I finally booked my tickets to go and visit Edinburgh next weekend. And I'm pretty excited. I've planned to visit the city since I've read my first Inspector Rebus-novel and heard about the Burke and Hare murders for the first time. And the proximity of Scotland to Ireland should have made a visit possible much earlier, but I kept postponing it time and time again. Anyhow, thanks to the upcoming bank holiday here in Ireland I'll be finally able to sample some Haggis. And will stick to the local ales, as I am no big fan of Whisky (or Whiskey, for that matter). Other things on my list include the haunted Real Mary King's Close and of course Rebus' local drinking den, the Oxford Bar. And may also check out My Latest Novel later on Saturday..
In no particular order, as all these people suck in one way or another and can spoil the joy of live concerts completely.
The "movies or it didn't happen"-girl. Taking pictures of the band is soooo 2006. With the newest cell phone or a Sony smartcam you are able to record the whole show and have it up on Vimeo in no time. But what about drinking beer, rasing your horns or dancing? All this will only lead to a blurry recording, so please, stand as firm as possible and keep shooting angry gazes at those concert goers who dare to come in physical contact with you.
The guy from work who's colleagues told him that the band is cool. Probably you will be still wearing suit and tie from work. And most probably you'll wish to be at a Tina Turner concert as soon as the band fires the first riff. But the funky young brunette from accounting has invited you, and so you'll pretend to like the band and stand around being the complete foreign body that you are. At least you can show off at the coffee dock tomorrow - but only if the band finishes at 10 and you can get the last bus.
The uber-aloof scene guy. Yes, you have been here before. About a million times. You wear the right clothing. You have 8 layers of tattoos all over your body, including the eyebrows. And not one sucking newcomer band in this world will be able to make you move an inch to their sound. An approving headnod is reserved for Iron Maiden and demi-gods. The drawback of this is that you will also not move an inch even in the first row of the show. Positioned strategically, 10 of your type in a crowd of 300 can ruin a complete show for band and audience.
The bruiser from the suburbs. You know exactly one song of the band. But that one is nicely energetic and aggressive. So you saved the price of the ticket from your job as a construction worker and are here with some of your homies. And approximately after the 2nd song will you take off you shirt and start pushing the people in front of you around. Even at a Sigur Ros show. Besides the primate-like behaviour and the annoyance it causes for the people around you, flying drops of sweat from your hairy back can actually spoil all beers within a radius of 200 meters.
Dotted along the coastline of Northern France, Belgium and Holland lie many old merchant towns, cities that came to fame and success in the cloth- and wool-trade in the 14th ande 15th century. Cities like Calais, Antwerps, Middleburg and Zierikzee. But the mother of all these towns most be Bruges in Northern Flanders. Somehow all marauders and forces of nature in the last five hundred years have bypassed the city. French soldiers of fortune in the 30 years war, Dutch troops during the Belgian Revolutin in 1830, invading Germans in the first and Allied Bomberstreams in the second World War and finally the big flood of 1953 – none of these did not lay one building in Bruges to ruins. And left the city almost preserved in time, like a glimpse of a time and age long gone, carved into stone walls and wooden panels. So it's no wonder that millions of tourists visit the city each year, either on a day-trip from nearby Brussels or for a longer stay in the many Hotels and Bed and Breakfasts of Bruges.
As a German expat living in Ireland, my first encounter with this city was Martin McDonagh's brilliant movie “In Bruges” with Colin Farrell. In the past I had only passed through Belgium and Flanders when driving to the Dutch beaches with my parents in summer, using the tiny country as one big transit-lane. So I felt it was my duty to pay respect to this old city; and went there on a 3-day trip to see with what character in the movie I would side: either with the elder gangster Ken who thinks that Bruges is “rather pretty”, or with newcomer Ray, who is under the impression that Bruges is “a shithole”.
The first impressions of Bruges made my utter the lines of gangsterboss Harry from said film: “it's a fucking fairytale”. Accomodated in a nice B&B made out of a converted stable from the 17th century, situated directly next to a pretty little canal near the town centre I was in a perfect situation to take it all in: the impressive belfort from the 13th century, the restored hospital dating back to the 12th century (now a museum housing some masterpieces of flemish painters) and of course the Groeningen Museum which has works from Hieronymus Bosch, Hans Memling and Rene Magritte on display.
