A Traveling Crescendo

Humans.

I’ve been learning a lot about these strange creatures as of late. Perhaps that’s what traveling does to you. In fact, I believe it to be rather inevitable when thrown into a culture so different from one’s own. 

It was on a two day excursion to Belgium that my humanly inherent blinders were peeled back and both horrified, and exhilarated, I caught a glimpse of what lies within all. 

We keep forgetting that we belong to the same species. We are these exquisitely complex bi-peds capable of the most atrocious and the most gracious acts…

As most of these adventures begin, I rolled out of bed at 4:00 AM last friday to catch a coach headed for Dover. Both delirious from the lack of sleep and excited for some new experiences, I spent the bus ride with closed eyes but without much rest.

Thankfully, I opened my eyes just in time to see this:

Granted, it was terribly foggy, but my heart leapt at the sight. Yes indeed, there they were. The very glistening (though not exactly in this moment) cliffs that have evoked countless poets to scribble away at poems concerning English identity and pride.

They really are quite magnificent, even in the fog.

Waving goodbye to the isle of the Angles, I hopped upon a ferry and headed across the channel.

Now for a note on ferries. I’ve never been on a cruise ship before, but hearing from my friends who had, this ferry was not dissimilar. It had three levels of cafes, restaurants, and cafeterias, a casino, an arcade, a mall and my favorite: a store that sold books, booze, and chocolate. Obviously these people have their priorities straight. Apparently, this wasn’t a luxury liner, but a rather run of the mill ferry that one would take if they were to commute between England and France. 

I knew these Europeans were cool.

In any case, we arrived in France about an hour and a half later, boarded the coach which was on the lower deck of the ferry (convenient, eh?) and drove off the dock and onto the right hand side of the road (our bus driver was obviously a bad-ass).

As we were driving on the right hand side, I gazed around at the (French!!!) scenery and felt strangely at home. 

With the rather flat and dull land, and farmed fields, I felt as if just for an instant that I was driving on I-25, on my way to Fort Collins. (Colorado people you understand). In any case, perhaps it was due to its familiar landscape or the fact that as I read the signs along the highway, I was excited my ability to understand a foreign language, I got a good feeling off of France.

Then of course, we veered off into Belgium. The landscape changed a bit as the soil appeared more clay-like and the signs said things like: “Welkom!”  (welcome) and “Een Openbaar Toilet” (Public bathroom). Ah, Flemish. 

About an hour later, we arrived in beautiful Ieper, what I had assumed to be a medieval city due to the architecture and cobbled streets.

(For Mom) :)

Of course, what’s the first thing you do when you arrive in Belgium? Try a Belgian waffle of course!

Dropping off our belongings at the hostel, we hastily scooted out onto the streets to hunt down this delicacy. Our determined search payed off as in only a few minutes, we stumbled upon a waffle seller and proceed to partake in one of the most memorable culinary experiences ever.

When I took my first bite of nutella, banana, sticky waffle glory, my heart nearly stopped. This may be due to it shivering in fear of the great cholesterol, artery clogging masterpiece in front of me, and/or because each perfectly constructed glutinous particle melted in my mouth like warm butter.

I will never be able to eat a waffle in the states, EVER again. I now have very high waffle expectations…

Of course as if waffles weren’t enough, my buddies and I proceeded to stroll around Ieper, popping into chocolate shops here and there. In fact, the very first one we entered the sales woman sidled up to us (unusual for European customer service in which if you want help you’ve got to ask for it) and asked us if we were with the American group. After we had confirmed this, she started listing off all the chocolate we could get for 10 euro. This included, hand made chocolates of different shapes, sizes and flavors, truffles, catfingers, and enormous chocolate eggs. So, blinded by the magnificence of the chocolate atmosphere, I decided to go with it, ending up with four huge boxes of chocolate. I was definitely going to have to pawn some off on people when I got back to England…

So apparently they knew about us Americans coming because every single chocolate shop that we entered afterwards gave us stellar offers. One even included some locally brewed Belgian beer. Perhaps like I said, it was the general Willy Wonka atmosphere that possessed me or the fact that I had 75 euro in my pocket (or so I thought) but I decided to buy me some brew. (It was only 3E for two bottles).

However, when I approached the purchasing counter and slapped down a big fat twenty, the chocolatress gave me a rather puzzled look, shouted a few phrases in Flemish to her fellow worker who came over and proceeded to gaze at the money that I had put down on the counter.

“What kind of currency is this?” She asked with a thick loopy accent. To my horror, I realized that I had brought 15 Euro with me (previously spent on chocolate and waffle) and this beautifully colored piece of currency was not infact a Euro but a Swedish Krona.

Apparently, I had not exactly looked very closely at the money that I had brought with me, thinking that it was colorful and the same size, therefore it had to be Euros. But in fact, I was wrong. The 60 Krona had been bestowed upon me by my mother before I ran off to England and somehow gotten mixed up with other currency.

