Amsterdam Part I: Getting There is Half the Journey (Literally)!

Let’s talk about Amsterdam a bit, shall we? Or rather, the trip to get there.

You see, my holiday as a whole was four days long, but two of those days were spent purely in transit between London and Amsterdam. This is because I decided to use MegaBus to facilitate my journey.

Now, I know what you’re thinking:  

Brett, you hate the bus! You would rather walk a mile (or more) than take the bus somewhere local. Why on Earth would you subject yourself to a 13 hour bus ride?

Me on the bus, on the return journey.

In short, the answer is because it’s cheap (round-trip tickets were only £20). But even that low, low pricetag wasn’t the sole reason why I went this route: I also wanted to get a sense of some other European locales, even if it was from the highway. After all, it’s taken me 30 years to make it to Europe—who knows when I’ll be back?

So, on the morning of Sunday, 13 May, I set off for Victoria Coach Station at o’Dark early. (Seriously, I left the house at like 5:30 AM!) We got a bit of a late start, and didn’t actually leave until about 9:15 AM, but the bus wasn’t crowded—I had an entire row to myself—and everyone was half-asleep, so no one seemed to care too much.

After crossing out of the London city limits, I started reading my book (Game of Thrones) since I was already familiar with the sights between there and the Channel Tunnel. Imagine my surprise, then, when I looked up and realized that we were actually headed for the ferry rather than the Chunnel! Suddenly my excitement doubled, and I hurriedly stashed my book and started soaking up the 'new' surrounding coastline.

With Dover Castle looming above us, itself atop the towering White Cliffs, we passed through the Port Authority and boarded the giant ship that would take us across the English Channel.   

Dover Castle as seen from the ferry

I made my way onto the deck, and watched as we left England behind, with seagulls gliding along in our wake. The ferry crossing itself was quite nice. I spent the entire time just traveling back and forth along the ship, staring at the shrinking English coast one minute and the growing French coast the next. I confess to being surprised by how close they actually are—I expected it to be kind of like Lake Michigan (where there’s just enough distance between Illinois and Michigan that you can’t quite see the opposite coast), but for most of the trip I could make out both bodies just fine!

The White Cliffs of Dover

Calais and the French coast

 The ferry docked in Calais, France, which—much as when I went to Paris—I found myself wanting to explore further. It seems like a charming seaside town, dotted with dozens of gorgeous steeples. Sadly, the bus wasn’t scheduled to stop in Calais, so I didn’t have the chance. 

We continued onward courtesy of the A16, cutting across northern France by way of Dunkerque. (Notwithstanding Dunkerque's significant place in the WWII context, I was again reminded of my earlier trip to France, when I was generally unimpressed by the passing scenery between Calais and Paris.)

Eventually we crossed into Belgium, which was a great thrill for me as it was another country I could cross off my list as having seen! Now, there are some who might argue this point—for instance, Nic doesn’t think it counts unless you stop to eat or sleep. I see the logic in this argument, but for my own selfish purposes I’m going to ignore said-logic and say that I’ve been there. It’s also worth noting that we didn’t stop at any kind of border patrol point. This made me kind of sad because I was looking forward to having a Belgian stamp in my passport, but I guess it just doesn’t make sense to have checkpoints across all of the roads that cross European borders.

Upon crossing into Belgium, we started heading east. Though not listed on the manifest, we stopped briefly in Gent so that the bus driver could trade with another. We were given about 10 minutes to get off the coach and stretch our legs—so now I can say that I have not only driven through, but also set foot on Belgian soil—but since we were in a hotel parking lot there wasn’t much to see or do.

My only photo of Gent--just something to remember that I was there, however briefly, LOL!

Eventually we loaded back on, and continued onward. About an hour or so later, we arrived in Bruxelles. Excepting the traffic, which was atrocious, I thought the capital of Belgium (and the de facto capital of the EU) looked to be a beautiful old city. We passed the gorgeous Nationale Basiliek van het Helig-Hart (Basilica of the Sacred Heart), and I even caught a glimpse of the Atomium sculpture before stopping at Bruxelles’ main bus hub for those passengers switching there. 

As in Gent we were given the opportunity to get off the coach and stretch our legs, but this time we had a full 30 minutes and there was much more to see. (Mostly, however, I just walked around the terminal and surrounding area, as I was terrified of missing the bus.)

Out and about in Belgium...sort of.

