London England, Part II

London, Part II

We woke up early and wandered down the neighborhood street to meet a double decker bus to take us to the Underground. Our plans were to head to the downtown area for Chinese Dim Sum. Our plans fell through when we saw the Dim Sum was pricey and mostly seafood. We decided to change course and hit a pub running an IPA beer special. After a couple of pints and rich sausage rolls, we meandered along Baker Street, home to Sherlock Holmes. We then decided we needed to hit Borough Market on Stoney Street, which was the highlight of our experience in London.
Borough Market was bustling with activity on this drizzly afternoon. Business men and women in their pinstriped suits joined students, tourists, and a throng of blue collar workers on their lunch break for a pint of ale. The smell of grilled meats and cheeses permeated the air. People stood outside, gripping a glass of ale while sampling one of the many choices of food. Cassoulet, pork sandwiches, chorizo sandwiches, fresh oysters, jamon serrano, manchego, apple and pear ciders, and grilled scallops were only a few of the delicious selections of snacks to choose from. We were overwhelmed at the choices. We attempted to eat one of everything – unsuccessfully I must add. Wandering through the food stands, we sampled a wide variety of meats, cheeses, pates, mushrooms, and drinks. It was foodie heaven. All the food operators were more than happy to offer samples and discuss their selections. All were proud of their stands and boasted about their products. It was very hard to leave the market, but forced ourselves from the mushroom pate served with freshly baked bread to find a pub to rest our legs. We later found out the market area was also the location of a street scene in one of the Harry Potter films.
The streets were filled with camera toting tourists from all over the globe. We strolled along the Thames River near London Bridge, watching the boats motor along the way. We stopped to listen to buskers playing Bach in a tunnel with fantastic acoustics.
That night, we moved our location from the parent’s household to Indie’s girlfriend’s apartment. Indie’s parents were sad to see us go. They packed us off with a homemade hot pepper concoction as we shook hands good-bye. In return, we left them a bottle of our own homemade habanero hot sauce.
At Anocke’s house, we quickly rid ourselves of our backpacks and stormed the town. Indie took us to his favorite Chinese restaurant where we were served a delicious authentic Chinese dinner. We were the only non-Asian people in the restaurant, so we knew we were in the right place. Indie, having lived in China, took great pleasure in ordering in Chinese for us. We had an exciting view of the street where the police arrested a car load of teenagers for car theft. Indie talked about the police in London and random searches of backpacks, especially in the Tubes. I asked him if he had ever been searched to which he unhesitantly replied, “Oh yes!” He said the cop or “bobbie”, before searching his backpack, asked him if there was anything in it that might hurt him. Indie replied, “I’ve got a couple of books in there that you might consider dangerous.”
The next day, Michelle and I continued our exploration of London, checking out Trafalgar Square and Chinatown. After a near miss of Michelle from a speeding taxi cab and bicycle (she looked the wrong way to cross the street), we found our destination Dim Sum restaurant. We ordered 8 different items and happily ate our delicious lunch of seafood noodles and dumplings. Out in the streets, we are surrounded by hordes of tourists and locals. Thousands of people fill the tightly packed sidewalks. Long lines of people streamed out from storefronts advertising cheap theater tickets. We became quickly overwhelmed from being bumped along by the masses and took refuge on a double-decker bus going anywhere. We boarded and climbed to the top of the bus, enjoying the view away from the chaos. The bus came to the end of its route where we quickly found a cozy pub to rest our tired bones. Being the day before St. Patrick’s Day, the special ale was “Spring Green”. A group of young Irishmen sat at our table and chanted Obama slogans to us when they found out we were Americans.
Later that night, we were joined by Indie and Anocke for Indian food at their favorite Curry House…but not before a quick pint at a locals sports pub where I walked in on some blokes snorting white stuff in the bathroom. “It’s all cool” I said when they looked at me in surprise. “Continue doing your thing. Don’t let me stop you.” They smiled and happily continued snorting away.
Back at the Indian restaurant, we enjoyed a spectacular meal of mostly vegetarian delights. The kitchen turned out some incredible dishes. Afterwards, the chef came out to greet us and ask us if we liked our meals. You bet we did! It was a memorable evening.
The next morning, I unfortunately had to begin my journey home, encompassing a long subway ride, a four hour layover in Amsterdam, and a trip with a wild Turkish taxi driver. Michelle decided to stay a couple more nights and celebrate St. Patrick’s Day in Trafalgar Square. She was hosted by a couch surfer named Jane who also hosted another surfer from Belgium. Michelle had quite an adventure celebrating in an Irish Pub and the streets of London. I was bummed not to have been able to stay longer and hang out, but hey, somebody’s gotta pay for these crazy trips.

