20 years ago today - Day 119

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Sunday, June 30 - Luxembourg City

This is a day of rest in Luxembourg, and what a beautiful day it is! It is perfect for lying about in a park and catching up on my journal, which I do for much of the afternoon.

I never new much about Luxembourg before this visit and it has caught me surprise. What a gem of a city! I have heard it being referred to as Gibraltar north. Although it looks nothing like Gibraltar, I can now see why. It sits on a limestone plateau with a river cutting deeply through it that makes it easily defensible. It also makes the city look stunning. The river gorge is primarily parkland and is green and lush with vegetation and flowers. It has the air of the magical city of "Rivendell" from Lord of the Rings.

The city is a tremendous fortress of layered ramparts enclosing most of the central city. Within the 15 km of walls and ramparts there are many kilometres of hidden tunnels, many which have been sealed since the 19th century. Now the fortress is only a tourist attraction. There are two major bridges that span the river gorge, and I am able to get some incredible shots from their decks. All in all, it doesn't
take long to walk around the most interesting parts, perhaps an hour or two, so I do it all at a leisurely pace.

The hostel is a bustle of activity and confusion in the evenings, especially in the chaotic office. I am glad I don't work here. At dinner, I meet a couple interesting travelers. The first is Chad, a 23 year old American. He's a brush-cut, dark-haired, cute, fresh, blue-eyed guy with a quick mind. I'm attracted more by his open, questioning mind, so free of presumptuous arrogance that many young people have. He loves the new experiences that travel is bringing him. He doesn't trust American foreign policies and he seems to have a high sense of moral justice.

The other youth, Brent, is a long-haired blond, 19-year old Californian, who takes ideas more to heart than Chad. He tells me he has always felt like an outside and has a habit of challenging authority and process. He is a major in classical piano performance and also plays guitar. He likes pop performers like Elton John and Billy Joel too, for the sincerity of their work. The three of us spend the evening talking. Both boys are straight and for the first time feeling like they are part of a minority, being English-speaking here. I tell them that I have always been part of a minority because I am gay, and that leads to another hour of interesting conversation.

We end up at a local pub not far from the hostel, called the Pygmalion. There we meet two Canadians who are also staying at the hostel. Benoit is a funny, down-to-earth Quebecois. I had seen his name in the sign-in registry. He had put "Quebec" as his country and I dreaded having an argument with a separatist, but after having travel through France and endured their condescension and ridicule he is thrilled to meet another Canadian. I practice my feeble French on him and he practices his feeble English on me. The other Canadian is a Winnipegonian named Marty, who is embarrassed that he can't speak any French. The three of us cheer in the start of Canada Day at midnight, the country's 124th birthday back home.

The five of us head back to the hostel before the 1:30am curfew. I stay up with Brent and Chad talking for another hour.


PHOTO 1: Luxembourg from Montee de Claussen
PHOTO 2: looking south
PHOTO 3: one of the two bridges that span the canyon
PHOTO 4: the other bridge and the canyon walls
PHOTO 5: Luxembourg Gardens
PHOTO 6: Luxembourg Lane and ramparts
PHOTO 7: my room in the youth hostel

20 years ago today - Day 118

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Saturday, June 29th - Wiltz to Luxembourg City, 6030 km

The two Dutch boys are heading north today, continuing on their way home. While we preparing our bikes outside the hostel, I explain the benefits of using panniers instead of a backpack. I let them ride my loaded bike to get a feel for it. A loaded bike feels quite strange at first, but it is much better than having the weight of your belongings bouncing on you back all day and getting them soaked with sweat. With the weight lower, the bike is much more stable too. The boys say they'll use panniers the next time but they are fine with backpacks too.

I choose the longest possible route to the city of Luxembourg, first heading north to the town of Clervaux. Oesling is largely a raised plateau where the rivers have carved deep, winding paths. I keep to the higher ground because the routes are more direct. I stop to take a few pictures of Clervaux from the hills above. I have come to see the white castle with a slate roof nestled in the valley beside the
town. It lives up to the pictures in the guide book, but not worth a closer look as I don’t have time to tour it and don’t want to drop into the town and climb out again.

