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TER de: Mulhouse a Belfort Ville a Besançon, Besançon a Dijon a Chagny (por accidente), Chagny a Montchanin a Nevers. Mid-September, 2021.
After a series of trains, each of which was easier to board than the last, we made it to Nevers. We were finally getting the hang of it–packing up quickly, scrambling over to the right platform, loading everything onto the train, and sitting tight to repeat the process on arrival. Yes, we'd become pros. Due to a slight confusion with signs, we accidentally got off at Chagny instead of Chalon (look, they both started with Cha-, and the train was moving very fast, and we had 30 seconds to get everything off). Fortunately, this was actually closer to Nevers than the other stop, which turned back westward, and Chagny was one of the loveliest towns I’ve ever visited. I really felt like I was walking through streets that hadn’t changed in the last 300 years. I also found a cute bug in a cake, which turned out to be a French cockroach, and which I christened "Pierre" in a moment of inspiration. Surprisingly, the name caught on and since then the cockroaches that came and visited us every morning at campsites became "Pierres." The next day, we (finally!) made it to Nevers, which was to be the start of our journey down the Loire. La Ruta del Vino Alsaciana: Estrasburgo a Mulhouse. Early September, 2021.
I loved cycling down from Strasbourg to Mullhouse, which is apparently not pronounced “muhl–house.” We planned to follow the Alsace Wine Route, which was part of the Eurovelo 5. Since going on the French exchange, I’ve never forgotten the landscapes I saw on the train ride between Paris and Strasbourg. I remembered rolling hills like grassy oceans, stretching as far as the eye could see, with fairytale-like villages dotting the land like small islands, sometimes blending with the shade of the clouds above. I longed to see these hills and towns once more, this time riding through them on my bicycle. So, I talked my family into adding Alsace to the itinerary. They’d never been, and had to take my word for it. Leaving Strasbourg, I officially took over the navigation. It took a one-day learning curve to get the hang of it, and since then I do believe our navigation system has been top-notch. Even our previous navigator acknowledges this. We rode through vineyard after vineyard, up and down small hills like ripples in the land at the feet of looming mountains. Fruit trees (mostly plums–absolutely delicious) lined parts of the cycleway, and I can’t say I didn’t stop to help myself a couple times. This time, it was all sunshine and warmth during the five days it took us to reach Mullhouse. It actually took us a bit to adjust to the new weather. In cloudy and humid weather, we were constantly refreshed. Of course, we didn’t appreciate this until we were pedaling uphill on gravel in the scorching afternoon heat, under a blazing sun, out of water. Somehow, a mere 35 kms turned into six hours of pedaling. But what better place to be exhausted in than sandwiched between a mountain range topped with castles and towers, and green and golden fields speckled with villages. We also got to camp on a farm. And pizza. Pizza is always a good thing, especially when it’s also the only open shop in the village. The next day we decided to switch to the Rhine Route, which we thought might be a bit less hilly. We enjoyed one more morning through vineyards, then made our way inland to a camp on the French-German border, stopping for lunch in Colmar. Riding in Germany for a bit sounded really cool, so we tried it out for a day. Unfortunately, the path was made of large loosely-packed gravel and overrun by mosquitoes, so we had to flee back to the French side, which was a smooth asphalt cycleway that felt like heaven (and fellow cyclists once again said hi). We actually crossed back into Germany to camp (there were no camps within range on the French side), tried Schnitzel (delicious), and returned to France the next morning. I was pleasantly taken aback at how easy it was to cross back and forth between two countries–no border patrols, no guns, no walls. We reached Mullhouse, rested for a few days, launched this blog, and planned the next and last leg of our journey through France. The TGV and Strasbourg. 09/01/2021
Taking the train from Charleville to Strasbourg was a nightmare. We got to the station 30 minutes before departure, packed up our bicycles in their not-so-little bags, and rushed to get everything onto platform five. Why five? Because we hadn’t yet learned how to read the schedule screens. Turns out it was not the right platform, and ten minutes before take-off we had to haul everything back to the first platform and run to catch the train. Just imagine the scene for a second. A family of four in a panic, rushing back and forth between platforms carrying giant bags, yelling the entire time to coordinate, lugging everything onto the train cart, blocking the entire entryway, keeping the train from taking off several times with the little green button. Once on the train, all sweaty, breathing heavily, a bit dizzy, we finally let the doors