Brugge is even lovelier and more romantic than I’d remembered and
although I’m glad we picked this gorgeous city as the last leg of
our travels before heading back to London tomorrow and then catching a
flight to Chicago the following day, I’m very much looking forward
to going home.
Granada, with its proliferation of hippies and homeless drunks littering its squares was just too much for me. It seemed that everywhere you looked were expat American, Spanish and British college grads lounging around in their grunge outfits and oversized headphones trying to do as little as possible. It reminded me of Prague in the early 90’s. There are whole shops that sell t-shirts torn up into “headbands” and I’d seen more than one street vendor squatting next to a dirty bed sheet hawking inventory that consisted of: one dirty woman’s panty hose, a stolen key chain (with keys), some ratty pieces of yarn that was intended to pass as bracelets, and a pair of yesterday’s smelly socks. One night we were also tormented by an all too long modern dance performance that consisted of a guy loudly plucking one guitar string on a curved stick while two women engaged in faux street fighting.
However, the history of Granada is amazing. As the last Muslim stronghold in Spain it has the most visible Arab influence with the amazingly preserved Albaicin sector lined with shops that sell Moroccan lanterns, poufs and jewelry, and row after row of trendy tea shops. The Moorish influence is also seen in the Alhambra, a dizzying fortress/palace that was home to the Muslim leaders before Ferdinand and Isabella conquered it and sent the “boy king” Boabil packing. When Boabil exited the palace via the Gate of the Seven Stones, he had it permanently sealed behind him and then wept to which his mother responded, “You cry like boy for the city you could not defend as a man.” Talk about harsh! Speaking of Isabella and Ferdinand, we visited their crypts in the Royal Chapel. Along with the former Queen and King are the crypts of their daughter Joanna the Mad and her husband Philip the Handsome. Joanna is so called because after the death of Philip, she aimlessly toured the country dragging his coffin with her and every night before she went to bed she would lift the lid to kiss her mummified husband good night. And I thought Chris and I were close! Despite enjoying the sights and history of the city, we were happy to leave the dense traffic of Granada and drop off the car in Madrid where we had a wonderful final Spanish dinner at Botin, a favorite haunt of Hemingway’s where Chris indulged in the house specialty – roast suckling pig.
It was very sad to leave the hospitality and sunny weather of Spain, even more so when we arrived late into Amsterdam to heavy rains that knocked out the power in our hotel. Dubbed an “art hotel,” Winston’s was supposed to be “funky” and “arty” with each room decorated by a different artist. Unfortunately, it was more like “dirty” and “grubby”. When we opened the doors to our pitch black room, we were hit with the strong stench of human feces. Chris was convinced someone actually took a crap in the bed and with a lighter, was determined to locate the cause of the offending odor. No matter how bad the other hotels were, this was MUCH worse. We went out in search of a late night snack and other accommodations to learn that the city was already booked. By the time we returned the lights were back on. The good news was that there was no reason for the offending odor other than an ancient plumbing system. The bad news was that the hotel’s nightclub was now open and we were serenaded by house music thumping through our walls and floorboards until 3am. Sigh. Somehow, this was all my fault and despite an initial effort to convince Chris that the hotel wasn’t so bad, come morning, when I had to will myself not to look at the grouting in the shower and learned that, there was in fact, no art on the walls, I got a little depressed and openly longed for the luxury of soap larger than the size of my toe, shampoo AND conditioner, two pillows!, a firm mattress and a morning coffee you didn’t have to brush your teeth and get dressed for. We'd both been here before, and yet there's 180 degrees of difference in the way we feel about the place. For some reason – The architecture? The canals? The liberal/progressive culture? Certainly not the weather. – Chris loves it here. As for me, I was glad to be moving on.
Something funny happened on the way to Brugge. After 32 years of rampant disinterest, Chris wanted to go…shopping! This from a man who has been known to wear the same pair of jeans for seven straight days and owns one pair of shorts and one pair of shoes. Suddenly, I found myself holding his coat in the cramped aisles as he scoured the racks at Zara and H&M and insisted on popping into every shoe store we passed. He bought shoes and hats and scarves and shirts and pants. He fingered candleholders and books and even ornaments. I had to drag him out of the stores before our credit cards came back declined. That night, we celebrated his first foray into shopping with dinner at a charming restaurant overlooking the canal. The following night we ate at our hotel, The Passage, a hip, fun Belgium restaurant with prices tailor made for its young, backpacking clientele. Today we took a canal ride (my second, Chris’ first) to view the city’s ancient architecture and more recent renovation craze.
It’s a rainy holiday weekend here so much of the city is closed today, but that’s okay by me. I like the quiet pace and the time to reflect. It’s been awhile since it felt acceptable to overlook the sights and just sip a cup of tea and talk about Chicago. And although our subjects are fraught with worry and anxiety – What will we do about an apartment? Where will we stay until then? What will we do for work? Did you look at the on-line classifieds? There is also a lot of talk about all the people we miss, old haunts we’re itching to revisit, favorite restaurants, movies we’re dying to see, issues of People magazine to catch up on, and even the prospect of work that await us in Chicago.
Today, while lunching on Belgium waffles and mussels over a roaring fire, I looked at Chris and said, “Wow, you know, we are really lucky” and though I meant it and am grateful for having had the opportunity to embark on this excellent adventure, when you find yourself gleefully daydreaming about painting an apartment or moving your furniture out of storage, we’ll, it’s time to go home. Among a myriad of things, this trip has taught me that nothing is ever all bad or all good, but it really is important to take the chance and enjoy the experience along the way, and it’s necessary to have the time in which you can reflect upon it so you don’t forget what it all means. Yes, quiet is good, as long as it’s not too quiet!