From there, I swing east to the Our River (German for ‘bear’) that forms the border with Germany. An early morning sprinkle of rain made my plans seem tenuous, but by the time I reach the Ours the day is quite pleasant. I follow its twisty, serpentine path south to the beautiful town of Vianden, which is crowned by a large, brown castle. The town is touristy. I glide across the river to the German side for a large stack of junk food for lunch.

Back on the Luxembourg side, the road climbs and falls at every bend of the river. For 15 km south of Vianden, the road is quite hilly. From there, a bike path hugs the river bank below the road all the way to the Mosel River, but I only go as far as the town of Echternach. There is no signage on the bike path but I see a major bridge over the Our carrying transport trucks, which according to my map means I have just passed the town.

I ride back to Echternach. The town is walled and fairly interesting. The main square is with a picture or two. I ride west up the Gothic-looking Gorge du Loup (Wolf Gorge), a small sculptured canyon carved through a limestone escarpment. It is magical. The rocks and trees are covered in moss, and the looming cliffs give it a haunting, Celtic feel – very spiritual. The dense forest makes it hard to catch the feel of the canyon on film.

Finally on top of the escarpment, the forest thins and I course a route through a series of small villages, farms and woodlots. A local cyclist catches up to me and we have a half-hour conversation in French. He is taken aback by not finding his village of a thousand people on my map. When I leave him, I follow a beautiful road that plunges down through a thick forest and emerges with a national highway at the bottom of the valley, that takes me the last 10 km into the city of Luxembourg.

Getting established in town isn’t as easy as I had hoped. There are plenty of sign outside the town centre pointing the way to the tourist information office, but none in the centre. I spend half an hour searching for it. When I find it I am told the hostel is full. I call them anyway to see if they can suggest any cheap hotels, but they are not very cooperative. After I express my frustrations that they will not accept same-day phone reservations, they change their tune and offer me a room. I am humbled and rush over to the hostel thinking they have gone out of their way to help me, but when I learn of the general chaos, the total lack of helpfulness and other types of mismanagement over the course of the evening that feeling disappears. In fact the bunk bed below me is never filled although many travelers have been turned away.

I befriend a 23-year old German boy, shy and likely gay, whose name is Josef. We walk around town and settle in for a beer in a local pub. We both seem to sense a special interest in each other, but his body language says he is way too reserved so I respect his space. We walk back to the youth hostel along the darkened upper ramparts and make our way to our separate beds.

It has been a wonderful day, one of the best of my trip so far. Luxembourg is 80 km from north to south and 50 km from east to west. It is great little country. I have cycled farther today within its boundaries than its height and width combined and have enjoyed every bit of it.


PHOTO 1: leaving Wiltz
PHOTO 2: Clervaux
PHOTO 3: bike path on Ours Rivers
PHOTO 4: Vianden Castle
PHOTO 5: Ours River
PHOTO 6: fortifications at Echternach
PHOTO 7: le Gorge du Loup
PHOTO 8: the beautiful road that plunges down
PHOTO 9: palace of the Grand Dukes of Luxembourg
PHOTO 10: Luxembourg, from top of the canyon

20 years ago today - Day 117

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Friday, June 28th - Hans-sur-Lesse to Wiltz, Luxembourg, 5893 km

The rain has finally stopped. I am set to leave by 8am, but the hotel manager is in a friendly mood and wants to show me his collection of paper monies from around the world. I think he has chosen a strange time to show it to me, until it occurs to me that he doesn't have any Canadian paper money. I offer to send him some old Canadian paper money when I get home and he gushes with gratitude.

I am making good time because the wind is behind me. I love the rolling hills of the Ardennes. My route takes me through the town of Rochefort where the beer I've been drinking is made. I try to get 50 km behind me before noon but my slow leak becomes faster. At 29 km I stop and change the tube. I have gone 5800 km before my first official flat. I ruin when the first tube when the pump sticks and accidentally snaps off the head of the valve. I am extra careful with my last spare tube and it holds well.

