You couldn’t just get a bag of chips, it only came as extra with the
sausage. I marvelled at the ludicrous idea of having french bread with
chips (‘le chip butty’) and tried to decide what sausage I wanted.

The merguez (moroccan, spicy) looked great, but I wanted something
bigger so I pointed at the large ones on the hot plate. Looking at the
menu, I guessed they were ‘andouilettes’. That rang a bell. When the
woman scooped one disintegrated sausage into a baguette for me, I
remembered. Andouille… Tripe. Chitterlings. Offal.

I smiled, having made the age old unsuspecting-tourist-in-france
mistake. But I pride myself on a strong stomach and palate. I’m not
squeamish about food (as long as it’s not insects) gladly slip live
shell food down my throat and wax poetically about black pudding. A
little pigs’ offal wasn’t going to put me off.

I tucked into my baguette with great relish. Texturally, it was fine.
That thick white rubbery bit must have been a vein or stomach lining.
The pale grey brownish filling was like minced meat. It was the smell
of it that did me in. It was minging, sickly and sweet, much or exactly
like the food I used to cook for my pet.

Half of my baguette andouillette ended up in a bin. A bottle of Evian
took care of the taste and smell. Once inside the stadium, I stilled my
hunger with a plain old hot dog.

Sometimes I go to England.

But to answer the question: I have no plans to go there this summer. Yet.

I never do have travel plans, because I don’t seem to travel without a reason anymore. I don’t go on holidays. I travel with a purpose. Mostly music related. To see a gig. To see friends. To see friends at a gig. Often, these trips are last minute decisions. Whenever something’s on.

My idea of a (real) holiday is going camping in France. Or to rent an apartment in Portugal, with a pool on the grounds and some dirty little caf in the village nearby, and watching fishermen handle their colourful boats on the beach and gape at the mountains of shell food at the market. Which is something I enjoy doing very very much. But not on my own.

Frankly, the idea of holidaying on my own fills me with dread. The whole purpose of holidaying is to create relaxing memories, and they’re more relaxing when they’re shared. There really is no point in watching incredible sunsets over Mediterranean shores when you can’t go ‘Remember that incredible sunset’ to anyone in the future.

I travelled extensively when I was younger, with my parents. Brasil, Senegal, South Africa, etc. Four or five trips a year. It gave me a thrill back then, but I can’t see me doing it again.

Which makes me the odd one out, again. Because the Dutch these days Travel with a capital T.

In Holland, ‘work’ for a long time was of the utmost importance. People, like the good Calvinists they were, defined themselves by their job and their god.

Affluence brought change to the Dutch mindset. People shed religion. Then work became religion. Then the right not to work became religion.

These days, the right (a word that gives me the creeps) to go on holiday after a couple of months of slave labour is king. People work to have time off. They work to finance their elaborate travelling.

Around me, though – rather telling, I’d say – not in my immediate circle of friends, people talk about travelling to Vietnam, India, Malaysia as if they were taking a break in the Ardennes. I can’t seem to equate ‘holiday’ with ‘backpacking in tropical heat surrounded by people whose language you don’t speak and whose lives you can never hope to understand’.

Maybe I’m lazy. I still would rather see the Ardennes.

This summer, I am staying in the city and I’ll be doing some travel in the head. Tonight and on Monday, I’ll be at De Parade, surreal vaudeville theatre gone mainstream. De Parade is, in good Dutch post hippie tradition, a happening, man. In August, I’m seeing outdoor theatre spectacle, Faust in Almere. And I definitely want to see this double ‘dog exposition‘ called ‘Dog and Master’.

So, I don’t always go to Ireland. Mostly, I stay at home.