prolific.org

I took off from Dublin airport at 4pm, some 30 to 45 minutes late, what seems to be the standard delay on European flights these days. I was tired, sweaty, and not at all pleased with my Belgian detour. I had flown from Charleroi the weekend before, and was obliged to return there - saving money in the process.

At Charleroi Airport, handling was slow and the belts too tiny to accomodate the many passengers and their luggage. I was getting a bit annoyed with procedures.

On the bus I overheard talk of a train strike around Brussels. I started biting my nails.

Around 7pm I arrived at Charleroi Sud. There were no trains going into Brussels, we all had to get off in Breines. (I think it was called that). There, we got on a local bus (paying 105 francs) to Brussels Midi.

… my quick eye (I’m so thankful for having it!) spotted a couple of Dutch coaches just driving into the square as we arrived. Myself and another Dutchman ran up to them and asked if they were going back to Holland. They were, but were waiting for instructions and didn’t have a clue where their platform was. But they let us ride around with them, and we eventually found the bay. Which is where we waited another hour or so before departure.

Then Belgian Rail, the ones on strike, came in to make us pay for the ride. I showed them my train ticket, which was valid till Antwerp and expected to pay my fee to Holland (Roosendaal) from there. But no, they demanded the full amount, another 700 francs. Excuse me while I damn all Belgian public transport to hell. No service, and they rip me off for it as well.

I lived through the ride by letting all the images of the last week wash over me. Words, music, facial expressions, body language, hugs, kisses, people, friends, moments, looks, glances, chord changes, everything. Having been on the piss for a week, and indulging in cigarettes and the very lovely anaesthetic called ‘gigs’, I was getting a bit needy as time progressed. Someone offered me chocolate and then said ‘oh, sorry, I haven’t got it’. Gave me a tic tac instead.

We got to Roosendaal (just accross the Dutch border) at midnight. From there, we boarded a Dutch train to Rotterdam, from where I would be able to get the night train to Amsterdam.

Of course the train was delayed - a line had broken between Roosendaal and Rotterdam. So we waited. My stomach hurt from not having eaten or drunk anything since Dublin (I had tried in vain to buy food at Brussels Midi) and it was making me dizzy.

I asked the guard if I could buy a ticket on the train (my passes aren’t working, I couldn’t use the machine, all I had was cash). She said that was fine, but never came by to sell it to me.

The train left an hour late, arriving at Rotterdam Central Station around 2 am. The night train to Amsterdam was waiting for us.

We were ushered from platform 3 to platform 9. There, I was asked for a ticket. I explained what happened, but they said I had to go back to the main hall to get one. I had a backpack and a heavy shoulderbag filled to the brim with expensive equipment that I couldn’t leave alone. I pleaded with the guard to let me in, explained I had travelled from Ireland via Belgium, but he wouldn’t budge and made me run to the main hall, cracking jokes about me to his colleague while he was at it.

Welcome to the Continent.

I got my ticket, ran back, called the guards a shower of pricks and got on the train, coughing my lungs up and basically at the end of my tether. I wheezed and coughed and raged and cried with exhaustion.

Arrived in Amsterdam at 3.30 am. Got a hot dog from the Italian booth outside the station, my first food since C’s lunch in Terenure the day before. I was calm then, strangely serene and wide awake. Told my story to the taxi driver and got behind my computer by 3.45. Fuct around till 5.30 am. Slept 4 hours, arrived at work at 10.30 am.

Never will fly Ryanair again.

… today I bought some food at AH on Nieuwmarkt. The girl at the counter was cracking lewd jokes loudly with a customer at the OTHER till. She takes no notice of me. If she had, I would probably had said ‘good afternoon’ to her. I put my stuff on the counter.

Me (in Dutch): ‘Could I have a bag with that, please?’

She: ‘Huh?’

Me: (in Dutch) ‘A bag, please?’

She: (in English) ‘WANNABAG?’

Me: (in Dutch) ‘A bag please, yes… you can speak Dutch to me, I’m Dutch.’ I smile, still friendly.

She: (in Dutch, and very rude) ‘Ijustassumeanyonethatdoesn’tgreetmeisaforeigner’

Me: (thinking to myself) Sorry for speaking perfect accentless Dutch you dosy cow, next time I’ll address you in your own fucking Amsterdam accent, perhaps you’ll understand me.

I consider getting her manager to complain about her intolerable rudeness, but decide it’s pointless.

Welcome to Holland.