Time for another adventure!

It’s been a while. My last adventure, I suppose, was as a tour leader for Trek America in the summer of 2004. Had a great time, saw parts of the US I’ve never seen before and some parts I’m sure I’ll never see again. The last real trip I took was to London, for New Year’s 2003, to visit Victoria, an English girl I met in New Zealand in 2000 and someone who I’ve become pretty close with over the years.

For some time now, Victoria has been bugging me to come out there again. Sometime in November, I decided that I would not only make the trip, but that we would make a little European vacation out of it. Vic and I budgeted 10 days, so we started looking for the most convenient and affordable combination of cities that we could hit, using London as our starting and stopping point.

We decided on a circuit that would take us by train to Paris, by train to Amsterdam, and by ferry and train back to London. While we originally planned to drive everywhere, but the ridiculous price of gasoline over there, the growing impression that cars are generally unwelcome in big European cities, and the reassurance that trains and buses are the most convenient and affordable ways to get around Europe meant that the car was probably not a good idea. Within cities, we’ll mostly get around on foot, and between cities on high-speed rail.

Then I had to figure out what I was going to do when I got there. There’s no shortage of places to go in that part of the world, so the first thing we had to do was decide what we wanted to see. How much could I feasibly do in 10 days? London, Paris, Amsterdam? Was that too ambitious? After consulting with my Dad, a co-worker, and others who had taken similar trips, our itinerary seemed doable.

Then we had to figure out where we’d be staying. Instead of bouncing between hostels, we decided to splurge a little and book rooms at reasonably priced hotels. Vic found a place in Paris, but Amsterdam was a pain to book. Not sure if it was New Year’s or if it’s normally a pain, but prices for accommodation were through the roof and availability was scant. Hostels have apparently become unionized, with each of them requiring a stay (or at least a payment) of at least 5 days. We ended up booking a hotel near the airport. I hope it’s not too far away from the city. And if European airports are anything like American airports, I hope it’s not too sketchy.

Then we had to figure out how to get around. While you can pretty much cover the US with Amtrak and Greyhound, there is no standard way to cover Europe. There’s an unfamiliar selection of planes, trains, buses, subways, and rail passes.

Then you have the currency exchange. Then you have the shoddy, often poorly translated web sites that are not always up-to-date. Then you have the 5-hour time difference you have to negotiate with your travel partner when the best trains and hotels are being booked up and prices are going up every minute. Trying to coordinate these bookings while simultaneously being insanely busy with work has made the last couple of weeks pretty stressful.

Booking all the components of this trip was no easy task, and as we got closer to New Year's, prices for everything were ticking upward a few dollars every day. I finally bit the bullet and bought my plane ticket to London.

In the end, we have a pretty sweet trip lined up. I’m excited for Paris and Amsterdam, but I’d also like to get to the famous beaches in Normandy where Allied forces stormed the beaches in WWII (see Saving Private Ryan) and the Dutch countryside where my ancestors are from (see my family tree).

So what am I going to do differently on this trip? Not much. I’ve traveled enough to know what I need and how to pack. This biggest difference will be my new digital camera. Having dabbled with digital cameras for the last couple of years, I’ve come to appreciate their convenience. No longer will I have to worry about running out of film in remote locations, x-rays damaging unprocessed rolls, or negatives being lost in the mail. I’ve got my laptop, a card reader, and the new Nikon D80. I’m the tourist you want to rob.

Like I did when I went to Australia, I’ve tried to stay “ignorant” about the places I’m going. Everyone knows that the French hate Americans and that the Red Light District is awesome, but I think there’s a certain value in not learning too much about the places you’re going to so that you experience these places with a fresh, unbiased set of eyes. In my mind, truly discovering places is better than comparing them to any preconceived notions you may have developed growing up or any last-minute biases you may have absorbed from overly opinionated travel shows or destination guides. You don't want to know what a movie is about before you go and see it. Experiences are best when they are genuine.

There is some value to guidebooks, though. It’s important to get the basics, to know what you need to know (you may not know what you need to know) about each destination, and it’s nice to make a simple list of all of the can’t-miss attractions at each stop. It’s also a good idea to plan out a large-scale itinerary so that you can maximize the little time you have at each stop. Just lay out the skeleton of your trip, and build up the meat when you actually get out there.

I’ve been pretty faithful to Lonely Planet. They’re always easy to find, and they seem to give you a pretty good overview of cities and countries. But while researching this trip, I found Rick Steves’ travel web site and was blown away. Information about Europe is well-organized, insightful, practical, and fun to read. Before getting on the plane, I picked up a copy of Rick Steves’ Best of Europe 2007. I’ve skimmed the first few pages, and it already seems like it might be more helpful than the more generic Lonely Planet.

Up to this point, I’d say I’ve done a good job of staying ignorant. Having grown up in Montreal, France will probably be at least mildly familiar. But aside from the Normandy invasion, Napolean, the Eiffel Tower, and the fact that they hate Americans, I don’t know much else about it. The only thing I know about Belgium is that Jean-Claude Van Damme is from there. And the Netherlands? Despite my Dutch heritage, I don’t know much about the place. I’m pretty excited to be going there for the first time.

I'm also looking forward to hitting the road with Vic again. Forthe most part, she has been a good travel partner for me, and I'm prety excited about sharing all of these experiences with her. On one of my visits to England, she wasuncomfortably preoccupied with a boy she had been seeing on New Year's Eve. Before committing to this trip, I made sure there that we get any "issues" out of the way before I come out there, as I wanted this whole trip to be about me and her and no one else. She reassured me that she would be on her best behavior.

And I’m going to be journaling again. I really enjoyed keeping journals on my previous trips, especially because reading them now brings back so many memories in such vivid detail that it’s almost like I’m taking the trip again. I’ve noticed that the key is the details. They make it real and trigger the memories many years down the road. If you don’t record the details as you experience them, they are lost forever.

I also like to share my writing and photos with others. I try to share my experience with them. On previous trips, I was amazed at the thanks I got from family, friends, and complete strangers for allowing them to “live vicariously” through me. I don’t get away as much as I’d like, but I must be getting away more than most people. It seems like my travelogues are the only escape that some of these people have.

So here I am at the gate in DC, ready to board my flight to JFK, where I will catch a connection to Heathrow. It’s been a circus here at the airport. I wasn’t surprised by the wait to check in as it’s the holiday season. But after getting to my gate, I discovered that the plane that was supposed to take me to Raleigh-Durham wasn’t going to be showing up for a while, so the lady at the desk said that all passengers on my flight had to go back to the ticket desk to get rebooked on another flight. So back I went.

The roof inside Washington's Reagan National Airport.

I would expect an airline that F’s up your travel plans would have the courtesy to avoid having you wait in the same long line that you waited in the first time. But I was wrong. The friendly customer service representative told me that I had to wait in the same line. Where was my bag? Was it being put onto another plane? Was it sitting on the tarmac?

