a girl at the station with whom I spoke before and during the train ride, and she knew the guy that brought me there, because it's such a small town. I love that, where everyone knows everyone else. She was concerned for the man because he had a black eye and looked like he'd been in a fight. I didn't ask him about it nor was it mentioned, but the girl knew him and wanted to know. I bet by asking her mom and asking around she will have found out how soon enough.