Benelux Part One: Luxembourg---A Tiny but Sneakily Charming Country

As mentioned by last week's guest author there was a slight disruption in the normal publication of the blog. The reason for this disruption? Yet, another European trip. I am so fortunate to not only have the opportunity to so easily travel this year but also to have found someone who enjoys travelling as much (and as frequently) as I do. With a slight break between the completion of lectures and the beginning of exams/deadline madness, it was decided a spring break trip was in order. Never ones to be outdone it was to be our largest and most complex trip, three countries in one week. Using past experience two days away provides a large number of stories and an even greater number of pictures (Evidenced by Richard's blog post). It can only be imagined how much seven days away provides. It is for this reason that there will be not one, not even two but three posts devoted to this trip. Each country has been deemed worthy of it's own post complete with stories and pictures.

As travel addicts Richard and I have a strong affection, or perhaps I should say compulsive attachment to, the Ryanair website. Between the two of us we probably check the airline's website once a day. Frequently sending the other messages reading simply "Brussels, the 21st, £14, look at it." And, it was a message like this on an evening in February that began the Benelux odyssey. Five hours and one delivered pizza later a skeleton of this epic trip was in place. The cheap flight from Edinburgh to Charleroi (Remember, Ryanair doesn't get you all the way there, just close!) would be purchased. A bus would then be taken not to Brussels but to Luxembourg city for an evening and a day in one of the World's smallest countries. A rail pass was to be purchased for three days of travel within the Benelux countries. The first of these travel days would be used to travel from Luxembourg to Brussels where a hotel would be booked for three nights. A car was to be rented in which, on the first day in Brussels, we would traverse the Flanders countryside making a WWI pilgrimage. A full day would then be spent in Brussels followed by another train trip to Brugge. A hotel was to be booked in Brugge and followed by another train trip to visit the Netherlands cities of the Hague and Leiden. And, finally a hotel was to be booked for two nights in Amsterdam. Confused and overwhelmed? Trust me, we were too. After a few weeks of bookings, budgeting, scheduling, mapping, researching and budding anticipation the trip was finally in order.

On Wednesday, the 21st, we were scheduled to fly out of Edinburgh. On Tuesday, the 20th I had a presentation and on the 21st an essay due. So, needless to say, the packing and printing of all booking information was saved until the very last minute. It is at this point in the story I should provide a bit of characterization for my travelling counterpart. Richard is a planner. Actually, I don't think planner is a strong enough word. He is a scheduling mastermind. The man uses more highlighters, file folders, time tables and calendars than any person I have met in my life. In fact, I believe he gets more satisfaction from the creation and  success of the planning of the trip than the actual trip itself. Therefore, you are correct in your assumption that he was slightly appalled with my last minute dash into the flat and throwing of a few sweaters into a suitcase while eating lunch at the same time. However, even with his exacting standards of promptness I was on time (I may not have highlighted timetables but I detest being late, schedule mastermind and I get along well). Not to ruin this three-fold tale but all of our bookings, train tickets and reservations were successful, we did not get lost and we were on time to everything. Much of this success is owed to the scheduling mastermind and I am lucky that his intense attention to scheduling detail and navigation precision are indeed a great part of his charm. Having said this, I can now openly mock the intensity of the "schedule" throughout the narration of the trip.

Fortunately, there is little to report of the train ride to and the flight out of Edinburgh. After touchdown in Charleroi, Richard and I briefly parted ways so that he could breeze through the customs line with his red passport while I was questioned by a slightly intimidating Belgian man. Upon being cleared by customs I made a quick restroom break while Richard patiently waited for our bags. I can assure everyone that I was gone less than three minutes. However, upon my reemergence I was greeted by scheduling mastermind bag in hand and eyes focused steadily on his watch (set ten minutes early of course). How did that even happen?! To make up for my bathroom break we made impressively quick time to the bus and took our seats 15 minutes early.A long bus ride took us through a bit of the Belgian countryside. The flat and straight highway passages were reminiscent of Kansas' interstates and the three hour ride passed smoothly and quietly. Quiet aside from slight whimpers of hunger seeing that dinner hadn't quite established a place in the "schedule."