Finally, I get to the ticket counter. The lady there books me the “last seat” on a flight to Heathrow (“You got lucky!” she says) and tells me to collect my bag in baggage claim so that it can be retagged for my new flight.

So I’ve done a figure-eight around the airport, and now I’m at Gate 33. I’m camped out behind one of those makeshift restaurant kiosks, this one labeled “Pizzeria Uno.” As I type, the smell of hot garbage is gently wafting up to my face. Why is it that the backs of things always smell bad?


New York’s JFK Airport is either being renovated or was designed by M.C. Escher. I had a helluva time finding my way from my arrival gate to Terminal 8, Gate 8. The signage abruptly stops, and the maze of walkways and corridors that you find yourself meandering through leaves you wondering if you’re even in the right airport anymore.

Terminal 8 is the international terminal for JFK. It has a decidedly different smell than the rest of the airport. Let’s just say that the smell is “multi-cultural.” The crowd of people filling the seats at the gate for the flight to London was different, too. Decidedly white, and although I couldn’t quite pin it down, they just didn’t look American. Different expressions or something. I think Americans carry themselves with a strange, schizophrenic combination of smugness (Look at me!) and paranoia (Why are you looking at me?), while Brits are generally a bit more unassuming and chilled out.

On the plane now at JFK, about to depart for London. It’s been a long time since I’ve been on a plane this big, probably not since I first went down to Australia. It’s a Boeing 777. My “lucky” seat is 41D, in the middle bank of seats, with an aisle on either side of me. I’m in a row of 4 seats, but, curiously, there are rows of 5 seats in front of me all the way to the front of the cabin. This means that I get a bit more wiggle room in my seat and that I have a perfect line of sight between seats all the way to the front of the cabin, where a monitor alternates between a map charting our route over the Atlantic, figures like the distance to our destination (3445 miles) and temperature outside (55° F) , and a big fat no smoking sign.

It’s probably best if I try to sleep. If not, I can write off my first day in London.


It’s amazing how a plane that big can fly. We topped out at 591 mph and bottomed out at -81° F.

American Airlines lost my bag. The baggage lady at Heathrow took some details down and helped me fill out a form, but somehow I just knew my bag was gone. How often to lost bags turn up? Seriously. Most of the time? Never? Shame, since I had recently gone on a rare shopping spree and spent a small fortune at Banana Republic. Thankfully, my computer and camera equipment are in the ridiculously heavy backpack I keep with me.

Vic was at the airport to greet me. Wonderful to see her again. She hasn’t changed a bit.

Knowing that we were leaving for Europe in a couple of days and that I had no other clothes, we decided to stop at Tesco, the English equivalent of Wal-Mart, to buy a new wardrobe. Actually found some nice stuff.

Then we went home to her place, relaxed for a little while, and had some Greek leftovers (Vic’s Dad is Greek). Vic was busy with a family on Christmas Day, so I arranged to borrow her car and drive to the south coast to visit Anthony, another old friend I first met in New Zealand.

I prepared myself for the journey as adequately as I could, with Google maps charting my route and an English road atlas just in case. Driving on the left wasn’t so bad, but driving on the right side of the car was pretty tricky. I often found myself drifting over to the left side of the lane on the motorway, and I’d occasionally brush up against the curb when I made left turns. The trickiest thing was negotiating my way through narrow streets when there are cars parked on the left and traffic coming at you on the right. It’s hard to get a sense of where the left side of the car really is, so all you can do is aim for the middle and hope for the best.

Out with Anthony in East Preston.

The journey was 85 miles, and mostly a straight shot, but things got a bit hairy around Brighton. The combination of unclear directions from Google maps, a lack of detail on the atlas, darkness, and inadequate signage meant that I got lost and had to make several illegal cell phone-while-driving calls to Anthony to find my way. I finally got there, went to the local pub, and proceeded to drink my face off with Anthony. He introduced me to all of his friends as “the guy from Texas” and I was a minor celebrity

Pevensey Castle, build by the Romans around 290 AD.

Pevensey Castle.

Woke up the next morning to drive to Bexhill, or more precisely, Bexhill-on-sea, a small coastal town and retirement community east of Brighton, to spend Christmas with Anthony's family. On the way, we passed Pevensey Castle, built in 290 AD by the Romans.

The Bexhill neighborhood where I had Christmas dinner with Anthony's family.

Once we arrived, we sat around and talked and opened presents and put up with Anthony's farting. Dinner featured two giant plates of carved turkey and other English assortments. Yorkshire pudding is definitely not pudding and definitely not good. After learning that I was in England to visit Victoria, an Essex girl, everyone at the table proceeded to dispense the requisite Essex girl jokes:

• Why does an Essex girl wear panties?
  To keep her ankles warm.
• Where’s the only place an Essex girl leaves footprints?
  On the windscreen (windshield).

Battle Abbey

Battle Abbey.

The drive home from Anthony’s was dark and cold. On the way home, I stopped in the quaint little town of Battle, home of Battle Abbey, the site of the Battle of Hastings in 1066. It’s where King Harold was shot in the eye and William the Conqueror's Norman army defeated the English.

Bombing along the dark roads of rural England, the yellow lights before the green lights make you feel like a race car driver, but you have to anticipate the roundabouts every couple of miles. If those don’t slow you down, the signs warning you of speed cameras will. While cresting an innocent-looking hill at a modest 45 mph, a swath of blue light filled the car. Either I was having a UFO experience a la Close Encounters of the Third Kind, or I was busted by a speed camera. Vic will find out in a month or so. On the way back, I had a better sense of where I was going, but I still got lost. Exit numbers on the motorway would be helpful.

I got home to discover that my bag had been delivered from Heathrow, so Vic and I exchanged Christmas presents. I got her a pink sweater and some pink pajamas. She got me (us) travel guides for Paris and Amsterdam. Still a bit jet-lagged, I squeezed into her ridiculously small and uncomfortable shower stall for a quick rinse and went to bed.

Boxing Day was a big family thing at Vic’s sister’s house. We crowded into the dining room to eat and then crammed into the living to drink and play games. It’s amazing how small everything is in this country. Doorways, rooms, bathrooms. Even the stairs require that you go down sideways so that you don’t loose your footing. I’m not claustrophobic, but I was getting a bit antsy.

Part of it is an effort to be energy conscious, I think. No SUVs or silly big trucks in this country. There are two buttons on the toilet (one button for a light pee, both buttons for a heavy dump), and I noticed that Vic only turns the water heater on when she’s planning to take a hot shower. Different culture.

Onboard the Eurostar train from London to Paris. The pic is blurry because a flash photo would have woken up that ugly girl.