All too soon we were on our way again, cutting through Antwerpen before crossing into The Netherlands proper. Much like the non-city parts of Belgium, The Netherlandian regions known as Brabant and South Holland seemed to be mostly farmlands, though gorgeous nonetheless. 

Sadly, I didn’t see a single tulip along the way, and I only saw a handful of windmills (though the latter grew more frequent as we neared North Holland).

We finally arrived at our final destination—Zeeburg P&R Coach Park at Zuiderzeeweg—at about 9:50 PM local time, from whence I hopped on one of the trams and headed to Amsterdam Centraal Station, and then on another that would take me to my hostel in-time for my 11 PM check-in.

Amsterdam Centraal Station (taken 15 May 2012)

My hostel (taken on 15 May 2012)

I actually missed my stop on the second tram because I didn’t realize you had to both press a buzzer to let the driver know you want off (as on a bus) and then a second buzzer to actually open the tram doors (like on the DLR). 

Fortunately, it was only a short walk back to the Prinsengracht stop from where I was, and I still made it to check-in in time—and, somehow, even at that late hour it only seemed like dusk! There was plenty of natural light to see by as I found my way back to Prinsengracht and then on to a street called Leidsegracht, where my hostel was located overlooking a canal.

After checking-in, I realized how hungry I was. And, since the sun still hadn’t completely disappeared—again, it was about 11 PM at this point—I made my way out to find food. I quickly found a place serving vlaamse frites (i.e., fries/chips drowning in mayo) and made a fast, cheap meal out of that!

Having found a quick meal and drink, I returned to the hostel and hit the hay in preparation for the next day’s adventures—but more on that later!

[NB: Unless I remember something significant that I forgot here, I probably won't post anything about the return-trip, as it's pretty much the same here but in reverse. The only exception is that on the way home I packed a chocolate-covered waffle (bought in Amsterdam the day before), which I wanted to eat until I was in Belgium—get it?]

Paris or Bust...By Bus!

I suppose I should start blogging about my Paris experience while it’s fresh on my mind. The problem is, there’s just so much to say that I don’t know where to begin. So, I think I’m just going to break it up day-by-day and in chunks, and take it from there…

18 February 2012:

Saturday morning started at O’Dark Early as my old friend and coworker Teresa used to say. The bus that was to take me from London to Paris was scheduled to depart Victoria Coach Station at 8:00 AM, but I was supposed to be there by 7:00 AM. Under normal circumstances, it would only take me about 50 minutes to get to Victoria Coach Station from where I'm living—except, the city’s transportation authority decided to shut down a portion of the District Line between my flat and the station. Fortunately I found out the day before, and was able to plan an alternate route by bus.

Yes, the bus. 

Now, almost everyone in my immediate circle knows how much I detest the bus, and they also know that I will usually take whatever out-of-the-way routes are possible to avoid taking the slowest, most irritating form of transportation (that was surely developed by the Marquis de Sade) ever concocted! Nonetheless, at such an early hour, I pulled myself up by the bootstraps and climbed aboard a friggin’ bus. 

Over an hour later, I was finally at the station and, finally, at about 8:10 AM, we set off for Paris!

From Victoria Coach station, we crossed over to the ‘southside’ of London and down through Lewisham. (In fact, we passed near Blackheath, and I even saw the side-road where KG&MM lived when Nic and I stayed with them back in 2008!) From there we headed toward Kent, passing within 6km of the beautiful Leeds Castle, and then on to Dover (though, sadly, I was not able to see the famous cliffs).

Our Approximate Route Across England

At Dover, we approached the entrance to the chunnel (a.k.a.the channel tunnel), where we encountered the following sign, leading to generalized excitement amongst the passengers:

'Lies, Damned Lies And Statistics!' ~ Benjamin Disraeli

However, said-sign was misleading: first we had to go through the border crossing process (which, in hindsight, took far less time that the nightmarish crossing back—but that’s a post for later). We sat in front of this sign for about 20 minutes, at which point two agents from the UK Home Office finally boarded the bus. We were all told to give them our passports, which they collected and disappeared with for another 20 minutes or so. Eventually, the agents returned and gave our passports back to us with the appropriate stamps in-place.

Cleared, the bus was allowed to move toward the chunnel. Now, I don’t really know what I expected the channel tunnel to be like, but it was nothing like what I encountered. I suppose I had a vague assumption that it would kind of be like a regular tunnel—you know, like the kind that cuts through a mountain, or the Chesapeake Bay Tunnel or something—and the bus would just drive through.

