Op weg; Hungary

The agent sighed:  I need to check yiur visa status. He made a quick call to his supervisor: American…European residency…traveling to Hungary.  Complications in the era of Brexit and Trump.  There are rumors of tit-for-tat fees and permissions springing up, but I’d thought that they were not yet applicable within the EU. 

No problem, he smiled, putting the phone down.  The rules are always changing, though. 

Indeed.

It’s been snowing across the UK today, slowing travel even as I needed to rely on public transport to get to the airport.  I’d made a stupid move as I merged onto the queue getting onto the M25 from the M11 last night, a truck stopped suddenly just as I looked in my rear mirror.  The unfortunate result was a mashed hood where the builder’s bumper hit my leading edge.  Nobody hurt, the car still drivable, but I won’t take a chance on the highways with it.

 

So, it’s a long route into London by train, around on the Tube, then up to West Hempstead for the change to the airport.  I worked on emails and reports along the way, we’ve got our final dates for regulatory submission and everyone is pushing to make the deadlines.

This trip is a one-day run to Hungary to collect validation data in surgery.  Work in any EU country serves the requirements of all of them, a beauty of the Medical Device Directive.  The University is able to accelerate reviews that are required for patient safety, so we can get the data without compromising on quality.

The snow started to swirl in a cold wind down the tracks.  Most folks huddled under the stairs; I tried fiddling with some street photography.

 

Luton Airport may be improving in the future, but today it is all shuttle bus links, muddy construction, and limited services in the terminal.  The flight was delayed an hour and a half, pushing arrival in Debrecen towards two in the morning.  I wondered how my peers were spending their Saturday nights, processed my photos, and read a trashy spy novel.

 

We bumped onto the ground in foggy Debrecen at 0230, snowy runways and darkened buildings.  My spotless new passport, devoid of visa stamps, didn’t fit with having a residence permit, so a supervisor was called and copious notes taken.  I blocked half the available customs booths for an embarrassingly long time as the line flowing around me, glaring.

The Boutique Hotel recommended by booking.com turned out to be warm and welcoming, though.  They had waited up, held a nice room, and promised a late breakfast (fried eggs and bread with paprika).

   

The small individual kindnesses more than make up for the natural and institutional indifferences of a long day traveling.

Bump, bump, bump

It was a trip I’ve made a hundred times.  West of London to the ferries, the Dover crossing, the long straight motorway past Bruges, Ghent, around Brussels.  The the washboard highway to Luik, a turn north at the Maas Crossing, and into the ‘skade to carry suitcases into the apartment around 7 pm.

This started no differently: packed and out mid-morning, a break for business calls and lunch at the Channel Gateway, and a smooth crossing to Calais on a nearly-empty ferry.

   

Traffic moved easily on the European side, until we passed Ghent.  The van ahead slowed abruptly, then stopped.  My space closed quickly, but I stopped close behind him, as did the BMW behind me.

Not so, the coupe behind her.

There was a bump, bump, then a lurch, and a crunch.  Damn.  Seven cars opened doors along the left lane as everyone got out to see what the damage was.

 

The worst was two behind, the hood tented and the engine leaking.  An SUV, trying to swerve, had crunched into the back tail of the driver at fault.  Once we’d determined that nobody was injured, everyone rested against the median barriers, shaking their head, to wait for the police.

The ambulance was first, the medics going car to car asking if anyone was hurt and reminding us that symptoms may be delayed. 

The Belgian police arrived next, collecting papers and statements.  Passport, residency, driver’s license, registration, insurance,. I fortunately had them all (out of date insurance, but the lease car was current even if the paperwork lagged).

  

A tall administrator in a green vest moved through the group.  This will take a while, he advised.  The lead driver was Polish, he gestured behind, Two Russians there, you are English…  He shook his head.  This will take time.

The firemen arrived third: full yellow fire jackets, heavy helmets and boots.  They set up cones, began directing the blocked traffic with flashlights, started sprinkling sand around the cars and whisking it in with brooms.  There must have been twenty of them, delighted to be of service.   There was quite a pageant in operation now, interviews underway, everyone checked for alcohol. 

I admitted to one beer on the ferry a couple of hours before. You have the right to wait 15 minutes before you take the test, the policeman advised.  It seemed meaningless; I took the 15-second blow and passed, as did everyone involved.

The flat-bed tow vehicle arrived last, winched up the crumpled Russian car, the two kids watching mournfully, and then the SUV.  We were asked to follow on to the next rest area, a mile ahead.  The back of my car was fine, but the front had a dimple where the hitch on the van ahead had planted into my grille and bumper.  ‘still drivable, so we convoyed ahead.

 

I needed to write out a statement, and re-collect all of my documents.  The police seemed eager to wrap this one up: only the woman from the BMW and the two Russians were left, answering questions in the back of a squad car.  You can go, I will email you the report, nodded the policeman, and we scooted off.

I thought that the responses were handled professionally and with a minimum or time and disruption: the whole process complete in less than two hours.  My insurance company has pans to fix the car in January,  Thankfully, nobody was hurt, we were only an hour late arriving in Maastricht.  I got a good story and the car has a temporary dent.

