Jetlag ... and some stories from the road

Probably not jet lag ...
The flight to Milan was meant to be about 1 hour and 15 minutes.  We ended up arriving 20 minutes early ... a short-cut that boggles my mind.  How does a plane arrive 20 minutes early?

The alarm rang in Belgium 4.59am. 
Taxi at 5.54am.
Suitcase, the one that Brussels Airport broke last time I flew in there, revealed we hadn’t managed to fix it as I placed it in the hold of the Airport Bus ... 6.05am.
I may have said a bad word.

I arrived at the airport.  For a moment, I forgot I was in a country whose service providers often don’t care.  I confessed that my suitcase probably wouldn’t stay closed on the plane, due to being damaged last time I’d flown Brussels Airlines.  Fortunately, I said, I had managed to replace the suitcase strap they had lost but could he note its fragile status?
No.

Actually, the Brussels Airline check-in bloke pulled that face that Belgian service providers pull when they don’t really want to hear what you are saying because it’s YOUR problem and THEIR company and/or shop refuses to be held accountable.

Fair enough.  I’ve been there long enough to know the impossibility of anything close to satisfaction in this kind of thing.  I have lost the few battles I’ve attempted.  Raising ones voice doesn’t help.  These guys survived the Spanish Inquisition.  Raising ones voice is NOTHING.

I had an idea and suggested it to the Belgian check-in guy.  He warmed to me immediately. 
I suggested I get my suitcase plastic-wrapped so it would stay closed.
He led me there, abandoning his post even.
He didn’t mention the 5euro fee for plastic-wrapping.

However, there was the relief of having my suitcase secured. I returned to complete check-in.  He had handed my case on to the Belgian check-in woman.

I was early but you really need to be when you tavel from Antwerp to Brussels via the bus.  You have to allow for traffic jams when you travel morning or early evening.

I wandered off and bought a bottle of coke,, looking for that instant caffeine hit.  I thought the check-out chick insane.  She kept asking me for MORE money.  I knew we would work it out at some point.  She would laugh, I would laugh, she would apologise.
But no, that small bottle of coke really was 3.50euro.
I said ‘I’ll be sure to really really enjoy it then…’  And then we both laughed.
That is a robbery, isn’t it? 
It is $4.88us and $6.09 in New Zealand money.
I wish I hadn’t made those conversions now ...

On the plane and things began to improve. I met this lovely Mexican/American woman.  We chatted most of the way to Milan and so I noticed even less of the very short flight.

In Milan, the big heavy Belgian-frost-protecting jersey had to come off but ... oh no! I couldn’t put it into my plastic-wrapped suitcase because I still had a long way to travel and dared not interfere with its hold on my belongings - there were two train trips to be made.  I tied it onto my suitcase, hoping not to stand out as a peasant there in Milan.  Found a nasty sandwich, remembered too late that I knew how to purchase them in that shop because I had been a chicken last time too ... limiting myself to simple Italian when ordering food.  Sigh. 

I decided perhaps I could make this my rite-of-passage experience.  Each time I arrive in Italy I will have one of these disgusting sandwiches to appease the gods of travel and win myself a good visit.  I ate almost all of it while waiting for my train to Genova.  Breakfast had been quite some hours earlier.

On the train, I had the most incredible good fortune ... (so I’m thinking the sandwich sacrifice may be the ritual of choice on future trips).  I sat next to a lovely woman called Germana.  We began chatting after she very kindly alerted me to the fact that our number 7 train carriage had just become a number 6, and yes, we all had to move.

My seat was next to her in number 6 carriage and so we began to chat.  It turned out that this lovely woman had, like me, had spent some time living in Istanbul.  Well, that was that.  We fell into conversation, talking of the lovely places she had lived, talking of family, talking of life.  It was so excellent!  That train trip passed so easily that I didn’t even notice the million tunnels that we have to travel through to reach Genova.

We said goodbye at the station, I found a taxi and voila, here I am, back in this city I love so very deeply.

But that’s not all.  I walked into the apartment and Paola and Simon had arranged the loveliest birthday surprise.  3 bottles of truly delicious wine!  Really!

So there I was, back in Genova, having met good people along the way, my suitcase had managed to contain itself and not spill open and now ... there was red wine waiting for me!
A huge thank you to Paola and Simon!

Today it’s 9 celsius, it’s pouring down after 3 very dry months here in the city, and here I am, wrapped up warmly and smiling that big smile that I try to control whenever I reach this place.

I hope your worlds are behaving today and I wish you joy.
Ciao for now. 

Brussels Airport ... where I write how it was to arrive there.

Yesterday, at the really friendly airport of Dublin, we booked a wheelchair or buggy ride for Brussels.  Just to get me through the long long, unbelievably long trek, from the plane to pick up our luggage.  I was okay with doing the rest on my own but had a bad feeling that the trek from the plane wouldn’t be the greatest plan.

We arrived and ... well unsurprisingly really, writes the voice of past experience with Brussels Airport, there was no one waiting .  It was a hell of a walk through a largely deserted 8.30pm airport. 
No-one anywhere, to even say ‘ummmm excuse me, we booked assistance?’

