In the Fast Lane Through Flanders

I worked for the NBA over a summer organizing 3-on-3 basketball tournaments across Canada. One of the many fun parts of the job was renting vehicles in almost every city with NBA money.

It was like a week-long test drive of a car you were never going to buy. I drove an SUV all over Vancouver, a PT Cruiser in Montreal, a speedy Mazda sedan in Edmonton, and a minivan in Winnipeg – which was fine because that stopover sucked. 

I wanted the same experience in Europe, just with my own money, so for a chunk of 2015 I fought with ServiceOntario to get my drivers' license renewed. It took innumerable phone calls, several formal letters – they would have preferred faxes – and an old fashioned cheque.

I finally got my Canadian drivers license in the fall, which allowed me to rent a truck for a film shoot in the UK countryside. This drive gave me the chance to teach myself how to drive on other side of the road in the middle of the night.

Belgium's border is just a hour away from the Dorf, so the country and its waffles and its beer and medieval churches and its old-timey bridges and canals was always on our radar. We had gone to Antwerp last spring and loved the city. This year we were eyeing Ghent and/or Bruges.

Getting to both cities on a long weekend is no easy feat by train, so with my shiny new drivers' license we booked a car rental.

Renting a car in Europe is not without its difficulties for me, a product of the North American suburbs. I can't drive a car with manual transmission, which discounts me from most available models. We lucked out and found an automatisch Mercedes C-class and booked it.

The next obstacle was finding our way to Ghent. This is not so easy when you're driving through Flanders, where all the signs are in Dutch. We opted for the GPS at the last minute at the pick-up desk, which meant no Mercedes for us. We got an Opel. We were going to Belgium like real, fiscally-responsible Germans!


On Zee Road!

The German stereotype of moving about in orderly lines turns out to be a half truth on the autobahn. Everyone keeps to the right lane because the left lane is for screaming past the right-lane slowpokes at 170km/h.

That's just the way it is. You can pop into the left lane to pass someone, but be prepared for a Rhenish soccer mom in a Porsche to approach from behind with high beams flashing and her front bumper inches from your rear bumper. And that's in our Opel with German plates. Who knows what they do when they see foreign plates.

We rode through the orderly craziness of Germany into sedate Netherlands, where people are so easygoing and so courteous on the highway that you feel like an asshole for getting close to the speed limit. From the Netherlands, you get into Flanders, which used to be in the Netherlands and where they drive like they're still in the Netherlands. 

We were debating where to stop for lunch. Kata wanted to stop in Brussels. I thought Brussels was too big, too busy, and too Brussels-y for a quick stop on the road. Kata didn't like that, but before she got hangry I took the next exit and said, "We'll just eat here at..." I looked for a sign. ...At Leuven!" 

Leuven's Town Hall.

What we saw while we ate our lunch.

The detail on Leuven's Town Hall is incredible.

We never heard of Leuven and never would have thought of visiting. The fast lane in Flanders opened up an incredible destination that we were happy to have visited. We easily parked close to the old town centre,  ate a healthy lunch at an outdoor cafe, wandered the streets, and saw all sorts of beautiful things.

We got back onto the road and approached Brussels. It's a bilingual enclave within Dutch-speaking Flanders and the signs were in Dutch and French. The style of driving went from friendly Flemish-style to French Fury Road-style. As we took the ring road around the city, cars jostled and tailgated for position. They cut each other off, swerved onto exits at the last minute, and avoided signalling before changing lanes. 

We survived the Brussels Circle Pit and made it to our Ghent Airbnb. Well, it was not that easy. The Airbnb was deep in the countryside, down a narrow road and tucked between a few farms and a nature preserve. Our GPS couldn't compute where it exactly was and, because I began trusting the computer over my own eyes, we drove past the place.

Our accommodation was a lovely renovated loft above a small, physiotherapy clinic. We got our own kitchen, which used to be an army camper trailer, and access to an indoor pool below. We'd go into Ghent and see the sights and walk along the canals and drink the beer out of fancy chalices before getting back into the countryside to relax and sleep.

