In which my ego gets Brugesed on a Train!

Another week cooped up in my apartment finally convinced me to take a trip which had been put off (no great reason, just procrastination) for quite a while. But Friday morning I woke up and knew this was the day that I would finally do it. I packed my bag, marched out of my apartment radiating confidence and feeling unstoppable and strutted into the Railway Station. Procrastination had been defeated. The lady behind the counter knew that this was a customer who meant business. My eyes said it. Money changed hands and I booked my tickets to Beligum. Then I meekly went to the office to fulfil my responsibility as a corporate slave.

Saturday morning, waking up on time and marching again to the railway station, I was well ahead of time and caught my train. All was well, I was a bit thrilled and happily sat in my seat with a book in hand as all pretentious backpackers do. However after some time I noticed this old man sitting in the row ahead of mine and to my right turning around and staring at me trying to fan the embers of vague memory into flames of recognition of a criminal. Now I feel uncomfortable and I could hear the confidence hissing out of my ears as I my puffed up chest deflated. He was quite old and wearing a sweater and had eyes that could shatter a diamond with their glare. He turned, poured steaming tea from his thermos into his cup and took a sip. Then he turned around and glared at me as if I had pinched some grandkid of his. I recoiled in my seat. Then he turned around and took one more sip. And again glared at me as if I had poisoned his tea. By now I was scared enough to turn my attentions to my book. Regular readers of this blog (yeah, right eh?) will know that I’m no stranger to being scared by strange men’s uncomfortable stares. But finally he got up and got down at some station but not without one final glare that said “I’ve got my eyes on you. I know you’re upto something”. Guy must have been one of those stereotypical paranoid ex cops who suspect everyone of being upto no good or something.

Walking around in my first stop, Brussels, I decided to continue playing the part of the stereotypical backpackers and settled down at a roadside cafe and had a coffee and sat there with my book and camera. Due to my mastery of French I was confident enough to call the waiter and say “Un filter cofee, s’il vous plait” smugly and then pat myself on my back. After my coffee and a small incident where I was chased away by a roadside grocery store owner for clicking pics of his wares (what he sells, not what you’re thinking, you pervert), and checking out some stores including a brilliant comic book store (or atleast seemed to me, I’m no expert) I went to see the city’s great highlight – the Manekin Pis.

Filter Kaapi. Nowhere as good as Madras Filter Coffee though. Too burnt for my liking,

Now the Manekin Pis is something you cannot prepare yourself for. Paris has the Eiffel Tower, Agra has the Taj Mahal, Barcelona has La Sagrada Familia, Pisa has the Leaning Tower and Brussels has a statue of a kid unable to control his bladder and revelling in it. No matter how many people tell you about it and how underwhelming it is, you cannot prepare yourself – you will slap yourself for bothering to go there. You cannot imagine the disappointment. I suspect thats why they sell waffles and chocolate there – to capitalize on people feeling sorry for  themselves. In a way it reminded me of insti and it’s quizzes. No matter how much you know you screwed up, when the grades come you end up thinking “What the hell? How did I screw up THIS much?”. And like all the other self-pitying tourists there I treated myself to a waffle. The lady at the counter looked at me as if she was doing me a favour. Treating me with utter disdain, she thrust a waffle into my hand and snatched my cash. Ok, slight exaggeration involved there, but I’m pretty sure she’s the sort who takes delight in a kid who drops his waffle and cries and charges him double for the next one and snatches the cash with glee from his tear stained hands.

“How Do You Like Them Waffles?”

This massive disappointment convinced me to stay clear of the world’s greatest symbol of feminism, of women trying to snatch back what has been the birthright and privilege of men since time immemorial, of women demanding equality. I am of course talking about the Jeanneke Pis, a statue of a girl peeing. Who says public urination is only for men? As the joke about Priyanka Chopra going susu in public goes “Why should boys have all the fun?”. And on the topic of those statues, there’s a society which dresses up the Manekin Pis. Several hundred costumes. Somethings maybe are not meant to be understood.

The city did have a nice metro as I found out on my way to the Atomium and Mini Europe. At each stop, all the connections from there are displayed on the LCD screen in the train. I finally reached my hostel and trudged into my room and sat there swatting imaginary flies till my roommates said they were going out for dinner. Dying for some company I joined them and headed off for dinner and beer. Fun fact : The Delirium cafe has more than 2000 brands of beer, enough to even satiate Homer Simpson’s thirst for beer. However, knowing that I had a long day ahead of me, I couldn’t indulge myself a lot and called it a night early.

 

The Atomium gives a good view of the city and its surroundings.

