In which we find Le Grand Bleu and decide to stay a while.

 

Belgium was great, Belgium was fun, and as a matter of fact, Belgium was very hard to leave. As in, finding a way out of Belgium posed some problems, thanks to unclear maps and an absence of big signs to FRANKRIJK. Grâce à the plenitude of roundabouts, we managed to accrue some classic queasy feelings that accompany the best of road trips and eventually found ourselves the France.

Map folded to best display the way to The Big Blue, we efficiently dodged most of the sunbeams that occasionally broke through the clouds as we drove past field after field. There were points at which I would have easily believed myself to be driving across the heart of America again, if it weren't for the giant gothic churches and maybe-medieval towers strategically positioned in the little towns along the route. Fields, flat and rolling, green and golden, sun-striped and straw bale-spotted. Smooth, long roads dotted with symmetric trees, quiet under a haze of Queen Anne's Lace. The occasional tractor in front of the car a less than subtle reminder to slow down and take it all in. Dormant graveyards near sleepy Sunday villages that start and stop abruptly, earth-toned bricks and beiges, long windows, long shutters, flower pots. Tiny steeples growing out of wheat fields. All passing fancies to be zoomed by on the adventure to the next big adventure.

Just when we thought the hay bales would never again leave our view, they did.
And then there she was. That big, beautiful, blue Atlantic.

I had only ever heard of the White Cliffs of Dover and it hadn't really occurred to me that they would also exist on the other side of the Channel. Silly me. Of course, I could have easily hopped on a nearby ferry to the England just beyond the horizon and check out the cliffage there, but I was very much contented to plop down amidst the wildflowers and watch the birds surf the wind. Breathe the salty breeze and whatnot. Photograph acrobatic ladybugs. Oh, sweet vacation. Oh.

In which we bounce through Belgium.

 

A wee corner of my heart will always be striped black-gold-red (--not to be confused with a neighboring corner striped black-red-gold). I'd returned to this silly little country only once since my year spent there, being a short visit before starting my German existence in 2009. 'Twas, therefore, high time for another hello. After not having found any available camping places in Beautiful Bruges, we decided to shoot for Groovy Ghent instead. I'd visited this spired and pointy city once upon a whim over six years ago and didn't have to be asked twice about whether I wanted to go again.

After a cold and uneventful night in the field, I was excited to cross the border into this silly little country of my memories. The excitement only grew as the cow fields turned to, erm, traditional potato harvesting establishments, and the squat brick architecture started looking familiar.

 

We didn't have any time to toodle around Wallonia, which prohibited my feelings of nostalgia from getting too out of hand. Once we finally arrived at the popular recreation area we'd been aiming for, we snagged ourselves a campsite and cooked up a mighty fine meal on the ole GDR-era Gas Cooker before hitting the beach and the Stadt. After a rather unfortunate encounter with stinging nettle for which my feet have yet to forgive me, we wandered our way along the water into the city.

 

When the evening sun tiptoes along these streets and waterways, you notice.

I got a little bouncy when the downtown clocktower came into view. Its picture has been gracing my walls for years.

 

(Silly Belgians.)

 

Another old friend.

There came a point when nourishment was necessary, and where better to find such a thing than in a friterie? I chuckled to see the array of fry-able things on display again and my stomach immediately crossed its intestines in disapproval. Even after all these years, it was still upset with me about all those things I'd done to it so long ago.

It took a little coaxing before an exception could be made.

The fellow who had sold us our fried yummies came outside to do some co-mooching as the sky shifted through electric blues. He was of immigrant descent and asked us many questions about immersion in Germany, such as whether all German children now had to learn Turkish in school. Things he'd heard and wanted to know if there was any truth to them. It was an unexpected and interesting conversation, carried out in crinkled English, and the first of many on this trip in which I accepted the German identity that was assumed, what with traveling with Germans and all. Not that it made much of a difference, but it felt slightly badass all the same.

I was once discussing Ghent with someone who had recently been there and the first thing they said to me was, "So did the castle surprise you, too?" I don't know why I didn't expect to see a medieval castle in the heart of a medieval city, but the truth is that it totally snuck up on me. Twice. Sometimes you're just toodling along in life and you run into giant medieval fortresses. Could happen to anyone.

I am particularly fond of this photo because the shadow of the motorcycle looks like a snail.

The highlight of that evening for me was stumbling across a courtyard celebration of sorts. It was a festive affair with rockin' Balkan brass, joyful people to observe, and lots of beer. It was exactly the side of Belgium that I had decided to remember most fondly.

I'm sure there's a story behind this. I just haven't gotten around to googling it yet.

(The people walking toward the camera look so totally out-of-century.)

It was summertime and the happy hooligans were plentiful. And it was good.

I would have liked to have stayed longer and seen some friendly faces from days gone by, but the ocean was calling and there were still many kilometers to go before before the next sleep. So sleep we did, and away we went.

In which the road is hit.

 

Enough about Germany. This past August, I squished into a station wagon with a couple of friends and a whole lotta snacks 'n' surfboards, and braced myself for around 2500 km of itinerary-less adventuring. The itinerary-less part proved to be key even before we'd left Hamburg, as our tentative goal to make it to the far side of Belgium looked more and more laughable as our tentative time of departure kept getting pushed back. (I guess we should have tentatively planned for that as well.) Once we'd finally made it out of the city, we drove 'til dusk and found ourselves a suitable field in which to tentatively set up our tent. There was a house nearby and we went a-klopfing on the door to ask permission to borrow a little field space. The Chubby Young Lad eyed us suspiciously and called to Farmer Uncle across the house with our query. Farmer Uncle's voice wafted back amidst the smell and sizzling of frying flesh, granting us the right to lay down our weary selves as long as we didn't set the fields on fire. As we were turning to leave, the Chubby Young Lad said suddenly, "So, y'all are university students, huh?" (Only the German equivalent). We conceeded and inquired as to what would make him think such a thing, to which he replied knowingly, "Yeh look like 'em." Okay. Just goes to show that everything is an eccentricity to someone.

It had been a long time since I'd fallen asleep to the rhythmic bowing of the crickets. And thus commenceth the first of many nighttime Wildcampen adventures, and the first of many wild road trippin' posts.