close, and now it’s time to reorganize everything to unblock the hallway. We’re also just very loud. We talk and laugh with pronounced volume, one might say. Not sure how we could possibly draw more attention to ourselves. On the train that day, we must have made quite a spectacle. Oh well. I’m getting used to it. A couple stations in, a man boarded with his bicycle, fully loaded with panniers and a backpack. We all stared in disbelief as he quietly and calmly wheeled his bike past us and found his seat. It was the ultimate face-slap moment. Turns out we could’ve boarded fully-loaded as well and saved ourselves the trouble. Oh well, again. The TGV to Strasbourg was even worse, since the luggage compartment was on the second floor (why would anyone do that) and too small for our stuff, so we had to split up: two bikes and a suitcase went upstairs and one person stood guarding those, another person stayed downstairs with the two burleys loaded past their limit with luggage, and a bike, and the other two people (my brother and I) got to sit in seats and guard the last bike and the backpacks. Upon arriving, we hauled our stuff to the front doors and spent three hours assembling the caravan, meanwhile looking for a place to stay. Ominously similar to our arrival in Brussels Airport. But this time, an employee at the station came up to talk to us, and we ended up talking about our whole trip, and she offered to look at a map with us and recommended places to stay. We actually managed to make it home before dark, and went for a walk around Petite France and down the river before heading back home and crashing. Strasbourg was beautiful, enchanting just like I remembered it. We caught up with a friend, walked around a lot, ate more kebab, and got to play some music. We also got vaccinated for Japanese Encephalitis, Rabies, and Typhoid. One step closer to traveling in East Asia! Then we packed up and made ready to head south again. Charleville-Mezieres. 08/22/2021
The next morning, refreshed and happy to have made it to France but in dire need of a warm and dry place to regroup and figure out how to make the trip go smoother, we decided to take a gamble and book an airbnb about 70 kms from where we were, in a town called Charleville-Mezieres. So far, our longest day had been about 40 kms or so, but the amount of luggage we were pulling along made our average distance about 30 kms. The next morning, refreshed and happy to have made it to France but in dire need of a warm and dry place to regroup and figure out how to make the trip go smoother, we decided to take a gamble and book an airbnb about 70 kms from where we were, in a town called Charleville-Mezieres. So far, our longest day had been about 40 kms or so, but our average distance was about 30 kms daily (because of all the stuff we were dragging with us). Nevertheless, the sky looked clear and we felt less tired than usual, and the place at Charleville looked perfect, so inviting, so dry, so clean, so comfy… so we decided to go for it. Besides, we’d packed up quicker than usual and were ready to go by noon and, feeling the rush of accomplishment, 70 kms suddenly seemed well within our reach. What we hadn’t accounted for was the distance added by sticking completely to the Eurovelo 19 cycle route down the Meux, instead of cutting across chunks on the highway. (Actually, that’s not entirely true. One of us did take this into account, but unfortunately, their words went unheeded by the rest. Oh well, no matter.) So, we rode off gloriously towards the far-off city, determined to make it, almost inspired by our own bravery. But hardly did we make it one block in before the usual navigation issues caught up with us and we began puzzling over which turn to take. It was a trying day. Not long after we’d made it to the river, Camilo and I came across a fork in the road: one path led uphill towards the highway, and another small dirt path that was completely overgrown with weeds and tall grass, and which could hardly be called a path at all, led downhill and disappeared around a bend in the river. Guess which one we took? Yup, the grassy not-path, and our parents took the other one when they reached the spot later, so that led to a lot of confusion and the loss of a precious hour. By following the Eurovelo to completely avoid the highway, we ended up adding a whopping 20 kms to the route. And at several points the path diverged from the river, leading us up into the winding hills that sloped practically at the water’s edge. But no one expected it to be easy, and the important thing was that we stayed together and kept pedaling, and I was really enjoying it. The path was beautiful, with trees and grass and fields every which way I looked, a river on my right, people fishing along the bank or in little boats, and behind them rose the hills. Here in southern France I noticed that when greeting passing cyclists, they always greeted us back; not only that–they usually greeted us first. A very pleasant surprise. About 30 kms in we stopped at a small town with a pharmacy to get everyone a Pass Sanitaire, which we needed for most campsites and museums and cafes. Meanwhile, my