Vacation Time!
In August everyone flees to the beach.
I fled north. This is yesterday evening in De Panne, Belgium; a blessedly cool and windy one. I left Moulins in the morning and six train stations, two Paris metro stops, two local buses and a cute little tram later, I am experiencing one of the Low Countries for the first time. I was prepared for lots of new build junk, but not for how much I am delighted with it so far. The Belgians seem to have their own thing going, including their own private language. It is basically Dutch, but they have a different accent and common phrases, I read. I am still confused as to whether or not I should use French or English. It just depends. I am in the Flemish speaking part of Belgium, but still close to France, and both languages are official here, of course. I can now say one word in Flemish: Dag. That is “Bonjour.”
North of Paris the TGV streaked across Picardy, which was slightly rolling and steeple-dotted. At Dunkerque I started noticing what looked like Dutch words here and there. As the local bus headed toward the Belgian border the houses changed, became more square and solid, looking like that classic child’s drawing, with the wide pitch of the roof and the placement and shape of the windows. And somehow it changed in feel. The look of the people on the bus was different, also more square and solid, more light hair and eyes. As we meandered slowly down the small road that followed the big, forested dunes that front the sea, I saw truly flat farmer’s fields on the other side, sunk down lower than the road. It looked like cabbages. The trees were large, and the whole effect was so very pleasant, and impossible to capture with a photograph. Not spectacular, just delightful.
My plan is to take their coast tram, the Kusttram, the whole length of the Belgian coast today. I think it is a great idea, and prompted the whole trip. I am sufficiently traumatized by French speed limits that I am going whole-heartedly automobile-free.
I had to meet the ocean here, and as I left the boardwalk with my sandals in my hand, I discovered that Oregon does not have the finest sand after all. This sand is like silky powder, and felt so good! I braced myself as I waded into the North Sea, only to find that it was warm! Warmer than the Pacific at Santa Monica, last time I was there. Well. The Vikings came down this coast all the time. I bet it is cold in the winter, it has to be, or their reputation is ruined, the pansies.
There isn’t much Belle Époque architecture left, but the few villas I saw seemed to all have been given cute little names, usually feminine. The one on the right is called “Doudou.” It is very cute in French, and does not mean ‘doo-doo,’ though yes, technically that’s how you say it.
This one on the left is going to be ‘developed,” as a dream, I guess. Somebody spray painted “SHAME” across the bottom, in Flemish. Too little, too late, my friend.
I had dinner outside on the hotel terrace, and enjoyed the different feel of Belgian vacation land. There are no Brits nor Americans and only a few French voices in the crowd. This is just for the Belgians, and they seem to enjoy their solid lives rather quietly. Most of the Belgians my age are rather stout, but it isn’t the look of being puffed up on bad food, it looks as if they are hearty eaters, because they can afford it, and because it is cold here.
My room has a framed collection of vintage postcards above the bed. Here you go:
