The Meaning of Life and Other Vegetables

1993. June?

My thick pocket-version travel guide is talking about Namur, and I’m already enamoured. The guide says it’s a fair little town, on a beautiful river, the Meuse.

I’m riding an old Honda that is not really suitable – or meant – for this kind of trip. The engine is too small, and it has no racks or saddle bags. All my gear is tied up on the back seat, and my day-backpack is wrapped on top of the fuel tank. In between, I barely have enough room to squeeze myself in. On top of that, it’s a little broken. The gears get stuck when shifting, once in a while. “When that happens”, Klaas says, “just slow down and pull over, turn the engine off, and you’ll be able to get it back in neutral. Then re-start and go as usual, you should be fine.” Great. It already happened a couple of times since I left Amsterdam. Anyway, it’s not like I had many options. I’m travelling on a budget, and should be thankful that I got this old-timer.

Coming out of Maastricht, I plan to avoid Liege and head to Namur. Back roads, villages, towns. I’m trying to recreate the vibe of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, which I’m reading for the first time during the trip. So far, it’s working great. I’m in love with the concept, with riding, with Europe in the early summer. Some sun, some rain, everything is green and fresh. I view the world through rose coloured glasses and everyone I meet – old or young – seems friendly, as if no one has a care in the world.

In a way, this trip is a tribute to my friend, who got killed in action 6 months earlier. Unlike me, he was a real motorcycle freak – could make the engine work even if it didn’t have all its parts. He also introduced me to the book. A clever boy who probably had ADHD; only back then it wasn’t a thing yet, and instead he was simply tagged “a problematic kid”. Ha. He won’t be riding any more motorcycles, Pirsig-style or otherwise. Won’t study in uni or have a career, won’t have kids. Why did he have to be there?… He never was the fighting type. It’s just that damn ethos: “When duty calls, you rise.”

GPS technology still lies far away in the future, so I pull out my paper Michelin map and memorize the final leg to Namur. My entire setup is makeshift; I don’t have a proper map pocket on top of a proper fuel tank bag, so that’s how it goes. Should be a simple ride though, and I’ll be there in half an hour or so.

I get going, and soon enough I reach the river. The Meuse. Take the turn, then ride along the river. Indeed, it’s beautiful. It is late afternoon, the light is soft, I’m not in a hurry. So this is what Pirsig was talking about.

Shortly after, the fair town shows up. No doubt, it is beautiful. Built on the rocky slope above the river on one bank, flatter on the other, with nice bridges in between. But something is wrong. The signs don’t say Namur. They say Dinant. I’m confused. Was I supposed to ride through this town on my way to Namur?… I stop to have a look in the map, retrace the names of the places I rode past, the side-road intersections. Then I get it. I made a silly mistake – turned left instead of right at some point, and here I am, in Dinant, instead of in Namur. Should I ride to Namur? It’s not far, I can make it easily. But then – why? Dinant is also beautiful. I’m already here. Might as well enjoy it. I can always go to Namur tomorrow. Or not.

All right then, Dinant it is for the night. Where do I stay? It’s been raining on and off, and it’s a little cold. I guess I could pitch my tent somewhere, but I’d like to check if they have a youth hostel here first. I go into a pub, ask for directions. No GPS, no Internet; it’s the early 90s… Yes, there is a youth hostel here. The town is small and I quickly get there. But there are no vacant beds tonight. Okay, it’s a little more complicated now. There are hotels, but that’s not for my kind of budget. I slept the last few nights in a tent in the rain, and while the tent kept me dry, I feel more like sleeping under a roof tonight. Someone sends me somewhere else to ask – it is all in French (which I don’t speak) and broken English, so I’m not sure what exactly it’s about, but I go there. Turns out it’s another pub or eating place. No accommodation, but someone is friendly enough to tell me about a family that lives near the train tracks, or something. They might have a room to let. He draws a crude map on the back of a beer coaster, and within minutes I’m there.

A man in his 40s or 50s, I guess, opens the door. He is rather tall and has blue eyes and a brown, full mustache. Soon, his wife (?) shows up behind him. She is small, and also has brown hair and blue eyes. Both of them barely talk any English, but we manage somehow. They say something about the train – it takes me a while to understand. They’re trying to say it passes occasionally, even at night, and that it’s quite loud. Do you mind, they try to ask. Not at all.

