The programme for Bruges is on the light side and not too taxing, suited to old age, you might say. Each of us will bring along a nice bottle of something, for eventual post-mortems in one of the commodious single hotel rooms. Evert asked everyone to refrain from falling or breaking any bones over the next three days. I did find myself having to swallow when he cheerfully made that request.
Friday, 29 May
‘Goethe said: beware of the man with nothing to lose.’ Evert looked very solemn as he said it.
‘I never knew you’d read anything by Goethe,’ I said, astonished.
‘Someone once gave me a book of quotations for Sinterklaas.’
I asked him if he had any funny business in mind. Not at all, he just thought it was a good line.
‘But you’ve always lived like a man with nothing to lose.’ Strangely enough, he briefly seemed overcome by what I’d said.
‘It’s a splendid compliment, Groen, that you so casually let slip there. One of the nicest compliments I can think of, even.’
That, in turn, made me clear a lump from my throat.
Two sentimental old fools.
A number of residents here in our home think that we’re taking unwarranted risks with our trip to Bruges.
‘You could get diarrhoea,’ said Mrs Smit, shaking her head.
Embroidering on that subject, Mrs Ligtermoet advised us to pack a big cork, then almost fell off her chair laughing. She is new here and is already reputed to have the loudest, most booming laugh of any resident. She would make a jolly addition to the coffee table if you wanted to lift the mood. When someone else recently complained about a mole that had grown 2 millimetres, Mrs Ligtermoet confessed herself to be a walking billboard for melanoma (great guffaw), but that in the coffin it wouldn’t show anyway (throaty chuckle), unless you were Snow White (infectious giggles).
I bought some extra-strength diarrhoea pills at the chemist’s. You can live dangerously, but not stupidly. Thanks for the tip, Ligtermoet.
Saturday, 30 May
Yesterday it occurred to me to wonder why some of the rooms are being left vacant, and yet Mrs Ligtermoet has been admitted as a new resident. I can’t make sense of it. Perhaps there are certain obligations that remain to be filled. I, for one, am more and more convinced that our home is slated for closure. Last week we had people here from a company that does the maintenance on the awnings, and Edward heard the head of the technical department tell them they needn’t do a very thorough job of it.
‘As long as it lasts another year or two.’
An urgent task for the new Residents’ Committee: to obtain some clarity about the future plans for our home as soon as possible. It also makes me feel good to know I still have a role to play, and that the committee can make a difference.
Sunday, 31 May
‘It’s tempting fate, you know, taking old people on a long trip!’ Mr Dickhout exclaimed every time he saw me. In the end I’d had enough.
‘We’re just going to Bruges, you know. That’s Belgium, not Syria. The likelihood of getting beheaded in Bruges is minuscule. The likelihood of my dropping dead of old age is about ten million times greater. And I don’t have to go anywhere to do that, I can drop dead right here in your presence.’
Dickhout is keeping his disagreeable mouth shut, at least for now.
The greatest danger you’ll encounter in cities popular with tourists is being trampled to death by Chinese travellers. Over the past few days, ninety coaches carrying 4,500 Chinese have been criss-crossing the Netherlands, creating all kinds of havoc. It could be worse, however. Tiens, a Chinese corporation, held a company outing in Nice, France: a herd of 6,400 staff members running roughshod all over the Riviera for four days. I hope the Asians haven’t discovered Bruges yet, at least not in great numbers.
And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. In China there are at least a billion more would-be tourists who can’t wait to visit the Anne Frank House. The queues to get in will reach all the way to the Martini Tower in Groningen. And don’t discount the Indians; there’s a billion of them as well. First they’ll have to get a bit richer, but as soon as they do, they’ll troop to Europe on vacation en masse, mark my words. It’s lucky I won’t be alive to see it.
Monday, 1 June
So many things to make a body nervous: a one-day heat wave is forecast for the end of the week, and it’s already causing great consternation.
