A few weeks ago I finished my exams. This ended an incredibly stressful and busy (yet interesting) period for me. In celebration, Bracha and I decided to take a little excursion through a small part of Europe. Though we started arranging for our trip a mere 5 days before, numerous people throughout our travels lauded us for how “organized” we were. Hah!

The best part of our trip, hands down, was meeting new and exciting people. The second best part was exploring the numerous aspects of cities with another urban enthusiast. The third best part? Seeing pigeons in every city. They are just everywhere. Its great.

Brussels, Belgium

On Friday morning, we left for the train station while the London sky was still only dimly lit by the sun. We checked into the Eurostar train, which required getting our passports stamped and our luggage scanned. While we were waiting for the train to depart, we lamented the lack of a vibrant train culture in the United States. We sat next to each other on lovely, comfortable seats with a sturdy table at our knees, dozing off, talking, and listening to music. A mere 2 ½ hours later, we arrived in Brussels. With the exception of the Holocaust trip I took to Poland, Belgium was the first country I went to which spoke in a language I didn’t understand. Brussels actually speaks three languages-French, Flemish, and English.

One sign, whose purpose was to promote awareness about pickpocketing, showed an elephant, fully clothed,  pickpocketing another animal with its trunk. I told Bracha that I think I would enjoy getting pick-pocketed by an anthropomorphized elephant, that it would be worth losing my wallet for that. She disagreed.

You know how you get a “vibe” from certain cities? For example, the vibe I get from Philadelphia is incredibly different than the one I get in New York. To me, New York says: busy, chaotic, dark. Brooding, crammed, explosively interesting. Poor, rich anxious, and multicolored. In contrast, Philadelphia says: quiet, spread out, an air of mystery. Segregated, historical, aesthetic. To me, both are generally good signals, but Brussels sent something strange.

Though the weather was lovely, the city gave off a bit of a stale air. The streets seemed to be fairly neglected as we navigated through them. Paint peeled unabashedly off the buildings, and the streets were lined with litter. The walk from the train station to the center of town was on one main road, Stalingraad—which was lined with cafes. Men congregated outside of the cafes, smoking cigarettes and speaking in quick Arabic. It was a long time before we saw a woman sitting in one of these cafes.

Public spaces were ignored and misused—giant plazas were empty and dirty, parks remained unkempt and locked up behind gates. Eventually, we made it to the city center, which seemed to be the tourist hub and the “nicer” area. We popped into a café and drank some Belgian cappuccinos. Then, we arrived at the main tourist destination in Brussels: Mannekin Pis: The fountain of a peeing boy. I had no idea that this town thrived on this small , kind of bizarre sculpture. Belgian chocolate shops carried hundreds of chocolate variations of this sculpture, and you could easily purchase any souvenir item with this little boy on it.

 

 

 

This town did seem to like its sculptures—only just a block over, another bronze relief sculpture seemed to grant good luck or blessing to those who touched it.

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=885X-nVlQo4

 

The center of Brussels was everything you can imagine about Belgium. The chocolate shops were unbelievable—there were at least a dozen on a single street, and each shop carried every type of chocolate imaginable, in many different shapes, sizes, and textures. Windows displayed intricate Belgian lace and figurines, and other souvenirs.

 

The main square was an awe-inspiring plaza surrounded on all sides by architecture dating back hundreds of years. In this general main tourist area, there did seem to be several public art works, such as a giant mural of tintin and a beautiful AIDS memoral and awareness mural. As we passed through adorable narrow streets lined with cafes selling mussels and lobster, we arrived at our next tourist destination, the Delirium Café, which sells 4,000 types of beer. Whoa.

The rest of the walk of the city gave us an uneasy feeling, though. There was a beautiful park, but it seemed to only be well-kept near the historical sites.

 

The main court house and other city buildings were set so far apart from the residential area, that it is unlikely that the wealth and tourism probably never really trickles into the poorer neighborhoods, which are mostly populated by a South Asian demographic. A strange outlook overlooked the city from a bizarre vantage point, where we took photos.

From there, we ventured back to the train station, with Bracha’s wonderful navigational skills.

 

Antwerp, Belgium

We arrived in Antwerp fairly close to Shabbat, even though it wasn’t brought in until quite late. We popped into a flower shop and bought the most beautiful bouquet of flowers for our host, at only a mere 12.75, a bouquet which in New York would cost around 50 dollars. We noticed at the till there were little cards, and one of them read “gut shabbes”. Cool! We bought it, hopped into a cab, and went to our first destination, which was to the house of the woman who was helping us set everything up.