brother and I went to fetch lunch at our first boulangerie. I got to try out my newly-learned French, and was rewarded with a giant sack full of delicious sweet and savory pastries (to this day, I think that was the best chocolate eclair I’ve ever had). The four of us sat to eat under chirping birds and warm sunshine, and enjoyed every bite. We made good time down the flat riverside, though the navigation system (my mother battling with Komoot) produced a few wrong turns and arguments about which way to take. We kept cycling through towns, all of them gorgeous, with cobblestone roads and houses, ornate window shutters, fountains, more trees, winding streets and squares and closed shops and even children laughing–we’d hardly seen children anywhere until now. One town had an incredibly steep hill that stretched on and on and only got steeper. One old man stepped out of his house, apparently just to watch me struggling to pedal up the hill, but as soon as I waved he smiled and waved back. At the top of the hill I stopped to catch my breath. The buzz in my head died down, leaving me with just the silence of an old town resting peacefully on a sleepy afternoon. Many hills were yet to come, but this one, if not an easy one, was a nice one. Very nice. The sky was darkening. It was the grey clouds gathering overhead. We could feel it–the moist air, the cool breezes, and the choirs of insects as we rode down through the trees. The rain caught us on flat ground, thank goodness. As we had run out of water a while back, and there seemed to be no place in sight for us to buy more, I tried to ask for some. As my brother and I approached a big brown house with a long garden and a little wire fence, a woman with greying hair and gardener’s gloves stepped out of her house and made her way towards us. I didn’t have to open my mouth–she just pointed to the water bottles in my arms and asked, “you want water?” We were so grateful. But as we took our first sips, the first few droplets began to pelt down on our helmets. We pulled out our coats, our neon vests, turned on our lights, closed our bags, and checked the instruments (encased in three garbage bags). Then we kept pedaling. The rain came and went, came and went, but the sky never cleared, and eventually came the downpour. Cycling between treetops, we inched forward until there were only 22 kms left to go. We reached a town called Monthermé (one of the last between Givet and Charleville) just as the downpour reached its worst yet, and ran to shelter under the tiny wooden roof protecting a city map. It was positively pouring. The instruments had me worried. The sun still hadn’t set yet, but it was past seven and the sky was sure to start darkening any minute now. One man came up to ask us if we had a place to stay, and wished us good luck when we told him we did. I think he was going to offer us shelter. Soon we were riding in a full-out thunderstorm. Lightning would flash in the sky and light up the trees ahead of us, then a few moments later we’d hear the thunderclap. It was probably safe, but nevertheless I started counting down between the flashes and the thunder. It seemed the lightning wasn’t getting closer. I love a good thunderstorm when I’m indoors and holding a mug of hot tea, but on the bike, one feels vulnerable–it’s part of what makes bike packing so special and memorable, but in the moment it can feel a bit scary. Then there were the giant puddles, the mud, the overflowing drains with currents that gushed out from beneath with enough force to make the metal gutters bob up and down. We were soaked, not just in clean river water but also in the brown smelly stuff that flowed up from the drains. And then it started to get dark. And the rain intensified. A man ran out of his house to yell that there was a storm. We took cover under a bridge just in time to watch as the last rays of orange faded from the sky. We just kept pushing forward. This was no time to despair. We rode in darkness for almost another hour, until finally we saw growing lights covering a smaller hill and a bridge that would take us across to the city. We'd made it! It was about 10 PM. The streets were empty but lit. We found our apartment, hauled our bikes and bags up in rounds, and I unwrapped my cello. Miraculously, it was dry! And to top it all off, we stuffed ourselves with a wonderful new discovery called “kebab,” with some frites and Orangina. A tough day, for sure, but all in all one of the best I’d had. And in the thick of it, I'd really enjoyed myself–all of us had. This is part of what we signed up for, and the challenges of the day made the joys and excitement even more memorable. An Excess of Dinant. 08/20-21/2021 Leaving Dinant was difficult, not because I had grown attached to the town, but because of the usual–we had way too much stuff, and it was awful having to wheel it through the tight turns and uphills of narrow Dinant. After the usual morning downpour, we stopped at the train station to see if we could find a train, any train really, to catch. Our plan was to ask, “where is the train that goes the farthest from here?” and board that one without a moment’s hesitation.