London, England; Part II: Mission Accomplished.

London England, Part 1

London, England

I arrived in London via express train from York. It is a little over a two hour ride in comfort and style. The train has free wireless internet on board which allowed me to check up on emails using my iTouch. I also downloaded a Google map of the area in London where I was headed; Hammersmiths. I arrived at my station, donned the camouflage backpack, and put rubber to road. I stopped outside the busy station to check my iTouch map when I was approached by my first beggar. An old man with kind eyes and a lust for a pint, softly asks me for 50 pence. I slowly dig into my pocket and pulled out a bunch of loose coins. “How much do you need for a pint?” I asked.
“Only 50p more”, he quickly responded, extending his outreached hand closer to my chest. “Here ya go, man”, I said, giving the thirsty, red faced man his much needed money.
“Thank you!” he smiled, showing me his yellow teeth, then shuffling off to the nearest pub.
I chose Hammersmiths as my initial spot of debarkation for a reason. Hammersmiths was home to the Andover Arms. While to most people, this means nothing, but to me, it means the favorite watering hole of Michael Jackson. No, not THAT Michael Jackson, the man with the freaky nose and one white glove. I’m talking about Michael Jackson, the famed beer connoisseur and writer of all things beer. Michael Jackson, God rest his beer drinking soul, listed Andover Arms as his favorite place to get the most perfect pint of ale. Michael’s favorite was Fuller’s Chiswick Bitter. I wasn’t about to pass on the chance to try one of these beers in the recommended establishment.
I arrived at the Andover Arms at 11:30am, Thursday, after walking 20 minutes from the train station. I knew the pub didn’t open until noon, but thought I’d try the door anyway. I pushed down on the latch with my thumb and swung the door open! I’m in! I lean in a window in the kitchen and yell, “HELLO! HELLO?” An Indian man in his forties looks up from the stainless steel sink, where steaming water pours from the spicket.
“YES?” he yells back, glimpsing up to meet my eyes.
“Can I get a pint or is it too early yet?” I ask.
“One second sir. I will get someone.” He shuts off the water and disappears. Two minutes later, a young man wearing a soccer t-shirt and apron appears. “Can I help you?” he asks me in a thick British accent.
“Yes. Do you think I can get a pint of the Chiswick’s Bitter on the cask, or is it too early?”
“No mate, it’s never too early for a pint”, he says grinning. “You’re starting off with a real winner there. Where ya from?”
I tell him that I’m on a beer pilgrimage to Michael Jackson’s favorite spot. We talk for awhile before he heads back to the kitchen to prepare for the lunch crowd.
Ok. So there is a bigger plan than me just hanging out at the Andover Arms all day. In actuality, I’m waiting on Michelle to meet me here. She is flying in to Heathrow from Stuttgart this afternoon. I am waiting for her cab to arrive from the airport.
In the meantime, I’m having a great time, yacking with the landlord. I order lunch and am served a large piece of fish, battered with London’s Pride Ale and a side of chips. It was the best fish ‘n chips I have ever eaten. I would go back again, all the way there for another piece of that fish and a pint of Bitter. I was relaxed, almost euphoric to be sitting in that pub. It was quiet, relaxing, and historical, set in a sleepy neighborhood. The landlord greeted everyone by first name: The mailman, the retired man, the meter reader, the food delivery man. He knew them all, and they knew him.
I think it was around four that an old black cab roared up to the pub, and a disheveled, excited Michelle emerged. With suitcase in tow, Michelle entered the pub door to find a slightly buzzed me, sitting on the barstool, engaged in a conversation about hot sauces. She grinned, parked her suitcase, rushed up to me and grabbed my beer for a sniff. “What’cha drinking here? Any good?” Michelle asks with enthusiasm. She chugs down a swallow and says, “Damn, that’s good. I’ll have one of those.”