Right now, we’re on the EuroStar train to Paris. Just left London. We used the regular rail lines through the city, and we didn’t go very fast at first, but then it picked up. You could hear the wind rushing past, the train rocked a bit more, and you could hear the engines really hustling. We’re cruising now, and it’s pretty quiet. Just a very low rumble and the occasional clack on the track when we take a turn. I can hear pretty much every conversation going on around me, and unfortunately even the portable TV someone has on at the other end of the coach is crystal clear. Vic is trying to sleep in the seat next to me. She can sleep anywhere. I wish I could do that.

Outside the window. I was watching the farmland, lightly residenced hills, and power lines of southern England zoom by when everything suddenly went black as we went into the tunnel to go under the English Channel. We must have gone up and down pretty quickly because I had to pop my ears a few times to relieve the pressure.

We just popped out on the other side. Welcome to France. Everything looks just as hilly and drab as southern England. The first building I see is a huge white barn-like thing that says “Beer & Wine” in huge black lettering in the middle of a field on the right. Time to start taking pictures.

Pretty excited about Paris. I’m hoping a bit of my French will come back. A bientot!

Getting off the Eurostar at the Paris train station.

Vic in front of one of those cool train station thingies that makes cool flipping sounds whenever a train information changes.

Our Paris home, the Hotel Champagne.

After coasting into Paris’ graffiti-covered Gare du Nord train station, Vic and I found our hotel, the Hotel Champagne, across the street. The guy at the desk spoke very little English. The room’s not bad, and we have our own bathroom. Vic and I were excited to start exploring the city.

It’s a bit scary at first, being plopped into a city without really understanding the geography and scale of the whole place. But it’s exciting at the same time. Once you get your bearings, the maps start to make a bit more sense, and it’s pretty easy to find your way around. And after all these years, I’ve become pretty confident that I can find my way no matter where I am.

The front of Notre Dame Cathedral.

The inside of Notre Dame Cathedral.

A sculpture of what's his name.

We started our official tour of Paris at Notre Dame Cathedral. Nice, but nothing special after touring the cathedrals of England. Then Vic decided that she urgently needed a hair dryer, so we walked into the Latin Quarter and through a couple of department stores to find one.

Walking the streets, traffic noise and international chatter are punctuated by the famous duotone sirens of European police cars. Lots of beautiful women. The city itself is pretty dull and gray, and the skies are gray and cold to match. Paris must be nicer in the summer.

Needed to take a piss in Paris. Went into a restaurant to use their bathroom, and this is what I found. Glad all I had to do was piss...

Vic on the Seine. That's Ile St. Louis behind her, one of the oldest parts of Paris.

Old French buildings along the Seine.

Paris is really a tourist haven, and it makes the whole experience seem a bit less authentic. Most of the tourist attractions have English signs, and our restaurant had English on the menu. I hear English-speaking tourists waiting in line at the attractions and behind me on the subway. But there is always French. A lot of the basic traffic signage and public postings I recognize from Montreal, and I’m able to figure out most of the rest. I’m making an extra effort to speak French whenever I can, to hotel staff, ticket vendors, waiters, and strangers, in the hopes that it will bring some of the authenticity back.

The Seine at night, and my first glimpse of the Eiffel Tower.

After having a dinner at a restaurant on the river, we took a cruise down the Seine as far down as the Eiffel Tower, which was beautifully illuminated.

Tomorrow’s a pretty big day, with the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, other famous Paris attractions, and a cabaret/sex show (if Vic says yes).

  I’ve realized it’s impossible to keep an honest and emotionally accurate online journal when you’re traveling with someone you care about. There are things that happen along the way that might not be appropriate to share. While writing all of my journals, especially this one, there have been things I have been reluctant to write about because doing so might hurt someone’s feelings.

So I’m at a literary crossroads. At this point, I could either a) stop journaling, b) travel alone from now on, c) make my writing a lot less personal to accommodate the feelings of anyone who might read it, d) write about my most personal thoughts and observations and just restrict certain people from seeing it, or e) keep my journalistic integrity and alienate people I care about. For now, I’m going to let it all out. I’m not going to worry about who might read this right now. I’ll figure that out later.

Entrance to the Louvre.

Looking up through the pyramid.

Venus de Milo, inside the Louvre.

One of the exuisitely decorated rooms in the Louvre. No photography was allowed in this one. I got busted.

Men had issues in ancient Greece, too.

Yesterday was a busy day. Went to the Louvre in the morning. Pretty amazing building. You could spend all day in there if you really appreciate art. Thank goodness I don’t really appreciate art. I visited the Venus de Milo and the Mona Lisa, browsed the collection of Greek and Roman sculpture, walked through a few other rooms with some enormous paintings, and watched Vic send text messages to her friends back home. Like most of the attractions we’ve been to, it was pretty crowded, and not everyone is courteous. A lot of pushing and cutting in line. I hate that.

Then we went for a stroll down the Champs Elysees, which has become nothing more than a broad city street lined with shops and restaurants, with cool buildings on either end. Again, the skies were gray and dull, and it was uncomfortably cold. We finally made it to L’Arc de Triomphe, snapped a few pictures, and then took a metro to the Eiffel Tower.

L'Arc de Triomphe, an interesting historical spot and much taller than I thought. That's a seriously small car in front if it.

Under it.

Various plaques marking the historical procession of various armies through L'Arc de Triomphe.

Looking up.

Eiffel Tower

Emerging from the metro, there it was, illuminated in the twilight. I paused for a moment to soak it all in and take some pictures. I wanted to go up, but Vic demanded dinner. We stopped at a café in Trocadero Square and had a mediocre, overpriced meal. Curious if French fries tasted the same here as they do at home, I ordered some with my meal. They do. Vic told me that if I wanted to go up the Eiffel Tower, I could do it alone. She was cold and wanted to go back to the room.

Silently, I was a bit taken aback. The most romantic place in the world is the top of the Eiffel Tower. After all these years, after making all these efforts to see her, after sticking a toe in time and time again to make sure this relationship still had potential, she didn’t want to go up the Eiffel Tower with me. Sure, she had been to Paris before, and she had gone up the Eiffel Tower before, but never with me. This was a defining moment.

Fair enough. I told Vic that I would meet her back at the room later. She knew there would be a line and that it might be a while, but we arranged to go to a show after I got back later that evening.

The Eiffel Tower is enormous, and you don’t realize how complicated the construction is until you take an elevator up one of the shafts and see metal girders crisscrossing all the way up. Because of the fog, the top was closed and I could only go up to the second level. Most of the scenery was obscured by the night fog, but the Eiffel Tower itself as I looked back up into it from the observation deck was pretty amazing. After taking a zillion pictures, I headed back down. I dropped my wallet on one of the corrugated iron walkways but found it a few moments later. Lucky.

Eiffel Tower

Eiffel Tower

Looking up into the Eiffel Tower from the ground.