Whoops. Moral of that story: Do not assume that all colorful currency is the same.

Not to worry though, a friend spotted me for the beer that is now sitting bashfully on my counter, waiting to be consumed on some celebratory occasion…

This whirlwind of delicious delirium was to contrast sharply with our next set of activities that day.

Our next stop was the Flanders Fields museum. Apparently, it was most recently voted the best museum in Europe so we were eager to take a look. The actual building is quite magnificent:

What’s this? You say…A beautiful medieval structure? That was my thought as well. However, much to my shock, I learned that this building and all the others that I had seen, all the chocolate shops I had entered, each cobblestone that I had tread upon had not existed a century ago.

It had been blown to bits during WWI. This entire time, I had been walking through a town of ghosts.

This, was just the first of many facts I would soon come to understand about this seemingly sweet little town.

As we entered the museum, we were each handed a card with the name of a previous Ieper resident…pre-WWI. I was Pierre Van Damme, a weaver and upholster who was very much in love with the beautiful Augusta and wished to marry her. However, soon the war was upon them and Pierre felt obligated to join his fellow comrades to protect his homeland. Augusta and Pierre did not marry but remained engaged, writing letters to one another. 

I was terribly worried for Pierre’s safety though for as I meandered further into the museum the war seemed to get grislier and grislier.

If you can’t read it: “Every intelligent person in the world knew this disaster was impending and knew no way to avoid it.” H.G. Wells

Faces of the war and a map of battles in Europe.

The famous poem itself.

 If you haven’t already heard of this incredible happening, please look it up. 

Christmas 1915, an unintentional truce took place between the German and French sides as Christmas songs were sung on both sides and slowly soldiers crossed over nomansland to greet each other, the people who only the day before had been trying to murder one another came together in common humanity to provide light in the darkness.

People would not believe this story for the longest time, but now they have found enough evidence, songs, stories and accounts to know of it’s truth.

This gives me hope.

I could not bear to take any more pictures for the duration of our museum visit. The next chamber that we entered, gas masks floated eerily on strings while the room filled with green gas, simulating what a gas attack would have been like. While real live accounts were whispered around us.

Poison gas or “soul-hunting fog” as they used to call it would act upon the lungs, making the lung tissue deteriorate and the soldiers would literally drown in themselves. While in the chamber, I read this poem.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! - An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime…
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

—Wilfred Owen, “Dulce Et Decorum Est”, 1917

I could not stay long in the next room as unbelievably realistic sounds of explosive shells sounded and the floor lit up, showing muddy slush in wish scattered body parts, bits of wood, and scampering rats were shown.

At this point, my body was covered in goosebumps and I had to sit down. I’m not entirely sure what came over me. I know that these things usually affect me greatly, but I have never felt so intimately connected with a past event before. It was quite strange. The museum did an excellent job.

There is good news though. Pierre came out alive and in one piece, married Augusta and lived a generally happy life.

Pierre was pretty darn lucky though. In Iepres alone, nearly a quarter of a million people perished. As later I learned, that was about 30 people per square meter that we now stood upon. 

Bit of a reality check if I’ve ever had one.

In any case, by this time we needed to grab dinner so we headed out for a traditional meal of chicken and chips (fries). Belgium of course, if you know your culinary history, is where the french fry was invented. Thus, they turned out to be rather delicious. As for the chicken, I obviously didn’t eat one, instead they gave me a delicious fried potato, something or other. In any case, I enjoyed it.

Then after our well deserved nutritional interlude, it was onto more WWI exploration.

Every night since WWI came to an end, rain or shine, no fail, there has been a ceremony conducted in Iepres under their magnificent arch memorial in which the streets are closed down and a traditional bugle is sounded, to accompany soldiers and families of the deceased hanging poppy (Flanders flower and a symbol of WWI if you couldn’t already guess) wreaths by the memorial its self.

Names upon names upon names of the deceased. 

The grand arch, built in a neoclassical style—a style considered the only style that is timeless and therefore appropriate to honor the dead forever.

The band marching by like ghosts.

All the band members were about my age and younger, representing perhaps the inexcusable age at which many young men joined the great war.

The actual bugle, I caught on film and will be posting that separately but it was an incredibly moving ceremony, filled both with regality and despair.

Our guide was this fantastically knowledgeable man whose Flemish accent only heightened his inflections as he told us of the great war. However, after the ceremony ended, he indicated that our tour was not yet over, hinting that he would show us some places to go in Ieper to experience a bit of night life. All of us eager American puppy dogs trotted along behind him until he stopped outside of a bar and smiled at all of us. It seemed the formerly somber mood of the ceremony was slowly breaking away. 