We are both excited our plan came together and we were able to meet at a pub in a small neighborhood on the outskirts of London. Michelle orders a tender lamb sandwich and chips, and tells me about her adventures of getting to the pub. While we are talking, one of the locals tells us about another pub called The Dove. He says we absolutely must check it out. After a couple more pints, the landlord calls us “punters” a cab to The Dove. Before calling us a cab, I call our friend Indie to tell him we are in town and will be arriving at a train station near his parent’s house. We are staying with Indie’s parents on the first night, and his girlfriend’s apartment on the following two nights. Indie is an Indian guy we met in Seoul. He was teaching English in China and needed to come to Korea to get his visa re-newed. He and three other English teachers came to our apartment, using www.couchsurfing.com and hung out for eight days. Indie welcomed us to London and made sure we had a place to stay. More on that later.
The two buzzed punters, Michelle and I, loaded the suitcase and backpacks into the cab parked in front of the Andover Arms. “We’re off to The Dove”, I tell the cabbie. He’s an attractive European looking gay man who fails to turn on the meter. He shifts into second gear and slides around a corner. He is cordial, thespian-like, telling stories about him and his partner. I’m wondering what this ride is going to cost. We arrive at The Dove and aren’t overly charged as much as I thought we would be. The Dove is one of the oldest pub in London, being built around the 1600’s or something. It sits along the Thames River, giving pint drinking couples a beautiful romantic view. The pub also holds the Guinness Book of World Records award for having the smallest bar.
We drink a few cask pints before deciding we needed to get on the Underground and head for Indie’s place. After a jaunt through a dark park along the river while looking for the giant Coca Cola sign that we can’t miss, we find our station. I call Indie from a payphone at the station and he tells us he’ll be right over to get us. He also says over the phone, “Man, am I stressed.”
“Breath dude”, I tell him. “Breathe. And come get us”.
Indie shows up in a road-worn car with his “business associate”. Michelle and I pile into Indie’s car and drive towards Indie’s parent’s house. Indie informs us that he just got his driver’s license last week and is a little nervous. Michelle, sitting in the passenger seat says, “oh, well then, let me help you.” She turns on the window defroster to clear the windows that had become completely fogged over from our breath. “Thanks” Indie says. “I don’t know how to work any of these things.”
“How re-assuring”, I laugh. It’s weird enough to see the driver on the right hand side of the car while motoring in the left lane.
We make it to Indie’s parent’s house where his mom and dad are waiting to greet us. Indie’s dad comes bounding down the stairs wearing a well-weathered “I speak Swahili” t-shirt. His mom rushes to greet us at the door.
“Welcome” they both say smiling. Mrs. Shah begins warming food on the stove as we take our places around a crowded kitchen table. “I hope you like curry”, she tells us.
No complaints from us. We love curry. Mrs. Shah serves us food that is completely homemade. Everything – from the breads to the curry – Mrs. Shah made. They belong to a religion that lives by the philosophy of making light footsteps on the environment. They do not disturb or kill anything – not bugs or plants. They do not eat root vegetables for fear it will disturb their environment. No garlic or onions. They are strict vegans as well. We ate without fork, knife, or spoon, and used our fingers to scoop up the curried beans and rice. I think food tastes better when you use your hands.
After dinner, we spoke with Mr. Shah while Mrs. Shah watched her Indian soaps in another room. He wanted to know what we thought of John F. Kennedy. He told us what a great man he was and how he felt on the day he was killed. “I’ll never forget that day”, he said.
We retired for the evening, exhausted, in an upstairs bedroom. I was awaken early the next morning by the sounds of gargled chanting…like someone singing with a mouthful of Listerine. This lasted several minutes until I heard what I thought was a washing machine. I could hear the steady splashing of water accompanied by a monotonous singing chant. That evening I asked Indie about his father’s morning routine.
“What the heck was your dad doing in the bathroom this morning”, I asked my friend.
“Oh. That”, responded Indie. My dad prays in the bathtub to the goddess of wealth every morning. He lies in freezing cold water and spins around in the tub while chanting. He’s been doing it for seven years now. It doesn’t appear to be working”, Indie laughed, shrugging his shoulders.