Eiffel Tower

The insides of the Eiffel Tower.

While leaving the Eiffel Tower to find a metro station, I turned around to find this pond and ominous looking tree.

At the bottom and all around the Eiffel Tower, there must have been 50 guys all selling the same ugly, blinking, miniature Eiffel Tower souvenirs. They almost outnumbered the tourists, hovering around them 2 or 3 at a time, asking over and over again if they wanted to buy one. Does that really work? Do they sell more that way?

When I finally got back to the room, Vic seemed mildly happy to see me, but I could tell there was something wrong. We had talked about going to a sex show, and it was probably too late to book one, so I figured she was a bit disappointed that I had taken so long. I was upset, too, but there was nothing I could do about it. I wanted to see the Eiffel Tower.

After showering and changing, Vic says she is disappointed that I took so long but is particularly upset that I didn’t apologize for taking so long. After I offered a post-apology and explained that I went as quickly as I could and couldn’t help it, she got even more upset.

Did she apologize for abandoning me at the Eiffel Tower? Did she apologize for using my cell phone, using most of my battery and 20 minutes at $3/minute, to talk to her cell phone provider so that she could figure out how to text message her friends from France? Did she apologize for using the only outlet we have in the room to run the hair dryer as a heater because she thinks the room is cold? Did she apologize for being cold and not letting me touch her when we slept? Did she apologize for getting me Christmas presents (travel guides) that she has used more than me? Did she apologize for coming to New York a few months ago and making things as inconvenient as possible for me to come visit her? She didn’t apologize for any of those things, and all of them were under her control. I even managed to find a way to enjoy myself in England on Christmas Day after being told I wasn’t welcome to spend it with their family. I have not been selfish with her.

Now, I was upset. But I stopped myself from saying anything. It was still early in the trip, and despite the fact that I really wanted to start an argument, I didn’t want to risk ruining the rest of the trip. So I bit my lip. There was tension in the air, but I figured that the trip would fare better with bit of tension than with me winning an argument.

Since Vic had chosen to sulk rather than find an alternative activity while she waited for me in the hotel room, we went downstairs to ask the guy at the desk where we could go. Even if he spoke English, he would have been useless, so I just picked a place out of my travel guide called Andy Wahloo’s, a “local favorite” according to Lonely Planet. A local dive and rip-off is more like it.

Next, we went to Buddha Bar in Place Concorde. Lots of people, very noisy. Seemed like a pretty happening place. After a failed conversation in French with the bartender that almost resulted in a 140€ bottle of wine, we got a glass of wine for Vic and a rum & coke for me. 27€, and he kept the change as a tip. Are they supposed to do that here?

At the Buddha Bar with Vic.

The rum & coke came as a glass of ice with rum in it and a small glass bottle of coke. Realizing the drinks were about a dollar a sip, we paced ourselves. A guy almost knocked Vic’s wine glass out of her hands, but she recovered. After finding a table, I knocked my own drink onto myself all by myself. Vic suggested I take off my pants and squeeze the last few drops out into my mouth, and I actually thought about it. It’s really expensive to drink in this town. Anthony’s friend told me a story about how he was in Paris for New Years and spend 170 euros on 2 drinks and 2 shots. I’m starting to believe him.

Just then, the bar closed. 2am. C’est fini. Quick night, but I guess we did OK for a Wednesday.

We got back, and Vic turned on the hair dryer to warm up the room. When we went to sleep, Vic got under the covers and began feverishly texting on her phone. It was 3am. Something’s not right about that.

One of the things I really wanted to do while in France was visit the D-Day beaches in Normandy. Inspired by the movies, I thought it would be cool to stand in a place where the history of the world changed. My travel guides offered little useful information, and I’ve had no luck finding Internet access in Paris, so I took a chance and booked a train to Caen, the biggest town near Bayeux, home of a WWII museum and cemetery. Hopefully, I’d be able to get to the right museums (I think there’s one in Caen and a different one in Bayeux) and arrange for a trip to the beaches where the invasion took place.

At the moment, I’m clacking along the tracks through the northern suburbs of Paris. Looks European, I suppose. Smallish houses packed close together on smallish streets. No tall buildings anywhere. The houses are slowly giving way to rolling hills and farmland. Of course, this seat, the only available window seat in the car, wreaks of onions/body odor, two scents I do not enjoy.

Vic is not with me. Instead of coming along, she said she needed a day of relaxation and will spend the day shopping in Paris. It’s probably best that we spend a day apart. Even though we talked some things out at the bar last night, I still feel some tension in the air.

I sure hope I get to the beaches.


Another thing I’ve realized on this trip is that money really is no object when you’re traveling. Better to spend a few extra dollars to take advantage of a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity than to save a few dollars and wonder about what you missed for the rest of your life.

A turret thing in the middle of Caen.

Scary looking church in Caen.

After arriving in Caen and navigating the city trams and buses to get to the War Memorial, I discovered that I missed the once-a-day museum tour to the beaches by about 45 minutes. Discouraged, I walked up to the lady at the desk in the museum. Her name was Anne, and she spoke wonderful English. After explaining my situation, she suggested that I hire a taxi to give me an informal tour of the beaches.

The War Memorial in Caen.

Didn’t sound like a very good idea. Glancing at a local map for the first time, it became apparent that the beaches were some distance away and that a taxi would probably be pretty expensive. I was also a bit scared that a taxi would just be a taxi, with the driver silently sitting in the front seat. Nevertheless, since I had made it this far, I was determined to make it to the beaches. She gave me the prices, I booked the taxi, and I hoped for the best. Anne was immensely helpful and saved my day.

Inside the War Memorial. There's the helpful and friendly Anne helping other customers on the left.

While I was waiting for the taxi, a quick look around the War Memorial convinced me that it would have been a waste of time, anyway. Lots of pictures, video clips, maps, pretty much all the same stuff you might find in a documentary and definitely not worth a two-hour train ride.

Within ten minutes, a taxi pulled up in front of the museum. Phillippe, the driver, introduced himself in broken English. He seemed nervous but friendly. I got in the car, and we agreed on a route and price (130€) for the trip. I had pissed away most of the day in transit, so I could only afford to see the highlights before catching my train back to Paris that evening.

A house along the road near Omaha Beach.

A church near Omaha Beach. Most of these buildings survived the invasion.

The turn to Omaha Beach. Philippe was my taxi driver and tour guide.

We left Caen and cruised down the highway to the west. The friendly Phillippe and I exchanged the usual pleasantries such as where we were from, where we have traveled, etc. It became apparent that his English was about as good as my French, so we flip-flopped back and forth. It also became apparent that he really wanted to show me everything I wanted to see and that he knew a thing or two about where we were going. I noticed a bundle of semiprofessional-looking one-offs in the seat back pocket. Apparently, there are taxis that regularly offer this service to tourists.