I’ve read that economies are boosted by disaster.  The emergency services train for these events, and deploy their resources in a good cause.  The towing and repair services find work, the police investigate and insurers negotiate.  Everyone produces activity reports that contribute to effectiveness statistics.

Still, I wonder what became of the stranded Russians.

Here, there, everywhere

It’s been a couple of weeks of bounding about.

First, a trip to the corporate parent in Uppsala, then together in London for the Manilow concert.   ‘flight to Amsterdam the next afternoon and a train south to Maastricht, arriving at 1 am (suitcase clacking along the empty cobbled streets, feeling vulnerable).

The rushing about was well worth it, though: I’d been looking forward to Raluka and George’s wedding. I hosted family guests at the apartment, and attended a lovely ceremony at the Star of the Sea Basilica.  The reception at the Bonnefantenmuseum was a good chance to meet everyone, talk politics and travel, and swap a few expat and entrepreneur stories. 

The ice-breaker for the table was to match a phrase to each  guest.  Mine was “Dutch Gardener”, harkening back to my inburgeren when I was mis-identified as needing job training.  ‘seems so long ago.

 

I took my leave at 10 pm to get up to Schiphol for a quick overnight sleep before flying to the US at 10 am.   Unfortunately, track works and dropped trains left me stranded with a hundred others on a platform in Amsterdam Centraal at 2 am.  NS was uncharacteristically disorganized:  we were herded onto trains, then hustled off of trains, before finally boarding a special run to the airport at 3.

  

I spent a week bouncing around the US, welcome time with family and friends, absent since New Year’s.  There was sincere intent to come back sooner, but April and May were more than demanding.  I do need to get back to a quarterly commitment: I know when I’ve been away too long.

  

I expected worse of TSB Screening, but they moved along well despite long queues. The flight back was bumpy and unpleasant, dropping into London at sunrise.  A short nap, and off to another concert on the evening of my arrival, neatly bookending the trip.

It’s likely the end of intercontinental travel for the summer.  This ten days were an echo of the manic pace I used to have every couple of months.  I don’t miss it.

Catching up

‘apologies for my silence the past two weeks.  A break in posts likely doesn’t indicate a health or economic disaster, only that I’m in transit, accumulating air miles and sleep deficits, gathering notes and pictures to post once I get back.

In this case, I’ve been on a long loop from London to the Netherlands, around to Boulder and Chicago, finally back to Maastricht, Reading, and Poole.

The purpose was a mix of business and family: closing out elements of my son’s estate, investor and board meetings, exchanging the old lease car for new.

The flights were generally on-time, the food was good,the weather warm and dry, the visits with family and friends delightful. The changing time zones take a toll, as does too much restaurant food and too little exercise, lots of long flights and hopping among hotel rooms.

Yesterday’s homeward drive back from Maastricht took twice as long as it should have, though.  I arrived at the Dunkerque ferry entry early, just behind  a group of strikers from the Channel Tunnel union.  They joined hands and blocked the road for nearly two hours until the French police arrived.

I missed the boat by minutes; it cost me hours of travel time.  And the stiff northeasterly winds made for a pitching ride all the way across the Channel.

  

I’m back now, nursing my desiccated plants and jet-lagged psyche. I’ll backfill a few stories in the coming days and get the forward writings back on track shortly.

Abandoned Tyneham

If you can find it, you should visit the old village out past Wareham…  The fellow across the table waved his fork sort of westerly as I dipped into another portion of fish pie.  The dinner party was approaching 11 pm, and my host passed the wine bottle again, asking “Tyneham Village?” Right, the one that nobody ever returned to.

‘Made a mental note, checked the map once I got home, and off for a drive in this morning to try to find the place.

And I agree, it can’t be done without directions, nor without checking whether tanks are having artillery practice that day.

1943, and D-day preparations are underway in England.  The soldiers need a staging area to practice taking terrain, and the Jurassic Coast is similar to Normandy.   The mining parish of Tyneham is chosen for the mock assault and the residents are all displaced.  None ever returned: after the war, the entire area became an artillery range for the British Army.

Now, on selected days, it’s possible to weave over the hills and down the slopes to visit what’s left of the village seventy years later.

The drive out is really worthwhile all by itself, with spectacular views across Dorset and the seacoast.  The Grange Hill viewpoint is especially good, carpeted with spring wildflowers.

 

The village tucks into a forested hollow at the base of the ridge, easy to overlook if not for the car park nearby.  A signpost gives the history and a map of the trails at the entrance.  Then its in to explore the village, all roofless weathered red-brick walls bordering weedy overgrown floors.  It’s a tiny Pompeii.

    

The old church and cemetery are tended, and the school has been partially restored (original furnishings and a charming nature table that, unfortunately, seems to have fallen from favor in modern England).

  

And absolute tranquil silence: the area is surrounded by fences warning that live fire can fill the woods and slopes beyond the wire from time to time.

 

The nearby farmstead is being restored as a museum.  It’s a collection of both old farm machinery and random bits of munitions scavenged from the surrounding fields.   The barn is used by a local theater group, although with the poor signposting, audiences must be word-of-mouth.

  

People will say that this was a FOMO chase (Fear of Missing Out), but the village is an interesting artifact and worth an hour to explore.  The trip is worth it if you find a way down to the beaches, or want to make the diversion from the nearby South West Coast path.