We disembarked in Luxemborg city a little after midnight. The central station building where the bus stopped was impressive and the city felt comfortable, safe and charming even in the early hours of morning. Our plan of action was to walk to our hotel, All Seasons. Throughout our entire stay I refused to call our hotel the All Seasons. Rather, Richard and I impressively stayed at the Four Seasons (Well, that technically is All the Seaons, correct?). Besides, we were staying in the richest country in the World, only the best would do. This argument was met with the fact that Luxembourg technically has the highest GDP per capita in the World meaning that it isn't neccessairly THE richest country in the entire World. As our walk to the Four Seasons continued the streets became slightly less comfortable, safe and charming. As we wheeled our bag past a strip club I could see the worry creep over Richard's face, not quite what he expected from the richest count...highest GDP per capita country in the World. While the surroundings did leave a bit to be desired I had hope for the Four Seasons. Fortunately, our reservation was intact and the worry from Richard's brow was slowly melting away as we journeyed to our room. The opening of the door was met with great resistance and I was worried that perhaps we had been given the wrong key or told the wrong room. It was neither of these problems, rather what was making the door so hard to open was a bed. The bed was literally centimeters from the door. After squeezing through the door and crawling over the bed to the few inches of floor space I helped wrestle in the suitcase and finally Richard. Once safely inside the door was slammed shut and the bed pressed back against it. As we sat down on the bed, as there was literally no other places to sit in the room, the quaint sounds of Luxembourg gently filled our modest room. It was this gentle hum (raging choas) that was the "Friends and Family" nightclub below.

Thanks to Friends and Family the night's sleep was a bit rough and having not had dinner the evening before, breakfast was much anticipated. With Herculean effort we managed to claw our way out of tiny room and take part in the Four Season's breakfast. While Richard planned I took part in some active listening being thrilled to once again be surrounded by French. And, once again regretting having only taken one year of the language in school. After breakfast we were more than ready to get out and explore the city and discover all that Luxembourg had to offer.

Leaving the Four Seasons we figured it was best to simply wander to the city's centre and take in the various sights along the way.

Navigation Break

It should be noted that hair straightening did not fit into the master schedule!

Luxembourg was very charming, especially when we reached the city centre. After wandering through the narrow, cobblestoned alleyways we visited the Luxembourg City History Museum. I liked this museum instantly seeing as I am under 26 I wasn't charged an admission fee. The museum was tucked away on a quiet, back street of the city and we were the museum's only visitors. It was during our visit to the museum that we learned a few valuable lessons regarding Luxembourg and its history. We learned why the fox is one of the city's icons, we learned the genealogy of the royal family, we learned the meaning behind the country's flag and most importantly, we learned that the Luxembourgers are incredibly efficient and sneaky. Richard documented our museum trip through photography. He dutifully snapped a number of pictures of the museum. While in the process of taking a picture on the second floor out of nowhere one of the museum guards rushed into the room. Breathless he greeted us with a pleasant "Bonjour" before telling Richard that pictures were strictly prohibited on these premises. I am fairly certain this diligent guard saw, through the glass panneling of the elevator, Richard take a picture and promptly scampered up two floors to prohibit such an action.The remainder of our time in the museum was spent pondering where this man came from exactly and how he managed to so quietly and quickly sneak up on both of us. We are either terribly unobservant and are easily taken advantage of or Luxembourgers are terribly sneaky and impressive. For selfish reasons, I am hoping for the second. Please enjoy a few illegal photos.

After committing a crime a drink was in order. Finding ourselves back in city centre we were suddenly surrounded by the sounds of trumpets, horns, oboes, clarinets and flutes.. it was basically the greeting I had always wanted, so this is what being a criminal gets you! Of course, we quickly discovered the musical pagentry was not for us but rather the Grand Duke! Yes, somehow we had stumbled upon a royal event. The band trumpeted their way through the small streets as we followed closely behind and found ourselves with a small gathering of people surrounding a red carpet in front of the city's palatial residence.