Our first stop, at Phillippe’s suggestion, was Pointe du Hoc, an embankment that supposedly featured the most treacherous fighting of the D-Day invasion. The whole place was pockmarked with enormous craters and crumbled bunkers. They’ve left the whole area virtually untouched. While we walked around, the gray skies started to drop rain, making the whole experience seem a bit more authentic. I think the weather was crap on the day of the invasion.

The crumbled, cratered landscape of Pointe du Hoc.

A turret placement for a big freakin' gun that is no longer there.

Kids play in one of the bomb craters at Pointe du Hoc.

Lassie is unimpressed.

The actual point, looking westward.

Crumbling concrete and rusted metal everywhere. There were kids running around the whole place, into bunkers and up and down craters. I’m surprised the area hasn’t been destroyed by human traffic, particularly from kids. If this landmark was in the US, everything would be cordoned off for fear of a tetanus lawsuit.

Expecting to stay in the car at each stop, Phillippe seemed to appreciate the fact that I invited him to join me. As I walked around, Phillippe would follow me around like a dog, never straying more than one and a half steps behind, turning when I turned, stopping when I stopped.

While driving between stops, I taught Phillippe words like “snot” (it was cold out, and he was producing a lot of it) and expressions like “piece of cake” (after which everything suddenly became a piece of cake). He taught me “fingers in the nose” (which supposedly means the same thing as “piece of cake” in France). Phillippe seemed like a good guy.

Not sure why the second line refers to the "human breast."

Omaha Beach. English Channel on the left, France on the right.

On Omaha Beach. While taking this picture, it occurred to me that my Doc Martens were both German and hideously out of style.

Next, we stopped at the western end of Omaha Beach, site of the US invasion and one of the fiercest beach battles. It was high tide, so most of the beach was covered with water, but standing on the sand made my skin tingle. So much happened right there. There were hardly any tourists there. I stood on the beach by myself. It’s not the tourist draw I thought it was.

Then down the beach a bit more to an actual site where US forces came ashore. We stopped for a moment at the closed Omaha Beach Museum for some photos of the weapons decomposing in the parking lot.

Another Omaha Beach memorial.

One of the cool Omaha memorials. This one's on the beach.

The guy in the house has got a surprise waiting for him when he looks out his window.

Close-up of the tread on an American tank.

At the Omaha Beach Museum.

Our last stop was the American Cemetery. Thousands of crosses lined up in a grid, much like Arlington National Cemetery. Phillippe told me that France actually gave the property to the US as a gift, so the cemetery is actually on American soil. Interestingly, there is a German cemetery nearby as well.

American Cemetary

After chatting with Vic, I decided to catch an earlier train back to Paris so that we could catch a cabaret and hopefully make things better with Vic. So I made Phillippe rush back to Caen to catch an earlier train. And he did rush. I think a speed camera on the highway flashed him. He will know in about a month.

Philippe, my chauffeur extraordinaire.

Phillippe walked me into the train station and actually took me to my train before wishing me well and giving me his number in case I ever returned to Normandy. Tres bien!


Got home, showered, got dressed up, and headed out to the cabaret show in Paris. We chose the Crazy Dog, a supposedly famous venue near the Champs Elysees.

Things between Vic and me seemed better, but while we were in the taxi heading to the show, Vic presented me with an itemized breakdown of our travel costs and how much I owed her. She made it pretty clear that I owed her money, and it almost sounded like she was accusing me of ripping her off. Either that, or she was planning on splitting as soon as I gave her what I owed her. In any case, Vic, an accountant, got her math wrong, by the way. I owed her half as much as she claimed. And after paying for two evenings of Paris nightlife, we are more than even. I calmly explained this to her and then bit my lip again to avoid saying anything else.

At the Crazy Dog, we stood at the back of the room behind one of the many semi-circular bars which ran outward from the stage. Not the best seats, but good enough to see everything. What followed was a magical procession of amazingly beautiful girls lip-syncing to digitized playbacks of mostly English language burlesque tunes. For a gil to be sexy, I have decided, a girl must always stand on her toes and arch her back. Interspersed with the ladies were talented male magicians doing straight man and robot routines and card tricks. The combination really worked. Like most things in Paris, it as pretty expensive. But it was worth it.

We weren't allowed to take pictures inside of the Crazy Horse caberet, but I managed to sneak a few with my tiny digital camera. If this were a better picture, you would see 2 male magicians on stage.

The sexy ladies.

One more shot of the sexy ladies.

More sexy ladies, bending over their chairs.

D'oh!

Drunk at the cabaret.

While watching the naked ladies, Vic got pretty drunk, and suddenly, everything I thought or said was silly, and everything she thought or did was brilliant. Then she started criticizing my traveling philosophies and journaling. I’ve seen her get like this before. Again, I bit my lip. My lip was starting to hurt.

On the way back to the hotel, Vic got particularly amorous with a stranger she had approached for directions. Testing me, I’m sure. Back in the room, Vic decided that she would frantically pack her bags for our departure the next morning and mutter to herself for a few minutes before coming to bed.

Our Thalys train to Amsterdam.

It’s now the next day. We just left Paris and are now cruising through eastern France on the high-speed Thalys train. It’s just after 9am, and only now is it starting to get light outside. It’s raining, and the drops hitting the window at 180mph are making crackling noises next to my left ear. We might be close to Brussels by now and should be arriving in Amsterdam in an hour or two. Train announcements come over the loudspeaker in Dutch, French, German (I think), and English.

I enjoyed France. Despite Vic’s attempts to sour things, I saw some cool things and met some cool people. While a few of the French vendors and waiters were a bit impatient and seemed a bit annoyed, the ones who realized that they were making a living off of us were pretty friendly. By the end, I was becoming very enthusiastic about speaking French with them. Vic would get impatient when people didn’t understand her British English. She was either too lazy or too proud to try to speak French.

Scanning the travel guides, Amsterdam looks like it should be pretty easy to experience. Compact city center, convenient trains, and most places should be English-friendly. Everyone I’ve spoken to says it’s disgusting and that I’ll love it.


We just stopped in Brussels for a few moments. The city looks, well, European. Dull and gray, some newer, taller buildings that look like they were designed in the 70’s and 80’s with some older, smaller buildings in between. French and Dutch on the train station signage.

Getting close to Amsterdam.

On board the Thalys.

An American woman just got on board and is sitting across the aisle from me. She is speaking louder than anyone else in the coach, saying things that aren’t particularly interesting. Americans just love to hear themselves talk. It’s amazing. In fact, she just leaned over to ask, in over-enunciated “who knows what country this guy is from” English, what kind of computer this is. I just shook my head and shrugged my shoulders like I didn’t understand.

