December 29, 2013
Eeeeeeeeeee hah! “On the road again”. This time in Holland and Belgium, Xmas, 2013. I’m riding shotgun with BadAss Bro-in-law, Dillinger Dave, and we’ve broken out the little Audi for an all day trip to touro-Euro friendly, Bruges. We’re spending the day “in Bruges”, so to speak, but not with hot shot indie actor Colin Farrell, who’s already made the 2008 British black comedy of the same name, but on our own, with no print outs, guide books, or plans…. just the two wives and some cash. Dave’s put the pedal to the metal and we’re rolling south from the Netherlands into foreign territory… Belgium.
We’ve left Rotterdam over the Erasmus Bridge, the green steel-corded suspension bridge that’s become the emblem of the re-built city. There was a clear Euro sky when we hit the road with a full tank of gas, but now it’s turning gray and nasty. Not exactly the kinda day you want to walk around a UNESCO World Heritage-protected city. And of course, as per Murphy’s law, we’ve forgotten our umbrellas that I insisted we schlep all around Europe for a month. Who cares, right? We’re “not made of sugar or salt.” That’s what the wife always says. “You’re not going to melt.” Fuck the rain. We’re hard core tourists.
Shit! Dillinger Dave, who is usually such a cautious driver, has been hovering just over the speed limit, 120 kph. That’s fair… about 70 mph on the Dutch, turning-to-Belge, highway south towards Bruges. We’re in no hurry, right? Just want to beat the rain. But, wait! What’s that up ahead in the right lane? Can’t be… looks like an LAPD police car. Or California Highway patrol car. Definitely a black ‘n white! Dillinger Dave doesn’t seem concerned; he speeds up to overtake the black and white. What the…? Yesiree, that is a California Highway patrol black and white. But what’s it doing in Holland? Or are we already in Belgium? Or am I high on some drugs that I haven’t taken?
We overtake the black and white and Dave slows a bit to drive completely abreast of it. What the…? I whip my head over in alarm, having been spiritually and authoritatively intimidated by the long arm of the LA law for the last 30 years, and I shoot Bad Ass Dave a look, “What the…?” Dave, small, compact, pony-tailed, and a hard core rocker, just smiles like a Cheshire cat and points beyond me to the driver’s window of the black and white. I’m slinking down in my seat, waiting for the damage. I sneak a look… and there they are… four Dutch dudes (maybe Belge?) smiling away… two in the front, two in the back. They are not in uniform. Definitely not cops. Instead, they look like four Euro stoners who are having a good ol’ time. They give us four “thumbs up”, four face-full’s of teeth, and the driver leans forward to pop on the cruiser’s blue and yellow flashing lights. What the…?
Dillinger Dave’s having a good ol’ time himself. “Don’t worry, it’s not the police. It’s just some kids who bought an American car.” What the…? “You can buy an American police car in Holland?” “No problem,” Dave grins, enjoying a good laugh at my expense, something he doesn’t get to do all that often. I sit up, a bit incredulously, and give a big grin and a bigger “thumbs up” to the stoners. I’m expecting the police siren next, but Dave explains. “No sirens, just the flashing lights are allowed.” Wow, I guess I’m not in Kansas… or Los Angeles… anymore. We roll on down the line… towards Bruges.
Now even if you have seen the aforementioned film, you probably don’t know that Bruges is still one of most charming, intimate, and historical cities in modern Belgium, perhaps in all of Western Europe. Formerly the crown jewel of the pre-Dutch/Belgium empire of Flanders, it was the commercial hub of all of Europe in the 14th century. Crossroads of the northern Hanseatic League and southern trade routes, Bruges developed new forms of merchant capitalism (promissory notes of credit) that led to the rise of Flanders in post Medieval Europe. Its Flemish ships, its Flemish painters, its Flemish embroidery and lace, were known around the world. Then, as its harbor receded by the 16th century, it got passed over by other European capitals, Paris, London, Amsterdam, even nearby Brussels and Antwerp. It dropped almost completely off the world stage for over five or six centuries, but now with the help of UNESCO and major capital investment, it has recently become a sophisticated, high end tourist destination, with old cobblestone streets, architecturally-restored churches and wonderfully preserved hotels. Its romantic canals with lazily roaming ducks, geese, and tourists make it nothing less than a small town Venice or Amsterdam. Tres chic et charmant.
We’ve arrived. It’s the four of us now, out of the car, covering the cobblestones – like Bonnie & Clyde with Michael J. Pollard and Estelle Parsons out from the back seat. We’re hungry, putting at least da wife, in a crabby mood. Beware. Gotta feed the stomach and soul before we walk around in the rain. As I said, no guide book, just instincts, the best way to travel, but we can’t find a place we think we can afford. It all looks so trendy, refurbished, and price-inflated. How about just a bite to friggin’ eat? We go into “Marie’s”. Looks like a nice little cafe-restaurant. Hopefully some home-made Euro food. It’s crowded, but not full; I see a few empty tables. They’re just not next to each other. I go over to the proprietress; maybe it’s sweet Marie herself. “Do you mind if we put those two tables together for the four of us?” She shoots the four of us a hostile look. “Well, yes, I do mind. You can’t move the tables.” Is it because my restaurant mates are all 5 feet tall and brown skinned in this entirely touro white-haired town? Or is it just because “Marie”, or her uncooperative manager, simply doesn’t want our business? No matter. We leave.