Inside the Atomium.

World War One Memorial model at Mini Europe.

The next day took me to Bruges. What a beautiful city and I will not even attempt to describe it. Quaint. Walking around, I found a Modern Art museum and decided to part with 12 Euros tas I didn’t want slack in my role as a pretentious backpacker. Warhol and Picasso and a load of other artists could not solve my confusion regarding modern art and I left even more puzzled than I went in.

Somewhere in Bruges.

Inside the Church of Our Lady.

Ducks in a canal

Church of Our Lady proved to be a delight and had a brilliantly solemn atmosphere inside. Bruges proved to be a delight but uneventful and I called it a day at 3 and started back. Thankfully, no suspicious old geezers on the train and I reached home quite relieved.

 

TOW I go to Amsterdam

Beanbag potato. Couch potato. Vegetable. Just a few of the terms hurled at me for my tendency to relax on a beanbag frequently. Of course, some incidents do justify such names. Like the one where I sat on a beanbag for one hour in semi darkness just because I was too lazy to get up and switch off the light. But I maintain, such incidents are few and far between. However such unwarranted name calling has left its mark and I took a resolution to spend as less time in my new place as possible. Given that there’s nothing much to do on weekdays at the moment, this has left me with a self imposed ban from my apartment on weekends.

 

This weekend, I decided to throw myself a bit out of my depth. A trip that would take me through the gamut of emotions from excitement at the beginning to slapping myself to fidgeting nervously to having a good time to fidgeting nervously and slapping myself. An adventure in hindsight but nerve wracking at that moment. I decided to go to an EDM festival in Amsterdam.

 

I’ll be frank. I’m no Dance God, an old video of me dancing for my hostel would attest to that and has been a never ending cause of embarrassment(I say dancing, frends insist I was just standing. Lets not digress). I’m no EDM freak either – my music tastes are quite mundane. However, the lack of an alternative meant that all railtracks led to Amsterdam. Mustering all the excitement of a teenager forced to attend a family function, I set out from my humble abode and on my quest. Getting a direct train to Amsterdam proved to be easier than stealing candy from a baby and I made myself comfortable waiting for it to start. Then came the first of what can only be described as a series of unfortunate events. The train got cancelled and I had to take a different route – the mundane details I shall not bore you with. Suffice to say that things did not start well. Halfway along the way to Amsterdam, it started raining and washed away my excitement even though I was safe and dry. However the rain did not last all the way till aMsterdam and by the time the windows were dry again, my smug smirk had returned.

 

Fast forward half an hour and I was at the concert. Suddenly I remembered why I didn’t like concerts – they’re bloody loud! And they’re fun provided you have decent company or have a decent amount of alcohol in your system. Since I was alone and quite far from home, I decided to “Say no and abhishthoo to Alcohol”. The lack of company soon proved  to be the least of my worries.

 

Back in Bangalore, I remember telling a couple of friends over a few pegs of Arrack that gay pedophiles might be attracted to me given my, ahem, youthful looks . That comment proved to be source of much mirth for all but me. And this evening showed why I was sadly right. I was standing there, minding my own business when a guy who looked like one of those stereotypical gay beefcake-dressed-in-a-flowery-shirt guys noticed me and started smiling and waving with the delight seen on the face of a six year old who doesn’t have to go to school and can spend all day playing with his fierce feline philosopher doll. Being the cheerful and friendly guy that I am, I waved back and thought no more of the matter. Until I looked around and saw him again. Now this time, the chap who had evidently been looking at me the whole time gave me the double thumbs up. Naturally I was unfazed and remained calm as a cucumber. Who am I kidding? I was slightly unnerved. Ok, fine, I started freaking out a bit. Happy? Then he walked over and clicked a selfie with me. By then my face was frozen and my facial muscles couldn’t move and I couldnt say “No selfie for you” even if I wanted to. Soliciting the advice of a friend who often ends up facing such situations seemed to be my best course of action and the advice of ‘gtfo’ seemed sensible. Moving to another position, I was able to enjoy the rest of the concert in sober peacefulness.

My adventure wasn’t about to end though. On the way back on the InterCity, I was betrayed by my ticketing Card and ended up thinking I had checked in (ie. I had a ticket) while I didn’t. As always in such situation, Murphy’s Law took over and applied itself and the conductor caught me. Being a kind soul he realized that I really did think I had a ticket and ended up fining me less than the maximum amount (I think). Still, a 35 Euro fine was unlikely to make me smile and I was happy to finally reach home in one piece, even if my digital wallet was a bit lighter.