Limping through, tediously slowly, we found our luggage and wandered over to the money machine to get money.  Our hourly bus to Antwerpen was already going without us at 9pm.  We were too slow with the limping thing but voila, just to make things more glorious, the money machine was out of cash. 

I knew where another machine was and so we picked up our luggage and trundled on out.  A bit tired and sore, you can imagine how rapt we were to discover the second money machine was out of cash too.  My Belgian bloke was fuming ...
There was a third machine and it had money.

We stopped at Information to ask why we hadn’t received the assistance we had booked.  I had warned Gert not to go there.  It’s a path to self-destruction and rage.  Last time I landed there, just a few weeks earlier, the luggage handlers had slammed my suitcase around, the ensuing damage jamming my suitcase closed, with my coat inside.  They had also managed to lose my big strong luggage strap.  My enquiries had begun at ‘Information’ too.  I was sent around the airport, being told ‘no, not here, we're not responsible, try there’, until I risked missing my hourly bus home to Stad Antwerpen.  Again, this guy had no answers beyond naming the group responsible before adding ‘but they’re closed now’.

Smiling kind of grimly, I asked where the best place to eat was. 
He said, they’re all closed.

International airport ... people still arriving and leaving ... food places closed, 9pm.

We rolled the case over to a bar and ordered a horrendous panini thing each, with a beer and a wine ... 23euro.  Then as we sat there the staff, assuming we were both English-speaking, called the previous customers pigs on arriving at their table.  Not because of the mess but because the customers had wanted a lemon slice in their drink then not finished the drink.  I suspected it was undrinkable, based on the sandwiches.

I looked inside my crunchy brie panini, the over-toasted one, and saw a pile of meat.  I asked the guy waiter what it might be, not rudely, just kind of bemused that my brie panini wasn’t really.
He laughed, looking at me like I was slightly insane, he said, I only the sell the stuff, I don’t know what is in it.

And that was coming home from Ireland ... maybe it's better to land over in Holland and catch the trains home.

The Belgian Bloke ...

I often travel alone ... I’m lucky, the man who found me in Istanbul accepts that a New Zealander living in Turkey might be a bit of a wanderer.

But sometimes he travels with me however I can’t always blog all about that while on the road.  It’s the kind of information burglars might rather enjoy.  There’s the whole google face recognition thing these days and so, when I travel with my Belgian, he’s often not mentioned and it’s sad because I do enjoy traveling with him.

This trip to Ireland was special in so many ways.  He had decided he wouldn’t be driving.  Instead, he had hired an Irish rental car and it was all about me getting back behind the wheel after 7 years as a passenger. 

It has to be said, I loved driving back in New Zealand.  Loved it with a passion!  Friends visiting New Zealand can attest to that, although I would rather they didn’t critique my style here.  Yes, that means you Diede, and perhaps Mary Lou too.

Anyway ... I was a little bit nervous about it all.  7 years is a long time. 

The rental car bloke in Ireland said, ‘so you’re okay with a 2011 Peugeot 308?’  I think I gave him a wee bit of a fright.  I didn’t hug him but I might have said, ‘I’ve only just arrived in Ireland and here I am, having a really excellent time!!!’  He almost smiled, which we felt was an event, as Gert and I weren’t sure he smiled a lot normally.  It was possibly the equivalent of a hearty laugh from a more easily amused bloke.

We trotted out and loaded up the car.  Gert had maps.  He’s great with maps.  I’m not.  I never know where I am in the world.  I accept that.

We did all kinds of M Roads on our journey from Dublin Airport across to Galway, over there on the other side of Ireland.  It was grand.  I had imagined I would sit around 90kms p/h in the slow lane in those places where the speed limit was 120kms but do you know, it all came back to me.  120kms was okay.  Gert liked my driving.  He’s a Flemish bloke.  He’s fairly blunt when it comes to truth-telling.

And we timed it nicely.  His directions were excellent.  I didn’t drive him crazy, not once.  A miracle.

Anyway, we arrived in one piece at the home of the lovely Rob and Angie and just kind of stepped into this magical time of wandering and boating and fishing and stuff, in Ireland.

I took this photograph of Gert fishing ... but that’s a whole other story, involving trees and fish and things.

Sunday in Oughterard, Ireland

We started well, it was a lazy start ... the best kind on a Sunday.

After breakfast Rob and Angie took us all into the forest to walk thrugh to the Lough with the dogs. Unfortunately I got between one of the dogs and her ball without realising, and experienced the whole impact-with-fast-moving-dog thing.  I thought I heard something crack in my lower leg but a short wait showed that nothing was broken.

I headed for home, threw some ice on it half-heartedly and then foolishly decided it wasn’t too bad and that I could walk it out.  Fish and chips for lunch, my first here in Ireland, then we were off to the fair with everyone via one of the tiny roads near Lough Corrib.  Photographs were taken.

Back at the house, downloading photographs, I fell asleep with some ice on that ankle of mine and frustratingly, I’ve woken in pain.  Rob strapped it.  He knows about stuff like this and I’m hoping it’s all gone in time for the ride across Ireland in the morning ...

Meanwhile it’s a beautiful day here.  The photograph below was taken on the shores of the Lough of Corrib.