I pass through Roche-en-Ardennes, a beautiful town that follows an oxbow bend in the Ourthe River. The ruins of an old chateau are visible on the hill. I stop for a light meal at a street market but there are dark threatening clouds moving in. I set off again as fast as I can and manage to outrun most of the rain that I see falling behind me. By the time I reach Houffalize, the last town before the Luxembourg border, the sun breaks through the clouds.

Crossing the border issues in a new world of sunshine. It has been raining most days since I left France but now that seems to be behind me for a while. The countryside is beautiful and my spirits are high. I stop wherever I can to take photos. This northern third of the country is called Oesling and it is part of the Ardennes. Like the rest of the Ardennes it is rolling, half-forested and sparsely-populated. Wiltz is the only town in Oesling over 4,000 people, according to my guide.

I reach the youth hostel in Wiltz by 4pm. It's not open yet but I drop off my bags outside the door and set off on a 50 km unloaded ride along the snaky Sure River south of the town. I pass several scenic villages and by a famous ruined chateau that is being rebuilt. I return to the youth hostel at 8 pm and check in.

Two Dutch teens, 15 and 17, are the only other guests and they share my dorm. They are fascinated by my trip. They are doing a week-long cycling tour of their own, but carrying all their belongings in backpacks instead of panniers. The oldest has just had an argument with the matron manager who he claims wouldn't make them a dinner they had pre-arranged. It's a standoff. He says she lied about the reason why, but she is very nice to me and lets me stay beyond the curfew to eat a proper meal. When I return to the dorm the two kids chat with me until well past midnight. They really are nice kids. They have come up from the south and they are sure the Luxembourg hostel will be full on a Saturday. The hostel will not take reservations, even same day, so I will have to take my chances.

I am proud of how much I have accomplished today and excited about exploring this little country. I covered 162 km today, and Luxembourg is my eighth country.


PHOTO 1: Rochefort
PHOTO 2: la Roches en Ardennes
PHOTO 3: bend in the river at Roches
PHOTO 4: the Ourthe River
PHOTO 5: WWII tank in Houffalize
PHOTO 6: farm near Luxembourg border
PHOTO 7: town of Wiltz, Luxembourg

20 years ago today – Day 116

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Thursday, June 27th – Hans-sur-Less

I wake to the sound of rain hitting the window. Last night's storm is still going strong. I check in with myself. I don't have a hangover, or not much of one. I am feeling sluggish and a bit groggy. I look out the window from the second floor and groan at the sheets of rain blowing by. Squeals and giggles from the school children greet my ears. They are irrepressibly happy because they are on their way to see the caves a few hundred metres away - their hot pink, purple, yellow and lime green raincoats reflecting in the sea of puddles on the road, like a spilled basket of animated Easter eggs. I imagine their chaperones trying to stop them from 'sword fighting' with stalactites they have just broken off.


My plan for today was to see the caves early, and then make a 70 km ride south to Boutillon near the French border. The town has been recommended to me several times. It has a large castle perched on a ridge above the town, many medieval buildings and a remarkable youth hostel in one of them. Going there would mean a longer, harder ride to get to Luxembourg but it sounds like it might be worth it. But one look at this heavy rain tells me it wouldn't be. I decide to sit tight in Hans-sur-Lesse today.

I don't see either Angus or Maggie at breakfast. I try to imagine them rolling around in their wedding bed with their own mild hangovers, or perhaps they too are down in the caves or off on some other sight-seeing trip in the rain. There is no reason to hang around longer in the hotel after I have paid for another night. I head off to the caves, hoping that the school kids have finished their tour. I purchase my expensive admission ticket for 245 Belgian francs and I'm directed to the cave entrance to wait for the next tour. It is more crowded that I have expected, and there are way too many unruly, squealing children in the horde. I return to the hotel to do my laundry and repair the brakes on my bike.

I come back for the next tour an hour later. It is not as crowded and there are fewer children. A train takes the group half a kilometre into the caves and from there we break into smaller groups. My group is made up of Poles, Germans and English-speaking visitors, but our tour guide is French. His guidance is formal and systematic. He is giving us the standard spiel about the discovery of the caves and how caves, stalactites and stalagmites are formed. Most of the group has no idea what he is saying. He has no repore with the group, doesn't ask us questions or even wait until we are all gathered in the next place before continuing his descriptions. I can decipher half of what he is saying but can't be bothered with his disinterested prattle. I hover several meters behind the group to enjoy the beauty of the caves without the crowd. The Poles are a group of high school students. The boys show their affection for each other by hanging off their friends' shoulders, putting their arms around each other and giving neck massages. Their closeness is beautiful in contrast to the aloofness of the tour guide.

When we emerge there are a dozen busloads of excited school children in brightly coloured clothing waiting, some queued up and others running, screaming, laughing and generally making quite a racket. A teacher tells me that this is the last week of school and school trips are popular since the children won't focus on school work anyway. The buses are filled with seniors who regard the children cautiously. I am the only solitary visitor.

It is still pouring and there are no other worthy attractions in the village. I spend the rest of the afternoon writing, reading and studying my maps. I make plans for tomorrow to head north-east with the prevailing wind, through Roches-en-Ardennes and Houffalize to reach the north end of Luxembourg. There is a youth hostel in the town of Wiltz and from there, if I arrive early enough, I will be able to do a brief unloaded tour in the surrounding areas once I drop off my bags.

It's a quiet evening due to the rain. I have dinner at the hotel with Angus and Maggie, and Emile, a Belgian sculptor working on a statue here in town. None of us are in the mood to get drunk again tonight but we have and great chat and lots of laughs. I get to bed at a decent hour.


PHOTO 1: the chateau, Hans-sur-Lesse
PHOTO 2: church in Hans-sur-Lesse
PHOTO 3: the village of Hans-sur-Lesse
PHOTO 4: the caves
PHOTO 5: more caves

20 years ago today - Day 115

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Wednesday, June 26th - Brussels to Hans-sur-Lesse, 5731 km

I am leaving today, heading for Dinant on the French/Belgian border, my next stop on my way to Luxembourg. I am up early to get ready. I give Francis a hug before I go. He receives it gratefully. It doesn't appear our paths will cross anytime soon so I try not to hang onto my disappointment.

There is no point waiting for Nimi because she doesn't need to leave until 10, long after I should be gone. There are two women sharing the living room, one a friendly older woman Nimi's age, who tries to engage Nimi in conversation, but she will have nothing to do with intruders in her kitchen. I witness her coldness when I come in to say goodbye to Joe. He insists, as I could have expected, to draw me a map of how to get through Brussels. I have already chosen a simple route but I am polite about his efforts to help me. I set my coat on the counter and Nimi has a royal fit over that, screaming and bemoaning how no one respects her. No wonder.

I am following tram tracks that lead into the centre of town. A middle-aged woman on a one-speed passes me and, while looking around her, her rear wheel slips into the groove of the tram track. It throws her off-balance and onto the cobblestone surface of the street right in front of me. It is a bad fall. She scrapes her leg, arm and face and sprains her left wrist. A bystanders and I help her to the curb. I keep her company while the bystander phoned the doctor on her medical card. I don't mind waiting with her. It is pleasant morning with hazy sunshine and I trust I will get to where I need to be by the end of the day.
She is incredibly warm and kind, even in her condition. She asks me several questions about my trip. She is embarrassed of course, feeling like a fool although it could have happened to anyone. At first she is grateful for my concern and assistance, but as time passes she insists she doesn't need me to wait with her anymore. Before I leave, another bystander offers to drive her to a hospital for x-rays.