“You cannot be Belgian” he proclaimed “and not drink beer.” He held up a menu of beers in front of him explaining to all of us which ones were good, what they tasted like and most importantly that Belgian beer tended to be rather strong (10%) and meant to be sipped rather than chugged (a philosophy I’ve always gone by anyway.) 

What he said next left us all a bit shocked “IES has agreed to supply me with the money to buy you all your first drink in Belgium!” And so it was, that an educational institution supplied us with alcohol. It is interesting that us Americans would rejoice in this so. However, I must remind you dear readers that Europeans view alcohol much differently. The taboo that is usually associated with alcohol, perhaps due to previous Prohibition attempts, does not exist to that extent. It is a part of culture, a casual thing, it is expected that you drink. Now a distinction calls to be made here: you do not drink to get drunk although sometimes that happens, you drink with the intention of having fun with friends and enjoying a good beverage.

Thus, my friends and I sat down with the most delicious (I hope I’m not getting redundant in adjectives describing food in this country) beer I have ever had. Refreshing, tangy, dark, yet almost sweet I sipped my St. Bernardis for a good hour and it was lovely. Cheers!

To our great surprise, the music in the bar suddenly switched to great American anthems like “American Pie” and Simon and Garfunkel. The bartender smiled at us, the rowdy ones. He let us have fun. What wonderful hospitable people.

Of course, an hour later and after sampling a Cherry Kriek (an equally strong beverage that tastes dangerously like a Shirley Temple) we took this picture.

Enough said. :)

The next morning we woke up early as we were the only Americans who had listened to the guide and drank in moderation. The rest of the crowd wasn’t so inclined to get up. However, we were glad we did because we caught the Ieper market which was pretty awesome.

I managed to purchase a rather beautiful necklace for 2 euro reasoning that I didn’t just want to bring home consumable items as souvenirs from Belgium.

Soon after, we headed out for another day of educational experiences.

Our first stop was a wartime cemetery on the British/French side that included a reconstructed trench.

So many unknown soldiers are buried here. As our guide told us, for every body that is buried right now, there are still two more left in the fields that have not been found yet.

From the trenches where they shot across nomansland.

Our next stop was a cemetery on the German side. Here it was confirmed that I have long known to be true. In war, there are no good guys and bad guys. Everyone is a good and bad.

It’s was a really beautiful cemetery if one can call it that. However, the story behind this place was not so pleasant. In an attempt to halt the war hundreds of German students around my age gathered together arm in arm, singing songs, white flags in hand and attempted to cross over nomansland in an act of peace. Did the British cease their shooting and pause to think of their act? Unfortunately, no. As in so many horrific acts of war, these unarmed students were machine gunned down by the hundreds.

Like I said, no good guys and no bad guys.

In fact, the patch of grass in the middle of the cemetery was a mass grave. Hundreds of kids, dead. This shook me to the core.

It was years later before the start of WWII that Hitler claimed that he had been one of these students and survived the attack. This, of course was not true but he visited the cemetery and there is a famous picture of him pausing before one of the graves. I did not know this until my tour guide approached me and told me that I was standing in the exact spot where not so many years ago a figure of ugliness stood. The guide showed me the picture which made it so much more real. As you might be able to imagine, I left early and escaped to the bus rather hastily after that. 

The last place that we visited is the largest cemetery around the Ieper area, Tyne Cot. It was by far the most pristine one we’d been to.

After paying our respects, our next stop was the town of Poppel. Since Poppel was behind the lines, it served as a sort of haven for soldiers to eat, drink, be entertained go to religious services and converse with friends. However it was also a place where deserters were executed. Britain’s own men were killed by their friends for the simple act of running away, of not wanting to murder. This was of course common amongst all countries during the war, but no other country executed more of its own men than Britain. Hundreds were killed on this wall, and nearly six thousand during the entire war.

After having such a weary day I turned to one of my friends and asked her. “God, why is it that humans do such shitty things to one another?”

She replied: “When humans are desperate, they do mad things.”

And she is right. It’s a terrifying thought, but a good one to be reminded of. To keep grounded.

Thankfully the rest of the Poppel tour was much more light-hearted. We visited Talbot house built specifically to host soldiers, to entertain, wine and dine them. It even included the worlds smallest chapel in the attic to which old stairs that look as though they may give out any instant lead. Bravely we trekked up them to take a peek.

It was quite lovely.

Apparently the Queen was here.

:)

We wandered around town a bit before heading off home, found this shop (for you Mom):

As we headed home, my bag was full of chocolate and beer, and my head full of thoughts and reflections. It had been a good trip. One that was necessary, not just of course for the food, but for understanding more about human nature. For waking up from this dream I’ve been living in. To know that terror and beauty are very real things. As we arrived back in port in Dover and I saw the cliffs once more, Matthew Arnold seemed to whisper in my ear with what I think quite accurately sums it all up.

The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand;
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.

Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the A gaean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.

Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.