Some residents only feel good when the temperature is between 21 and 23 degrees, so long as it’s not too muggy, or windy, or rainy. So on the other 355 days of the year, there’s always something to complain about. Today, at 15 degrees, it’s much too cold, naturally, and the day after tomorrow, at 27 degrees, will be unbearably hot. Maybe, just maybe, tomorrow will be just right.
We are looking forward to sitting on a sweltering outdoor terrace in Bruges, with sun for the sun-worshippers and parasols for the shade-lovers. Evert intends to concentrate on the two cornerstones of Belgian patriotic pride: chips and beer. He claims the Belgian chip stand is on the list of UNESCO World Heritage Sites. That sounds too good to be true, and too good to risk verifying.
My suitcase is packed. I am a bit nervous, I must admit. I’m taking today off to rest, to save up energy for the trip. That’s necessary, because at my age I tend to run on empty sooner than I’d like. I wish I had a little pill to give me a pick-me-up, but I wouldn’t know how to go about getting some. I did ask my GP, but he brushed me off. He prescribes antidepressants by the boatload to morose seniors, but he won’t even think of giving me one of those pep pills.
‘They call them “uppers”, and they say you can dance and rave on them for hours, Henk,’ Leonie said with a sly smile. A smile that was most becoming.
‘In that case I wouldn’t mind trying one of those pills myself,’ said Evert from his wheelchair, ‘but I may need a double dose, since I have only one leg.’
Evert has recovered admirably. For the past few months he had been rather quiet and reserved, for him; now he is his cheerful self again, the biggest loudmouth of us all. There’s nothing fake about it. The prognosis has ended the uncertainty. The brakes are off. It grieves me to see it, but it also lifts a weight off my shoulders and, more than anything, fills me with admiration. It may be selfish of me, but it does make his approaching end much easier to bear.
Tuesday, 2 June
By an unhappy coincidence, today’s Volkskrant has a big front-page story with the headline: ‘Why aren’t the tourists in overcrowded Bruges a problem?’ I am not going to read it, and will leave the newspaper at home.
The temperature in Bruges is forecast to be 16 degrees, and nephew Stef is driving up to the front door in half an hour. I am sure that Edward, Ria and Antoine are already waiting downstairs. I think I’ll join them.
Friday, 5 June
Dear Sir or Madam Director of the Frites Museum,
We were sadly disappointed in the chips at your museum, the only museum of its ilk in the world. We were counting on a masterful fry, but it was limp, too pale and made from an inferior, tasteless spud. We are giving this chip a minus 4 out of 10. The classic paper cone was OK, but the contents were worthy neither of your museum, of Bruges or of Belgium. Belgium, the only country whose chip stall is on the National Heritage list! This is unacceptable.
There may have been an extenuating circumstance, of course, a cook out sick, or a new trainee having to step into the void, but if not, we should like to have our money back (10 times €2.60 = €26.00).
In anticipation of your response, we remain disappointed but sincerely yours,
Graeme, Ria, Antoine, Edward, Evert, Geert, Leonie, Jan, Edwin and Hendrik (chips connoisseurs par excellence)
We had great fun writing this letter. It’s going out the door this afternoon, and we’re very curious to see if they reply.
The priciest chip stall in the world is in Bruges’ Great Market – that’s to say, its location is what’s priciest, for it is said that the spot rents for €
100,000 a year. But the chips there taste like it too: we gave them a 9 out of 10. We headed over there after the Frites Museum for a few portions, to help us over our disappointment.
Mrs Schansleh might say, ‘You really painted that town yellow, didn’t you?’ It was a very successful experiment, our first Old-But-Not-Dead holiday. Although it must be said that yesterday, on our arrival home, eight catatonic elderly citizens were a sorry sight. Ria and Antoine did not even make it down to dinner, Geert fell asleep halfway through pudding, and the rest of us drooped off to bed right after dessert. Evert was the only one to stay for a thimble of brandy with the coffee. But he has to make up for lost time.