Now that we committed a crime in Luxembourg AND spotted the Grand Duke it was most certainly time for a drink. I have yet to mentioned how beautiful the weather was in Luxembourg. So beautiful in fact, that I began to worry about a sunburn. This worry, however, did not stop the two most fairly skinned people in the World from taking a place at a cafe table in a large plaza square. Basking in the sun and sipping some delicious Luxembourg beverages was absolutely wonderful and to be honest I could have stayed in the small square all day. But, there was still so much to see and do in the small city and the scheduling master had already looked at his watch 15 times, our drink break was over. This time we wandered out of the city centre and took in the sights of the lower Luxembourg. This part of the city was so beautiful and the views from above looking down were absolutely breathtaking.

Feeling like experienced crypt explorers from our time in Paris the Luxembourg crypts seemed quite appealing. The city's crypts were much larger than those we saw in Paris. There was more area to explore and the terrain was a bit more rugged. In fact, while traversing the uneven rock surfaces and climbing behind a cannon I claimed to feel like Indiana Jones. To which my side kick promptly stated "oh yeah because Indiana Jones had all these halogen lamps around to help him see." It was at this precise moment that my side kick slammed his head against the top of the crypt. Clutching his wounded skull and making grimaces of pain it was decided  that in the face of injury we would prevail and continue on down the spiral staircase of death. While the injured party had no problems conquering the staircase I clung to the railing in fear as I slowly inched my way to the bottom all the while envisioning a slip that would certainly lead to death. (I have a small fear of narrow, steep staircases.. especially if they are spiral... especially if I am wearing boots). Needless to say, our crypt skills might not be quite par with Indiana.

 After our crypt voyage a quick lunch was had and then we made our way down to the lower part of Luxembourg. The small winding rivers, jagged rocks, lush gardens and softly paddling ducks certainly made for a tranquil stroll. It was the perfect way to end the day in Luxembourg before making the steep climb back to our hotel, grabbing our bags and catching the next train to Brussels.

Next Stop: Belgium!

War and Peace OR: Richard Writes a Blog

A Tale of Two Irish Rovers OR: A Trip to the Third Best Place to Spend St. Patricks Day!

As the title of this week’s blog implies, there is indeed a tale of a trip to the Emerald Isle. However, in the spirit of the mischief of the Leprechaun we will be pulling the old switcheroo and rather than your trusted normal scribe Kate (Suffering from slight separation anxiety will be adding annotations in red), I Richard the oft mentioned travelling companion, will fill you in with the details of the journey. In reality I have been living the life of Reilly (yes, second Irish reference already and it is only the introduction!) having handed in all my assignments last week whilst young Kate has been a bit busier, so I agreed to step into the breach. Don’t worry normal service will resume in two weeks’ time, there is a brief European sojourn this coming week which will interrupt the normal publication schedule, and you will be returned into the warm embrace of words without u’s, double negatives (a South African conversational staple) and blogs that are not as long as War & Peace. Okay let’s begin; readers I wish you (Irish?) luck…

The tale of this Irish excursion begins long before the scheduled departure, to the only place more Irish than Ireland. Yes that is right casa del Garrett (The Spanish really adds to the Irish-ness of this statement), Kansas City, KS (I believe Richard understands that it is actually Lenexa, KS and was just attempting to give my parents a slight heart attack.. well done). Whilst I was obliviously gnawing on a turkey bone in 35 degree (Celsius that is), (95 Fahrenheit) summer heat in South Africa an idea was forming in young Kathryn’s head. A way to kill the assorted birds of my impending birthday, both of our love of travelling and a pilgrimage to the ‘spiritual homeland’ with the single stone of a trip to Dublin for St. Patricks Day! Secretly, hotels were booked and flights arranged whilst the reality slowly dawned on Kate that she would now have to keep this news confidential for an entire month! (A very, very long time!)On her return Kate matter-of-factly mentioned that she had planned something for the weekend of the 17^th of March.(This was only matter of factly mentioned because someone alluded to the fact that plans were already made for that weekend) I glanced at the calendar and noticed that the 17^th was in fact St. Patricks Day, to which I uttered the now much mocked words “Well whatever it is you have organised I better be able to get a Guinness or else.” In hindsight the smirk on her face should have provided some clue, but being perceptive has never been one of my great assets. As it was I had to wait until my birthday in early February to hear the news. After a morning of being given numerous Irish themed stocking-fillers (sorry stocking-stuffers for my American readership!) it finally dawned on me (embarrassingly only after my third gift!) that we were going to Ireland! More specifically Dublin and even more specifically on St. Patricks Day! If I was an American I would have whooped! (I’m pretty sure you whooped).

