Holland, Belgium, and Luxembourg (ie. The Low Countries)

Holland, Belgium, and Luxembourg (ie. The Low Countries)

In this episode, Ryan…

-takes a sip of Amsterdam’s liberal culture

-gets lost in a Luxembourgeois fortress dungeon

-gorges on chocolate in Belgium

Holland (aka That Nether Region)

Holland is one of those places in the world with different names that sound nothing a like. Some people call it Holland, some The Netherlands, some the Low Countries, and the people are called Dutch, which makes it seem like they be from Germany or somewhere (by the way, don’t call them Germans). I find the term Netherlands sounds particularly interesting, as if you just “lands” to “world,” Holland suddenly becomes the Netherworld, or if you change it to “regions,”the Nether Regions. In other words, using a simply geographic wordplay, I can turn this country into the realm of the afterlife—where demons and vampires walk among the cursed dead—or I can make it a slang term for private parts. Both ideas are probably appropriate descriptions of Amsterdam.

Of course, the walking zombies in Amsterdam, generally wear oversized backpacks and speak with American or Australian drunken accents (you can tell them by their mating call “AmsterDAMN….”. Like Prague (and I’m thinking every major European city during the summer), Amsterdam is flooded with tourists while the locals escape to the suburbs. I actually stayed just outside of Amsterdam, in a neighbouring commuter town called Zwanenburg, home of the International Airport, noticeably different from the Amsterdam Centraal.

One thing I should say about the Dutch language, it is likely the closest foreign language to English that I have encountered (not that I understand it any better). Like a cross between English and German, written Dutch often appears like misspelled English (like “Centraal” or “Appel,” or “Nederlands.”)

Anyways, Amsterdam. Yeah, to be honest I found this city a tad tiring… as once you see all the prostitutes, marijuana “coffeeshops,” and the Anne Frank House (an odd combination package if ever there was one, “let’s screw some hookers, smoke some dope, and maintain a solemn vigil of one of the worst genocides in human history.”), its basically just museum after museum of Van Gogh or Rembrandt paintings, which are all fine and good, but they don’t look that much different than the image you saw in your guidebook and can give you a headache after the first couple hundred.

In Amsterdam, I met up with an old friend of mine from Shanghai named Phoenix. Now Phoenix has been living in Holland for over a year now, but she still got ridiculously excited about the Red Light District (why do so many girls get like this?). For me, it just felt like a strip show on the street, no big deal really and the girls weren’t really striking a chord… but for Phoenix, not sure what’s going on there. Some people are embarrassed to say they’ve been to the Red Light District in Amsterdam, but unless you somehow manage to spend all your time in art galleries and get to them through subterranean tunnelling, I don’t really know how you can avoid it. It’s right outside the train station, and takes up half the old city.

Even if you somehow miss the Red Light District, you’re bound to hit that other pillar of liberal Amsterdam culture, that is to say “the marijuana shops,” innocently dubbed “coffee shops.” Here I made my attempted venture into Amsterdam’s freedoms, (I was only there a short time, so I couldn’t do anything terribly exciting as I had to catch a train), so I tried to order a glass of Absinthe, the famed bright green intoxicant that allegedly ruined Vincent Van Gogh, driving him ultimately to his ear-slitting descent into depression. Good times.

Oddly, liberal as Amsterdam is, I had a helluva time finding this drink. The coffeeshops are literally overflowing with fumes of the Mexican brown, but serve alcohol…? That’s illegal.

Even the pubs didn’t have it. I went to one place near the Red Light District (like everything else in Amsterdam) that was hidden in an alleyway beside a canal. It said on the sign it had been running the taps there since 1647, so I imagined it had been tucked away so as to avoid problems with the local authorities. Anyway, liberal times or not, it was still closing at 10 pm on a Saturday, so we drank a couple glasses of half and halfs in the alleyway and went on our way.

Finally though, I found a pub named “Absinthe” and I’m like “If this damn place, doesn’t have it, I give up.” Opening conventiently at 10 pm, it did indeed have the green monster. Phoenix didn’t want any, and we needed to catch a train in half and hour, so I basically just chugged down a glass of the wormwood wine—tasting like ouzuo (a Greek liqueur, something like black licorice) with a hint of hemp. There was a heavy alcohol content, and I got a slight buzz, but other than that it seemed to be a rather docile drink despite the reputation.

So that in a nutshell, was Amsterdam. I means its not a bad city, got lots of canals, but really the tourist-ness can be a bit much (finding accommodation is difficult and there’s line-ups everywhere). Also, a lot of people, street performers in particular had horrendous egos and attitudes, spending half an hour talking about how we all better give them 5 Euros each for them to juggle flames for 30 seconds. I mean I understand it takes a serious effort and lots of training, and there is some risk involved, but no one does this kind of thing unless they love it and if you’re doing it just for the money, you’ve picked the wrong profession (maybe you should consider accounting).

