Off to Amsterdam

Our train was leaving for Amsterdam at 12:30pm, so my sister and I had time to take a leisurely lunch and get to the train station with time to spare. We borded the train, and I settled into my seat with a book. We were halfway through the Netherlands when the attendant started her ticket check. When she got to our seats we handed our Eurail passes up, and after checking them she said to us, "that will be 12 euros please." Naturally, my sister and I were confused, we'd already bought a $280 Eurail pass, which meant any trainride we took within a 2 month period was in a sense prepaid. We asked why, and she told us it was because we were sitting in 1st class. We tried to reason with her, but she said that because we were too close to Amsterdam it would not be possible to "just switch cars." Her attitude was hauty and I could tell she enjoyed every minute as we scrounged around for 24 Euros. Before she moved on she told us that differentiating between 1st class and 2nd class was as easy as reading the giant signs on the side of the cars. "There's a big 1 for first class and a 2 for second class written on the side." If this seems condescending that's because it was, and we were left with even less drinking money as before. Damn!

We pulled into the station, and pulled out the address to our hostel. We walked for two hours looking for it, finally giving up and spending money on a taxi. By this time we were simply on our last leg mentally, spiritually and emotionally, we were missing home, but also determined to squeeze every experience out of our time. But even that can be taxing on the mind and body. After the train and taxi debaucle we were please to have a bed to rest on. The attendant gave us our keys and told us she had a surprise in store. Not knowing what this meant, and fearing the worst, we backed away slowly from the desk and mounted the steps to our room. Opening the door revealed a single room with two beds. I thought there had been some mistake as we had booked a communal room for eight people. I rushed downstairs and told the clerk, but she simply smiled and told me that they had run out of beds in the eight person rooms, and that we could have the single room for the same price. I guess all energy does flow according to the whims of the great magnet.

We left promptly and made for the Leidstraat, or the big commercial street with shops and restaurants. We ate at a well-lit restaurant/pub on Italienne street, and after my sister went in a few shops and I checked out a bookstore. We were drained and so finding out hostel again, this time without a taxi, we decided to crash and relax.

My sister took a nap, and I sat on the balcony reading. Suddenly a the window to the room next to us opened and out popped a guy about my age holding two beers. He was my height with brown hair and a French nose and a weak chin. He asked me if I wanted a beer and I said yes. He said his name was Adrien, and we started talking and I learned he and his friend David were on vacation from Belgium. Soon David popped his head out and said hello, and I told them both about our trip so far. After a few more beers and many stories and jokes, they asked if I smoked weed. I said I had in the past. And they asked if I wanted to smoke with them, and I said sure. David pulled out his stash that he had just bought, which included 3-4 new brands he picked up from a coffeeshop and had never tried before. It was nice to talk to them, even though it was difficult at times due to the language barrier. David hardly spoke english and Adrien's accent was so thick that I couldn't understand half of what he said. It became harder when the weed kicked in, and soon I was marginally catatonic. They invited me to a discoteque, and I told them I wanted to go but was too tired. In reality the beer mixed with weed had caught hold of my stomach and spun my head around making me dizzy and sick. They left, and I promply entered into the room and stood holding the bedpost. My sister said something like, "you look pale." I said something like "Damn right I look pale!" Before rushing to the bathroom and throwing up my dinner. I learned the hard way that alcohol and weed do not mix, and that the Belgian stomach is much more impervious to the effects of drink and smoke than Americans are. Well, some at least.

Fascination and Disappointment in Brussels

We awoke again early in the morning, but seeing as there was free coffee I didn't mind. We packed our backpacks with food and water for our all-day trek through Brussels to get the feel of the city that would be our home for the next 3 days. Grandplatz, Royalplatz, the Manneken Pis, and the comic book museum, a long day even for this seasoned traveler.

The comic book museum was by far the most interesting. Comic creators from the beginnings of the craft to now had relics of their masterpieces next to biographies on the walls, and I found out exactly how they put a comic book together. Artists, inkers and scriptwriters all have their special place in creating one of these moralistic and oftentimes archetypical renditions of fantasy lands and talents. The scriptwriter was the most fascinating since he/she writes the story the others simply illustrate. The concept has to be good for the finished product to be good, because no matter how many explosions or creative images of sexy ladies you have there's still an absolute need for a coherent story, and without one the future of the comic will be bleak and uninteresting. This is the charge of the scriptwriter. If he writes a compelling story that is honest and truthful, then the illustrators take it to the next level by depicting the action on paper with help of crayons, colored pencils and markers.

The Mannequin Pis was wholly disappointing, mainly because our expectations had been lifted each time we passed a picture of it on the street. In all honesty we tried to find it last night after one bar visit and before the next, but to no avail. Today we found out why the thing was so hard to find, and that's because of its size. The thing is two feet tall and is hardly anything to get excited about. Sure it's a kid peeing, but really? Why not a twenty-foot kid peeing? Then people'd have a waterfall to videotape instead of just a tiny trickle. We ended up taking a picture of the chocolate rendition across the street because it was more impressive than the real thing.

We went to dinner where I ordered wine pizza and chicken wings in broken French. We talked about the petty arguments people get in and laughed at ourselves for having one earlier when a gum-smacking contest deteriorated to shouting and name-calling and door-slamming. Too long with the same company and it's bound to happen - we were no exception. But the wonderful thing about my relationship with my sister is that we can laugh about it later, both knowing what we said was a result of blood-red anger and a situational causality.

Then we walked and walked and walked some more before finding a suitable bar to drink at. We sat down and not two minutes after we ordered our first drink a man came out from inside the bar. He was dressed as someone of reasonable resource would: silk shirt, fitted jeans, and patent leather shoes. He walked up to me, and without speaking took my hand and shook it. I asked him if I could help him and he held out a piece of paper. The message was written in French, and said something about being hungry and poor, all the while he's motioning to his mouth in the universal sign of hunger. I said I don't speak French in French, and he walked away scowling at me. We decided to leave right then, after finishing our drinks, to find a new place where our luck was better and the atmosphere welcomed us.