London, England; Part I: Mission Accomplished

York, England

What a non-stop whirl-wind adventure this trip turned out to be. One week later, I’m still tired. I burned myself out on this trip and let myself get sick and run down. But hey, that’s the price to pay when there’s only a short period of time and a lot of activities to accomplish. No time for sleep. Gotta Go! Go! Go!
I flew into Leeds Airport on Sunday evening, March 8th, via Amsterdam. I had a four hour delay in A-dam and spent it drinking cold Heineken, eating a Whopper Royal with cheese, and chatting with Kim. Kim is our speech pathologist at several schools in Stuttgart. She was attending an Autism Conference along with me and a dozen others from around Europe. We were all meeting in York.
Eight of us arrived in Leeds at the airport and piled in a taxi van to York, about a 30 minute drive costing $120. Our Iraqi cab driver talked about how much he disliked England and how much he wished to return back to Basra with his British wife. “Good luck with that, dude”, I thought. I wonder how his wife will like living in the Iraqi desert?
After checking into the hotel, I tossed my backpack on the bed, re-applied the Old Spice, and made a bee-line for Brigante’s Bar & Brasserie. I did some research on pubs in England and found two of the top rated ones were located in York. Brigantes and and another pub called The Maltings were located within a 5 minute walking distance from the hotel! I walked directly from the front door of Brigante’s to the bar where I spied four cask-conditioned ale tap handles. The was a bitter, an ESB, a stout, and an IPA from Acorn Brewing. Salivating all over the bar, I asked the bartender or “landlord” for a pint of the IPA. It was a taste of pure heaven for me. This IPA was my first one in two years. It was creamy, bitter, and bursting with fresh green hop flavor. My eyes brimmed with tears as I set down my glass and nodded my head in approval to the man pouring my beers. This was one nicely made beer - exactly what I needed. He told me that beer was one of their best sellers. I tried the other cask beers, enjoying one in particular called Oyster Stout. Rich, dark, creamy, with a hint of toasted malts. Very nice. I ended up returning the following night, having dreamt about IPA’s, only to find out the IPA was all gone. “Everybody really luved ‘at one”, the landlord told me in his thick British accent. “It went quick as you please”. Seeing my disappointment, he quickly began describing the new ale taking the place of my formerly new favorite beer. It was an ESB from the local brewery, York Brewery. I made a note to be sure to visit the brewery in the next three days. I wish I also would’ve made a note describing its location as being right around the corner of Brigante’s Bar. I wound up getting some unwanted exercise, in my quest for fresh brewery ales. The following night, I returned to Brigante’s and dined on a truly wonderful leek and cheese potato pie, served with beef gravy and a side of boiled vegetables. The crust was thin, flaky and rich. It went perfect with any of the ales being served. The vegetables were English – a medley of boiled turnips, carrots, and cabbage. I enjoyed myself so much; I went back a third and fourth night. I couldn’t help myself. I ate a big plate of fish ‘n chips on another visit and drank a new IPA on the cask. My dining companions ate chips (fries) and grilled steak. (A little side note, Brits call French fries, “chips” and potato chips, “crisps”). Both companions, Chuck and Carol reported the steak as being excellent and perfectly cooked to their liking…which looked to be bloody rare.
I hit The Maltings Pub on two separate occasions; once to sample the beers and ambience and the second to check out the live music. They hired an excellent two man band playing mostly Bob Dylan tunes. I met up with a few teachers at the pub and shared a few pints as well as a few laughs.
The Maltings also pours fabulous beers from local microbreweries, including a Kriek Lambic and Whitbier. I opted again to go initially with the IPAs, and then sample some of the other ales on cask. The landlord was well-versed in the beers being served and was quick to offer me free samples from anything I chose. I found the British to be generous in their offerings of free samples from the kegs. In fact, every single pub I visited in England gave me a sample if I asked or even if I didn’t ask. It never bothered them and they never acted like I was a pain in the ass. Even when the bar was crowded, they didn’t hesitate to pour me a sample and wait to hear my review. I really loved it!
If you are in York, I highly recommend those two pubs.
I mentioned earlier about York Brewery. They have won a few gold medals for a number of years at the British Brewing Industry Awards. Centurion Ghost Ale is their big flagship beer and is excellent. It is no wonder why it has received several gold medals. It is a dark, bitter ale, with a roasted malt taste. Very easy to drink. The brewery is relaxing inside, sort of like being in someone’s living room. Everyone chats to each other while sipping pints of top quality cask ale. The night I went, the brewery was holding a quiz night, the main prize being a free tour of the brewery. The place was filled with locals. The teams were mostly comprised of forty to fifty age something friends, all laughing and joking loudly, obviously enjoying each other’s company. The questions were geared towards Englishmen in this age group – questions like, what was the price of an average home in England in 1970, stuff like that. It was a good place to drink in some British culture.
York is the most haunted city in Europe…or so I saw somewhere on a “ghost” brochure. The city has several “haunted” walking ghost tours and a real haunted house which had been the source of a TV ghost investigation. Unfortunately, most of the tours don’t start until the end of March, when the tourists start arriving. York is a world heritage Unesco site, which means it’s loaded with cool history and architecture. It has castles, cemeteries, museums, Viking stuff, and a huge cathedral.
On one of the nights, before tackling a pub crawl through the city, I joined a group of teachers for some fabulous Indian food at the Viceroy Restaraunt. Travel writer Rick Steves had written a glowing recommendation of the place, enticing us to seek it out. Rick was right. The food and service was excellent. It was a semi-rowdy meal, as loudness is usually the theme when a group of American special education teachers get together. Everyone in the restaurant heard our presence. After dinner, a few friends and I did a slow pub crawl back to the hotel. Young, twenty-somethings staggered through the dark city streets in search of hot love. Most girls wore skimpy club dresses, while the boys sported teased, spiky hair. They all carried beers and cigarettes, laughing, arm-in-arm. The cold did not seem to bother them as none wore jackets in the 35 degree F. weather. I’m guessing they don’t have coat checks at the clubs.
We found several cozy pubs on our crawl. One of them was like being in cave, with low ceilings and mold growing on the ancient brick. All the pubs were filled with “regulars” who welcomed us in every time. I found the British to be exceptionally nice, polite, patient people. A friendly pub across the street from our hotel had an open mic night on Wednesday, attended by several teachers. I decided to join them and wound up jamming a couple of tunes on the guitar to the delight of both the teachers and the British patrons. I borrowed a guitar from the open mic host, and started with Squeezebox, Pete Townsend’s tune, followed by Fogerty’s the Rain and the Kinks, Lola. People kept saying, “One more! One more!” I really had a great time playing on stage. I was followed by an elderly man who recited strange poetry about his garden shed. One of his poems was about WW II and the affect the war had on York and its surroundings. It was an interesting poem to hear. It was pretty magical to listen to this man speak of the war while sitting in a small early 1920’s era pub in England.
I fell in love with York immediately. It is easily one of my most favorite cities. The people really make the city. The food, drink, and hospitality are first class. I’m glad to know a city like York exists.
York, England: MISSION ACCOMPLISHED