Unfortunately we found no personnel at the station, and after getting help from the tourist office, we decided that taking a train wasn’t a possibility that day, leaving us with two choices–stay in Dinant one more night to try and take a train tomorrow, or keep riding. Famished, we sat down on a dock to debate our options over a feast of mushy fruit, Nutella, and crackers spread with brie and jelly. As we munched, we realized that we were only 25 kms from the border with France. We immediately decided to bolt. Half an hour later, we were making our way down the loopy riverside of the Meux, making a dash for the French village of Givet. We didn't know we'd crossed the border until we saw the sign. Not a single policeman, guard, soldier, nothing. Incredible. I'd never crossed a border that way before, and it was thrilling. We'd made it to France! We arrived late to the camping, so there was no one to check in with. We decided it was probably ok to set up camp anyway, and pay the next morning. The camp felt less like a campsite and more like a neighborhood of RVs. There were trailers that had obviously been parked there for months, if not permanently, with overgrown grass poking out from beneath, and garden decorations placed (or scattered) across the lawn or hung upon wooden fences. Many of the residents seemed to know each other like neighbors, and there were even a few barbeques. There wasn’t much space for tents, apart from one shared with a camper in a speedo who had his stereo playing at full volume, so we instead chose to camp on a gravel rectangle for RVs. We assembled our tents, all the while closely eyed by one of the residents from across the street, who came out from his camper and just stood there, watching us. When he didn’t return our greetings, we wondered if perhaps it was defensiveness, perhaps because it seemed like we’d made ourselves at home in the neighborhood without checking in, which was somehow taken as lacking respect. And it seemed we had guessed right, for when we explained our situation to another resident, went out to hunt our dinner, and returned with the catch of the evening (delicious chicken burgers, salad, and fries from a fast-food place), I think the friendlier resident told the skeptical one, and this time he shouted greeting from his camper, as if telling us, “no hard feelings.” Regardless, I didn’t like it. We don’t need anyone's permission to stay at a campsite. Whether they like it or not, we have every right, and we don’t need anyone’s stamp of approval. But the chicken burgers were good. And we were finally in France! Namur and Dinant. 08/18-19/2021
More rain, more clouds, more pedaling. Stressful at times, but the road calls me forward and I keep going. We reach Namur, where I stay in my first hostel ever, and sit down in the communal area for a nice evening over an entire package of crepes and a jar of nutella. I remember passing a sketchy bridge and a fortress, but it was too high up and we didn’t have the energy or the time to climb it. I’m still trying to figure out how to waterproof my instrument. So far, I’ve managed to cut and tape a few garbage bags together (which I asked for in French), but I need more. The included breakfast at the hostel is delicious and abundant. We follow the river, and I enjoy greeting and being greeted by passing cyclists. Actually, the younger the friendlier, it seems. We even pass a couple different groups of kids on bikes, probably from summer camps, but with panniers! We also run into another family of bikepackers, also musicians! We chat a bit, take a photo, and part ways. Then we make our way to Dinant. We continue down the river, with a few detours into the highway or small neighboring towns due to closures on the bike path–probably because of the disastrous summer floods. Though they had felt far away, no longer. Behind the stop signs and barriers, I could see a muddy mess where a road had once been, or no road at all–just land that dipped completely into the water. That’s the thing about being on a bike–you feel vulnerable sometimes, small, and close to everything. It’s wonderful. We arrive in Dinant, wash up, and go for a lovely evening hunt for food. Gembloux. 08/17/2021
After recharging for a day in Druivenland and making frequent stops at the local Proxy, we set out for our second day of cycling. With the rain hot on our tails, we had to move at a quicker pace this time. The weight felt as exaggerated as before, and we took a good long while packing everything up, so that by the time we set out it was past noon again. But we were out of the big city, entering the realm of endless plains, farmlands, and forests, dotted with stone villages that were quiet and still, as if they were held in a perpetual slumber–at least, that’s what I had imagined. And the day started promisingly. We followed a flat, red paved path that took us straight into a tall forest. But soon, the path spit us out on the highway, and we had to continue down the shoulder of the road. Worse, the rain seemed to grow nearer and nearer. The sky darkened, the wind chilled, and with every passing car we grew ever more weary of the busy highway. Occasionally the forest opened up, and I could see fields of wheat and corn, tractors, and bails of hay, and I wondered where I had gone wrong to end up on the other side of the fence. Then it started to rain. That’s when things got intense. There was no nearby camping, so we had to keep going. My map marked a path down the