Day 7

My last day in Oostende was uneventful. Lieke, Dianne, Mish and St. Joseph where all waiting at the train station and before I got on the train to Brussels, planning on making the connection from there to Zurich, I was introduced to the customary Dutch good-bye. Firm handshakes that turned into one armed embraces from the guys, and three kisses, first the left cheek, then right, then left again, from Lieke and Dianne. My train left at 10:30, twenty minutes before theirs did so as I rode away looking back at my new friends I wondered if I would ever see them again. We exchanged e-mails, something travelers always do, and I even got the addresses of the girls, them claiming that they wanted me to mail them the t-shirts I had created weeks earlier and was performing a makeshift guerilla advertising campaign with as I wore my white v-neck with the black winged-skull every chance I could. I intend to keep the keep the barroom coasters- what we had to use in place of paper to scrawl our contact information on- and I intend to e-mail them and send them shirts, but can I intend on maintaining communication for weeks? Months? Years? I wonder if these rapidly grown friendships will deteriorate just as fast. I didn’t think so.
One of the Dutch Phrases I learned was “damme kaput” which is a rough translation of “all or nothing”. So far most of my trip had been like that, Amsterdam was closer to Kaput, and Oostende breached the upper limits of “damme”, but the rest of the day- and a little into the next, from 10:30 am until 2 am, it was immensely and undeniably “kaput.”
I wanted to go to a town called Thun. It was about an hour away from Zurich, on a big lake, and had a museum devoted to medieval weaponry; basically everything I could ask for. But upon getting on the high speed train from Brussels to Zurich I found out that my EuRail pass, the free-for-all coupon that allowed me to roam the continent, or at least the western part, was not valid on this train and I needed to buy a 26 euro pass in addition to the EuRail pass. I found this out minutes before the train left, which is good I suppose because had I found out after the train had left and was caught without the correct tickets I would have been subject to a 400 euro fine. Irrelevant of how bad the consequences could have been I was not happy about not getting to go to Thun that night. I ambled back to the center of the station and stared aimlessly at the shuffling departure screen. The letters flipped over and over again showing dozens of trains to cities in Belgium, and a few in Holland, and one connection in France. I heard a voice from behind me say, “Do you have any idea of what any of this means?”
I laughed a little bit. I looked over and saw another traveler standing in the same position as me, mouth agape, wondering if the screen above us, encoded in a strange and foreign language, would ever become decipherable enough to allow us to continue our journeys. His name was Gordon Mathewson. He had a nose ring, came with camping supplies, was originally from Washington, D.C., went to school in Colorado Springs, had just spent a semester abroad in Spain, and was now backpacking around Europe.
We began to talk about where we had been and decided that it would be a good idea to travel together, Both of us had both come from the north so going back wasn’t an option and after a little deliberation came to the conclusion that the train to Paris via Charleroi to Jeumont was the best idea. Tommorow would be Bastille day, the French version of the 4th of July, so after my short hiccup with the train in Zurich I was now happily on my way, and although there was no medieval weapons museum there, Paris seemed like a good idea.
On the train Gordon and I had the usual traveler’s small talk. first we talked about how everything was so expensive, then we talked about how people treated us, then we discussed which country had the prettiest girls (Chile for him, Holland for me, although I had to concede that my pallet was limited), and finally, as the train rolled into to Charleroi, commented on how it was horribly obvious that the people in the seat next to us where talking about us, but because neither of us spoke a word of French, (we assumed it to be French), we would never know what they were saying.
As we got off the train into Charleroi there was an immediate sense of decay in the air. Right next to the train station was a giant apartment building with nearly all the windows smashed and torn blankets covering where the glass used to be. I took my eyes of the dilapidated complex and onto the departure board, this one was a large yellow poster taped to the wall; it was the color of scummy teeth and drastically opposed the sleek and ever-furious screen in Brussels. Our next stop on the way to Paris was a border town named Jeumont. There was one more train to Jeumont and, according to the sign if left from the gate 6, the same gate we arrived at, in 6 minutes. Sounded fair enough- We put our bags down to use as chairs and anxiously awaited it’s arrival. 3 minutes passed and still no train.
