Where's Waterloo??

Sunday, September 24, 2006

It is funny how feelings can rise from the past and roll over you like a military tank, carrying you a few yards before leaving you to piece together from the memory files of your mind the before and after of the feeling. That happened to me in the Brussels Midi station. As far as I knew, or at least consciously remembered, I had never been in this station before. I had only been in Brussels once and assumed the train to and from Amsterdam would have been at Brussels Central. I walked down off the platform, checked a sign for the direction of the shops to buy my flag pin for Belgium and a postcard, and set off for the main terminal area. As I emerged in the open hallway I was knocked over, not with a memory, but with sensation – a strong sense of irritated anger and the taste of pizza so strong I actually began to salivate. What the hell was that about? I looked around to get my bearings. Within seconds the memory came into view like a telephoto lens zooming in on a subject, going from blurry to clear as it moves in. I have been here before. I thought to myself Yes, there is the book store where I looked for an English book and where is….. I was searching for the place where I bought the pizza as the memory expanded temporally to the moments before and after the taste of the pizza.

Where do these 8 year old scenes in our minds come from?

My dear friend Jill and I grabbed a last minute fare three years ago for a December flight to Amsterdam. Not knowing Amsterdam to be the wonderful city that it actually is, we didn’t plan to stay in Amsterdam but rather to train to Brussels and return for the flight home. Fortunately, we altered that plan and ended up staying three nights in Brussels and two in Amsterdam which, as it turned out, we actually liked better. So it was our third day in Brussels. We had already seen Bruges and Ghent, the Christmas market in Brussels, the little boy peeing (it says something about this country that they have more pride over a three foot statue of a boy taking a leak than their own flag), and a handful of other sights. The only thing left on our ‘must see’ list was Waterloo. It was actually on Jill’s list, not mine. Thanks to my wonderful American education, I couldn’t tell you anything about Waterloo but that the French and English were fighting about something and Napoleon blew it – though I’ll bet I aced whatever test I was given on the subject in our absurd memorization approach to history lessons.

Jill knew it was really just a field with a hill and a lion statue at the top but she had always wanted to stand on the Waterloo Battlefield. Hell, I took 36 hours worth of trains to stand in the Arctic Circle. How could I deny someone Waterloo? So we woke up early our last day to stand on the famous battlefield before heading to Amsterdam. We had breakfast and at checkout asked the hotel clerk how to get to Waterloo. She didn’t know. Odd. It is only like one of the most famous battlefields in the world and just twenty minutes from the city. We headed for the train station. The first “service” person was rude and completely useless. The next three didn’t speak English. A few more inquiries sent us for a bus. We waited an hour for a bus which went about three blocks and stopped at what was apparently the end of the line. Great. We asked the bus driver what we were supposed to do. He sent us to another bus which took us across the city and dumped us off at what was supposed to be a connection. It wasn’t. We walked for awhile asking along the way and looking for the bus connection to no avail. The stops, starts, trains, buses, and changes in direction had now taken us four hours. The first hour we were stupefied that no one could tell us where was Waterloo. The next two hours we were entertained by it. By the fourth hour we were getting testy. We descended to the metro station and decided to ask just one more time.

Much to our surprise the man we asked spoke a fair amount of English and was kind, patient, and helpful. He walked us through the map, writing down a series of train and bus connections. This must be it! We thought excitedly. He was actually the first person who had expressed any kind of confidence over knowing where exactly was Waterloo. Directions clenched tightly in Jill’s palm, we set off. Everything went smoothly. The train was there waiting. The bus went where he said. We found the second train connection without a problem and waited only a few minutes before boarding it for the twenty minute ride. Jill was happy again. I was happy she was happy and all was good. The train arrived. Woo-hoo! We hopped off and began walking through what was an oddly busy station for a tourist site outside the city. As we began to make our way up to street level it became apparent we were still in the city. We ascended the stairs and emerged in what was obviously a wealthy shopping district. Shit. This wasn’t Waterloo. Actually it was, for as we were looking around, absorbing the shock of disappointment, I saw the blue and white street sign on the building across from us. The street was named Waterloo.

Jill wasn’t disappointed. She was pissed. Now Jill is one of the easiest going people I know. I had never seen her mad. Not only did I not know how to deal with it, but I began to get mad because she was mad. I always feel responsibility for other peoples’ feelings – like it is somehow my fault they feel that way and my responsibility to turn it around. When they don’t come around I get pissed that I’m trying to cheer them up and they won’t let it go. Jill declared, ‘Fuck This!’ turned heel and stormed down the street, leaving me trailing behind. She stomped ahead of me without saying a word. It was now 2pm and neither of us had eaten since breakfast at 8am. As she was walking, she pulled a granola bar out of her backpack and started eating. She continued to eat the entire bar, never once offering me a bite. Now I was pissed – six hours I had stuck by her side searching for stupid waterloo, without food, without water, and she couldn’t share a bite of her granola bar! I seethed without saying a word. By the time we arrived the train station, I had worked myself into a tizzy. My thoughts involved repetitive use of the wonderful word ‘fuck’. Fucking Waterloo. Who the hell wanted to see fucking Waterloo anyway. And I kept making it light and fun instead of saying forget fucking Waterloo and now we wasted a whole day searching for fucking Waterloo, and I’m fucking starving and she doesn’t even offer a bite of her fucking granola bar! When we get to the train station I’m going to buy some food and not offer her any and see how she feels! I can be such a pouty child in the privacy of my own mind sometimes. I walked through the train station and actually picked pizza to eat because it would be the most tempting of smells. I had it all planned out. We would get on the train. I would begin eating. She would ask for a bite. And I would tell her she should have gotten one herself! Yeah that was it. That’s exactly what I would do. She ruined my plans, never even having the decency to ask for a bite and give me a chance to slam her taste buds in the dirt. Where do these 8 year old scenes in our minds come from?

A few hours, a nap, and a hot shower later, we were both better. The search for Waterloo was already becoming the funny story of our trip and we were making Napoleon jokes and references all night. I was still a little pissy over dinner and the fact she wanted to see some stupid comedy show. Two hours later, after splitting our sides laughing for two hours watching the improv group Boom Chicago (a must see if you are ever in Amsterdam), all the ill will of the day had been forgotten. It was many months before I told her how mad I was over the granola bar. To this day she hangs her head in genuine shame. She had offered me granola bars three times before during the trip. Since I had always said no thanks, she thought I didn’t like them so she didn’t offer again. It has been three years and I still can’t even tease her about it she feels so badly.

I had only one objective in Belgium this trip – to see Waterloo for Jill. My friend Jero (who did not know where it was, nor did his friends we had drinks with the night before) was kind enough to spend an hour driving in circles looking for it late in the rainy night. It is actually quite impressive – a huge lion statue lit in the night standing high upon a hill looking out over the field below. I went into the bookstore at Midi where I had looked for the English book and bought her postcard – a picture of the statue lit in the night – and wrote, of course, “I finally found Waterloo!” I proudly carried the card to the post, laughing at myself, and her, and the pursuit of Waterloo – mesmerized by the strength and power of the remembered feeling, the taste of the pizza in my mouth, and the warmth of a friendship that has survived the years. Jill, I forgive you for the granola bar…