I get lost in the centre of the city looking for a place to change money. Then my rear tire keeps losing air and my pump stops working. I find a bike shop and buy a cheap plastic pump that works quite well. I pick up where I left off, following narrow streets with tram tracks that lead out of the centre, but then I get lost again in parkland south of the city. It seems this day is determined to confound me, but my good mood seems irrepressible. Cycling alone, especially when the rain stops, seems to work for me.

I find my way back to N4, a side road that lead south-east to the town of Namur. I am beyond the Flemish part of Belgium where the bicycle sidewalks are. This part of Belgium, the south-east, is the French half known as Wallonia. Brussels is the dividing line.

Namur is a pleasant looking town. I stop for ice cream at a convenience store and chat with a young local man working there about my trip. It is 4pm. From there the route meanders along the Meuse River. It is a beautiful, pleasant ride. I stop for a meal later, which delays my arrival in Dinant until 6pm.

Dinant is a small but beautiful town, arranged in a long row at the base of a steep escarpment along the river. Past Dinant, the road turns east and climbs slowly for a long time. I am entering a hilly region called Les Ardennes, where the final Nazi surge, the Battle of the Bulge, happened in 1944. I count six big hills before I reach Hans-sur-Lesse at 8pm.

It is already dark and spitting the odd drop of rain. It is a great relief to be here. The big attraction in this village is the largest array of underground caves in Belgium. I find a small hotel managed by a friendly couple. A huge troop of children occupy the ground floor but my bed is thankfully on the second floor.

Once I settle in and have a meal in the pizzeria, I find myself in the only pub in town, sharing 12% Rochefort beers with Maggie and Angus, a Scottish couple here on their honeymoon and staying in the same hotel. Maggie is a cool redhead, full of giggles and irony. Angus is a bit of a joker, and easy to converse and laugh with. I feel a little strange sitting with them on their wedding night, but they insist. They are really great fun and they make me laugh a lot. The Rochefort is deadly strong and I have three of them.

After the second beer I am really feeling it. Maggie decides she has to hit the sack and I feel I should too, but Angus wants me to stay with him for another drink. “Don’t you want to be with Maggie?” I ask, feeling weird about the situation again. “Oh Hell, we have the rest of our life for that!” he jokes, and Maggie doesn’t seem to mind. “We’ve been living together for five years anyway,” he explains. It’s raining heavily now so I decide it’s probably best to wait a while anyway and hope it will stop, even if the pension is only 150m away. I stay for another beer.

I guess the other reason I hesitate is because Angus is very sexy and affectionate when he is drunk and I don’t trust myself with him. I have always had the unfortunate ability to remember everything I do when I am drunk, even up to the point I pass out, but being able to remember doesn’t prevent me from making a fool of myself. I don’t pass out, but by the time the third Rochefort takes its toll I couldn’t do anything bad if I tried. Angus throws his rain cape over the both of us and keeps his arm around me as we struggle back to the hostel through the download. His arm is there for his support as much as mine. Back safely on the second floor of our pension he pats my shoulder and shakes my hand as he bids me goodnight. I bravely resist planting a bit wet one on his lips. The room won’t stop spinning as I lay in my bed.


PHOTO 1: leaving Brussels
PHOTO 2: in Namur
PHOTO 3: Namur Castle
PHOTO 4: Dinant
PHOTO 5: Lesse River valley

20 years ago today – Day 114

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Tuesday, June 25th – a second day in Brussels

We are up late this morning, partially because we are tired from our late night antics and in part because Joe has asked us to lay low until Nimi clears out. Once she's off to work, Joe makes us a generous breakfast of an egg and processed cheese on a bun, bread, butter, jam, a slice of meat and loads of coffee.

While I eat with Francis and Hans, my roommates, Joe tells us stories from his interesting past. He was an excellent swimmer and all-round athlete in his heyday. His present physique probably bears no resemblance to his earlier self, but he still cocky, confident air of a man used to winning. He reminds me of team captains who have motivating and confidence-building skills. He once swam the English Channel to support a friend who wanted to do it but lacked confidence. He says he would never do it again if he could, because of all the misery the currents and cramps caused him. He swam in the nude to avoid the serious chaffing wool trunks gave swimmers in those days. A reporter caught a glimpse of him as he finished and caused a bit of a scandal when he wrote an article questioning Joe's motives for doing so. Joe was in the army at the time and his captain tried to cause trouble for him because the Roman Catholic Church at the time strongly objected to nudity for any reason.

