There's this saying about lemons and lemonade. Getting lost would lead me to a city with - an IKEA! Wo0t! Time to raid their foodstuffs! The prices in Euros here for furniture is almost the same as it is in the States. Meaning, the locker that I picked up for 100 bucks US costs 100 Euros. That's nearly 200 bucks - oi. Guess I'll have to settle on chocolate and wafers. Can't really fit that sofa into my backpack anyway.
Back on the motorway to Ipres, I figured that the first thing I have to do upon arrival is find the tourist info, as there comes a time when one realises it's futile to try to find lodging in a foreign land by herself. Smartest decision so far since I booked the plane ticket.
They phoned the b&b for me, made sure there was room, handed me maps of the city as well as a very detailed one on how to get to the place, and sent me on my way.
The woman there was extremely welcoming, spoke 5 languages, and immediately got me set up with information and pictures to familiarize myself with the town. Off I went, camera in tow, to the Menin Gate one again to get some photographs.
Ipres is a city of about 40 000 people. It's very walkable, bicycle paths are incorporated into the infrastructure everywhere (as it is all over Belgium) and has a very safe feel. No matter where you go, there are people strolling along. There aren't a bunch of yobs out on the street just being anti-social, and I noticed next to no grafitti or other vandalism.
Now, if you're ever planning on touring the WW1 sites, I strongly suggest staying in Ipres. Everything you could want to see in a day or two time is right around the town. I would also suggest renting a vehicle; taxi-ing it would cost a fortune, the sites are too far away from each other to easily walk to, and even though you probably could bike to them all, it would probably take 4 days in what you could do in 1 driving. The other option would be to get in on one of the many tours that operate out of the town and will set you back about 45 euros or so.
The hostess of the b&b set me up with a full list of sites, including map and descriptions of each. I got to the first cemetery and was kind of slapped upside the head. You don't really think about the numbers killed until you see stone after stone in front of you. That was a small one in comparison to the rest I'd see that day. Thousands and thousands in the French cemetery - all marked by a cross. The Aussie memorial was one of the most peaceful places I'd ever been to. It was more like a park - indescribable really - will let the pictures do the talking for that one. Then Tyne Cot. Good Lord. It's the largest Commonwealth cemetery in the world with over 11000 (I believe) buried there. That does't include the thousands and thousands with no known grave listed on the walls. In an effort to put it in perspective: they are currently re-engraving the stones - the first time since they were placed. It will take 5 workers 4 years to finish the job. After that was the Canadian memorial followed by a German cemetery. It's much different than any other, and maybe it's all psychological, but the feeling there was also much different - more at ill-ease than the allied places.
By this time, light was was fleeting, so I headed back to the b&b, dropped off the car, and walked back into the centre of the city looking for things to be amused by. Found my way into a restaurant where the beef goulash was delicious and the atmosphere nice. That is, until some Brit with a chip on his shoulder decided that his meal was unsatisfactory and proceded to insult the restauarnt manager's capabilities, the food, and the service. A full-out yelling match insued with the customer's wife trying desperately to be civil and neither man backing down. Needless to say, that cleared out the entire table beside me and left the place very quiet for a good while.
Back to the b&b that night with Belgian chocolates in tow and determination not to eat them. Once the ol' noggin hit the pillow, it was goodnight Charlie until 8:30 the next morning.
That's it for now. More later!
Friday, November 14, 2008
Vimy and the Menin Gate
If there's any war memorial you should visit in your life, make it Vimy. I had no clue how incredibly massive the place is until I got into the park. All of the trenches have been preserved ( as in, the area has not been farmed and has just been left to grass over ) and it's acres and acres of this. You go winding around roads and then pop out where you can see the memorial and it just hits you in the pit of your stomach.
Two days prior was the official ceremony, but the guides working there decided to put on a small ceremony at 11:00. There must have been close to 300 people there, a great deal of them fellow Canucks. It's kind of strange - you have no idea who any of these people are, but just that common bond in nationality is enough to just go up to someone and start chatting with them like you've seen them before. There were even a few Canadian servicemen there - one of them from the airborn division in Vancouver.
The service was quite emotional. I think most people were fine up until they started the pipes and then a good number of people started wiping their eyes, including myself. What an experience!