When we got out of the cab (after a cyclist who was blocked by our door screamed us at. We were not shocked by this, as our hostess told us not to expect the same level of helpfulness/politeness from Belgians as we would from Londoners), we were surprised at how close it was to the station. We got out and met the couple who would be our host and hostess for Shabbat lunch, who lived in a flat with her family on a quiet street in Antwerp. Though they seemed to be quite religious, they apparently were one of the more open families in the community. I gave her my sister-in-laws cookbook and we had a nice conversation. She then walked us to where we were staying.

We stayed in a large home, with a very sweet (originally Parisian) woman and her amazingly sweet and kind 14-year-old son. All of her older children were away at Yeshiva or married. The house had a massive amount of character, with high ceilings, rickety staircases, extravagant rugs, and a heavy dose of books and photos. In the morning, dozens of bird species sang to wake us up.

Friday night dinner was interesting. A maid, who spoke only Flemish, served and seemed to cook most of the meal. A countless amount of plates, spoons, and forks were set in front and cleared away from us in the course of the meal. One of the woman’s nieces was there with her husband and children. Bracha and were floored that all Jewish children in Antwerp spoke not only three, but often four languages, if not more: Flemish, French, English, and Yiddish among the more popular ones. After Friday night dinner, the boy told us that he loved this publication called Zman, which he gets from America. He brought us a stack, and I began leafing through them.

I noticed that there were no photos of women, and that a lot of the stories seemed a bit sensationalistic. I tried to remain non-judgmental, because I often feel that I am too critical of people to the right of the spectrum in my own faith. Then, however, I came across something that struck me hard. “Rubashkin: The Full Story”, the cover read. The article inside basically explained how there was a conspiracy by animal rights groups, the media, the law, and self-hating Jewish organizations (such as Hechsker Tzedek and Uri L’Tzedek) to destroy Rubashkin’s kosher meat plant. I was upset by this, because I do a lot of work with Uri L’Tzedek, and the publication did not seem to hold Sholom Rubashkin accountable for anything at all. I smiled, and gave the magazines back, and thanked the boy for bringing them down. I decided not to start a discussion, but seeing that article brought up some very familiar anxieties about doing activism and being disliked as a result.

Bracha and I had a lovely time in Antwerp. The people we met were so spiritual, approachable, and helpful. On Shabbat morning, we went to a famous shul, whose services were occasionally blessed by the singing of a famous cantor. It also happened to be the most “modern” shul in Antwerp. Girls wore colorful clothing and heels, and there were a smattering of knitted kippot in the men’s section (a custom which denotes a more Modern Orthodox approach).  The cantor, who wore a special hat, was truly remarkable, and he commanded the entire sanctuary with his voice.

Afterward, we went to Shabbat lunch and talked for a long time with the host, their hostess, and their guests. It was an interesting crossover of lives and perspectives, and we all helped each other see things in new ways. Bracha and I then took an epic walk throughout the main city of Amsterdam, through the amazing tiny streets with buildings often branded with the year they were built. Though the Eruv extended to the water, there was not a single Jew taking a leisurely walk around the bustling city, with its beautiful plazas and sculptures. The friend we make in shul that morning, a 28-year-old (unmarried) nurse, was telling us that the Jewish community doesn’t really venture out of its borders. Yes, they are inclusive of people if they are Jewish, but they seem to be afraid and feel threatened by non-Jews. They truly segregate themselves from the rest of the community. This is as a result of anti-Semitic episodes, of which we heard several, but it also seems to be an internalized victimhood narrative. At the top of the street that encloses the small and intimate Jewish community, a Holocaust memorial stands. The emaciated bronze man symbolizes not only those that died in the Shoah, but it also seems to create a physical border around the community. The sculpture defined the community by its victim history instead of its spirit, or its future potential and growth.

The city was beautiful, and because it was Shabbat, our cameras did not distract us. We took in every breath of fresh air, listened to every unique bird sound, and analyzed the different shades and textures of brick on the old buildings. Shabbat went out very late in Antwerp, at 10:30, when our hostess’ fourteen-year-old son promptly served us some lox and fruit salad.

Amsterdam

Good morning! Bracha and I headed out to the train station early. The girl we had met in shul offered to drive us to the station, and also stop at the famous Kleinblatt bakery on the way.

Ohmygosh.

Now I understood why it was famous. Bracha and I started with cheese danishes, which were perfectly sweet. The dough pulled just right, and melted in your mouth. Lunch was giant onion rolls, baked to perfection and soft to the touch.