Liege, Belgium

Freedom.
The ability to pack up and leave for God-knows-where at a moment’s notice. No kids. No dogs - only a couple of plants to water before scrambling out the door. The opportunity to jump in the car and be in a country like Belgium in four and half hours is what I’m talking about.
Michelle and I made arrangements to spend Thanksgiving in Liege, Belgium. We were to spend the first night with a couch surfer (www.couchsurfing.com) and the second two nights at a Youth Hostel. Plans were in place until we received a phone call from Michelle’s dad saying her mother was very ill and had to be taken to the hospital. We discussed her going back, and then the next day we received another phone call, this time from Michelle’s mother. She tells us that now Michelle’s dad is ill and also needed to be hospitalized. That made our minds up for us right there. I bought Michelle a ticket to Montana and she left within two days.

And me?

Well, I wasn’t about to cancel the trip to Belgium.
I threw a backpack and a sleeping bag in the car, and headed Northwest to Liege.
I set directions in my GPS for an address in downtown Liege for a local couch surfer, a Belgian girl named Francoise. The plan was for me to meet her at her apartment at 5:30pm. She would be arriving after finishing work as an English teacher.
I found a parking spot across the street from her place on a busy city side road along the Meuse River. I got there around 2:30pm, and decided to take a stroll around the city. Taverns and pubs decorate every corner, all advertising either Jupiler or Stella Artois beers on tap.
Oh yeah!
Liege is also home to Jupiler Brewery.
I peeked in the window of a few watering holes, searching for a spot where I would feel comfortable. I passed on the ones filled with old men, men in suits, and ones filled with people who generally didn’t look like me. I eventually found one on a busy corner, a serene location on a barstool with endless people watching opportunities. I sat at the bar and ordered a Stella beer on draft, in French. The bartender immediately heard an accent and wondered where I came from.
Canada perhaps?
I listened to the conversations of everyone around me and wound up joining in a food discussion about strange foods, in particular, the taste of cow brains. The men all liked brains, including me. Our sole female bartender detested them.
I hung out there, trying to tune French into my head until it was time to disappear and meet Francoise.
Arriving at my host’s apartment, I searched through the French names on the buzzers and pressed the one marked Ghyse, Francoise’s last name. I took the elevator to her floor and was greeted by a smiling, jovial woman who immediately gave me the customary kisses on the cheeks; one, two, three of them. She gave me a quick tour, where I tossed my backpack on her spare bed and joined her in the living room for introductions and travel stories.

She had a spectacular view out her window of the city and the river. The bridges are lit in neon blue at night, casting an eerie glow over the water.

I find out that Francoise has traveled all over the world as well.

She has only been a guest of couch surfers a few times, choosing instead to host couch surfers at her place. Francoise’s latest travel adventure had been to a small town in Thailand where she had volunteered to teach English to the poor village children. A Thai family had volunteered to host her during her eight week visit.

Unfortunately, the family was headed by an abusive father who treated Francoise terribly, causing her to return to Belgium after five weeks in a depressed state. She said she knew she was in trouble when she found the floor of her new bedroom to be covered in dead bugs. When she asked for a broom to sweep up the tiny insect corpses, she was chastised by her family, saying she had insulted them.