The rest of the day there was spent going through the cemeteries, walking around the grounds, and touring the underground tunnels they used during WW1. Built by the British, they were used by the troops to move supplies and fresh men in, served as a momentarily safe passage for the runners, and were bunking quarters for a fortunate few. To think, the distance between the Germans and the Allies was less than 100m for a significant part of the stalemate at Vimy. A person doesn't realise how close that is until she's standing at the Allied lines, looking over the brow of the ridge to the Axis side. Incredible.
I figured I could still make it to Ipers that night for the Last Post at the Menin Gate. So, I booked it out of Vimy and made a detour in Kortijk where I thought I could easily find a hostel or tourist info. Ha! Easy doesn't exist on this trip. Under the impression that both French and Flemmish are spoken in Belgium, I thought I could make sense of things. Noooooo. Road signs are in Flemmish. Town names on signs are mostly just in Flemmish and the translations can be significantly different. I finally gave up and headed for Ipers - just in time too, 'cause the ceremony had already started and what I thought was just going to be the last post was a huge to-do!
Easily a thousand people, maybe 2 or 3 were packed in the streets and under the gate itself to see the pipers, marching bands, a choir, and buglers. I don't think a person could ask for a better Remembrance Day than this. To see the appreciation that the people here still have is very humbling.
Now to find a place to stay. Long story short - I got lost and ended up back in France about 50 km away in Lomme.
Two days prior was the official ceremony, but the guides working there decided to put on a small ceremony at 11:00. There must have been close to 300 people there, a great deal of them fellow Canucks. It's kind of strange - you have no idea who any of these people are, but just that common bond in nationality is enough to just go up to someone and start chatting with them like you've seen them before. There were even a few Canadian servicemen there - one of them from the airborn division in Vancouver.
The service was quite emotional. I think most people were fine up until they started the pipes and then a good number of people started wiping their eyes, including myself. What an experience!
The rest of the day there was spent going through the cemeteries, walking around the grounds, and touring the underground tunnels they used during WW1. Built by the British, they were used by the troops to move supplies and fresh men in, served as a momentarily safe passage for the runners, and were bunking quarters for a fortunate few. To think, the distance between the Germans and the Allies was less than 100m for a significant part of the stalemate at Vimy. A person doesn't realise how close that is until she's standing at the Allied lines, looking over the brow of the ridge to the Axis side. Incredible.
I figured I could still make it to Ipers that night for the Last Post at the Menin Gate. So, I booked it out of Vimy and made a detour in Kortijk where I thought I could easily find a hostel or tourist info. Ha! Easy doesn't exist on this trip. Under the impression that both French and Flemmish are spoken in Belgium, I thought I could make sense of things. Noooooo. Road signs are in Flemmish. Town names on signs are mostly just in Flemmish and the translations can be significantly different. I finally gave up and headed for Ipers - just in time too, 'cause the ceremony had already started and what I thought was just going to be the last post was a huge to-do!
Easily a thousand people, maybe 2 or 3 were packed in the streets and under the gate itself to see the pipers, marching bands, a choir, and buglers. I don't think a person could ask for a better Remembrance Day than this. To see the appreciation that the people here still have is very humbling.
Now to find a place to stay. Long story short - I got lost and ended up back in France about 50 km away in Lomme.
Day 1 & 2 - Surprise!
So' the flight over was a breeze - security in the airports, at least from what I encountered has become much more relaxed since the last time I flew. The landing into Heathrow was no less than smooth and it took no time at all to get my luggage, although there was already a casualty - the rain fly was gone off my pack - I forsee a problem with this in England later on. At least the pack was there and not just the rainfly - that would have sucked!
So after making my way onto the tube system and changing at the Hammersmith station, I started seeing a lot of poppies on people's lapels. Nevermind the vetrans. Something was definitely going on. Since I'm nosey, I started to enquire and as it turned out, London was having their big Remembrance Day ceremony that day. The queen lays a wreath at the cenotaph near Trafalgar Square and thousands of veterans take part in a parade complete with royal salute from Prince Edward along with a large gun brought in by horse cart to mark the beginning of two minutes of silence. It was a sight to behold. And the security! Good lord. Ironic, since it's a day to mark the exchange of lives for freedom.