That said, I did enjoy some other cities I stayed in Amsterdam, places like Rotterdam and Den Haag (The Hague, a colorful name for the Dutch Queen’s hometown if you think about it) provided a much more personal connection with the everyday Dutchman (or Dutchwoman).Leiden, a small university town near Den Haag, has just as many canals as Amsterdam, and frankly they’re more beautiful here (and less overwhelmed with drunks), while Delft is a great place if you like blue china sets, although they also had interesting museums on William of Orange (the guy who liberated Holland from Spain so many years ago) and the former Dutch colony of Indonesia. I also met a few new friends in this part of Holland, including an Argentinian roller-hockey player, a pianist from Szechuan, and a Dutch beach volleyball squad. Probably one of the coolest things I heard about Holland—which unfortunately I only heard about it after it was too late to see it—was that in order to combat global warming’s rising sea levels (somewhat of a problem for a nation with hundreds of hectares below sea level), the Dutchave apparently developed floating cities, complete with buildings and floating roads you can drive cars on. It’s like something out of a grossly over budget Kevin Costner sci fi film, yet here it is in the land of windmills and gay marriage (the originals). Intriguing, eh?

Now though, I’m on a bus to Belgium, to meet up with an old high school friend (who came to Canada back then on exchange, and I haven’t seen him since). We’ll see how this goes.

Luxembourg

Considered to be the biggest of Europe’s mini-nations, Luxembourg basically—and barely—survived the centuries by being a giant fortress on a hill surrounded by canyons. The old city is still perched upon this hill, and even today—with modern roads and expressways cutting through—its an impending place to march into… even if its only for tourism purposes.

In Luxembourg city (yes, there is more than one city in this country) the mixture of rugged landscape, ruined fortifications, and late colonial age European architectural development makes for a rather picturesque town, though its recommended you don’t stay around the train station. These days though, there are many uber-modern structures as well, as the city which once secured its existence by becoming a military stronghold now secures its existence by being a financial stronghold. Banks a plenty dominate the streets (no problem finding an ATM), and many wealthy folks in fancy suits waunder the streets (or at least waunder to their waiting BMW).

I went to Luxembourg with my Belgian friend Gilles, the day after arriving in Belgium. I was still rather tired from the journey from Holland, but Gilles having never visited Luxembourg (despite it being 3 hours from his home in Liege, Belgium) was eager to see what was there. So away we went.

Like I said, Luxembourg’s top selling point in my opinion—I’m sure the bankers have an alternate one—is the beauty of the old town and fortress perched upon a hill and surrounded by decaying fortifications. This place has been fought over so often, that I don’t know any European power that hasn’t conquered Luxembourg at some point (except maybe Liechtenstein). Gilles and I explored the most famous remaining fortifications, the Spanish Bock Casemates (built to guard the entrance to town during the early colonial period when Luxembourg fell under Spanish rule). Basically they are seemingly never-ending series of caverns carved into the rock cliff—with occasional openings for cannons. Even with the modern electrical lighting installed and in broad daylight the place was darker than the heart of a foreclosure specialist, which makes me wonder what it must have been like in days of only torchlight. Also, many of the caverns lead different directions, branch off many times, and go up and down random staircases meaning it is very easy to get lost. I know, I did.

After escaping the Bock Casemates, we walked around the old town for a bit, and checked out the Luxembourg City Museum (Which had interesting exhibits on Luxembourg during Medieval times, under Nazi Occupation, and the treatment of “gypsies” in Europe. There was also an exhibit on plumbing, but I found it less interesting for some reason. The décor of the museum, which was built on a cliff face of the old town, was a mix of rocks rising up high and the type of new-smelling fancy wood paneling that only a world banking capital could afford.

Belgium

Now, I did spend some time in Belgium itself, a few days in fact. Basically, these were spent between 3 places, Liege (the largest city in Wallonia, French-speaking Belgium, and the hometown of Gilles), Brussels/Bruxelles (the largest city in Belgium and the capital of the EU), and the Ardennes (a forested region in the southeast corner of Belgium).

Liege was described in my book as an “industrial town,” but for an industrial town, it still has some rather attractive neighbourhoods and buildings. Unlike many parts of Holland and Belgium, it also has hills and—dare I say—dynamic landscapes. It generally rains a lot there—or at least it did while I was there—but then so does all of Belgium, being so close to Britain and all. Gilles showed some of the bars and sights around town, we even had a drink called “Pekinte” or something, and his family cooked this absolutely excellent dish which involved chicken wrapped in pork with mozzarella cheese inside, all seasoned with sage leaves and wrapped in baking parchment. Good stuff.

