First Trip Out of the Netherlands

Luxembourg

This past weekend I didn’t really have any plans, so when fellow IBA-er Juuso suggested a trip to Luxembourg—I thought why not?

Luxembourg is a tiny, tiny, tiny country (out of 194 independent countries on this rock we call earth, it is lucky number 175) nestled between France, Belgium and Germany. And unlike any other country—it’s ruled by a Grand Duke (oh and a parliament, but still they have a duke!) Their flag looks exactly like the Dutch, except that they use a slightly lighter blue. Its diminutive size was even more obvious during our train ride over to Luxembourg City (in southern Luxembourg) since the country is only 51-miles/82 km long!

The only reason you might even know this country exists, is probably due to the Jeopardy fun fact that it is the “richest” country in the world (Highest GDP per capita). Another million-dollar game show fact is that it has the highest number of cars per 1000 people at 650, and I thought America was over saturated with cars.

Luxembourg City

Lastly, Luxembourg City houses a few EU institutions such as the European Court of Justice, the secretariat of the European Parliament, the European Court of Auditors and the European Investment Bank.

I didn’t hold much of any expectations for this country or its capital city and well, I was right. Luxembourg City is a pleasant town, a fortress city with three primary rings. All medieval. These protecting casemates were quite intriguing and an obvious architectural achievement. Please see pictures to appreciate. Now, I do not want to lessen the awe of these massive walls that were built to protect the city from invaders starting in 963, it’s just that other than the Petrusse and Bock Casemates, and the loads of money—there’s not much else to this little town.

Casemates

Just so you too can appreciate that amazingness of Luxembourg City’s defenses here are some facts to blow your mind:

The natives started building their walls in 963

Dismantled most of them in 1867 for a treaty, sealing them off—for a bit

By 1685 the walls were raised to 27 meters high in various areas

Building engineers ranged from the Burgundians, Spaniards, French, Austrians and Germans

Often called “Gibraltar of the North” :

24 forts

23 km worth of network casemates

Sheltered thousands of soldiers and their horses

Had workshops, kitchens, bakeries, slaughterhouses and the like

Only 17 km remain since much was destroyed during the dismantling

Staircases penetrate the rock up to 40 meters

Housed 35,000 people during the world wars

Overall incredible

Not in Holland Anymore

While out and about in the city, our group decided to stop at a café and enjoy some live music. It was blaringly obvious that we were no longer in the friendly land of the Dutch. One of my traveling companions, Aditi, and I were the only ones with any French-language familiarity—rusty at that, and when it came time to ordering—wow, we could feel the cold French influence.

Here’s the thing. Within our group we had well over 10 languages, just so happened that our French—well—sucked. Our waitress raising her voice, loudly, sighing and flapping her arms around, did not help. When in the US speaking loudly in English doesn’t help a foreigner—same goes for French in Luxembourg. Guess they didn’t get the memo.

Oh well.

Hostel

Quick note on our hostel. NICEST PLACE EVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Rivaled hotel rooms I’ve stayed in. Private bathrooms and severely corporate and only 20 euros!

Let Life Happen

The morning of our departure, the boys, of course, slept in and missed breakfast at the hostel. The agenda for that day was to hop on a train north, see some breathtaking castle, come back to Luxembourg City, hang out and go home on our train with a layover in Brussels. Juuso, Hugo and Mikali all wanted to eat before leaving and were to shuttle over to the train station. Hans, Aditi and I, already had breakfast and were ok with walking to the train station getting some more sight seeing before we took off for another hour and half ride.

“We’ll meet each other at the station!” we said.

I got distracted. (And it wasn’t something shiny!)

We were walking by the casemates and I wanted to see if we could get inside. We could. And we did. And now you all have brilliant knowledge about them, so you’re welcome.

Despite the fabulous new knowledge I gained with my little detour, it did take about an hour and half more than I thought it would. Upon our arrival to the train station—the boys were nowhere to be found…plus their phones weren’t working.

We waited. We waited some more. Then Aditi had a miraculous idea. We had to make a transfer in Brussels, so why not go there now and spend a few hours before heading home?

Thunderous YES!

So we went to Brussels. It was rainy and smidge of a visit, thus another is in order and soon! However, as good tourists we had their fries (same as the Dutch); struck up conversations with random fellow tourists who gave us their specks of traveling wisdom (Vitalik everyone says we must go to Praha); had a waffle and walked around.

Tangent:

Waffles. Belgium is obviously world renowned for their waffles and Sasha they aren’t like your favorite frozen Ego kind, you would like these much, much, much more ; ) .

There are two types of waffles in Belgium the Brussels kind and the De Lieges. Brussels waffles are flat and rectangular in shape. They are light, airy and similar to the “fancy” Belgium waffles at home. De Lieges ones, on the other hand, are smaller, sweeter and denser. They have a beautiful crunchy caramelized-sugar crust. Both waffles are usually topped off with an array of powered sugar, whipped cream, chocolate sauce, fruit and gelato! My first Belgium waffle in Belgium was a sweet De Lieges with delicate almond gelato. It was love at first bite.

Ok, so back to my story. Detour was great and we were getting on the train to Rotterdam. We thought we would miss the 20:19, yet for some unknown reason to us—it was delayed ten minutes. It arrived; we caught it. We clamored into our roomy seats in the last car and when the conductor came by, we asked if this Amsterdam train would indeed stop in Rotterdam.