highway, and there seemed to be no exit onto other quieter paths, so we stayed on the shoulder and hoped for the best. However, as the rain thickened, the road grew slippery, the puddles wider, the shoulder narrower, and the cars and trucks closer, I started to worry. All of us did. Actually, I was pretty frightened. I hate the sensation of a car zooming past me, only a foot away from my elbow, so close and so fast that I have to be careful not to get thrown off balance, checking that my luggage and cello are ok. But worst of all is the noise–loud, almost piercing, like how I’d imagine a blade slicing through the air. It’s awful. And it was worse on the second day, when instead of gradually easing into riding on the road we plunged right into the bustle of an interstate, just to save us a few kilometers. Most of the time, it’s been the little details of the path that have made all the difference for us. And it’s those details that are harder to account for when planning a route on an app, and we went through a big learning curve the first week as we figured out how to plan realistic routes that would be enjoyable instead of torturous. Here’s an example of what I mean: By about 5 PM that day, we had only done about 25 kms, were exhausted, cold, wet, and still following the highway because that’s where the map led. At one point, we had to turn left, meaning the end of the little shoulder/cycleway we’d been following, and had to cross over to another highway. The crossing itself was very stressful, and became even more so when my mother disagreed on which side of the road to ride on, and stubbornly crossed over to the opposite side which seemed to have a slightly wider shoulder (cyclists and drivers are the same in that sense–we always stick to the right, but she went over to the left). The other three of us had already crossed, and we were bunched up on the white line marking the edge of the road, to the right of which was a dip to collect and channel the rain water and a lot of grass, and to the left of which were constantly zooming automobiles. Plus, we were at a turn in the road, which is the most dangerous since it can be a blindspot for drivers not paying a lot of attention. The safest thing to do was keep cycling forward, and maybe find a spot where we could wait for my mother to cross back. So I slowly cycled down the highway, evading the brown puddles and looking in my mirror to see if I was being followed. Predictably, the shoulder my mother was riding on ran out after a few meters, and since there wasn’t enough space to run around and go back to the cross-walk, she chose to cross where she was, in the middle of a four-lane highway, in the pouring rain with terrible visibility. She somehow stopped the traffic, and made it across safely. The guitar made it across too. I couldn’t believe she’d put herself in jeopardy like that, when the most important thing in that moment was to keep our heads and stick together, and keep the risk as low as possible. Thankfully, nothing like that has happened again since. But the trouble didn’t stop there. For some reason, there were a handful of cars stopped along our side of the highway, effectively blocking the only safe passage through. The first one was being driven by two old men, one of whom climbed out looking rather grumpy, checked on his car, completely ignored us when we asked what was wrong, got back in and drove away. But farther down we weren’t so lucky. The cars we found were empty and turned off, and their drivers were nowhere in sight. My dad took a gamble and went around on the highway during a brief moment of no cars. I decided not to risk it., especially with my cello. I barely managed to squeeze around through the other side, through the puddle that had formed in the gutter, and watched with agony as my cello splashed through behind me. I hoped in vain that the mattress it had beneath it might absorb most of the water, and the rain cover would repel the rest. The others followed suit, and we kept going. But soon we reached the next crossroads, and had to choose whether to keep going forward or turn right. Going right would take us into the fields on a quiet path of packed gravel, and would rejoin us with a nearby Eurovelo. We unanimously opted for that one. But to catch that path, we had to cross onto a middle concrete triangle first, at the curve. Though there was a crosswalk and we were standing with our bikes in front of it, no one would stop to let us cross. We started raising our hands, sometimes waving our arms, but no reaction from any driver. I think people thought we were trying to hitchhike, and didn’t want anything to do with that (we had cycled past a hitchhiker, who had climbed out of a car with a cardboard sign reading Bruxelles, and the poor guy immediately got soaked). Eventually someone stopped to let us cross, and we scrambled across the road and caught the path inland. As the noise of the highway disappeared behind me and my tires felt the welcome dampness of packed gravel, I felt a flood of relief. We’d made it out, and we were safe. The rain didn’t lighten up, and the sky continued to darken and my hands continued to numb, but it didn’t matter as much now that the path had transformed before our eyes. We did eventually have to take refuge beneath a tree to figure out where we were going to stop for the night, and had to settle for a hotel about 10 kms away, just past a town called Gembloux. We cycled through more villages, all