Gilles’ family was interesting, especially his mother who couldn’t speak English, but wouldn’t hesitate to bombard me with a storm of French. She’d constantly ask “Est-ce tu’apris ce nourriture?” and talk about how in Europe you have to appreciate quality of foods, while she criticized the North American tradition of speed and convenience. She even insisted on quality when it came to laundry, suggesting that I must hang my clothes instead of using a dryer because of the “bon odeur.” I laughed, and told her when it came to my stinky old backpack “bon odeur” was the last thing I was worried about.

Gilles though seemed to want to show me outside of Liege more than inside, though, so we spent little time there (Liege is said to be an ugly industrial city, but from what I saw of it, its actually quite nice). The first day we went to Luxembourg, as mentioned earlier, but we also went to Brussels the next day, and he was talking about even taking me back into Holland before I insisted on at least seeing some part of Wallonia, the most celebrated Ardennes Forest. But first we went to Brussels, whose culinary traditions have given us Belgian beer (yay), Belgian chocolate (double yay!), and the Brussel Sprout (not so yay, surprisingly there is little tourism advertising this cultural gem).

As the capital of the European Union (being sandwiched between a variety of surrounding European powers), Brussels is a fairly attractive if rainy city. The old town and palace are among the nicest to observe. Watch your pockets like a hawk though. Gilles really wanted to see the palace, and while we there his sister called. At this point, a series of old gypsy women (in Europe, no one calls them Roma) surrounded us and started asking us for money. Now I don’t mean to generalize or perpetuate a stereotype, but this was exactly the thing I was warned about in Prague and other places (basically a beggar, often a poor old woman with a child, will be insistent about asking for money, while another sneaks behind you relieves you of your wallet) so I panicked and immediately shoved my hands into my pockets where all my valuables were and desperately tried to get Gilles—distracted by the phone call—to move on to a different street. Finally, I convinced him to move and we lost the gypsy women, and I felt like a dirtbag for presuming them to be pickpockets based on what Europeans had told me, but as it turns out there was now a gash in my pants by my right back pocket—that was too straight cut to have come from a tear—so it appears unfortunately that the stereotype was right in these circumstances. I never even felt the tear in my pants and only realized it after Gilles told me “’ere is a ‘ole in your pants.” As a rule, I never keep valuables in my back pockets because (A) they’re easier to steal from there and (B) you have to sit on them all the time, and that’s uncomfortable. So luckily the only thing lost out of the experience was a pair of pants, although it was shocking that they were able to make such a cut without my knowledge. As for the Roma people themselves, I’m sure there are plenty that don’t resort to pick-pocketing to compensate for their marginal position within European society—the “untrustworthy pickpocket” stereotype definitely doesn’t help with that, but as a rule if you see anyone, Roma, gypsy, or whatever, being too aggressive in trying to get your attention (this was the same problem with many Chinese peddlers in China) say “No” or nothing, keep track of your valuables and move around, and just get out of there as quickly as you can. While I lost little this time, I know plenty of travelers who have lost much more.

That said, it wasn’t just pickpockets in Brussels. We also saw an intriguing museum on bande dessinee (French language comic strips, think Tintin), and tried Belgian waffles (which in Belgium are more an afternoon snack than a breakfast food) and of course Belgian chocolate. According to my Lonely Planet, there was Belgium’s original praline shop in this old 1875 covered shopping arcade, so we checked it out, and I got many treat filled with caramel, orange bitter, cocoa, and whatever else I could taste. It seems in Belgium, however, praline just means chocolate, so chocolate I had.

The national symbol of Belgium—for some inexplicable reason—is a statue of young boy pissing into a fountain (Manneken Pis). The statue is less than a foot tall and sits on a non-descript fountain that you can easily walk past without noticing, but the entire neighbourhood is surrounding by Manneken inspired chocolatiers, souvenir shops, and other trappings of a thriving tourism industry drowning out the original reason for their presence there. In another part of the old town, in a less descript alley near the butcher’s market, there is Brussel’s attempt at gender parity in Jeanneken Pis, a statue of a young girl in pigtails pissing into a fountain. What can I say, with over 900 types of beer widely available, Belgians really know how to urinate.

On the last day, basically on my insistence on not venturing so far away for the 5^th day in a row, we ventured into the Ardennes, Belgium’s famed natural region. Know the English word “spa?” It was named after the city of Spa in this region, where there are hot springs and well medieval “spas.” While most of the hiking trails were clogged with water from the recent rainfalls, Gilles did know of one place where they wooden planks so the trail was slightly less swampy. The landscape was something comparable to Riding Mountain in Manitoba—not overly tall, but beautiful nonetheless, but with more human activity around and therefore less animals—although we did see a couple of salamanders or lizards, which Gilles called “lezars.”

Now though, I’m on a train to Switzerland, and I’m sure there will be plenty of hiking and landscape to see there. Talk to you soon.