“When I was in Barcelona, the trains were always late” Gordon said. It worried me that he said that. I didn’t exhibit any signs that I needed to be convinced we were not going to be hung out to dry, but I was a novice traveler. The fact that Gordon, who, although was a year younger than me, was still much more versed in the discipline.
9 minutes passed by. Then 12, then 20 until finally we decided to re-consult the plaque-ridden poster.
We squinted at it, as if that would make the language change, and then in unison let out an explicit cry. We had read the sign wrong. There was a train to Jeumont from gate 6, but it had left at 15:15 the English equivalent of a quarter past five. It was now 4:37 (16:37 European) and the train we wanted to get on, the last one to Jeumont, left from gate 10 at 16:21, fifteen minutes ago. Our poor understanding of the European time system had abruptly stopped our venture towards Paris. Thankfully there was one last train to Brussels, but finding a train to somewhere else in Europe would be difficult. I got online to see if there were any available hostels- “maybe this won’t be so bad”, I thought, “we’ll just stay in Brussels, then start over again tomorrow. This isn’t bad- it isn’t like all they will all be booked, I mean it’s a Monday night, there has to be openings.” There were no openings.
The train ride to Brussels was about an hour, and the way to Jeumont was filled with jokes and stories. But on the way back was silent, not because we were upset, but because out little EuRail booklets that listed the major arrival and departure times had just become our most valuable resource. These where now our Bibles, and we flipped through them scanning every page, hoping that there would be some train we missed, some savior to us, an immaculate connection.
There was one, a 7:00 (19:00 European) to Luxembourg. I didn’t know much about Luxembourg except that it wasn’t Brussels and that meant that there might be a room available. It was a three hour train ride which put us arriving at 10:00 (22:00), late to be open for a hostel, but still in a better position that where we were.
I should have known it was a bad sign when the rain started pouring as soon as I got off the train in Luxembourg.
“It can’t get any worse” I thought to myself as pondering the 2.5 mile walk to the hostel. As soon as I saw the landscape of the city, I realize it had gotten worse. Luxembourg (City) is a very nice city, the architecture is beautiful, the area is safe, and the economy is one that thrives on a global stage- proof that deregulation helps the overall standard of living, but I digress- as much as I love the city, my one problem with Luxembourg is that it is situated around a giant gorge- A huge valley that is hundreds of feet down from the plateau where the train station is. This normally wouldn’t be a problem for me, I’d just avoid the chasm and be on my way, but the hostel was in the valley, so here I am walking with Gordon and 5 Spaniards whom we picked up at the train station down to an hostel that we cannot contact (their phone line was down), in the pouring rain, praying that there would be rooms open. While Gordon spoke Spanish I had no idea what at all they were saying- the fact that they kept yelling and looking at me not making me feel any better.
It took us until 11:45 to get to the hostel, almost two hours of getting lost and wandering down the winding roads that put you feet away from falling to your death, something that could have been all too real given the torrential downpour that was around us that made the cobblestone streets quite slippery. Luckily everyone survived. We walked in soaking wet, tired, but our spirits lifted because the hostel looks completely empty. A man behind the counter smiles at us through a big bushy moustache that starts just below one cheek bone and runs completely parallel to his lips to the other.

“Reservations” he says in a thick French accent.
I laugh.
A very nervous laugh.
“No- it looks completely vacant, are you telling me that you are full?”
“Ehhhhh” he pauses, “Yes. Complete”
At this point I look back and begin to laugh- not nervous anymore, just choosing to do so rather than cry. First the problem with the train to Zurich, then the missed train, then the rain, and now this.
I explain the situation to Gordon who then explains it to the Spaniards who immediately begin to yell at me, as if I had something to do with this. I didn’t make out any words but Gordon told me that they were really just mad about the US beating them in soccer a few weeks earlier and this was an excuse to yell at an American.
“Why aren’t they mad at you?” I ask
“I said I was Canadian” he replied
So there I was, in Luxembourg, in the pouring rain with no place to stay at midnight.
I looked over to the group and say “at least we know it can’t get any worse” but they were too busy huddling around each other to listen. Every so often they would look over at me and look away, and I began to feel uneasy. The way a captain does before his crew mutinies.