What left an impression on me about Francoise was her love for America and New York City. She had a large-framed photograph of the NYC landscape, the Twin Towers standing proudly in the middle of the shot. Other pictures of NYC, in black and white, surrounded the Twin Tower photograph. Francoise told me it was her shrine.
Many people I have met in my travels have been to NYC and feel a deep connection to it.
All wept when the terrorists crashed those planes.

Francoise called another friend and couch surfer, Sonia, a young Belgian woman who worked for a refrigeration trucking company. She was also a world traveler and couch surfer, having many friends and stories from around the globe.
Sonia joined us for dinner at the restaurant, Maison du Peket (maisondupeket.be), specializing in traditional Liegoise cuisine and beverage. I managed to devour a delicious meal of two large meatballs, covered in a sweet pear sauce, surrounded by French fries.
Of course the meal was washed down with a Blanche bier and several shots of Peket; the booze of choice in Belgium. The shots come in an assortment of fruit flavors, the more famous one topped with a fiery blue flickering flame. The bartender fires up a gas torch and dances a hot blue flame across the shot glass, waving the torch back forth with a flick of the wrist.
The trick to drinking this fiery beverage is to slam down the burning party fuel by using a straw - fun party tricks!
After dinner, we headed to a bar with a three ring binder beer menu thicker than the bible - pages and pages of top quality Belgian beers.
Because it was December, there were pages of special Christmas ales. It was an incredibly tough decision. I opted for an Orval and was naturally not disappointed.
A table of young college-age students from France sat next to us while a soccer game played on the TV overhead.
Francoise and Sonia told me about what was happening politically in their country and the problems that were surfacing between the north and south. I was embarrassed not to know more about their country, politically. I mentally made a point to learn more.

After our drinks, my new Belgian friends took me for a drive around the city before heading back to Francoise’s apartment where I slept soundly.

When the morning sun began to rise, I stared out the window at the frantic pace of the cars as they sped in the morning commute, thankful I was not out on the highways, sharing the road.

I explore a quiet park, taking time to notice the local flora and fauna. Walking out of the park, I spy a small common-looking tavern, the perfect spot for a black coffee and flaky croissant.
After breakfast, I arrive at the apartment to find Francoise awake and ready to take me to a Belgian chocolate factory. The factory is located in the middle of a neighborhood - not where one would expect to find a chocolate factory. The room was buzzing with French and Belgian tourists alike, sampling and buying special Christmas chocolates. I bought a kilo (2.2 lbs) of chocolate rejects for ten Euro ($13). They were unbelievable good! Francoise then drove me to a local grocery store where I bought some killer Belgian beers and Trappistes cheeses. It was super nice having a chauffeur and local to show me around the city.
I left Francoise’s place in the afternoon and drove across town to find the Youth Hostel of Liege where I checked in, stashed my backpack, and again strolled about aimlessly, stumbling upon a Christmas market. I walked around the market, looking at all the different foods and drinks. They have fresh oysters from Zeeland in Holland, sea urchin, mushrooms with truffle cream sauce, rotisserie smoked ham sandwiches, foie gras, extensive wine lists, beautiful brown beers, gluhwein, and Peket. I wanted to try everything, and I just about did. There was a marching band playing, French fries sizzling, and couples kissing. I had such a good time; I went back again the following afternoon which quickly evaporated into night. I met loads of people and held all kinds of conversations, jumping in and out of both English and French. Everyone wanted to toast to Obama as the new American president once they found out I was American. I clinked a lot glasses! I met a Polish lady who was a Polish/French interpreter for the Belgian government, married to a psychologist whom she met on the internet. I met a guy traveling from Quebec, who once he heard my last name, became my new best friend. “Vive la Quebec et les Separatists!”
The police came in to the Chimay Chalet (my absolute favorite stand at the market) and tossed down a few Chimays while I was there. They were in complete uniform, guns, everything. They slugged down a couple of beers, partnered with Trappiste cheese, chatted, and then went back to work, I guess. Our bartender, Fred, a truly animated man and a colorful story teller, proceeded to tell the cops stories about bar fights, and the punches he got in at the other guy. We found ourselves in food discussions and the varieties of different pates and cheeses. I can talk about food all night and so could they!
Francoise texted me on the cell later in the evening that she would like to meet at the market, where I already was happily tossing down Trappiste beers….she was meeting several friends for drinks and conversation. We had a table of about eight people for most of the night, drinking, eating and talking. The Chimay flowed like tap water and the food just kept coming. People took turns going to the stands to get food and bringing something different back to share. Cured sausages, potato soups, smoked hams, cheese, you name it, I ate it. I was so full by the end of the night; I thought my stomach was going to burst.