Another story he tells is about a circus performer who was part of a family circus act who had to enlist to do his required service in the army. His family had he be allowed to keep his skills honed and the army agreed. Joe was assigned to find a rehearsal space and his family offered to give a performance for his army regiment. Unbeknownst to the others in his regiment, Joe began to practice with them and became part of the act. When he appeared in a trapeze outfit at the show, his colleagues thought it was a joke and laughed. But when he climbed the tower and began to perform from a circling 'airplane' several people almost panicked, thinking he had lost his mind and was bound to fall. Joe spent several minutes looking for those pictures.

A third story he tells us is about his days as a competitive swimmer, when his coach gave his team an energy concoction that gave the guys erections most of the time. It is like some gay fantasy but it became a standard joke on the team. I imagine they had lots of fans watching them train. They trained in a shallow river, which during the dry season was so shallow that he often scraped his knees on the rocks. When he complained about this, his coach asked why he didn't practice his backstroke at the shallowest points. He joked that he was afraid that with his erection he might not make it under the bridges.


We all enjoy his stories but they make our start on the day quite late. Francis, the lanky French Canadian who was whacking off with me last night, wants to join me for a movie at the world's largest I-Max cinema. I want to tour downtown again first. Joe gives us extremely detailed instructions for both the tour and the directions to the I-Max. Frances and I set out in separate directions.

While photographing the Grand Square, I run into two sweet young blond boys, Tom and Ashley, second year college students from Kansas City. They are reading a "Let's Go Guide" and wondering how to kill their last two hours before catching a train to Ghent. I approach them and engage them in conversation. I take them to the Mannequin Pis and the Pissing Girl statuettes, and then we go to a sidewalk pub to share beers. They seem quite informed for Americans. They know Brussels is expanding as the capital for the new EU but they want to know if Belgium is democratic or "socialist", which they define as having to give 50% or more of one's earnings in taxes, without any consideration for how the taxes are spent. They say that bureaucracy itself confounds democracy. I tell them most democratic
countries in the developed world require 50% of people's earnings to maintain a safe and supportive society. I can cycle from city to city throughout Europe with my only concern being the amount of traffic on the routes I choose, but I could not do the same trip in the US because certain areas of the cities, abandoned to disrepair, are too dangerous to enter. I explain that this form of economic apartheid is also a major barrier to democracy. They soak in my insights with deep seriousness, nodding at each point I make. They are so cute that I want to keep them at pets.

I ask how they like Belgian beer but to my astonishment they have no idea that Belgium makes beer. They have been drinking American Budweiser since they arrived. I order a blond Chimay, an amber Duffel and a dark Rochefort for them to taste, and they really enjoy the tasting exercise. I suddenly realize I must hurry to catch Francis at the I-Max. The bus Joe directed me to takes longer than I expected and after waiting an hour and
after asking around, I find than in his efforts to provide itineraries for all six guests, Joe gave me the wrong instructions. I am late by 10 minutes when I finally reach the I-Max and everyone has gone in.

I am profoundly disappointed as I really want to hang out with Francis, now that there is a sexual connection between us. He is quite handsome too, but his willingness is the big turn on. I imagined us pressing our knees together in the I-Max as we sit side-by-side. When I return to Joe's home, he tells me that Francis had not called.

I go to the sports centre cafeteria to have another cheap spaghetti dinner. Francis returns to Joe's shortly after I get back from dinner. He startles me by tapping on the bedroom window and I let him in through the garage. We commiserate about missing each other and hang out together the rest of the evening, too shy to let on that there is anything between us other than normal platonic friendship. Hans has left and that night we are the only two in the room. Perfect I think, but I decide to wait a few minutes before trying to start something. But as I am feeling brave enough to suggest fooling around, footsteps come down the stairs and Joe ushers in an American man he has scraped off the streets at midnight. I am thoroughly missed off with Joe over how the day has turned out.