As my stay was from Monday to Wednesday, I did not encounter as many tourists as I had expected, so I could sample most local specialities undisturbed: the incredible Belgian beer (worth a whole story, or even a whole book on itself), the delicious chips (or “Frites”) drowned in an assortment of sauces and of course I tried some of the exquisit Belgian chocolates.
Staying overnight has it's advantages. Bruges at dusk has an eerie atmosphere of it's own. Over days and in the sunshine, sharing the city with people from all over the world one might think that all the pretty buildings were errected by Flemish pixies just to please the eye of the visitor. But take a walk at sunset – the streets are almost deserted, day-trippers have gone and the other tourists and townsfolk are having their dinners. Linger around the statues representing the four riders of the apocalypse in the Arentshof, and you may remember that Bruges once was famous for the “Bruugse Metten”, the “Mass of Bruges”: in 1302 the people of this neat town rose in revolt and killed all Frenchmen (and other foreigners) who could not pronounce the Flemish phrase: “schild en vriend” (“shield and friend”). About 4000 people perished, which did not prevent the Belgians from setting up a statue for the leaders of the revolt. It's all pretty in Bruges, but there's a dangerous and violent past still lurking around some corners.
The town is so pretty, I felt almost intimidated when I had the urge to visit the toilet and no pub or cafe was in reach – I had actually enjoyed one beer too many in the famous but tiny “Halve Maan” (or “Half Moon”) brewery which still produces three different types of beer locally. But thankfully the city of Bruges has installed some urinals made of stainless steel at some strategic key positions throughout the city centre, so even the most active wassailer does not have to soil the medieval building structures while testing Belgian beers.
Besides the fact that Bruges is a perfect location to visit for a couple of days or a weekend, I wondered what it's like to be to grow up there. No graffiti, no tags, and hardly any “alternative” scene was to be found. There are some funky bars around a place called the “Eiermarkt” next to the great place with the belfry, but on weekdays there is not much “funkyness” to be had. There are also some music and film festivals going on all year round, but it's still a medium-sized provincial town with 100,000 inhabitants and an impressive past. And a real “scene” must be elsewhere.
My personal resume is this: there are two reasons why you should visit Bruges. Either you'd like to spend a nice romantic weekend aways with your spouse (hell, they even have horse-drawn carriages going round town) or you like beer and history. Bruges is perfect for both – but be warned. If you are looking to raise hell while drowning Belgian beers with 9 % Alcohol and listening to 2ManyDJ's, you should stay in Brussels.
Loosing the film quiz. Watching the Irish Shorts and Anvil playing. Getting drunk. Being robbed. Eating chips. Wearing a red nose. Getting drunk. Dancing to “Walk this Way”. Visiting the Guiness Storehouse. Having the FC beat Munich on the Carnivall weekend. Getting drunk. Having an unforeseen encounter. Watching Lisa Hannigan play. Getting drunk. Dancing to Johnny Cash with Japanese tourists. Sleep long. Getting sick. Gone shopping. Drank Whiskey. Got a phonenumber.
Here we go again. In an aluminium tube, travelling at 10,000 feet and at bullet speed. And the only thing preventing us from tumbling uncontrollable into certain death is our believe in physics and that burning dinosaur bones generates enough thrust to keep the goddamn thing in the air. I've already ordered a Jim Beam with Coke from the trolley dolley, and The Haunted are blaring from my headphones and are annoying me seat neighbour; but I have to keep my mind occupied, otherwise I'll go definitively and completely crazy. Every little movement of the plane makes me grab the armrest as firmly as I can, cold sweat it dripping from my forehead. Like Mr. T., I'd need a anaesthetic to make me fall asleep. I've already tried: Valium, Marihuana, beer, whisky, meditation techniques and herbal tea. Nothing works. Maybe joining the mile-high club would distract me enough to make it through the flight. But occupying the toilet on a plane for hours and hours? I'm past that age and performance by now, so until my health insurance is paying a shrink to heal me, I'll depend on drinking. Drinking on trains. It takes longer, yes, but was has been good enough for the people 100 years ago can't be bad for me today. At least they have free Wi-Fi on most trains these days.