By this time, a good few hours had passed and I figured I'd best be heading for Boulogne-Sur-Mer, so hopped on the train at Charing Cross station and started heading for Dover. Once at Dover, I was informed that the ferry to Boulogne had been shut down because the guy had been neglecting to pay his port fees, so I'd have to go to Calais and then take the train to Boulogne. I figured time would be tight, but had no clue how tight it would turn out to be.
Once at the ferry port, a group of us got a short bus ride to the Police de Frontier where we all got off, had our passports stamped, then got on the bus, only to drive another few hundred meters, be let off the bus again so our stuff could go through x-ray and us through metal detectors, then on the bus again to be let off at a waiting room near the dock. The whole experience was kind of unsettling for some reason.
By this time it was good and dark and by the time we got to Calais, it was nearly 8PM. A bus took us to the main railway station and I got off thinking this should be relatively easy. It would have been (sort of) if a) I spoke French well enough to pass as a native b) the train came every hour or so, c) the station wasn't littered with a bunch of drunks and d) I had change on me.
The ticket office was closed, so with the help of a guy who said he was from Finland and was living in Belgium, figured out what the ticket machine said. Then the trick was to get change, since the machine refused my Visa card (not chip and pin I suspect). The guy was nice enough to sit and chat with me until my train got there, as he didn't seem prepared to let this little waif of a thing sit in the station alone surrounded by drunks. It turned out that another passenger on the ferry was also headed to Boulogne, so I boarded with him, and once in Boulogne, he helped me get my directions sorted out as to how to get to the hostel.
So I got there - about 3 minutes after they had closed. It was a punch code system to get in, so I stood there randomly punching numbers in 'cause, well, what else was I going to do? Luckily, the person running the joint came to the door and let me in. Whew!!
In the morning, I made my way downstairs for breakfast and joined my roommate. Between my horrific French and her decent English, we somehow managed a conversation. I left Boulogne in the morning going back to Calais to get my rental car. Thanks to Google maps, I thought this should be easy to get to the place.
After wandering around trying to figure out which way north was, I found tourist info, manned by a woman who seemed to have no want to actually help tourists. So, I finally squeezed directions out of her to get to where google told me I'd find the rental and I started hoofing it. Well, google screwed me over. I don't know where I ended up, but I managed to get propositioned by some jackass. Get me out of this city! I booked it back to the tourist place and stood on the street, maps blowing in the 50+ km/h winds. And then a voice out of nowhere. "Do you speak English?" Thank God, the Aussies had come to rescue me!
Now, normally I'd be the last person to accept a ride from a total stranger, but they had this rental van with children's drawings all over the exterior. Not exactly subtle. It was a wild goose chase to find the rental place. Once again, more service people who had no want to talk to English-speaking foreigners would be less than helpful. I was starting to get the feeling that a person could be attacked here and if they were screaming for help in English, people would just walk past them. Well, we finally found the rental place and I booked it out of there as fast as I could go to Arras which is a beautiful city with helpful people. The hostel was booked solid, but the nice guy pointed me to a budget hotel on the edge of the city. It was clean, warm, and out of the elements - hooray!
Driving in Europe, if you've never done it before is something else. I've yet to figure out if there are, in fact, any rules. But the motorways are gorgeous and they move!
So after making my way onto the tube system and changing at the Hammersmith station, I started seeing a lot of poppies on people's lapels. Nevermind the vetrans. Something was definitely going on. Since I'm nosey, I started to enquire and as it turned out, London was having their big Remembrance Day ceremony that day. The queen lays a wreath at the cenotaph near Trafalgar Square and thousands of veterans take part in a parade complete with royal salute from Prince Edward along with a large gun brought in by horse cart to mark the beginning of two minutes of silence. It was a sight to behold. And the security! Good lord. Ironic, since it's a day to mark the exchange of lives for freedom.
By this time, a good few hours had passed and I figured I'd best be heading for Boulogne-Sur-Mer, so hopped on the train at Charing Cross station and started heading for Dover. Once at Dover, I was informed that the ferry to Boulogne had been shut down because the guy had been neglecting to pay his port fees, so I'd have to go to Calais and then take the train to Boulogne. I figured time would be tight, but had no clue how tight it would turn out to be.
