What are we doing? April 29th, 2001 Crossing Borders from Border to Border: Bodegraven-Katwijk And so finally there are days that run smoothly. Almost entirely, anyway. We left, as usual, at an insanely early hour, 06:58 namely, from Haarlem railway station. Without Rob van Driel, who only just missed the train to Leiden. Which didn't present much of a problem, since he took the next one down, so that we could jointly be extremely annoyed in Leiden. Jointly? Yes, because then we were Henk van der Schelden, Jochem Prakke, Marco van Zijntergen, Max, Rob van Driel and your trustworthy reporter. Annoyed? Yes, very. Our connecting train to Bodegraven left at 07:38, you see. And we didn't make it because of Rob, but this was alright, because that's why we always incorporate an extra half hour into our planning. The next train, however, was due to leave at 08:08. And we did want to make that one. But we also desperately wanted coffee first. Which looked like it was not going to be a problem, since the local C'est Du Pain was due to open at 08:00. Or so it said on the sign. Or so it said on the sign, which was attached to the inside of the glass storefront. This turned out to be a dreadful hoax. C'est Du Pain opened at 08:08. Now I must say we were most civilized. Since we didn't scream, did not kick through the glass, did not assault the storefront by the 3000 (which did happen on the fifth of may in Utrecht, due to overcrowding caused by the national holiday), and did neatly ask for the rolls and coffee we desired. But we did say something about it. Schelden said something about it. "If you don't want to open at 08:00, you should not state so on your storefront." He received an astonishing reply. "Well that's what happens if they don't provide enough personnel, and if you don't watch out, you're gonna get nothing at all from us." Get? GET? I am still amazed that the Wandelsoc. didn't immediately commit brutal murder. So I'll explain just once more, only to let off steam, not in the vain hope that the sick brain of this stupid breadseller will ever be enlightened. Listen, DeadCunt. I don't give a flying fuck how little personnel your boss has. If he, like half of corporate Holland, does not adapt his terms of employment to the overstrung jobmarket we've had for more than two years now, he's as stupid and arrogant as all other employers who are that stupid are (take mine, for instance). I'll agree with you on that one. BUT THAT DOES NOT ALTER THE FACT THAT, AS A CUS-TO-MER, THIS SHOULD NOT BE MY FUC-KING PROBLEM. IF YOU ARE UNHAPPY, THEN GO ON STRIKE, YA BITCH-BIRD, AND PUT A SIGN UP SAYING YOU'VE GONE TO STRIKE. BUT DON'T HURT ME, AS A PAY-ING CUS-TO-MER OF THE USE-LESS JOINT YOU RE-PRE-SENT, BY MAKING ME WAIT UNEXPECTEDLY AND MAKING ME MISS MY TRAIN. THE ONLY REASON I DID NOT PUKE THAT COFFEE AND ROLL OUT ALL OVER YOUR FUG-LY FACE, AND DID NOT USE MY BARE HANDS TO RIP OUT YOUR INTESTINES THROUGH YOUR ASS, THEN TO FEED THEM TO YOU THROUGH YOUR UNSIGHTLY FRONT, IS MY GOOD E-DU-CA-TION THAT SAYS I SHOULD NOT KICK FOLK, NOT EVEN WHEN THEY'RE STU-PID, AF-FRONT-ING AND IN-SULT-ING. I PAY YOU TO FUCKING SMILE AT ME AND RENDER ME SER-VICE. IF YOU TAKE A JOB, YOU SHOULD DO THAT JOB WELL, SNUBSLUT. TAKE AN EXAMPLE FROM THE BUR-GER KING, RIGHT ACROSS FROM YOUR SHIT-HUT. THEY WERE CLOSED TOO, BUT THEIR STOREFRONT SAID THEY SHOULD BE AT THAT TIME. MY PATRONAGE IS FOREVER BEYOND YOU, UNLESS I EVER FAIL TO RECOGNIZE YA, AND THE FACT THAT YOU'RE ALIVE AT ALL IS A BLEMISH ON LIFE ITSELF. In excellent mood therefore, singing loudly and happily (Schelden had just lost his heart to the awful 'Lolita'), the Wandelsoc. boarded a train and left for Bodegraven (our terminus the last time over), there to disembark at nine o'clock sharp, starting the fifth, and last, leg of Crossing Borders From Border To Border. And it turned out to be a beautiful episode. That is, some stretches of it were, the first bit, for instance. This led from Bodegraven, under sunny skies and accompanied by birdsong, at murderous speed (we were in a hurry because Jochem was, this will be explained later), along a beautiful stretch of dike providing astoundingly Dutch vistas, through Zwammerdam (that's where the Josti-band comes from, you don't wanna know, but other than that the place is great for fishing, which makes up for some eh) to Alphen aan den Rijn. Arriving there we learned that, sadly, Lekker Eten was closed. Sadly, because we had already made plans to have lunch there, after which we'd planned to toss the obtrusive waiter into the Rhine to the ring of a hearfelt 'thank you'. This therefore did not take place, but Max did win the Biscuit Wars here (do check out what went before) with a very large pack of Twixes, which he magnanimously shared with us. This was good, because I had stopped smoking on the 14th, and could therefore do with some chocolate, by way of replacement. After that the march got better yet. Not only did we visit a fine coffeeshop in Alphen for, you will not believe it, coffee (and AA-drinks, although the conversation with the bartender definitely had a much different topic), but we also found Alphen to a. be very old-fashionedly protestant and b. really be an ex-tre-mely picturesque village-in-ex-tre-mely-picturesque-rural-surroundings, and b. to be vastly spread out, whamdammit. As