I’m sure it is has been previously mentioned or at least alluded to on this blog that the primary reason for us being able to take these various European jaunts is the joy of cheap plane travel in particular Ryanair. However, as with all things in life you have to take the good with the bad. No I am not referring to cramped seating, the selling of every conceivable item on board or even the hidden charges. I am referring to the fact that the airports that they use are nowhere near where they claim to be and tend to involve at least an hour journey just to get to them! Unfortunately Glasgow is no exception to this rule and we in fact fly out of the town of Prestwick on the east Coast, due south of Glasgow. This combined with the fact that we had a scheduled flight at the horrific hour of 07:00am meant that we had to spend the night in Prestwick in order to make our flight the next morning. If for some reason the name Prestwick rings a bell it is because either: 1) You are an Elvis aficionado and know that this is the one spot in the UK that the ‘King’ visited (whilst he was a solider – useless fact #5789) or more likely 2) because of golf. Yes, Prestwick is the home of the first ever ‘Open’ golf championship (or British Open as it is called in America) which is golf’s equivalent of Wimbledon and Prestwick town is also just down the road from Troon a town whose golf course still hosts Open championships. Having grown up in a house with a golf mad father and having had numerous golfing friends, I was really excited at the prospect of spending a day in this golfing heartland. I had thoughts of wandering around the bunkers and sinking imaginary 50 foot putts with my invisible putter. Unfortunately fate (or more correctly university) intervened and I found out that I had to give a presentation until 5pm and that we would only be able to get into Prestwick at night. My disappointment was slightly lifted however as Kate showed the upmost sympathy and disappointment as well. At least I think it was sympathy and disappointment; in South Africa fist-pumping (I have never fist-pumped in my life), a beaming smile and the continued repeating of the statement ‘Yes, thank goodness!’ would generally be construed as her not wanting to spend 4 hours wandering around a windswept grassland dodging flying white balls – however I realise our cultures do differ in certain aspects and I’m sure that is just a unique American way of expressing sorrow… (I was truly heartbroken).

 In any event we had a wonderful evening in Prestwick and the excitement was certainly building for the trip. So much so that even the 5 am start the next day was taken in our stride and we arrived at Glasgow-Prestwick International airport slightly bleary eyed but excited none-the-less. As we waited at security (an interminable wait due to a bachelorette-party group in front of us having to empty and sift through the contents of their hand luggage in order to remove countless trays of make-up, bottles of fake tan etc.) three ladies joined the queue behind us. They were decked out in green clothes, St Patricks Days novelty sunglasses - the works. Cleary, we thought, fellow travellers to Dublin. One of the many things I have developed since meeting Kate is my people watching skills. Previously I have wandered through life without giving much thought to my fellow inhabitants – blissfully ignorant of their conversations and actions (Oh how much you were missing!). However, having now travelled with a people watcher of note I have slowly started to develop the requisite people watching skills. These new found skills meant that I was taking a great interest in our green-decked co-travellers (eavesdropping (Excuse me: “Active Listening”) is such a nasty word) and picked up on the following conversation:

Novelty glasses wearer 1: ‘Nothing like St. Paddy’s Day hey girls!’ (I really don’t think they said “Hey Girls!” at the end of their sentences)

Leprechaun hat wearer: ‘I know, each year we need to go one bigger than the last’

Novelty glasses wearer 2: ‘Last year, Dublin! Next year… New York!’

Countless thoughts raced through my mind. Where exactly was the ‘second best place’ that they were going to? Is Dublin really less Irish than New York? Can you really trust the statements of a couple of Glaswegian 40 year olds babbling on about St. Patricks Day hot spots at 5 in the morning? When you consider that they were in fact on a flight to Alicante, Spain to celebrate St. Patricks Day you quickly realise that the answer to all those questions is simply  - No. In any event the bachelorette backlog had lifted and we safely made it through security (well I mean Kate made it safely through and I, being the shifty character that I am, go patted down—(In all seriousness it’s about time I wasn’t the one patted down.)) and boarded our flight to the third best St. Patricks Day venue in the world!

