August 11, 1984 - Day 11
LONDON - FRANCE - BELGIUM
London - Ramsgate - Dunkirk, France : en route
One of the trivia bits I read in some magazine said that the phone number of the Buckingham Palace switchboard was actually listed in the phone book! So, just to verify with my own eyes that it was so, I opened up the phone book on the dresser table and there it was! I took it down in my travel journal notebook, and then set about the process of checking out of our Royal National home.
We left a bag with various assorted London purchases at the concierge's desk, for pick up upon our arrival at the end of the tour. The first people we made acquaintance with were the Fil-Ams from San Diego. Gene N. stuck these San Diego carnation stickers on Ma and I, and introduced us to his group. Jun G. was hoping to find a power pack for his video camera, which was running low on battery power. Nice folk, if a bit full of the bonhomie.
We were scheduled to arrive in Brussels via Dunkirk, on the Channel ferry from Ramsgate. The bus going to Ramsgate had one of the worst PA systems imaginable, and our poor Tour Manager had troubles unending trying to get his voice to be heard through to the back of the bus.
The route from London went through the lovely countryside of Kent, which made up for the noise and general commotion in the bus. We got ourselves loaded onto the ferry with very little fuss, and ended up sitting with Jun and his wife Carmen, more or less. That's because it was a somewhat choppy ride, and I was starting to feel queasy until I learned it was better to walk around on deck instead of sit and watch the dipping of the horizon outside the windows.
I would have gone topside, but then I learned that there were on board slot machines and duty-free shopping. I changed over our leftover pounds into dollars, which were endorsed to Ma. With the 60p left in my hand, I went over to the slot machines, where I won a two-pound jackpot that was spent on a t-shirt and cologne.
When we arrived at Dunkirk, there was no one manning the customs/immigration desks, so Ma and I sailed on through. This, I discovered, entitles us to one extra entry into France, which will come in handy, as the travel agency has only given us a double-entry visa instead of a multiple-entry one. We are fortunate!
Dunkirk, France - Brussels, Belgium
The bus into which we were bundled for the Continental portion of our tour had a good PA system. Light-years away from the other bus, which is a mercy for our Tour Manager. We were finally able to decipher that his name is Earl Younger - an *extremely* good-looking person, he is — most definitely spoken for. After taking care of the "administrative details", he showed that he knows how to take a catnap on the bus; he put his fee up on his briefcase, and was off like a light!
It was raining by the time we arrived at Belgian border, giving me thoughts of espionage movies and border crossings. We had a driver substitution, as Martin's back problems had flared up. He was replaced by Bart Wildenbergh, who will be with us until we get back to Dunkirk again. The rain softened to a slow misting throughout our 2.5 hour drive from the border to the city of Brussels, and it was under overcast skies that I had my first view of the city.
Brussels : Hotel Bedford
Bart guided the bus down old cobblestone streets to the front of the hotel, where Earl checked us in and distributed our room keys so we could freshen up before our walking tour to the Grand Place. After gathering us in the lobby, Earl set off on a route that passed at least half a dozen lace shops on the way, filled with examples of the world-famous Flemish lace. Our last stop was at the Manniken Pis statue (the little boy who peed to put out a beginning fire at the city wall and thus saved the city), and from there, Earl said we could make our own way back to the hotel.
Taking our time, we walked towards the Grand Place, and found a mysterious plaque on the wall of a shop or pub just off the main square, on the lower corner, leading to the street of the Manniken Pis. It showed a reclining man embossed into the brass, with a Latin inscription at the bottom of the plaque indicating a patriot or martyr. We noticed that people passing by would pass their hands over it as if it were a religious icon -- the plaque is very well-rubbed, almost hard to see figure, and the inscription is blurred as well.
In the middle of the Grand Place, a stage was set up for a presentation of modern ballet, and a friendly policeman told us the show began at nine p.m. What a great pity we had to leave the city early the next morning, it would have been nice to see an open-air performance. Instead, I thanked the policeman in halting French and got him to smile and answer back -- in French, as well!
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