It was a tranquil way of discovering the city – and it is a beautiful city – and very different than our Antwerp getaway last Spring, where we stayed in the city.

The Fish Market, which thankfully did not smell like a fish market.

Kata in a Church.

Guys, just get to Ghent. It's very pretty.

Ghent's Contemporary Art Museum, where else!

The gardens of St. Michael's Abbey in Ghent.

In – then out of – Bruges

The weekend went by quickly and we hit the road on Sunday for our final destination: Bruges. But before I get into all of that, let me write a bit about the GPS.

Our GPS didn't talk, which surprised me for the first few turns because I thought they all spoke in that... halting... voice. It would often silently tell me to turn after I read the signs and already taken the turn. It was also difficult to read while navigating around traffic circles, which are already a challenge for sheltered North American drivers.

I went to Traffic Circle School on the wrong side of the road in the UK, so I thought I could handle all the traffic circles the roads of Belgium, the Netherlands, and Germany could throw at me until I encountered a five-lane traffic circle outside of Ghent with stoplights.

This was the traffic circle to end all traffic circles. The GPS didn't help much either. With no sound, I'd look at the little screen, look at the winding road, look at the cars around me changing lanes, check the mirrors, all while trying to find the Dutch road signs that would lead us to Bruges. 

I am not ashamed to say that I went around a few times to get the correct exit. A first pass for reconnaissance. A second pass to make sure. Then we exited the circle on the third pass towards Bruges.

A F**king Fairytale Town

We figured Bruges was a tourist trap built around a beautiful well-preserved medieval town and always hesitated about doing an entire weekend there. We planned a brief afternoon stopover to walk along the canals and over the bridges and into a few churches, before driving across Belgium to return to the Dorf. A car made this plan feasible.

It's a beautiful town and for a history nerd and an art geek it had a lot to offer. We made good use of our limited time: We took a boat tour along the town's main canals, devoured a great Flemish lunch (meat stew for me, salmon for Kata), walked the cobblestone streets, and stuck our heads in as many old churches as we could.

There is so much packed into that medieval town that you can get the short version in a few hours, but you feel like you want to linger. One the slow return trip (It was the Sunday on a long weekend) we decided we will likely return – maybe once again with a car.

On a boat in Bruges.

There's a Michelangelo in this church.

More beautiful canals *yawn*

Bruges Bros. 

Dorfy Day Trips: German Downton Abbey

The glorious Schloss Drachenburg, aka German Downton Abbey.

Live long enough in the Northwest Rhineland (a year and a half or so) and you start itching to see if what's beyond Dusseldorf and Cologne. You get curious about the stuff further than a bike ride away. You look at maps and wonder about places with names that seem strange, but familiar. 

Then you get on the train and give it a shot. You head south and decide to see what happens when don't get off at Cologne's big cathedral. You continue down the Rhine into who knows what.


Poor Old Bonn 

Ludwig Beethoven was born in Bonn, started his musical education in its schools and at 21, he left his hometown for his era's Music City, Vienna. 

Vienna has been quietly claiming him as a local boy since the move. He wrote all his great symphonies and sonatas there. These were great years for him, and music in general. But he also went deaf in Vienna. Would that have happened in Bonn? Doubt it. 

The world mostly left Bonn alone until the city woke up one morning in 1949 to discover it was the capital of a new country. 

This wasn't a real country but West Germany, a temporary country formed from the British, French, and American occupation zones. The Soviets created their own East German country from their zone.

The West German chancellor, a hometown boy, made the decision to name Bonn the new capital. Before you start feeling proud for Bonn or start ranting about German pork barrel politics, Konrad Adenauer had his reasons.

The ultimate plan was never to keep Germany separated. Someday they would be reunited and when that day came Berlin was going to be the united Germany's capital. 

He also realized this plan might take a while to come together, so he would need a temporary capital city. Bustling, cosmopolitan Hamburg or Frankfurt (which was briefly the capital of a briefly unified German confederation in 1848) seemed like more obvious choices, but if the capital was moved there it would be difficult to move the government from such big, self-important cities.