Vic spent the first part of the trip texting on her phone and giggling to herself in the seat across from me. Now, she’s trying to sleep. She’s cold, using my jacket as a blanket. I am uncomfortably warm.

The inside of Amsterdam's sweet Schipol Airport.

Conveniently, the train stopped right at Schipol (pronounced “s-(throaty sound)-IP-hall”) Airport, saving us a trip from the Amsterdam city center back out to the airport. While walking through the airport looking for our hotel, we passed a Burger King and decided to indulge. English menus, English-speaking cashiers. English is everywhere.

The view of Schipol from our hotel window.

Tasty donut things, our hotel, and an ugly minivan.

A few greasy, gassy burps later, we found our hotel, the Schipol Sheraton. This place is NICE. Spacious, new-smelling room, a little office desk, and a giant window that is more impressive than the actual view across the taxiways and gates of Schipol. Mini-fridge, entertainment center. They even have TV audio piped into the speakers in the bathroom. I was in there taking care of some secondary issues when I heard of Saddam Hussein’s hanging. It’s amazing how out of touch you can be when you’re on the road.

Vic is thrilled. She’s rightfully taking all the credit for this booking, patting herself on the shoulder with both hands and needing a third to do herself justice. But she’s more excited about the facilities at this hotel than she’s been about anything else on this trip. I became a bit concerned that she might want to hole up in the hotel, leaving me to do Amsterdam on my own.

I was right. We planned on heading into the Amsterdam city center this afternoon, but Vic just told me that she’ll probably get bored with Amsterdam after couple of hours and that she’ll head back to the hotel early, leaving me to do my own thing for the rest of the day. And she just told me that she is going to stay in the hotel all day tomorrow.

Vic has changed. She used to be a sport, she used to be fun. She used to want to get out there, try new things, take chances. And she would do it all with a big smile on her face. But not anymore. While she has always enjoyed a bit of luxury, now it takes take priority over anything else. If she had her way, she’d sit in the hotel all day long, texting her friends and eating candy. Why did she even take this trip with me?

Oh, and her opinions are absolute. It’s never “I like this!” or “I don’t like that!” It’s “This is brilliant!” or “This is crap!” And if I disagree with her, I’m just wrong. She’s become a bit more independent or something. I don’t know, maybe she’s getting impatient with our relationship. We’ve been seeing each other on and off for a few years, and maybe she’s frustrated that it hasn’t really gone anywhere.

In any case, I’m frustrated. Do I let it all out and risk a larger argument that might ruin the whole trip? Or do I keep biting my lip? I still have a couple of days left with her...


We took the train into town to meet up with Rose (an Americanized version of Roosje) and boyfriend Twan. I met Rose on Kangaroo Island in Australia and have sporadically kept in touch with her over the years. It was nice to see her again. Unfortunately, I backed up after a hug and one kiss on the cheek. Her half-lunge forward to finish the sequence was awkward and embarrassing.  In the Netherlands, it’s three kisses (left-right-left) followed by an optional hug. I believe it’s two kisses (left-right) in Quebec.

Damrak, the main thoroughfare that splits Amsterdam in half.

Rose and Twan gave us a quickie tour of the city center. Vic stuck it out, begrudgingly and silently walking with us as Rose showed us the sights. It was pretty clear to me that she would have been happier in her luxury hotel room. When I asked her if she wanted to take a boat ride through the canals (the guidebooks suggested it) while we were in Amsterdam, her response was “Nah. If you’ve done one boat ride, you’ve done them all.” When Rose suggested that we go to the free outdoor concert in Dam Square and the center of the festivities for New Year’s, Vic said she didn’t want to because it was outside and she might be cold. At this point, I was beginning to doubt that we’d do anything together for the remainder of the trip.

Amsterdam is quaint, with lots of ornate, fun-looking, and colorful buildings that offset the gray European skies a lot better than the brown and gray buildings of Paris.  It’s friendlier, happier, and more quaint than Paris. The Dutch language is fun, too. It’s like they tossed bits of German and bits of English into a hat, threw in a few extra vowels and a little French flair, and came up with Dutch. Hearing it, it’s not as harsh as German. It’s a bit more bouncy and playful.

At the flower market. The florist is sleeping standing up.

Lots of roses.

The inside of the oldest theater in the Netherlands (according to Roosje).

Roosje shows us the joys of Febo.

We stopped to listen to a magnificent pipe organ rendition of Frank Sinatra’s “Somethin’ Stupid” before going with Rose to the flower market, a tea shop, the royal palace, and the Pathé Tuchinski (the oldest cinema in the Netherlands). Vic and I ended the evening with a quick peek at the Red Light District and a trip to a sex museum. Good stuff.

Inside the Sex Museum. A man can only dream.

Just beautiful.

Now my trip is complete.

With Twan and Rose.

Tomorrow, I’m on my own. Vic is going to do some shopping in the airport and lounge around the hotel. There’s a lot in Amsterdam I still want to see, so it’s looking like I won’t get a chance to get out to Drenthe, the motherland of my Dutch ancestors. Oh well, maybe next time.


I had a pretty ambitious plan for the day. I’d start in the Red Light District, taking photos of the seediness, then make a semicircle around the city center and hit several museums along the way, ending up at the Anne Frank House on the opposite side of town.

The innocent-looking entrance to the Red Light District.

A guy checks out the merchadise in one of the back alleys of the Red Light District. In the room to the right, I saw the curtains pulled back by a woman putting clothes on.

Crazy graffitti in the Red Light District.

Everything you'd need on one corner. Sex, pot, and kebabs!

Odd-looking bookends.

I’m not a big drug user, so I didn’t really want to smoke. What I really wanted to see in the Red Light District was the prostitutes. After turning into one of the alleys, I saw the red lights, and I knew I was close. I always imagined that the Red Light District got its name from red light bulbs in fixtures in front of doorways, but the lights are actually neon, making the Red Light District feel a bit less quaint and a bit more like a cheesy 80’s movie. Under the lights were glass doors with curtains. And behind the curtains were the prostitutes. Almost all of the available ones were fat and black. If there were any good ones, they were busy behind the closed curtains.

“Coffeeshops” are the places where you can buy marijuana. They’re everywhere in the Red Light District. Walking the streets of the Red Light District, the thick stench of weed poured out of every coffeeshop doorway. Went inside a few of them. Rastafarians and dim-eyed college kids with hoodies sitting lazily at tables or lounging on couches. Marley or other pot songs like “I Smoke Two Joints” playing on some tinny speakers near the bar.

As I walked around, people looked at me like I was a narc. Somehow, I didn’t fit in. Was I not dressed right? Was it my big-ass camera? They’d get a bit funny when I took it out to take a picture. Despite the legality of everything, these people didn’t seem to want their photograph taken in there.

