We're steaming quitely into the fishing port in Oostende, Belgium. In the streets across from our berth, a motorcycle race is in progress, crowds milling about and bikes of every description tearing down the dockside at close to 300 km/h. I'm stunned. This would never happen in Norway, I'm quite sure, as it is precisely the type of activity that The Nice People would like to pretend isn't going on. Let them do it at their race track in the woods, so far away that we can't hear the noise, but in the streets downtown? Surely not. In fact, I thought that the Isle of Man TT and the Macau GP were among the very last road races remaining, but apparently I was mistaken. And the best thing about it? The locals just don't understand why I think it's strange. That's true grass roots motorsports for you.
Fast forward to The Jolly Sailor. I'm hanging out with Erik and Ludvig, local marine engineering maestros. Like myself, they're right off work, still dressed in overalls. Right next to us is a group of businessmen in suits, and the rest of the crowd is made up of everything in between, all interacting freely. This is a true melting pot for the social classes. My lifestyle has quickly branded me as "interesting", and the retired cop, the barmaid, the shipping coordinator, the down-and-out fisherman, they're all buying me drinks at a faster rate than I can responsibly down them. When I realize that I must either get out of there or compromise the next day's productivity, producing my wallet only generates a quick shake of the head from the barmaid. Like most nights in The Jolly Sailor, I leave without paying anything. Oh well.
Fast forward to the motorcross track. Erik has taken it upon himself to ensure that I'm not alone on my Sundays, and he is the perfect guide to the local motorsports culture. He used to be something of an MX star back in the day, and it seems that he knows everyone. Like everywhere in Belgium, this place is lubricated by beer, and the day hardly gets started before I have to politely decline offers left and right. Being Norwegian, that is not an easy thing to do. Where I come from, declining the offer of a drink from a stranger is tantamount to spitting him in the face, but here it's apparently OK. Erik provides me with a running commentary of the events, so that I soon know who to cheer and for whom to hope for a big mouthful of dirt. The day passes in the incessant din of high performance engines, with enormous clouds of dust drifting across the field.
Fast forward to The Barbeque. I'm with a bunch of people I just met. They're not really into the music, but they brought me here out of curtesy. Let the stranger have his heavy metal. Do you know how to spot a genuine heavy rock pub? It's not the music, the bourbon behind the bar or the biker insignia decorating every surface. It's the toilets, and not just their smell. Cobwebs in the urinals is the true mark of seriousness for a place like this.
Fast forward to Gent on a friday night. The scene is like something out of a movie. We're walking between all kinds of cathedrals and other historic buildings, and everywhere you look stages have been erected, with DJ's performing or live bands playing. Every hundred meters or so there is a booth selling drinks, one selling fast food, and a block of porta pottis. It is just as well, because the crowd density is out of this world, and moving anywhere fast is completely out of the question. Basically the whole downtown area is one big party, with different sections catering to different tastes. There's even a "quiet" corner, not in the sense that it is sparesly populated - the crowd is just as dense, but the dancing is a little less crazy, and the noise level is down to a point where you can actually maintain a conversation. It is a night of pure poetry in blurry motion. The party goes on and on, and when I give up at seven o'clock in the morning, it is still going strong. Yet again I fail to explain just how different this is from home, and I'm given the answer I'm starting to expect: "But this is just normal, no?"
Fast forward to the beach off Bredene. We're skinny dipping at midnight. This one was actually my idea, but if I'd hoped to shock anyone, I was in for a disappointment. They just quickly agreed that yeah, that's a good idea. Now we're back crawling lazily into the incoming surf, illuminated by the ever present phosphoresence in the water and the odd flash from the lighthouse at Oostende. We try to body surf, but the waves just aren't big enough, or maybe our movements aren't quite coordinated. When we finally crawl back up on the beach, freezing and utterly exhausted, I'm left wondering how I can be in a developed European country, and still so very far from home. It's beautiful, all of it.
Okay, so I realize that all of this calls for something of an explanation. I'll get around to that. Maybe.