if it never ends. And the picturesque aspect, by the way, disappeared when we crossed the municipal border of Alphen. From there to Leiderdorp, in light drizzle, we marched down a dreadfully ugly stretch of industry, mainly cementfactories and shingle transfer. It was just like the Death March, not a place to actually go and live in (unbelievably, some do anyway). All the same, this was the place where, for the first time in my life, I was moved by the appearance of an NZH-bus (which nowadays of course is called ConneXXion, but here they truly had forgotten to repaint one of the original yellow ones). I have a lot against this transportation company, but it is MY transportation company, yes? So when you come across it for the first time after marching all the way across Holland to get there, that does something to you, yes. In Leiderdorp the hot sun and beautiful landscape returned with a vengeance, and a memorable run for Leiden began, towards Larisa, who was waiting for us there. Memorable, because of the beautiful surroundings and the high speed, but also because of the intensifying misuse of mobile communications between myself and Larisa, on approach, and because of the fact that Jochem and Marco _really_ turned it into a run, thereby succeeding in tearing down the barrier of my increasingly murderous speed after all. Hard marching, therefore, along a sunsplashed bit of silent Rhine. Beautiful, particularly when, after the split by the villapark, you discern the medieval city centre of Leiden in the bend in the river, in the far distance, then to triumphantly march into that same centre of town. In Leiden we completely lost both eachother and the route, and life became a crazy fairground attraction, looking for Dame Smits. Marco, Prakke and I, having just relocated eachother after a serious split-up-due-to-Jochem's-craving-for-icecream, found her in the floating glass lunchroom Schelden had sent her to because he thought Marco thought this was a good place to stop at. This, you see, he had gleaned from an arbitrary enumeration, by Marco, of joints-in-Leiden-that-Marco-had-visited-at-one-time-or-other. Whereupon Marco almost became the involuntary victim of Larisa's rage about the uselessness of this floating flophouse and the fact that she had had to be in it for so long. Luckily, Larisa is too smart for that (and knows Schelden longer than since yesterday), so we marched unto the Beestenmarkt and fell down contentedly into the chairs on the terrace of de Schaapsbel, a fine pancake-restaurant which deserves an honourable mention, not least because of waitress Yuki. We pigged out on snacks (two collections of them on 1 plate, typically Dutch and utmostly fattening stuff), heavy meals (from pancakes to large chunks of very dead meat) and large tumblers of beer (plus other assorted alcoholics), thus compensating our usual disturbance-of-the-peace by heavily lining the pancake-baker's wallet. Reason, therefore, for waitress Yuki to willingly assist in making our group portrait. Which, of course, made Schelden fall in love with her on the spot, although he almost forgot that a minute later, when he met the mistress of his dreams. "Would you please get out of the way ma'am?" "Would you please shut up, like?" Harsh language, to which Schelden not only listens, but which he also sickeningly appreciates. Sadly, this is where Jochem P. left us. He had to go prepare things for his garden party, which was to be held that night, in honour of both his birthday and those of his wife Lydia and child Lanca. Sad, sad, sad. But, what has to be done has to be done, what is is, and what Wandelsocs Wandelsocs. So we walked on, and after an uneventful, but, because of the alcoholic beverages consumed, and because of the heat that now descended, pretty heavy couple of kilometres reached the municipal border of Katwijk. There we changed our uniform into its gala version and made a photo session that, afterwards, turned out to have completely failed in haziness, as if it was meant to be that way only Max's mutt has come out well, next to that sign. After that we proudly marched through a silent (And large! Just like Arnhem and Alphen! Does NOT end!) Katwijk, which looked at us stupefied by this large a folly, but nevertheless greeted us with reverence and respect, to the beach by the Savoy Hotel. And I must say (because I'd never been there before), that is an impressive spot. Quite apart from the fact that we had marched down the entire length of the Rhine from Emmerich, and it therefore is a most moving experience to be able to stand in the brackish water at its mouth, sheep to your left and the breakers of the North Sea to your right, it is also a stylistically balanced, archetypical place. The Rhine runs into a dam built by the Dutch, then to flow, when and if allowed to, through it, into the sea. It is an image of great iconographical value, marking the end of a beautiful practice project. The beer and other assorted alcoholics, plus Max's buttermilk, on Savoy's terrace, therefore understandably tasted better than normal, and were abundant in quantity. Well-earned, just like our contentedness during the busride back up north, and when crashing Jochem's garden party, shortly thereafter. To your health gentlemen, lady, excellent walking there. Katwijk is ours. Bern awaits.