I was wrong.

The area was like some kind of bizarre mining operation—or, perhaps a better example, like the Fright Zone from the ‘She-Ra’ cartoon!

Inspiration for the channel tunnel?

There were tracks as far as the eye could see, and these massive train cars—tall enough to hold either two rows of cars stacked on top of each other, or conversely a single row of double-decker buses. 

I watched with a profound sense of wonder as our bus actually maneuvered its way into one of the giant cars, and we settled in for the crossing.

Once we were loaded up and en route, we were free to move about the train. Of course, there wasn’t much to see—the windows looked out onto a dark tunnel, no different from a typical subway—and the only places to go were the bathrooms at either end of the massive train. Nonetheless, I got out and walked around for the sheer fact of the experience.

Now, some things worth noting about the undersea journey between England and France:

1. Yes, your ears do pop a bit.
2. To pass between the massive cars, you have to press this scary looking red button for two seconds which, I guess, equalizes the pressure between the cars long enough for you to cross between them.
3. There are these lovely placards everywhere that tell you what to do in case of an emergency, and they are accompanied by a lovely graphic (drawn in a sedate, calming blue) of the train pausing at a special ‘emergency access tunnel’ between train lines, and letting off a bunch of happy, walking passengers in an orderly fashion. Upon seeing this image, I couldn't help laughing because I remembered the airplane scene in Fight Club and pictured the chaos that would ensue should there be an actual emergency—you know, like 250 feet-worth of water crashing down on top of us!

Fortunately, there were no emergencies, and we emerged on the other side successfully and, at last, I caught my first sign of the European continent!

Calais, France, the town in which we (basically) emerged, looked to be a charming place from what little I could see of it from afar. And there were old steeples absolutely everywhere! The effect was quite pretty.

However, I must confess something here, as it was around the time of our emerging from the channel tunnel when I had this realization: 

France smells, Now, I know that’s a positively horrid thing of me to say, and I’m sure a great many people worldwide would say the same about the US. But, whereas (for instance) Ireland was possessed by a pleasingly sweet scent, which danced in the air and just slightly graced one’s nosehairs every now and again, France was filled with a heady, somewhat overpowering perfume-like smell. You know the kind I mean—that stuff the older ladies in Atlantic City use. And there was no dancing in the air or graceful tickling with this stuff—it hit you in the face like a can-can dancer’s…well, I digress…

But enough about unpleasant odors...

Within about twenty minutes, we had started the longest part of our journey—about three hours through Northern France’s countryside. I wish I could regale you with tales of its beauty, but—owing to the time of year, and rainy weather—there wasn’t much to see. 

Honestly, it kind of reminded me a bit of a cross between Montross, Virginia, and Galway, Ireland. And many of the houses were somewhat reminiscent of the Dickens Village houses you see at Christmastime: tall and skinny, with angular roofs. Immediately, the song ‘Little Town’ from Disney’s Beauty and the Beast came to mind:

 

 

In fact, after watching the above video in setting up this entry, I realize just how accurate my initial recollection and comparison of the architecture was.

Aside from these occasional ‘provincial’ towns, the only other things worth noting from this portion of the journey are a preponderance of high-speed trains (why, oh why, don’t we have these in the US yet?), and a breathtaking glimpse I had about 40km from Paris of two people in full, navy-blue horseback riding kit galloping down a steep hill atop their beautiful horses!

Eventually, the bus reached our penultimate stop: Charles de Gaulle Airport. Now, I didn’t get off at this stop, but I kind of which I had. It was a huge facility, and designed in such a way that it was like being in a giant honeycomb—or maybe an ant’s hive is a better comparison. The roadways were all massive, looping and corkscrewing! And neither time I was there—either on the way in to Paris, or on the way back to London—did the drop-off and pick-up area seem clogged, no doubt owing to this ingenious layout! It really was stunning! (Of course, much like the traffic circles in London, I’m sure this is an engineering marvel that simply wouldn’t work in the US because we’re too stupid to use it properly.)

After leaving Charles de Gaulle, it took about 20 minutes to reach Gallieni, where I debarked. (FYI: according to Wikipedia, Gallieni is named after General Joseph Gallieni, who commandeered 600 taxis in order to get his troops to 1914’s First Battle of the Marne. Don’t know if that’s true, but—if it is—it’s an interesting story!)

And now that I was in Gallieni, it was time for my Parisian adventure to begin...