We touched down in Dublin, caught a taxi to our hotel and luckily were able to check in allowing us to wander off to soak up the excitement. Having both travelled to Dublin before, we had realised beforehand that the area we were staying in (Ballsbridge) was the same area we had previously stayed and on arriving at the hotel it was in fact the exact same hotel where Kate had stayed previously. Thus it was a little disconcerting that we still managed to get lost walking to the city centre! (I’m not quite sure five seconds of confusion over which way to turn constitutes as lost…) In any case we were eventually on the right track and decided to wander into the national gallery for a quick look (there is some extensive refurbishment underway so the artworks on display were slightly limited) before heading up to Grafton Street. It was here that the magnitude of the festivities hit us for the first time. Everywhere you looked there were Irish souvenirs for sale, multitudes of people wore green, Irish pub songs blared from shops, giant Leprechauns posed for photos. We both looked at each other and smiled. There are certain times when you just give into the commercialisation of a holiday and whilst I’m sure the locals despise it, being tourists we were ready to embrace it!  

We had a walking tour scheduled for 2:30pm so in the interim we decided to wander around the area taking in the sites and atmosphere.

And of course, sampled the previously mentioned brew

We arrived for our walking tour slightly ahead of time and were met by just two other men already waiting. We were a bit nervous that there were so few of us, but as it would turn out we had feared the wrong thing. As 2:30 approached the hordes began to descend and we realised that this was going to be one popular walking tour! Fortunately a combination of forward planning by the tour company (there was more than one guide) and ourselves (we had pre-booked tickets) meant that we were able to depart with the earlier group leaving the unfortunates to scrap it out for the remaining tickets. Our tour guide then proceeded to kill all our dreams by stating that 1) St. Patricks colour was not green but blue (useless fact #6479) and 2). That St. Patrick had in fact never come down as far as Dublin, but had stayed mainly up in modern day Northern Ireland (maybe Belfast was then the second best St. Patrick’s destination!?) In any event despite these revelations the tour was really enjoyable, the guide was knowledgeable and humorous (he started up a rendition of the song ‘Kansas City’ every time he saw Kate) and we saw a number of interesting sites along the route. It was not however without incident although in order to maintain some sense of dignity and prevent this blog from descending into a rant I will merely say that if you are inclined to wear novelty St. Patricks day hats perhaps a cathedral is not the best play to exhibit them. (While the tour was wonderful, I will admit that immediately upon our release from the tour we launched into rants regarding the other participants, in addition to the comment regarding hat attire I will say this: It is Dublin, rain is to be expected, it is not the tour guide’s fault.)

Having done our cultural duty for the day we rushed back to the hotel before heading out to sample some of the Dublin nightlife and the legendary Irish craic. After a rather subdued start close to the hotel we decided to head to the famous (infamous?) Temple Bar area. After having been in the establishment for a short-time we realised that we were unlikely to hear Irish craic and more likely to hear American chat, Australian banter or German plaudern! To our left were groups of College students drinking Coors Light and chanting U-S-A,  U-S-A! To our right Uni students drinking Fosters and talking about cricket (no – not the insect, the sport!). However, that great statement of everyone being Irish on St. Patricks Day does indeed hold true. As the band started up with ballads like ‘Galway Girl‘ and ‘Whiskey in the Jar‘ so the bar began to embrace their common (or in many cases imagined) Irish heritage and sang, as one, long into the night...(Apparently you didn’t notice, it was generally just us singing..)

 Those warm fuzzy feelings had dampended slightly in the morning and as the a result your author awoke slightly later than planned. However, there was the pressing matter of the St. Patricks day parade to attend and so I gingerly began dressing in green for the big day.