Adenauer needed a small, humble place that no one romanticized. He needed a town close enough to a larger city like Cologne to be easy to reach, but far enough away from everything that no one would mind moving for Berlin if they had to. Poor old Bonn was that place.

Not all of the government agencies moved to Berlin. The defence ministry stuck around. As we sat by the Rhine sipping a midday drink in the sun, I realized I also would found it tough to leave this quiet, pretty place on the river.


Wagner's Strange Monument to Wagner

From Bonn's riverside, you can see the Seven Mountains. Two myths come out of these mountains. One is Snow White and her posse of seven dwarves – I'm guessing they each got a mountain. The other myth is about Siegfried and the dragon, which lived in a mountain cave.

If you're not familiar with Richard Wagner's operas or German mythology, Siegfried is a hero who killed this dragon and then bathed in the dragon's blood to become invincible.

Of course he missed a spot – mythic heroes always miss a spot with their invincibility coating – and later his wife betrayed him – yes, German mythology also respects women – by marking an ex on that spot to show another guy where to stab Siegfried while he took a bath in a river.

Some enterprising spirit saw an opportunity in this, and decided to put a strange memorial to Wagner part way up the mountain. Then, just in case that didn't pull in the big bucks, they added a reptile zoo, because of the whole dragon-reptile connection.

Although, as I write this, I'm thinking there might be an opportunity to open a Dragon's Blood Bath and Spa Resort. Oh, wait! Dibs! Patent pending.

 Wagner Land, the perfect place for the kids.

German Downton Abbey

At the top of this mountain is a castle-villa mansion thing. What is it about eccentric millionaires from the 1800s building ostentatious castles based on a mix of Gothic and Medieval. Toronto knows about this.

So, where else should we end this journey deeper into Rhineland than at Schloss Drachenburg.

There's a room for billiards, also known by its other name: Rich People Pool. 

A minimalist backyard.

Oh, hi!

A view to Bonn.

And a few upriver.

The Vacation filled with un-Vacation-y Things

Munich's Frauenkiche, all grey and grumpy in the Bavarian rain.

We begin the story of this vacation on a train station platform, because we're not doing this the normal way – it's a vacation of un-vacation-y things. We're taking the long way to Budapest. We're waiting for our train to Munich.

Despite its difficulties with kitchen appliances and the internet, Germany can do rail travel. You pay a premium, and in exchange you get a clean train, a bit of leg room, and a punctual train. 

There was just one hitch that had nothing to do with the wonders of German train travel. Kata chipped her tooth on a baguette sandwich we bought shortly before we boarded the train. I panicked. She just looked at the nub of tooth in surprise and reassured me it was already a false tooth. She would settle with looking like a hockey player until we found a dentist.

We arrived in Munich, hoping to stroll the streets and see the sights. But the rain gods had other plans, and we spent a soggy afternoon and evening exploring the old town. We braved the rain between meals – sausages for me, soft food for Kata's snaggle tooth – and one-litre beers in warm beer halls.

Our train was due to leave at 11:30pm.


Night Train to Budapest

I'm coming out right now and stating that night trains are awesome. Instead of wasting a whole day traveling or losing bits of your life to endless waiting in airport, a night train lets you sleep as the traveling is done.

Is such a slow way too travel un-vacation-y? Perhaps, but I'd take a night train over one of those evil budget airlines any day. Back to the story, before I get worked up. 

Our night train was not a German train. It was a MAV train, the Hungarian train service, which not only felt like we were stepping onto Hungarian soil, but was also cheaper than the German train from Dusseldorf to Munich.

We got a two-person compartment, which is pretty much what you've seen in the movies. You get your bunk beds and there's breakfast in the morning, and there's sink too! It is quite the upgrade from the six-person sleeper compartments I spent my travel nights in during my monthly trips to Berlin.

Beer-y Happiness by the litre!

Varga Family Compound

When we woke up in the morning on the night train, we were in Hungary. Familiar territory!

In keeping with our un-vacation-y vacation, our Hungary lodgings were not going to be a friend's apartment in Budapest, like last summer. This was an all-family vacation, so we were staying with Kata's parents in the countryside.

This might seem awkward, but it really wasn't. For starters, the house isn't quite a family house as much as a family compound. There is a main house and a garage renovated into another, smaller house.