We set off on Tuesday morning after coffee, with quite a few of our fellow residents enviously watching us go. Edward intoned, ‘And we’re not yet going home’; at least, I thought I recognized the old marching song from the melody. His speech is growing less and less intelligible. The journey went smoothly, with just one lavatory stop – not bad – and we were at our hotel by 2 p.m. A gracious welcome, very pleasant rooms and, for the first time in years, no waiting for the lift! Half an hour later we were out on the terrace, the men quaffing their first Belgian beer and the ladies sipping tea or wine. A rather conventional division of roles, I’ll give you that. Under the outdoor heat lamps it was perfectly bearable. A short siesta was planned from half past three to half past four. To get the most out of our adventures, we have to be careful about energy conservation. At a quarter to five, two horse-drawn carriages drove up. Great plaudits for the programme committee, which consisted of Leonie and Graeme. We were conveyed like kings and queens round the beautiful city. Travelling rugs on our laps, roll of peppermints on hand.
‘Should we wave?’ Ria suggested, doing an excellent imitation of Queen Mum Beatrix.
The horse-drawn carriage is the ideal mode of transportation for the elderly tourist no longer all that nimble on his feet. Some philosopher once said that the mind travels at the speed of a horse; the aged mind travels at the speed of an old nag.
It was quite a job hauling Evert in and out of the carriage, but we had Jan and Stef with us for that. They aren’t daunted by having to hoist him up another stair tread or foot board. The coachman gave us a running sightseeing commentary, but his Flemish dialect was almost impossible to understand. We did our best to nod politely at the right moments, and he usually nodded back amiably; a good sign. At the end of the tour we were dropped off at a restaurant serving Belgian specialities. It was delicious, but don’t ask me what we had. I suspect Evert of slipping the coachmen €100, because any time we had to go somewhere or had to be picked up somewhere, they were waiting for us. Most convenient, because pushing a rollator or a wheelchair over the cobblestones is no doddle.
It was quite a bit hotter on Wednesday, perfect weather for a canal tour of Bruges.
‘We’re like those refugee boat people, packed in like sardines,’ Geert grunted as the boat pushed off.
‘One-way to Lampedusa please,’ Leonie said to the captain. Evert’s empty wheelchair was left behind on the dock, a poignant sight. It was chained to a lamppost in true Amsterdam style, in spite of the fact that Bruges is so nice, spotless and honest. A little less spotless or honest wouldn’t hurt, if you ask me. It wasn’t as crowded with tourists as I’d feared. No Chinese corporate outings, anyway. Fortunately.
The disappointing visit to the Frites Museum has already received a mention. Then a siesta, drinks on the terrace, and a bite to eat. It all went off without a hitch, except that a plate of fish soup spilled all over Antoine’s suit – a clumsy manoeuvre on Graeme’s part.
‘I think there’s no point complaining that the soup wasn’t hot enough,’ Antoine remarked laconically. True; at least he did not receive a nasty burn.
The rest of the evening Geert and Evert took turns saying, ‘What’s that fishy smell?’
The next morning we headed to a museum that wouldn’t let our cabs inside. One gets used to a horse and carriage all too quickly. Without our conveyances, the tour of the museum ended a mere twenty minutes later on the terrace of the museum café, in the bright sunshine. A chat and a little snooze; exhaustion was beginning to set in.
One last horse-drawn ride, a quick pit stop at one of the city’s 700 chocolate shops, and an elaborate lunch in the hotel. And, once in the minivan, a final pick-me-up when Evert’s bag suddenly produced two bottles of ice-cold champagne and nine plastic glasses. The bottles were soon empty, upon which the bus grew quiet. When, on reaching the border at Breda, Stef glanced over his shoulder, he saw that most of his passengers had nodded off. Edward and I were the only ones still awake, contentedly silent.
Saturday, 6 June
Yesterday the temperature climbed to over thirty degrees, and today it’s down to nineteen. Dangerous fluctuations for the elderly population.
‘Oh, if only my heart holds out,’ said Mrs Quint. She was breathing heavily, more like an incessant throaty wheeze, which got on my nerves a bit.
‘You look like an earworm with a toothache,’ Mrs Schansleh said, pointing at me. Schansleh must spend every night in her room dreaming up fantastic new idioms and proverbs, as she comes out with these pearls so often. I am a great fan of her patter. But that’s as far as my sympathy goes. She has the annoying habit of announcing what she’s about to do before she does it.