Not a good start to our “in Bruges” escapade. Now all three of my companion Dillingers have a bad attitude, amplified by Marie’s lack of hospitality… their growing hunger… and the rain. They have mean, rain-challenged looks on their pusses. Maybe we’ll rob a bank. Or take down this little refurbished hotel. Me? I’m not too bad. Rather unusual, for me of the big mouth and the frequent complaints. But… after some more false starts… and a conservatively-conscious decision not to get ourselves arrested… find a place we do… a modest-looking Belge coffee shop on the outskirts of the old town. Then… with a little luck and some deliciously-made French onion soup avec un perfect crust, along with some tasty quiche Lorraine and some gloriously-made Euro espressos and cappuccinos, our lunch goes a long way to satiate our hunger and prepare us for the afternoon in the rain… which, if truth be told, is little more than a steady sprinkle.
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And yeah, ok, even though we’re a bunch of bad-ass outlaws, we do manage to stop off at the convenient “Information” center with the alluring “I” atop its trendy glass frontage. I get a map, grill the friendly young man at the information counter, and am quickly overwhelmed by the responsibility of guiding the gang thru the maze of streets. “Yo, Dave,” I say as charmingly and helplessly as possible, “why don’t you speak to this guy? Here’s the map. You’re the tour guide.” Dave, short, compact, and as accommodating as a brother in law might ever be, accepts my cowardly and lazy acquiescence of leadership and… off we go… “in Bruges”. Out into the rain… with two flimsy umbrellas Dave has found in his Audi.
Within about 60 seconds, both the umbrellas have been completely inverted and destroyed by the wind. We toss them into the nearest trash can and carry on… out into the rain… umbrella-less. Like I said, we’re bad-asses.
“In Bruges”. What can I say? Its most famous landmark is its 13th-century belfry housing a municipal carillon comprising 48 bells. Unfortunately, it seems that we’ve missed the tintanambulent chorus of bells in today’s rain. But we do cruise Da Provinciaal Hof, ie. city hall, tip toe between the rain drops along many of the wide and beautiful canals at Rozenhoedkaai and Groenerei , snap endless photos for our badass Facebook accounts, and we do enter the immaculate Church of Our Lady, whose sculpture “Madonna and Child” is believed to be Michelangelo’s only sculpture to have left Italy within his lifetime. I want to soak up the quiet and beauty of the exquisite church, but the other Dillingers are impatient. The rain is coming down harder. In fact in sheets. What else can we do in the deluge? Go to the commercial chocolate-making and cheese-making factories? Da wife and I have already done that in Switzerland. How many cheeses and chocolates can we bring back as gifts?
We do the only thing bad-ass tourists on a rainy day “in Bruges” can do… retire to an entirely gentrified and refurbished wine and pastry shop. We pick the one right in front of us, and within five minutes it’s packed with other rain-soaked tourists, bad-assed and otherwise. “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em”, right? Isn’t that what Jesse James, Billy the Kid, and even John Dillinger himself did? “To live outside the law you must be honest?” Bob Dylan said that. “When ‘in Bruges’, do what the Brugers do.” I said that. And so we do. Join and drink. And Drink. And drink some more. Red wine. White wine. Belge wine. Local Bruges wine. We drink. Except for Dillinger Dave himself. No drinking. He’s driving. Because like I said before, he’s nothing if not a responsible and law-abiding, inlaw-outlaw. Soon…. the wine and the company… seem to slow down the rain, making the historical town even more magical than it might be on a fair-weathered day. We sit back and surrender to our circumstances… “magical tourism”, something akin to Garcia Marquez’ infamous South American “magical realism”, an ocean and a continent away. Hey, even bad-ass outlaws sometimes have to accept the simple facts of life… and nature.
The rain slows to a drizzle, and we and the rest of the bad-assed and otherwise, tourists, slide out into the rain-slicked town. We take the long and winding road back, get more than a little lost on foot, and enjoy the sunset over the medieval belfry, which still insists on withholding its carillon call of tintanambulent bells. Finally, Dave herds the softened and inebriated clan into the Audi and chauffeurs us slowly home to Rotterdam… but not without…. stopping off in Breda, the little Dutch town just across the Belge-Nederlands border… for a first class and authentic rijstaffel dinner, my first.
It’s colorful, sprawling, and way too much to eat…
…but it’s delicious… and… unfortunately served by a cranky, leather-faced Dutch (or Indonesian) waiter… who asks the Dillingers “where’s the boulay‘s from?” (That’s me, the Dutch gringo). Upon hearing I’m “from LA”, the dude snaps rudely in Dutch, or maybe Indonesian, “I don’t much like Americans. They’re cheap.”
What the…? Be double beware, dude! You don’t know who you’re fucking with. In the beat of an eye, my Batak wife (toughest tribe in Sumatra) takes hardcore offense and comes to my rescue by cursing out the waiter in animated Batak “lionese”. (How do you say “motherfucker” in Indonesian?) And… by asking the poor and lovely Balinese restaurant owner… “to get someone else to fucking serve us.”
Now there…. I told you… and Colin Farrell… once a bad ass, always a bad ass.