Kata's parents used to occupy the house, while her sister and brother-in-law and their four-year-old daughter and two-year-old son lived in the renovated garage. They swapping houses to give the kids some more space, but making changes in the smaller garage house first. This left it unoccupied, so we moved in there for the week.

With the little kids around, we spent a great deal of time with them on their schedule, which changed the whole pace of the vacation at the Varga Family Compound. 

You wake up a little earlier to hang out with them. You play in the yard. You eat a lunch, because you're hungry from keeping up with little people who don't seem to get tired. Then you sit and enjoy some laziness while they nap. They wake up and, thank goodness, they want to stay close to the couch where you can remain sitting. Then it's a great family dinner with homemade food and an early-ish bedtime.

Plus, the two-year-old is just a little more ahead of me in Hungarian, so I got some language practice to boot.

Kata and the kids, including my two-year-old Hungarian teacher
who says 'Cheese' with, well, that face.

Eating in the Land of Meat with a Vegetarian

Kata had given up meat for Lent and had been so impressed with how healthy she felt that she decided to continue the meatless-ness beyond Easter. 

In Hungary, almost every meal is eaten with meat, so it was clear she'd relax her rules for the sake of eating a bit of home-cooked meaty goodness. 

The traditional Hungarian Easter dinner was cold ham with horseradish and hardboiled eggs. This was delicious stuff, so Kata snuck little slivers of the ham. The last meal was pork fillets cooked in a mushroom sauce. She accepted half a fillet. Between those two meals, she was treated to vegetarian meals, like Hungarian crepes, fried cheese (mmmmm!), and Grandma's potato dumplings. She did not go hungry.


Family Trip to the Hills

The Varga family is a serious hiking family and every Easter they do a walk around Szent Mihaly Hill, a forested hill that juts into the Danube River, just across from Visegrad.

I laughingly mentioned this is some sort of a boyfriend test. Then Kata's mom remembered they had indeed brought along an ex-boyfriend. I was determined to fare better than him and got my hiking game face on.

The hike was lead by Kata's dad, the alpha hiker of the family, and wound 21km up a hill, through a field, into a forest, up another hill to a lookout, and back down again to the city. It sounds gruelling when I write that all out, but the hike was great. The weather was cool and sunny and perfect for a hike. There were wild flowers everywhere and we had breaks for beer and ice cream.

I not only survived the hike, I thoroughly enjoyed it. And I was told I fared much better on the hike than the last boyfriend. 

Hussling up the hill.

The monument to the Treaty of Trianon. 

  

The view of the mighty Danube from the lookout. If you look carefully, you can see the Castle of Visegrad.

A Trip to the Dentist

As I mentioned earlier, Kata chipped her tooth on a baguette between Mannheim and Munich. Not an ideal thing to happen on a vacation, but there are worst un-vacation-y things that could've happened.

This meant a trip to the dentist. This is no extraordinary thing if you're Austrian or German. Hungarian dentists are so inexpensive and so competent compared to their Austrian and Western European colleagues, that people travel to Hungary to get dental work done. It's true. 

Hungary thrives on dental tourism.

So Kata completed a rite of passage for a tourist from Germany: She visited the dentist. I came along and, as I waited, was confronted with the choice of flipping through Hungarian ladies' magazines or enjoy's the world's best view from a dental office.

A dental office's waiting room with this kind of view
helps you ignore those drilling noises.

Getting onto the Road

I'm ending this story on another train platform, this time in Budapest. We had traveled from Hódmezővásárhely way out on the Hungarian Plains, where we had visited Kata's mama  – in Hungarian your mom is anyu or anya, and grandma is mama, after all this is a country where 'Hello' sounds like 'See ya.'

We filled up on mama's homecooking and quality family time, and now we were arriving to the one part of our vacation that was not so un-vacation-y. We were there for only one night, and we'd be typical tourists, heading to a bath and a ruin pub.

And in the end the best part of the visit to Budapest was spending time with friends, which was the same thing that made the trip as a whole so great, and unlike your typical vacation: the chance to spend time with family.