In fact, the pastry was so good, that while we were on the train, I offered some to a boy sitting next to us (in his mid to late twenties, from Amsterdam). The three of us ended up talking for two hours about cities, economics, and immigrant labor markets. He then asked us if we were coming to see the big game. We asked him “what big game?” He told us today was a crazy day for Amsterdam. Their home team Ajax (pronounced eye-ax) had a huge match today, and the city would either turn into a giant party or a giant riot, depending on the outcome of the game. Since we had told him earlier that we were Jewish, he warned us that the nickname of the Ajax team is “The Jews”, because the stadium was originally based in a Jewish area.

And indeed, we heard “Juden! Juden!” being chanted in volumes that shook the ground beneath us. Fans also waved Israeli flags as another symbol of the team. Boy, was it a strange day. The city was mayhem, and police on horseback and bomb squads patrolled to keep things under control. See some photos and videos below.

 

Though the day was overcast, I got a bright feeling from Amsterdam. Unlike many other cities, I didn’t see a host of homeless people sitting outside the main train station. The public transportation, especially the tram system, was efficient and clear. I watched an arrest take place with respect and dignity towards the person that was arrested, not with the racist slurs and aggressiveness you sometimes overhear during arrests in New York.

We walked leisurely through the streets, taking in the city. We watched the oceans of bikes pass by in the well-marked, wide bike lanes. We looked at the glittering canals that served as the “avenues” of Amsterdam. We took in the patchwork-quilt architecture that leaned lazily against the river. Though there were a few franchise stores here and there, I noticed way more independent shops.

In the afternoon, we went to Anne Frank’s house, which was an amazing experience. The museum was packed with international visitors. It was pretty meaningful to share Anne’s story and the story of the Shoah with people from so many different backgrounds.

Finally, we ventured off to the “Jewish Area” to eat a hot kosher dinner. One of the reasons I loved traveling with Bracha is that we both were less crazy about touristy sites, and more excited about seeing the intricacies of the city. This neighborhood was so different from what I’ve seen. On a giant road in the middle of the area were the tram and metro tracks. On both sides of the road, there were giant blocks of residential buildings, built in the functionalist style. The area was sterile and quiet. Every few buildings there was a pocket of retail shops, including the place we ate pizza. We actually asked two Jewish Dutch boys who were also ordering pizza to join us, and we talked for an hour and a bit about being secular Jews in Amsterdam, and about other random things. The pizza was all right, but the company was the best part.

 

Exhausted, we headed back to our hotel and we saw the carnage from the celebrations—Ajax won the match. Museumplein (like Museum Mile) was literally hidden by a layer of trash and broken beer bottles, and the streets were piled with garbage. I had never seen anything like it. By the time Bracha and I were almost to the hotel, however, the street crews were working on the mess like it was nobody’s business.

The hotel was unbelievable. I would recommend it to anyone who decides to travel to Amsterdam. Priding itself on its ethical and eco-friendly practices, The Conscious Hotel Museum Square has gorgeous chocolate-colored wicker lamps, bedside tables made out of tree trunks, beautiful wallpaper printed with soy inks, pillows with old maps of Amsterdam, a state of the art television, a “living wall” made out of plants in the lobby, and a bathroom with a shower you would not believe. The bed, whose mattress was produced using recycled material, just ate you up, and sleeping that night was a luxurious activity.

The next day we reserved for art and walking around. We did indeed see art, including a great collection Vermeers and Rembrandts (we saw the Night Watch!) at the Rijksmuseum. We looked at the old Sephardi Synagogue and the former Jewish quarter of Amsterdam. Our final stop was the Red Light District, where we passed (yes, passed) the famous “coffeeshops” which serve marijuana. We did enter a store called “Condomerie”, however, where we talked to sales clerk about sex workers in Amsterdam and STD awareness.

 

It was a really charming trip, and a great end to the semester. The train ride on the way back was a bit of a disaster, though, but I won’t bore you with that. I can say it in one word: ourtraingotcancelledfromamsterdamtobrusselsbutwehadtocatchthelastrainfrombrussels

tolondonsowegotputonadifferentcompanystrainandletsjustsaythetrainmanager

wasunhappyaboutthatandnotonlyyelledatuscontinutouslybutmadeusstandfortheeentire2hourtrip.

Yup. I mean, it was an experience, and a random man in the snack car (this is where we were banished) bought us beer. We also made some Dutch friends along the way who helped us to get the new tickets.

We were exhausted, but exhilarated, and I only had a few more days before my departure from England…