Gordon sheepishly walked over and explains to me what is happening, that he and the Spaniards talked about it, and they are going to camp. That they’ve all got supplies and they will just go under a tree next to the hostel. I didn’t need to ask what they meant for to happen to me, it was implied. I was being kicked out, the weakest link being cut from the rest- an amputation to stop the spread of disease.
I said a goodbye and waved as if it didn’t bother me- I didn’t really have time to be bothered anyways, I needed to find somewhere to stay and getting upset wouldn’t have helped that at all- and I began my ascent up the mountain before me. Still raining, now alone, I looked around me and said, as if I daring someone- or rather something- “Well, at least it can’t get any worse”
I called my mom to see if she could book me a hotel online and give me the directions to it, and although I got her answering machine on the first three calls, finally I got through.
We began to talk, I told her about my problem trying to give as little information as possible because I had low battery, a limited number of minutes to use internationally, and I feared the rain was going to ruin my phone. I knew that if I truly explained about where I was and what I was doing she would be more concerned with knowing why that had happened than actually getting a room as fast as possible. We got about 5 minutes into the conversation- to a point where she hadn’t yet gotten me the address of a hotel but was on the computer looking for one- when my phone started to make a loud beeping noise, then a screeching noise. Then silence.
I pulled the phone away from ear, totally conscious the rain that poured down my lobe, and held my breathe. I looked at the phone and thought it I imagined it still being on hard enough, it would come true.
Alas, mind did not succeed over matter as the water had gotten into my phone and ruined it.
So there I was, now completely alone with no contact to the English speaking world let alone a computer, miles away from the train station, soaking wet. My only choice was to walk back to the train station and try to find a hotel around there. I began to navigate my way through the labyrinth back towards the train station following road signs that pointed towards the “gare”, by the picture of the rails that accompanied it, what I assumed to be the French word for train.
It had been about 90 minutes was standing on the corner of two roads with my backpack in off as to allow my head cock back- without falling backwards because my regular 50 pounds of luggage now weighed about 80 due to their porous nature and my wet circumstances- trying to see with way the “Gare” sign pointed when I heard a low buzzing sound come by me which was almost immediately followed by a quick pain on my left hamstring which was then followed by the same low buzzing going away from me. It felt like someone had taken a rubber hammer and hit me, not as hard as they could, but as hard as if they wanted to really shatter a clay pot or plate into many pieces. Some guy, or girl I suppose, was on a moped had been trying to cut the corner too fast and managed to clip me, an innocent bystander on the edge of the sidewalk. It wasn’t the worst injury I’ve ever had- far from it, but it was very demoralizing. Not only did I have to walk another mile in the pouring rain, with no phone, soaking wet, and not knowing where I was, I know had to do it what a limp. I thought for a moment that I was never going to be able to escape this place- that I was destined to spend the rest of my days in this strange place
“Well”, I said, both my voice and stride wavering as I turned a corner, “At least…” I stopped, “At least it CAN get worse”. I find that humor is the best way to detonate a potentially defeating situation. I managed to finish that last mile and finally was greeted with the most beautiful train station I had ever seen- not because it was a work of art, (because in reality, the Luxembourg train station isn’t anything special), but because across the street from it was a hotel. It was called the Pizzeria Hotel and when I walked in there was a thin black guy a little shorter than me sitting behind a desk watching soccer on a laptop.
“Do you have any room?” I asked, waiting to be let down yet again.
He didn’t look up from his laptop for a second, but finally does and says “let me check”
He went through some papers and says
“Yes, there are two rooms”
And when I heard that I was completely and utterly overjoyed.
“But….”
“But” he says, “There is one thing- the rooms are in the attic”
What he meant by that is I would be staying in a crawlspace with a window and a bed. He expected me to leave the building in disgust, I think he actually hoped I would so he could get back to his soccer game, but I said I would take it no matter where it was.
“Fine, 45 euro’s”
I ended up talking him down to 35, something I will forever be amazed by because a soaking wet tourist with pounds and pounds of luggage is in no position to negotiate prices.
Finally, at 2 am, 5 miles walked and countless gallons of water later dumped on me, I had reached my goal. A small, dirty, and potentially dangerous Hotel in Luxembourg. The greatest apex seems only higher when compared to the lowest nadir. Damme Kaput- just the way I like it.