Then it hit me. Here I was in a coffeeshop, engulfed in weed smoke and staring at a wall-mounted menu of what must have been thirty varieties of pot. My lingering animosity towards Vic suddenly encouraged me to have a good time without her. And if there was any place in the world I was going to get high, this was it.

The coffee shop where I bought my pot brownie. Despite the legality of marijuana, tourists were very skittish when I pulled out my camera. This character on the right jumped back, a moment too late, when he realized I was taking a picture.

The friendly dealer and a tourist who actually wanted his picture taken. Behind them is the elaborate marijuana menu.

Instead of a joint, I thought I’d try a pot brownie, called “space cake” on the menu. A note on the menu said advised buyers that space cake is just as potent as a joint but that it takes 30 minutes to an hour to feel its effects. I got a piece of space cake for €4.50, took a seat at the bar, removed the plastic wrap, and took a bite. Tasted like a regular brownie, with just a hint of something else. I was hungry. In two bites, it was gone.

As I continued walking, I realized that with most international cities, the further you get fro the historical center, the more they all start to look the same. Historical uniqueness gives way to highways, busy intersections, standardized signage, and purely functional architecture.

I made my way across town to the Holland 3D Experience, an IMAX-type movie about the Netherlands that I read about in the guidebooks. Sounded interesting, but it was closed. I was discouraged, and frustrated that I still wasn’t feeling anything from the space cake after over an hour. After similar failures with pot in Australia and New Zealand, I was beginning to think I was immune.

One of the canals circling Amsterdam.

Thanks to the pot brownie, this was the most confusing intersection I had ever seen.

I happened upon a tree filled with stuffed animals. There were hundreds of them strung up in the branches. Looked like a gruesome lynching, Dr. Suess style. These two in particular looked quite unhappy. Don't let the smile on the cheeky yellow one fool you.

I walked into another coffeeshop looking for more space cake. The disappointingly American girl at the bar told me that they didn’t have space cake but did have muffins, and that I’d have to go downstairs to get it. After finding a large line of Brits at the bottom, I decided to go somewhere else. Stepping out of the smoky coffeeshop and onto the street, I stumbled. Whoah. What happened? Did I trip over a step?

At this point, I decided to start documenting everything I felt and thought on a piece of paper I had in my pocket. Thought it might make for interesting reading later on. The rest of my afternoon has been reduced to this list.

1. I just stumbled. Lost my balance for no good reason. What’s going on?
2. Face feels a bit numb. Is it the cold? Or something else? Feels a bit like mild Novacaine.
3. Also have a very slight feeling of being drunk.
4. Yes, I’m definitely having balance issues.
5. It feels like I’m breathing water.
6. Wow, I might actually be experiencing my first high.
7. My throat feels numb. I can’t even feel myself swallow.
8. I notice that, whenever I turn my head, I feel a wonderful, warm, numb sensation from the base of my skull down my spine all the way down to my coccyx. I’m standing here in the street corner turning my head back and forth like an idiot. It feels wonderful.
9. This is the most confusing intersection I have ever seen.
10. Even this map of Amsterdam, with its concentric circles, is disorienting.
11. How long have I been standing here?
12. I want a hot dog. I’ve been craving one for days. Is this the munchies?
13. My fingers are numb. It’s hard to take these notes.
14. More giggly and euphoric that I am really high.
15. All this for €4.50? That’s less than a Happy Meal.
16. I understand why this is illegal in most countries.
17. I’m glad I’m on my own today.
18. I have been standing right here forever.
19. This is a deal of the century.
20. Where was I going?
21. How long have I been standing on this street corner?
22. When is some sensible person going to steal my wallet and camera?
23. Oh, now I know why potheads always have big pockets in their jackets! (I believe I thought this because the numbness overtaking my hands was making it hard for me to manipulate anything with my fingers).
24. Still breathing water.
25. Still hungry.
26. Similar to being drunk, I guess, only this starts externally and works inward, and alcohol works the other way around.
27. When am I going to get hit by a car/tram/scooter/bicycle?
28. Any more of this, and I would be done for.

At this point, I started getting scared. I didn’t know where I was going or why, and I didn’t care. Sudden movements scared me. It seemed like every passerby was lunging at my camera. Sitting on a bench to collect myself, a woman quickly turned to sit on the bench next to me, and I almost jumped out of my seat.

29. That woman lunging at me, it really made a picture in my head. Big blue eyes, short, straight blonde hair. Backlit by the sun. I could paint it.
30. Would it even be respectful to visit the Anne Frank House in this condition?
31. Was I supposed to eat the whole space cake?
32. Maybe I should just relax and get some Vlaamsje frites (the local street-side delicacy).
33. Man, this could be AnyStreet, USA, with its souvenir shops and trinkets (referring to Damrak, the main road which splits the city in half).
34. Man, these fries, smothered in mayonnaise and ketchup, are disgusting and delicious!
35. This food is horrendously bad for me, but somehow I don’t feel as guilty with everyone around me eating the same thing.
36. Everyone is lunging at my camera!
37. This might be the coolest day of my life.
38. I’m grinning at everyone. Do I look like a freakin’ idiot?

I continued zigzagging through Amsterdam. There were lots of tourists, mostly Brits. Cyclists, young and old, weave between the tourists with surgical precision. And every time I turned around, I’d see a group of three military types walking around with fatigues and enormous guns. I got lost a few times, but again, it’s a bit exciting not knowing where you’re going, confident that you’re going to figure it out.

39. How am I still standing?
40. No wonder stoned hippies listen to that hippy music!
41. The smell of weed is like a ribbon under my nose.
42. My peripheral vision is excellent. I can see everything. Weaving through the crowds is a piece of cake.
43. So that’s why I’m nuts! Local Europeans (non-tourists) walk like someone in America would if they were going to mug you. They walk briskly with their head down, looking straight ahead, almost like they’re trying to be inconspicuous.

Fireworks were going off in the streets all day, more and more as I walked. The city was ramping up for the New Year’s celebrations later that night.

44. Time for a McKroket.
45. It’s like a fried puck of slightly minty, slightly spiced cheese with small chunks of meat in it.
46. My hearing is also excellent. I am truly hearing in three dimensions, with such clarity, richness, and depth.
47. This has meat in it.
48. This last bite of my McKroket that I’m holding in my hand. I could paint this, too.
49. The Anne Frank House is close to here, I think.
50. Just standing in the street. The sounds. Church bells, feet pattering on the pavement, traffic noise, loud chatter coming in every direction.
51. Minutes are seconds, and seconds are minutes.
52. Between the donut things at the airport, the street vendor hot dog, the Vlaamsje Frites, and the McKroket, I’ve had it all. Dutch food is great!
53. It’s cold.
54. I do feel the ground shake a bit whenever I go into a shop, almost like we’re on a boat. Is the city of Amsterdam really built on stilts?
55. Some guy is lighting some New Years fireworks right in front of me.
56. It’s cold out, but I’m still breathing warm water.
57. Finally, the Victoria Hotel, a doorway that is not a tiny shop, and a place with a warm lobby to relax in.
58. I’m alone on this road. It’s dark out. Houses to the left, a canal to the right. There is a homeless-looking guy behind me walking fast, swinging his arms like a speed skater with each step. He’s talking angrily, I think to himself. It’s Spanish, and he sounds like Popeye. Must pick up the pace.
59. In a camera store now. Staring at the lenses. Don’t even know what I’m looking at. Or how long I’ve been standing here.
60. 6:15pm. Still coasting.