PHOTO 1: St Michael's Cathedral
PHOTO 2: Grand Square at the centre of Brussels
PHOTO 3: a pissoir in Brussels
PHOTO 4: La Bourse
PHOTO 5: another fun statue here
PHOTO 6: Le Cinquantaire, Jubelparc
PHOTO 7: yet another crazy statue
PHOTO 8: not a cruisy washroom

20 years ago today - Day 113

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Monday, June 24th – Ghent to Brussels, 5577 km

I have adopted the lifestyle of thespians, sleeping in to 10 or 11 in the morning and partying at night, but it is time to move on to Brussels today. I am not up and packed until noon so it is fortunate that Brussels is only 50 km away. The goodbyes in the Bottin household are as casual as the housekeeping. JP and Thierry are out the door before I am. I leave the keys with Sebastien, who is content to lounge around the apartment all day.

The route N9 follows a fairly straight line through the town of Aalst and then on to Brussels. All goes smoothly. The weather is broken sun and cloud and there is only a light cross breeze. There is no remarkable scenery along the way. Eight kilometres from the centre of Brussels I am flagged down by an overweight, middle-aged fellow standing beside a white station wagon. He makes note of the Canadian flag sewn onto my bags as he asks if I speak English. Yes, I reply, and he asks if I am looking for a hostel. I am headed to the international youth hostel, I tell him. He says he suspects it is full but he has room in his home which he uses as a hostel. He leads me to a phone booth so I can call the IYH. They confirm that the hostel is full, and that this fellow, Joe Mauwz, has worked for them in the past.

Joe has eight beds in his home to help out young travelers - I happily to still qualify as 'young'. I meet his wife Mimi, who is as dour as Joe is enthusiastic. Her mood wavers between disinterest and hostility as she eyes me suspiciously, like I might try to steal her silverware. She doesn't like the idea of using her home as a hostel.

Joe shows me to my room, which has three beds in it. I am the only guest at the moment. I shower and change and Joe drives me downtown to begin a tour of the centre. He plots the tour out on a map, which I buy from him for 20 Belgian francs. On the way downtown, he points out many new development projects being built to accommodate expansion of the EU Parliament. The city has a modern look that is atypical of most historic cities. Apparently, many historic building have been demolished to make room for this modernization, a process now known as "Brusselization", according to Joe.

Still, as someone who has been working with the City of Toronto Planning Department for nine years, I am interested in modern architecture and Brussels' new developments feel more integrated than Toronto's. I follow Joe's map to the cathedral and the Grand Square at the city's centre. Brussels' most famous attraction is the Mannequin Pis, also known as the Peeing Boy. The statue is quite small, the size of a small child. It has a pipe up its ass the feeds the water flow out its cock. There is a similar-sized statue of a pissing girl a couple blocks away, squatting at the end of a passageway by a mall.

It is raining hard today. In spite of the orange rain cape Joe lent me, my shoes and hair are soaking wet. Joe arranged to meet me at the youth hostel after 5, and he gives me a ride back to his place, and then takes me to a local sports hall where we share a cheap meal in the cafeteria. He buys me a beer, which he doesn't need to do. He loves young people, having been a sports coach for a swim team for years. This seems to cause a lot of discord between him and his wife. He doesn't want to talk about it.

Back at his home, I read and then go to bed around 11. I am woken an hour or two later when he returns with two new guests to fill up the empty beds in my room. One is a young German man and the other is a Quebecois. They drop off their bags and go out for a drink. They return around 2:30 and undress quietly in the dark. I am a light sleeper and I wake to watch them undress. Their silhouettes show that that they are young and attractive but I roll over and go back to sleep.

