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The first day, traveling, was fairly uneventful. Flew Rochester to DC, DC to London, London to Brussels, where we found we had no more luggage. But after about 12 hours of airplane travel, we thought another hour in line at the “Where the Hell Are My Bags” counter was no big deal. They said they would deliver them to the hotel address we provided once the arrived. Great.
You got us to the right place, and we could have wandered off under our own power. Why not the inanimate, inert, unable-to-put-up-a-fight bags? Le sigh.
Anyway, our arrival in Ghent did not occur in the best of moods. We had neither the energy or the inclination at that point to decipher the perplexing tram route listings (entirely in Flemish, the close linguistic relative of Martian), so we argued until a friendly English-speaking local clued us in.
After checking in we had to find food, but as it turns out the city of Gent (and, I found out later, all of Europe) keeps some weird hours. Since it was around 9pm on Sunday, everything except for full-scale restaurants was closed, and we were too tired, smelly, and poorly dressed to feel comfortable invading one of those. So we wandered the city for an hour or so (at one point waiting out a timely downpour) until we found a wayward pita stand. The owner spoke no English, but fortunately “falafel” is universal.
The Flemish word for “two”, however, sounds comically like the English word for “three”. Oh, how we laughed!
The next morning, Monday, our spirits were higher. We stopped for pizza at an internet cafe around the corner from our hotel. The fellow behind the counter spoke better English than us and was exceedingly helpful in cluing us in as to where to find new clothes. So we spent a couple hours shopping to get new shirts and underwear (Here’s a riddle: Where do Ghent men buy cheap underwear? Answer: They don’t!) before finally setting our minds to exploring the town.
And we were not let down. Ghent is simply beautiful. I fell in love instantly and could easily see myself living there, riding trams and walking the cobblestone and dining on cheese croquettes in the shadows of Gothic castles and churches, and probably defaulting on my student loans.
First we strolled around the river, until we reached the Gravensteen, the 12th-century Castle of the Counts. There we explored the architecture and displays of torture instruments before heading back to the main square and the town Belfry. Fortunately there’s an elevator, but for a good portion we were forced to take the treacherous, narrow, spirally staircase, worn smooth and slope-y by centuries of foot traffic.
Dinner that night was at restaurant called Valentijn. It was a very cute place, and served as our introduction to the slow, steady, frustratingly inefficient European dining style. Over the next few nights we would come to realize that it was not an isolated incident, but that’s simply a matter of mild culture shock.
That, and the fact that if you need to buy anything more than a bag of potato chips after 6pm, you’re S.O.L. If you need to buy anything less than or equal to a bag of potato chips, you can get it from a tiny night shop. Our capitalist consumer culture can have its perks.
Coming up soon: Travel to Antwerp, and missing the train to Paris. Stay tuned!
What was that about defaulting on student loans?