‘I’m going for a wee,’ she’ll say, for example. Or, worse still: ‘I have to poo.’ I don’t have to know that! And when she comes back from the loo ten minutes or so later, she’ll even inform you if she succeeded in her mission or not.
‘I’m going to my room, I’ll have one of those lovely biscuits, I’m going to read the new Margriet, I’m taking off my shoes, I’ll have another cup of tea, I’ll just run up and put on a cardigan.’
‘It doesn’t interest me a goddamn bit, Mrs Schansleh, can’t you keep it to yourself?’ No, that is not what I said; I said, ‘You do like to tell us what you’re going to do, don’t you, Mrs Schansleh?’ Which didn’t help at all.
We bought vouchers for dinner for two at a nice restaurant for Jan, Evert’s son, and Stef, Grietje’s nephew. A bribe that we’re hoping their wives will appreciate, so that they won’t mind sacrificing their husbands from time to time in future. Without a couple of sturdy fellows to help us, we wouldn’t be able go out any more. They fetch the rollators, push the wheelchair, bring the drinks, help us into our coats, carry our bags, find lost spectacles, hoist a bit here and give a helpful little push there. And they take us where we want to go. It’s lucky that they seem to enjoy it. We are a jolly bunch for our age, naturally, even if we say so ourselves.
Sunday, 7 June
The staff member who deserves the most sympathy in our home, I think, is the pedicure lady. Anyone who chooses that profession is already a bit mad, but if you then go and apply for a job at an old people’s home, you must really be desperate, or else have some rather peculiar inclinations. Choosing to become a dentist and having to peer into people’s open mouths all day long is understandable because it’s a lucrative profession, but I once cautiously asked what the pedicurist was getting paid, and she said it wasn’t exactly a king’s ransom. The residents have to contribute €5 of their own if they want to have her come, which for many is reason enough to postpone her services as long as possible. Just slip on a pair of socks, and no one will see it. Not yet. But overgrown toenails will eventually start poking through socks or slippers; they’ll even gore holes in battered shoes. The poor pedicurist then has to use pruning shears to tackle those overgrown nails. Trimmings fly everywhere, if you’ll excuse the gruesome description. I do have to say it’s a phenomenon largely seen in men. For myself, I have decided to have her come every other month. The first time she ministered to my feet, I kept apologizing, saying I was sorry I could no longer do it myself. It’s simply that I can’t reach my toes any more. I also have trouble putting my socks and shoes on, but I have a gadget for that, luckily. I hate being dependent on anyone. Standing on my
own two feet is literally what I have to do.
There are plenty of residents who think if anything requires even the slightest effort, you may as well call the nurse.
‘That’s what they’re here for, isn’t it?’ is the reasoning. It’s for people like that that I’d like to see tarring and feathering brought back.
Monday, 8 June
Yesterday afternoon the opening round of the Old People’s Song Festival, a yearly torment for the ear, was held in the recreation room.
‘Last year you had a migraine, I seem to remember,’ said Mrs Van Diemen just before it began. ‘I hope you don’t have one again this year.’
‘I hope the reverse for you,’ I said under my breath.
Van Diemen is one of the ladies who always confidently signs up for the first round. She thinks that in the past few years her voice has got better rather than worse. Actually, she’s right, but only because her voice has lost some volume and shrillness, thank God. Yesterday she sang a simple French song in the style of an Italian coloratura soprano. She sounded like a giant canary; she was wearing an appropriately yellow dress. I took a seat as far back as possible but didn’t dare leave, since I suspected that several of the artists were keeping a close eye on me. Ria and Antoine are very polite, and kept me company, but the rest of my so-called friends from the Old-But-Not-Dead Club failed to show up.
‘I propose that once a year on this day we change our name to Old-But-Not-DEAF,’ said Evert when I went to see him in the late afternoon.
He handed me ten €50 notes. He has decided that instead of transferring his savings into my account, he’ll give it to me in cash, €500 at a time.