I made plans to meet a new friend, Elias, who arrived from Lebanon a mere four months ago. We were to meet at the big Sunday Flea Market, held downtown along the river. Everyone I met in Liege told me it was mandatory to check it out - It would be a crime if I skipped it.
“Yoo can get any-zing, from uh apple to uh goat!” one guy told me, stumbling from another table to give me his advice when he heard I was American. He was right too! Chickens, lingerie, boots, rabbits, fish, winter jackets, club gear, vegetables, its all there - several kilometers of stuff. University students were scattered throughout the market and the city, dressed in decorated white lab coats and armed with empty beer glasses. The lab coats are covered in quotes and drawings of cartoons, like SpongeBob, Mickey Mouse, and Homer Simpson. They approached anyone and everyone asking for loose change, even begging through the open windows of cars at stoplights. A tradition among the Belgian university students at this time of year is to beg for money in order to go drinking. The more money they are able to accumulate, the more drinking that can take place. Some of the boys wore lab jackets, dirt and vomit stained, from previous years.

Elias and I found out we had a lot in common. He had studied in India, searching for a Kundalini/ meditation guru and was now in Belgium working as a computer whiz. Elias specialized in computers and technology, showing me all kinds of neat tricks he could do with his iTouch phone as we shopped the busy market street. He was also a couch surfer and had interesting stories to tell about his travels and his home land.

One thing he said that impacted me was when he told me he grew up in fear of Israel. I’m still thinking about that.

Before leaving Liege, I discovered a French fry restaurant, specializing in the perfect fries. If I see Belgians standing in line in the cold for fries, I’m standing in line too.
The line ran out the door.
The owners had perfected the art of French fries and took their work seriously. It looked to me that they were using a three oil cooking process, with big buckets of oil set at different temperatures. They offered a variety of sauces to accompany the fries, from curry sauce, mayonnaise, ketchup and American ketchup to herbed sauces. The difference between European ketchup and American ketchup is that European ketchup is sweeter with a nutmeg taste and American ketchup is more vinegary and not so sweet.
Sitting in their drafty upstairs room, I found the French fries to be perfect; soft and tender on the inside with a nice crispness on the outside. They were perfectly paired with a can of Jupiler.

When I checked out of the Youth Hostel on Sunday morning …by the way, I had a room with four beds, but no one showed, so I had the room to myself…I was sad to leave. The people of Liege were beyond wonderful to me. I met so many fantastic, friendly, interesting friends. On the snowy drive home, I started mentally planning my next visit.

Liege, Belgium: Mission Accomplished.

Plzen, Czech Republic

Here we go! Czech Republic!
After spending four fun, relaxing, totally chill days with our friends the Castleberrys at their place in Vilseck, Germany, Michelle and I pack it up, and hit the road for Czech Republic, which is fun to say with a thick Slavic accent. We decide we’re not going to drive too far and stop at Plzen for a night or two. This is after finding out that the following night, Iron Maiden is playing in Prague. I wrestle around with continuing on to Prague to see one of my favorite bands, but decide against making the trek. There’s a relatively inexpensive hotel in Plzen, Hotel Sloven, that Michelle and I have stayed at in the past when we attended the Pilsner Beer Fest. For $50 a night for two, it includes a secure parking area. Car theft continues to be a problem in many of the former Eastern Block countries, so it’s something to consider when driving around. Hotel Sloven is famous for having hosted General Patton back during World War II. It’s an old hotel with creaky floors, drafty windows, and noisy water pipes. It also has lots of charm and, according to me, plenty of ghosts. It’s spooky at night, walking the halls lined with giant eight foot wooden double doors. Every door has a grimacing devil staring down at the guests carved over the header. The rooms do not have toilets or showers, but do have sinks. Communal bathrooms are located in the hallways, a short walk from the rooms. It sucks when you have to pee in the middle of the night, but hey, its fifty bucks a night. On our previous visit, the maid came into the locker-room style showers to clean, only to find me stepping out of the shower with nothing but a smile. Michelle had already dried and had a robe on in the bathroom when the startled maid entered the shower room. She opened the door, looked at me, gasped, and took off running down the hallway to her maid closet. Michelle stepped out into the hall and yelled back after her, “DON’T WORRY!!! HE DOESN’T CARE!!! IT’S OK!!!! REALLY! HE DOESN’T CARE!!!” We had a good laugh after that one. She didn’t make eye contact with us as we carted our luggage to the elevator upon departure.