Despite the apparent organization of the list above, the whole afternoon was a lot more chaotic and fluid. Recounting these events in a sober state of mind has framed everything with a structure that really wasn’t there. In fact, on my little scrap of paper that I recorded everything on, I wanted to number my items so that I'd be able to preserve the experience accurately. The first items were neatly numbered 1 through 17, but then I started running out of space, so I had to flip the page sideways and then unfold it and turn it sideways again just to find space to keep writing. Pot-induced paranoia set in, and I started worrying that I'd repeat some of the numbers I'd already written and thus make it harder to accurately recount my experiences at a later date. So I'd jump ahead a few numbers just to be sure. The next item was 20. Then 25, then 30, then 50, then 70. I briefly regained my composure and strung together 70, 71, and 72 before losing it again.

The Anne Frank House. Closed.

So I walked around Amsterdam stoned off my face. I think I made a big Z across the city center without really going anywhere. By the time I got to the Anne Frank House, it had been closed for several hours. I felt guilty showing up at the Anne Frank House in this condition. Seemed disrespectful, somehow.

My last meal of 2006.

Vic was coming into town to celebrate New Year’s, and it was almost time to meet up with her. Thankfully, the effects of the space cake were finally wearing off. We couldn’t find an authentic Dutch restaurant, so we decided to eat at the Victoria Hotel. Delicious.

After dinner, we wandered down Damrak to Dam Square. The crowd was already starting to gether. After weaseling our way into the middle, Vic produced a water bottle filled with vodka and some plastic cups. Well done.

The royal palace was lit up, and a DJ was standing on a makeshift platform in the center leading the festivities in English. The music was blaring, lights flashing everywhere. Then the rain came. It wasn’t long before we were soaked.



As midnight drew closer, the crowd grew rowdy. People shot fireworks shot haphazardly off of buildings and into the crowd. One bounced off my shoulder and hit Vic in her face. Then the countdown.

New Year's in Dam Square.

Getting hammered and soaked in Dam Square.

3… 2… 1… 2007!

Vic.

Shortly thereafter, the crowd began to disperse. Curious about the toys in the sex shops, Vic wanted to go to the Red Light Disctrict. All the sex shops were closed, so we walked into a coffeeshop and Vic smoked a big fat doobie instead.

Next, Vic wanted to see the ladies, so we wandered over to the red lights for a look. One of the ladies waved us over and opened her door, inviting both of us inside and offering to fuck Vic’s ass. A wasted Vic tried clawing her way inside but I held her back and told the prostitute that we would consider it for tomorrow.

A kid lights a bottle rocket in the street.

The tattered remains of fireworks litter the streets of the Red Light District.

The real Red Light District. Prostitutes in the windows under the lights. Photography was not allowed, so I had to be discreet.

Fireworks continued to go off in the streets. The streets of the Red Light District are just narrow enough to create some deafening echoes. It was getting late and it was pretty chilly, so we headed back to the train station and took the 2:42am train back to the hotel. New Year’s was great. Vic really came through, and we both had a good time.

Journaling in the hotel room.

It’s the end of 2006, so I suppose it’s time to reflect. Was 2006 a good year? It was a productive one. I’ve put in some crazy hours at work and made some pretty substantial progress with my career. Looking forward, my two goals for 2007 are to get a raise and hit a home run.

For now, it’s time for bed. Did all of my city walking today in dress shoes, and my feet are killing me.

No breakdancing allowed on the train.

This morning, we caught a train to Hook of Holland, the port south of Amsterdam where we needed to catch our ferry back to England. While taking the train down to Hook of Holland, the clouds burned off, leaving the most magnificent blue sky and the only real sunshine I’ve seen this whole trip.

Right now, we’re on the ferry to Harwich, England. It’s huge, like a miniature cruise ship. There’s a restaurant, bar, dance floor, a small playground for the kids, even some cinemas. Barf bags everywhere. The rolling waves out there are pretty big, and the ferry is really rocking around. Walking through the corridors is hilarious, everyone giggling as they try their best to walk in a straight line. The 129 mile trip takes 3-4 hours.

Vic is laying down in the seat across from me, freezing and trying to sleep, holding her cell phone close in case one of her friends texts her. I am uncomfortably warm.

Vic is done.

Saying goodbye to the Netherlands aboard the ferry to England

Sunset over the North Sea.

It’s almost dark out now. One more night in London with Vic, and then I go home.


As soon as we got back to England, things started to suck. Being New Year’s Day, there were no trains (they neglected to tell us this when we made the booking), so the ferry line provided everyone with bus service to central London instead. Of course, there was only one functioning bus, and it could only take us in small batches, so we had to wait outside in the rain and cold. This, of course, was a significant source of stress for Vic. On the verge of tears, she had it out with the attendant coordinating the buses, phoned her family, and seemed to take offense that I wasn’t as upset as she was.

We managed to convince the bus driver to drop us off in the middle of nowhere, unfamiliar enough to ensure that we’d need to stand in front of a petrol (gas) station for 30 minutes waiting for her parents to pick us up. Waiting for her parents was, of course, the only time on the whole trip that Vic insisted on standing out in the cold and rain.

Vic's shower.

We finally got home. I had one last wash in Vic’s horrendous shower. UK Finalist for worst shower in Europe. Imagine a vertical coffin, white and shiny on the inside. You barely have room to move around, and you can forget about bending over. The spray from the showerhead goes in every conceivable direction, with one particularly strong stream pointed right at your eyes and another going over the top of the shower door and onto the wall. I call the shower head “Satan.” The drain doesn’t work, either, so after a few minutes of moderate showering, all of Vic’s shampoos and body wash bottles are bouncing around on your ankles.

We went to bed, and that was pretty much it. There was definitely a sense of finality. I think we both knew that it was time for me to go.

I’m at Heathrow now, waiting to catch my flight home. Beautiful rays of sunshine are streaming through the terminal. I would have loved weather like this when I was on the streets of Paris or the beaches of Normandy.

Another adventure in the books. Overall, it was a success. I had a great time. Got to see pretty much all the things on my list. New Year’s was great. But Vic has changed. And the magic is gone.

No regrets.

The hills of rural England.

The Thames glistens below.

Glorious Detroit.