quiet, with humans and animals alike waiting out the storm beneath their dry roofs, perhaps in the coziness of a stone cabin or grand old house, with their tea-kettle on and a plate of frites in front of the TV… No use wishing for that, I thought, and pushed onward. A few killer hills awaited us and a constant downpour of course. At that point in time, my mother was still in the habit of halting the caravan no matter how questionable the place and, might I say, the reasons. One time, my brother and I were a little ways ahead, mid-climb, chugging up a monster hill in granny gear, when we heard her shouting “Stop! Stop! Camilo! Sol! Wait up!” We stopped, worried, hoping nothing terrible had happened, but when she reached us she didn’t even stop, informing us as she cycled right past that the hotel was still a few kilometers ahead, and we should keep going up the hill. Well, thanks for that, I thought. That was right before we cycled past a small red zone by the highway. I’ll never forget passing by a window that glowed red, and seeing a skimpily-dressed manikin in the window suddenly move to strike a different pose–it was a woman standing on display by the highway! The shock came a second later, after I’d processed what I’d just seen. Yikes! Fortunately the hotel was still a few kilometers ahead, past the sketchy zone, standing all alone at the top of what felt like an endless climb, with a fancy-looking restaurant attached to the lobby. I gave a celebratory whoop as I pulled into the driveway, and all the diners turned my way. Laughing even as I felt their eyes burn their way through my helmet, I parked my bike and stood to wait for my family. When we showed up at the side entrance (the lobby was closed) all muddy, soaked to the bone, hauling mountains of also-soggy-and-muddy luggage and bicycles with us, I think the receptionist almost had a heart-attack. Fortunately, we’d made a reservation a couple hours before. No one could turn us away now. One of the workers actually turned out to be quite friendly, and spoke great Spanish. She helped us find a place for the bikes, and carry all our stuff up to our room. We got the floor so wet and muddy that they had to bring us extra towels to mop. Then came the moment of truth: the instruments. I opened mine tentatively. And… It was wet! The clothes and towels I’d lined the inside of the case with were soaked, and the bottom of the cello was humid. I used what dry cloth I could find to dry it, and then tried blow-drying my case. The guitar had suffered the same fate, if not worse. But fortunately, they weren’t soggy. Just humid. I think the clothes we used saved them. My cello was even in tune. We had to leave them out to dry, along with the cases, so we laid them out gently on the cheap sofa-bed (it sank right in when my dad tested it out, and was left with a rather pathetic indent for the rest of our stay) and hoped they’d be alright my the morning. We all enjoyed hot showers, and the restaurant sent up three enormous platters of Belgian frites with whole bowls of sauce, and the most delicious salad I’d ever tasted. After downing all but the last platter of frites, we all squeezed into the remaining bed horizontally like sardines in a can, and had one of the worst night’s sleep I can remember, since I couldn’t find earplugs to drown out the earth-rattling snores next to me. And that was Day 2 of cycling. Camping Druivenland. 08/15/2021
Leaving Brussels was…complicated, to say the least. After another all-nighter spent packing, it took us over eight hours to get rolling, most of which were spent on the street since the checkout time was 11 AM. Vagabonds, we occupied a nice stretch of sidewalk, and finished packing up. But the hardest thing of all was loading all of our stuff onto the bikes. The 500+ kilos we are lugging with us were unevenly distributed across the four bikes, making it more impossible for some than for others. Since I pull my cello, I can only use side panniers; since I can’t use the space on top of my rack for luggage, that weight has to be carried by someone else. The person pulling the guitar (my mother) is in the same predicament. So in the end, my dad’s black cart was so heavy, it looked like the metal rod connecting the wheels was bending downwards. All I can remember right now are the giant hills we climbed in the city, the dirt and gravel road we took farther out, and our stop for lunch at the park around the corner of our house with two giant lumps that looked like brick dunes and were perfect for laying out the cookies and the sandwiches. Everyone who walked past us couldn't help but stare. Those meager 20 kms to our first camp felt like the longest and most dragged out of my life so far. But we made it, in the scorching sun, set up camp, and cooked our first dehydrated noodle soup beneath the stars. Bruxelles: Quick impressions. 08/10-14/2021
Brussels was beautiful. I really enjoyed our time there. I was pleasantly surprised by how friendly most people were, and how diverse it felt (some neighborhoods, like the one where we were staying, more than others). I couldn’t help but notice that it was one of the only cities we’d travelled to where people didn’t immediately assume we were tourists, even though we spoke in very loud Spanish, or English, and next to no French. Plus, the hamburgers and frites were delicious. Getting to Bruxelles: The very first day of the trip. 08/09-11/2021