I wake again around 5am. It is still dark. The German lad is soundly asleep by the sound of his breathing. The Quebecois is more restless and stirring in his bed. I clue in to the sound of him stoking himself off ever so quietly, sound that gets my blood pounding. I return the favour, making just enough noise to be heard if he is awake. He stops, I suppose to listen to me, and when I pause he starts again. This goes of for half an hour until I come, again making enough noise to make it clear what is happening. When I finish, he starts pounding his meat with much less concern about being heard, until he comes in a flourish of hot-sounding spasms. The German is still sound asleep, but my mind is racing. The Quebecois boy wanted me to hear him come, and now I can hardly wait until morning to see how he responds when I try to chat him up.


PHOTO 1: bike path near Aalst
PHOTO 2: Sacred Heart Cathedral
PHOTO 3: Manneken Pis
PHOTO 4: the Pissing Girl

20 years ago today – Day 112

Sunday, June 23rd – Ghent

The Bottin household is comatose this morning. I am in bed with Jean-Philippe: he looks a bit scary when he is sleeping. He respected me last night and stayed on his half of the bed. Sebastien in on the floor beside me and Thierry is on the floor beside JP. Getting out of bed without disturbing them isn't easy, but I can't stay in bed all morning like they can. I shower, dress, do the dishes and then slip out the door to get some fresh air.

I buy some yogurt and two bottles of wine at the corner store, one for JP and one for Monique and Guy. I walk along one of the beautiful canals, before I return. Ghent is full of canals, like Brugge, and the buildings are more stately and elegant. What a gem of a city!

When I return the rest of the household is up. We share a continental breakfast with coffee and rolls but Thierry leaves to practice his lines. Sebastien has chores to do too, so JP and I wander around the old town. JP is French. He fell in love with the city and made increasingly frequent visits to it over ten years before moving here at the start of the year. It's all still new and exciting to him. He tells me all he knows about the history of the town, about abandoned buildings, statues, fish and meat markets and the ancient, massive "Mad Mag" cannon that has never been fired. From the 11th to until the 13th century, it was the second largest city in Europe after Paris. Now it only has 230,000 people.

JP takes me to the chapel of Saint Bavo Cathedral to see the Adoration of the Mystic Lamb by Hubert and Jan van Eyck. He tells me it is one of the greatest masterpieces in the world. I had seen pictures of it before but never knew its name or where it resided. It’s a polyptych panel painting of remarkable skill. I stare at its symbolic details for an hour without seeing any brush stokes. It is disturbingly Christian, but I suppose all of Europe was at that time.

My next lesson is about Belgian beer. JP takes me to a pub for another one of his liquid meals. He tells me there are over 500 types of beer manufactured in Belgium, including beers made with an infusion of cherry or strawberry juices or wine added. There are also lambic beers made in open vats in the attics of houses with old slate roofs. Belgians will try anything. Their beers are generally categorized as blonds, ambers or dark. There is even a beer served for in a special tall glass for horse-drawn carriage drivers, designed to fit into a slot on top of the carriage so the drivers can drink and drive. It is said to be especially bad luck to break this type of glass so when someone orders it a bell is rung and they must surrender one of their shoes, which gets hoisted in a basket by rope and pulley to the ceiling. If they break the glass they do not get their shoe back. An elegant young woman orders one while we are there

JP and I return to his home at the end of the afternoon. He leaves at 6 for an evening rehearsal and Sebastien is napping. At 10, Guy and Monique are back home so I bring up their bottle of wine and have a visit with them. I cut it short at 11 so I can wake up Sebastien and drag his ass down to the Vooruit to meet JP and Thierry at the end of their rehearsal. We share a couple quick beers with them and then the four of us search for a place to eat. This isn't so easy as most kitchens are closed by midnight. We eventually find a Greek restaurant and have a rather large meal for so late at night. It is past 2am before we get back to JP's.


PHOTO 1: Gravensteen Castle
PHOTO 2: Ghent Theatre, JP's favourite building
PHOTO 3: Adoration of the Mystic Lamb
PHOTO 4: Mad Mag, the unfired cannon