We arrived on the main route of the parade to see that the crowds had already gathered. (Richard forgot to mention that before this he had never attended a parade! I must say quite the step up from my first parade. I’m sorry Old Shawnee Days Parade with your collection of Shriners riding around in small cars, you do not compare to Dublin’s St. Patrick’s Day Parade!)Fortunately we managed to find a prime-spot behind two mothers and their young (and most importantly short – for me at least, not sure if they were for Kate…) children (Rude). One (All) of these kids was the stereotypical Irish child; pale skin, big blue eyes. He was so Irish that even though he had blond hair he had sprayed painted it red/ginger (okay, so it might have had something to do with him being the orange part of a trio making up the Irish flag: Green, white and orange but you get the picture). It was this child who started our parade with a scream of “THEY’RE COMING!!!” The parade had a roughly even mix of marching bands and themed floats and performances. The marching bands came both from Ireland as well as America, with both schools and colleges performing (including the University of Missouri!—(Thank you for including this for my grandmother)). I use the term ‘themed’ to describe the floats and performances in the broadest possible sense. A person would emerge holding a banner such as ‘Where does electricity come from’ and what would follow was an extremely surreal interpretation of this. For example people with clamps for heads and people dressed as magnets! It sounds utterly bizarre, it was utterly bizarre but yet somehow it just worked and was really entertaining. (I am in love with this description of the parade…. Words truly can not describe how bizarre, yet entertaining, it all was)

Despite the entertainment the showstopper happened early on and, predominately, did not involve anyone who was actually part of the parade. At some stage a man dressed as Dracula emerged (probably in this surrealist parade as an accompaniment to the display ‘How is cheese made’ (This is still making me laugh). As Dracula made his way down the road, his coat billowing behind him, we heard a yelp in front of us and a terrified scream of ‘VAMPIRES!!!’ The previously mentioned child leapt off the railings and straight into his mother’s arms trying to use her as human shield from the blood thirsty fiend. He was eventually calmed down, told it was all an act and sent back to the front and the mocking looks of his siblings. As the parade continued and as terrors such as knife wielding fish and giant smoke billowing rhinoceroses (don’t ask…) paraded in front of him you could see the young boy looking forlornly at the safety of his mother’s embrace and weighing it up against the further potential abuse from his brothers that it would bring… The burden of being a youngest child is a heavy one…(Try the burden that is being the oldest child, it’s a much tougher cross to bear)

Following on from the parade we decided to escape the chaos which was the city centre and went back towards our hotel, stopping off at the Lansdowne Hotel in order to watch the Ireland vs. England rugby match which was being played in London. This pub, being away from the main area, had a significantly higher quantity of true Irishmen (and women) present. Inevitably as the rugby match slowly went against the Irish (they unfortunately ended up losing quite heavily) we began chatting with our fellow patrons and as a true testament of the friendliness of the Irish were invited to a man’s, who we had just met, 70^th birthday party! (He was also named Paddy!)While I would love to say we attended, were the life and soul of the party and ‘River Danced’ (Well you are basically the next Michael Flatly) the night away we politely declined. However on leaving there is no doubt that both Kate and I were thinking; ‘New York, Spain – bah I’ll take Dublin any day!’

A slightly earlier night was called, due to another early flight home the next morning. And so the next day after boarding our plane we arrived back in Prestwick once again – only to be told that the rail line had been closed for engineering works and we had to catch a bus back to Glasgow! Once on the bus, just after I had stopped cursing Ryanair for flying out of the middle of nowhere and just before I drifted off to sleep I thought back to a conversation with a taxi driver the night before. Emboldened by a few Guinness and feeling slightly philosophical (yes, probably also due to those Guinnesses!) I asked how the mood was in Ireland, in light of all the economic problems and austerity measures currently in place, to which he replied: ‘Every day is a good day in Ireland’. After this weekend – I can definitely agree.

Richard, I have to hand it to you. After this impressive blog my readership will never want to return to my embrace of words lacking “u’s” again. I am now thinking that our book scheme might just have to become a reality. Just in case it hasn’t been stated enough our trip to Dublin was wonderful and everything we could hope for in a St. Patrick’s Day weekend.  The Irish proved to be charming, kind, funny, entertaining and the marvellous hosts they are proclaimed to be. It is no wonder that the two of us have already begun talks of travelling back as soon as possible.