Once at the ferry port, a group of us got a short bus ride to the Police de Frontier where we all got off, had our passports stamped, then got on the bus, only to drive another few hundred meters, be let off the bus again so our stuff could go through x-ray and us through metal detectors, then on the bus again to be let off at a waiting room near the dock. The whole experience was kind of unsettling for some reason.
By this time it was good and dark and by the time we got to Calais, it was nearly 8PM. A bus took us to the main railway station and I got off thinking this should be relatively easy. It would have been (sort of) if a) I spoke French well enough to pass as a native b) the train came every hour or so, c) the station wasn't littered with a bunch of drunks and d) I had change on me.
The ticket office was closed, so with the help of a guy who said he was from Finland and was living in Belgium, figured out what the ticket machine said. Then the trick was to get change, since the machine refused my Visa card (not chip and pin I suspect). The guy was nice enough to sit and chat with me until my train got there, as he didn't seem prepared to let this little waif of a thing sit in the station alone surrounded by drunks. It turned out that another passenger on the ferry was also headed to Boulogne, so I boarded with him, and once in Boulogne, he helped me get my directions sorted out as to how to get to the hostel.
So I got there - about 3 minutes after they had closed. It was a punch code system to get in, so I stood there randomly punching numbers in 'cause, well, what else was I going to do? Luckily, the person running the joint came to the door and let me in. Whew!!
In the morning, I made my way downstairs for breakfast and joined my roommate. Between my horrific French and her decent English, we somehow managed a conversation. I left Boulogne in the morning going back to Calais to get my rental car. Thanks to Google maps, I thought this should be easy to get to the place.
After wandering around trying to figure out which way north was, I found tourist info, manned by a woman who seemed to have no want to actually help tourists. So, I finally squeezed directions out of her to get to where google told me I'd find the rental and I started hoofing it. Well, google screwed me over. I don't know where I ended up, but I managed to get propositioned by some jackass. Get me out of this city! I booked it back to the tourist place and stood on the street, maps blowing in the 50+ km/h winds. And then a voice out of nowhere. "Do you speak English?" Thank God, the Aussies had come to rescue me!
Now, normally I'd be the last person to accept a ride from a total stranger, but they had this rental van with children's drawings all over the exterior. Not exactly subtle. It was a wild goose chase to find the rental place. Once again, more service people who had no want to talk to English-speaking foreigners would be less than helpful. I was starting to get the feeling that a person could be attacked here and if they were screaming for help in English, people would just walk past them. Well, we finally found the rental place and I booked it out of there as fast as I could go to Arras which is a beautiful city with helpful people. The hostel was booked solid, but the nice guy pointed me to a budget hotel on the edge of the city. It was clean, warm, and out of the elements - hooray!
Driving in Europe, if you've never done it before is something else. I've yet to figure out if there are, in fact, any rules. But the motorways are gorgeous and they move!
Friday, November 7, 2008
And So It Begins
In 24 hours, I'll be hoofing it through the streets of London town. In 30, I'll be telling people "Je ne sais pas. Ma vocabulaire de Français est tres tres tres petite." Preparing for this trip has been like no other. Normally I'd know exactly where I was staying, exactly where I was going and exactly what I'd be doing once I got there. This time, I know I have to take the Picadilly line through London to get to Victoria station and from there I can catch a train to Dover Priory. Then it's a ferry across the English Channel to Boulogne-Sur-Mer where I have to find my hostel. After that, it's a gong show. In some ways it's nerve-wracking, yet in others, it's completely freeing. The tentative plan is to hit Vimy on Remembrance Day and if I can get to Ypres that evening for the Last Post at the Menin Gate, all the better.
So how does one pack for a 26 day vacation? Everything one wants to take is put on the floor, then half of it is taken away. This should, technically, result in a very light and nearly empty backpack. And it did - up until I stuffed my camera bag in there too. Needless to say, I'll be leaving my tripod at home in the hopes that I come across some sort of titanium kit, left behind many moons ago by some other over-burdened tourist.
Here goes nothing!
So how does one pack for a 26 day vacation? Everything one wants to take is put on the floor, then half of it is taken away. This should, technically, result in a very light and nearly empty backpack. And it did - up until I stuffed my camera bag in there too. Needless to say, I'll be leaving my tripod at home in the hopes that I come across some sort of titanium kit, left behind many moons ago by some other over-burdened tourist.
Here goes nothing!
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