Actually getting here felt like a feat. The hardest part was the packing. We had three weeks between when we returned from Mexico and left for Belgium, and we spent most of that time packing up our stuff–treasures, clothes, art, and loads of junk–for storage, getting the house ready to rent, and preparing our gear and our bikes. My dad spent two days and the night in between completely taking apart our bikes in order to box them up and check them in as regular baggage (we’re travelling on folding bikes in hopes that it’ll make taking trains and staying in hotels less complicated). Long story short–on Monday at noon with only six hours left to go until our flight, we had a living room sprawled with gear that needed to be packed up into four large suitcases (in the end we had to make it five). The odds were against us. With so much left to do, so many loose ends to tie up in so little time, my parents reached a point of despair, and became convinced we weren’t going to make it. There was even talk of cancelling the flight and leaving next week instead. That was the moment I realized it was up to my brother and I to keep it together and take over. Any chance of us getting to the airport depended on whether we could stay calm, focused, and take care of all of the details still in our way. Talk about intensity. But push forward we did, and bit by bit we managed to cram everything into our bags and clean up (sort of). We rallied the troops together for one final push, and together the four of us got everything– bikes, instruments, luggage, and humans– into a Zipcar van and raced to the airport. We made it there with barely an hour to spare. Luckily, despite the fact that we showed up at the wrong terminal and had to run with three fully-loaded carts of baggage to the other side of the airport, checking in went surprisingly smoothly. Unfortunately, my dad still had to return the rented van back to Cambridge. So while he zoomed back to the city, the rest of us crossed our fingers that there wasn’t any traffic, passed through security, and ran to the plane. My brother and I boarded with the instruments and suitcases (my arms were killing me), while my mother stayed at the gate to wait. We found our spots, and I began strapping my cello in its seat (we ended up having to buy it a ticket, a transaction which took about two weeks of being on hold with TAP Air Portugal to complete). As I fumbled around with its seatbelt, I began to worry. What if my parents didn’t make it? I figured I’d have to camp out in Brussels Airport with my brother until they caught up. I kept fiddling with the seatbelt and reclining button to try and buy us some time. One by one, the other passengers finished stowing their luggage and sat down, until it was just my brother and I left standing. Brussels Airport is probably where I’d still be if the stars hadn’t aligned, and my mother hadn’t convinced the flight attendants to wait and let my father board the plane. Miraculously, about ten minutes after we’d been scheduled for take-off, I turned around and saw my parents making their way down the aisle. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Five minutes later, we were in the air. I realized I could breathe again. But I still couldn't believe it. None of us could. But believe it or not, that was the start of the trip :) After a much-needed four-hour repose in Lisbon Airport, we hopped on the second plane and finally made it to Brussels airport. Little did we anticipate the trials we’d face to finally exit together through those glass sliding doors and bike to the city center. Pro-tip: never underestimate the time it takes to pack and unpack. We were caught off-guard twice in one day–first in Boston, then again in Brussels. When we got to the airport, we had to unpack all our bags and repack all that gear into panniers and dry-bags, and mount it on our bikes, which we had to reassemble. Sounds simple, maybe, but it most definitely was not. It took us almost ten hours to set everything up. At some point in the afternoon, my mother and I took a taxi to Brussels to pick up the keys to the airbnb and find food. We succeeded in the first endeavor, less so in the second since most stores were closed and we didn’t have cash. We spent half an hour dashing between stores, until a kind shop owner took one look at us and said, “you need to eat,” and gave us a free baguette. Then we headed back to the airport and dove right back into packing. Finally at around 2 AM, we triumphantly rode out the airport doors and into the parking lot, only to get lost looking for the exit onto the bike path. About an hour later, we were finally riding home with all our stuff, down dark paths towards a city which had yet to reveal itself in the pitch black of a cold, quiet night. We rode through narrow graffitied tunnels and winding paths in the woods where all I heard were crickets, the spinning wheels of our bikes, and the occasional rustling of leaves. Creepy. Looking back on it, that ride was very sketchy in all respects. Hardly any light, lugging hundreds of kilos, not a soul to be found (luckily), and totally sleep-deprived. What were we thinking? That’s just it–we weren’t thinking. All the more dangerous, I suppose. But all we wanted in that moment was to reach a safe, cozy place to rest. After a two-hour ride, we actually made it to the place. We carried our bags and bikes up three flights of stairs, and finally hit the sack. And that was our first 72-hour-long day of this trip. |
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