Plzen is an interesting city with lots of history. Plzen’s biggest boast to fame is that its home to Pislner Uruquell, the makers of the world’s first Pils Beer. They have a massive brewery near the downtown area, frequented by tourist busses. There is also an informative Beer Museum that is built over the original brewery. There are loads of taverns, pubs, cafes, and restaurants serving traditional Czech food and of course Pils beers - the food is heavy and the beer is cold. In the center of town lies a beautiful church which must be experienced. I was able to climb the 300 stairs to the bell tower to take some pictures of the city down below. There are no bells that ring in the church for several reasons, but the one reason that sticks in my mind was thanks to the Nazis who took the bells during the war. I left Michelle at an outdoor biergarten in the center near the church and took off to climb the stairs. They are extremely steep and only one person at a time can climb the different sections on the way to the top. Once I got to the top, I wiped the sweat from my head with my hand and took out my camera. I turned on the camera only to hear it beep, signaling for me to change the batteries….of which I had no back ups. I had used the backup batteries and hadn’t replaced them.

“SHHHHHHHHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITTTTTTTTTTTTT!!!!”

I wanted to hurl that damn camera as far as I could into the horizon. I didn’t even get to take one picture.

Disappointed, I navigated back down the stairs, found a store with camera batteries, repurchased my church ticket (the old lady wouldn’t let me use my old ticket even after I explained the battery story) and climbed back up into the steeple. Here are some of the shots I took on my second journey into the church. Phew.
Plzen also has the second largest Jewish Synagogue in Europe, a truly magnificent house of worship with a sad history…thanks again to the Nazis.
Near the downtown area, there is a dark medieval restaurant which was formerly a prison where thousands of people were tortured for any number of crimes. It feels like medieval King Arthur Europe in this place. It is lit by flickering candles placed on the wooden tables and warmed by a giant stone fireplace. Even in the hottest days of summer, this place is cold. Eerily cold. If there was ever a place to be haunted, this is it. Michelle and I drink deliciously hot mead and chat with another couple at our table. People are eating massive portions of food…cheeses, smoked meats, and potato dumplings all while pounding beer and mead out of clay mugs.

Because Plzen is a big beer town, there are lots of great beer snacks on the menu. No, you won’t find jalapeno cheese poppers, fried mushrooms, or onion rings. But you will find pickled sausages, fried camembert cheese, blood sausage, venison pates with horseradish fresh rye bread and pickles. I love these kinds of tasty treats with a fresh cold beer.
Wandering the evening city streets looking for dinner, we stumble upon an American-themed cowboy restaurant. We can’t believe our eyes at seeing the Stars and Stripes flying on a flagpole out front, complete with an old western horse ‘n buggy and communist era industrial brick smoke stack. Inside, the theme is Cowboy America: Buffalo Bill, Harley Davidson, Jack Daniels, and Annie Oakley. The menu is entirely in Czech. I can’t figure anything out on this thing other than the word “…steak…”. Michelle and I discuss the situation and decide to ask the bartender what he recommends. I saddle up to the bar, menu in hand, and ask the bartender with a sheriff’s badge pinned to his blue dungaree shirt if he speaks English. He looks at me like I’m from Pluto. It doesn’t appear like a lot of non-Czech speaking people eat here.He’s eating some kind of sausage/potato thing out of a tin plate. He says something back to me in Czech. I re-ask the question.
“No” he answers.
Okey dokey.
I think we’ll take two steaks. I point to the “…steak…” listed on the one-page menu. He gives me a semi-smiling-thumbs-up and says something to the fat guy in camos working in the kitchen.
Returning back to the picnic bench to Michelle, we discuss the “How can you go wrong with steak” order that I placed. Steak is steak, right? You put steak on the menu in an American themed cowboy restaurant; you serve a side of beef, right? Wrong. After several beers, the Sheriff finally arrives with our silver steak trays and serrated steak knives. We hunger for beef only to be greeted by a poached, seasoned and sautéed chicken breast surrounded by an unseasoned array of corn, carrots, cabbage, and beans. We have a good laugh at our expectations. Next thing we know, we’re hanging with a couple of German business men in their fifties who are on a mad escape from reality. Insanity ensues. The rest is a blur.

There is a rose filled park in the town where musicians play according to a schedule in the evenings during the summer. Along the sidewalk are pictures of World War era tanks and military personnel. It’s surreal to see the pictures from this time frame and walk the same cobblestone streets they rumbled across sixty five years ago.
The Czech people are grateful to Americans, thanking us on more than one occasion for the sacrifices made by our grandparents. They haven’t forgotten. It is a warm feeling to hear the gratitude and thanks in their voices.

Plzen, Czech Republic: Mission Accomplished.