The reply, “We’ll see. Maybe. Ask me later.” Huh? Alright, we thought, all would turn out well. It usually does.

All overhead announcements were reported in French and Dutch. Thankfully, we had Hans with us (he speaks Dutch), because my French can only do so much. (PS. Shout out to Danielle and Emily back home for speaking French around me, though I really need to review my French books to recall all that vocab, still helped) Then, at painfully slow speed we found out that something was wrong with the track at the Belgium/Netherlands border. Trains must be switched. We finally stopped at some unknown village in Belgium and were told (in foreign languages) that we needed to get off the train and go…? It was a bit too much to let us know that part. We popped onto the platform and observed two herds: One cascading down the stairs to…? and the other jumping to the train across the platform. We hear a yell, “The train’s for Amsterdam!” and think ok, we just need to get to the Netherlands and jump on. A guy who was sitting near us on the original train was also on this one, and kindly told us—aren’t you heading to the Netherlands, why yes, yes we are, get off, this train is Belgium bound. And a quick thanks over our shoulder.

Back on the platform.

We spy a rare sighting of a conductor and are heading down the stairs. In what we can catch, there’s been an accident on the tracks at the border. Trains can’t get into the Netherlands. Aditi is halfway down the stairwell, when Hans shouts to come back and get on the train. The conductors are viciously waving their arms, directing the massive crowd back onto the sweaty train. We obey. Hans caught that a car drove onto the tracks causing a train to collide right into it. We were to head over to Antwerp, wait half an hour on board, after which we would be stuffed into buses, transported to the nearest Dutch city and its respective station, where we could catch a train home!

Sigh.

Standing in the back compartment of the train, we shared our knowledge to fellow confused passengers in English. After a few minutes the overhead said the same thing—just in French and Dutch. Some time passed and someone realized English would be a nice language to throw in too, so they did.

Antwerp, we arrived, waited. Overhead came on: “To the buses!”

It should be noted that Antwerp’s train station is a magnificent feat. There are multiple levels at which trains can arrive and depart—amazing!

Back to the story. Now, hundreds of tired people were heaving their way up to the third or fourth level (I don’t remember which one) on escalators to our awaiting buses. But since Hans, Aditi and I are young and all, we took the stairs and beat some of the crowd to meet them all outside in the pleasant drizzle. In true European form, the mob waited for the buses. After ten or so minutes, they arrived.

Hundreds of agitated passengers of all ages flooded the three crickety buses provided, shoving their beaten luggage along. Hans and I were quick and grabbed a seat. Aditi was lost behind the Kremlin wall composed of three older Russian ladies that stood between us. A Professor Quirrell looking man stood on my left, breathing down his sausage smelling breath on me every minute and a half like clock work. Did I time it you ask? What would have been a 15-minute train ride was about a forty minutes bus ride. Yes, I timed him.

Across from us sat two men. I love talking to strangers. People are fantastic, but over 9 hours of walking, not sleeping, eating pure sugar—well, being a student abroad, from time to time, it slows me down a bit and I’m not so Chatty Cathy anymore. Yet, we, and by we, I mean Hans, made small talk.

I should have stopped him.

While I buried my head into my backpack to somewhat save my nose from sausage breath man, the four of us remarked on the train fiasco, etc. Our conversation uncovered that one gentleman was Italian, working in Amsterdam. Us? Oh we’re exchange students studying in Rotterdam. “Oh?” remarked the two men. The Italian comments, “It’s a good nightlife there, no?” Hans replies, “Well, I don’t know about nightlife, but it’s not worth visiting.”

Oh Hans.

He continues to say, that Rotterdam is not exactly the loveliest of cities, etc. The other man counters but we have the Germans to thank for that and it is Europe’s only modern city! “Yeah, I guess but we like…” the conversations moves toward more traditional Dutch cities and how amazingly friendly its people are, nothing like the French-speaking Europeans. Minutes later, of course, we discover, the second man—his hometown, none other than Rotterdam. We dissed his city. Hans tries to back pedal, but well, one can only do so much.

By this time, the Italian is flaying his arms about, ticking his watch every so often, then looking to his phone in case the watch is slow, loudly sighing and cursing under breath about how absurd this situation is. The man from the country whose public transportation doesn’t function half the time, thinks a few hour detour is completely unfathomable.

Me? Giggling into my backpack.

The Dutchman is also constantly remarking how the Belgians always have such problems. Those horrid Belgians. I can’t really breath by this time. Blame it on the fact that I’m hiding my face in my backpack, or that I’m riding on a bus sized sardine can, or that Europeans still have not truly embraced deodorant. I don’t know. But we finally arrived in the Netherlands.

The doors open and the flood of people pours out into the street and into the station. I will never forget the panicked look on the defenseless villagers trying to go up the stairs as an ocean of restless travelers cascades down trying to find their appropriate trains. I spy 3a Rotterdam. We run, barely catching it. Sit down. Arrive. It’s after midnight and we hop onto one of the last trams home. Hans remarks, that despite his loathing of the beauty (or lack of stereotypical Dutch charm) of Rotterdam, he had never been so happy to see this city. Sitting in the tram, we burst into laughter recalling our trip.

Good times