The wife disappears and the husband takes me to the room on the second floor. How much…? I take out my wallet. He gestures “don’t worry about it, we’ll sort it out later.” Okay… It feels more like they took in a lost puppy, not like they’re renting out a room. Dinner is at 7, will I join them? Yes. Thank you. I gesture with my wallet, as if saying “how much?” again, and as before, he smiles and dismisses it. Then he shows me the shower, and takes off.

I still have enough time, so I take out my fat little travel guide, to see if it says anything about Dinant. Weird enough, there is a paragraph or two about it, right after Namur. I didn’t read that far earlier. Turns out Dinant if famous for Dinanderie – apparently some decorative metalwork, primarily from copper and brass, that originated in medieval Dinant. The guide also mentions the citadel on top of the rock cliffs, and says it’s a must-see if you happen to visit.

After taking a shower and changing to something a bit more presentable, I make my way to the dining room. Turns out the house is older style and a bit bigger than initially seemed, three or four floors. I get a little lost, but then I find it. The husband and the wife are there, smiling. And… she is there too. Must be their daughter…? She seems a few years younger than me, but I can’t really tell her age. 20, maybe? Blond, blue eyes, extremely fair skin. Glasses. Very shy. No, not shy. Timid. I can barely hear her voice when she greets me, and… as per Francophonie culture, gives me two kisses – one on each cheek. My knees feel like they might buckle, but I recover. She is so sweet. About my height and a little chubby, just my type. She is wearing plain blue jeans and a blouse.

I don’t quite remember dinner, after that… She barely spoke, but the father was talkative, and the mother also did her best to converse. Turns out that if you take an English word and say it with a French accent, there is a good chance, or at least 50/50, that you will be understood by French speakers…

Tomorrow is Sunday. They are going to church in the morning, would I care to join them? No, I politely decline. Okay, after church they are going to come back and take me out to see the citadel. Nice! I say good night and retire to my room.

When they return from church, we go out. It’s a perfect day. Slightly cool, the sun is shining. We leave the house near the train tracks, and walk along the river. Dinant is beautiful. I keep sneaking looks at the girl – she is adorable, but the last thing I want is her parents thinking I’m being inappropriate. I feel like I’m their personal guest – no mention has been made of paying anything for anything.

The town isn’t big, and soon we get to its centre. Some store fronts display Dinanderie… and here we are, at the bottom station of the cable car that goes up to the citadel. Before I manage to understand what’s going on, the father holds up 4 tickets. I take out my wallet but he shoos it away, smiling. He’s not offended. Good.

We wait in the short line, and soon our car arrives, doors opening. It is small, capacity 4 adults. Perfect. We go in.

We start going up. It’s steeper than the usual, I must admit. We are ascending close to the almost vertical rock face, and below us sights of the river and the pretty little town pan out. Above us, we can see the grey walls of the citadel, as if organically growing out of the grey, solid bedrock. The ride is about 5 or 10 minutes. The husband and wife are at the front, facing the citadel, with their backs turned. They talk in French. Mostly the husband… He is lively and quite loud. Obviously he’s in good spirits. Once in a while they laugh. At the back of the car, the girl and I are standing side by side, looking back at the river view. We don’t say anything. I’m a little nervous and not quite sure how I should behave. Then I feel something touching my hand. That little, very white, chubby hand is hesitantly picking mine. My heart misses a beat. Is it real? I want to look at her, but I hesitate. She doesn’t look my way either. We just stand there for a few seconds and say nothing. Then her father turns joyfully and talks to her, apparently, in French. She quickly lets go of my hand and replies to him. He didn’t notice. The moment is over, and soon we reach the top station.

We alight the car, and my hosts are guiding us through a tour of the citadel. Some commentary in French, made for my benefit in good faith, but useless… The girl is walking near me but not too close, not making eye contact, very quiet. She is dutifully pretending to be paying attention to her father’s explanations.

The citadel is not very big, and soon the tour is over. Then the parents say something and casually walk off. Maybe they went to sit down somewhere?… A moment of embarrassment – I don’t really know what to do. I try to look at her. She holds the gaze for a millisecond, then looks down. I try to say, as simply as I can, that I’m going to walk around a little. She doesn’t respond, just stands there, so I start strolling away very slowly. Surprisingly, she follows. She is walking with me.

I like old castles. I like standing and taking in the hard work put into building those walls. The massive rock. The dedication. Not long before I start wondering about the poor people that worked here, building all this, probably with very little choice to make. The life that might have been lost during the building. Somehow, it always comes up in my mind.

I wander around for a while, and she is with me the whole time. I stop here and there, admiring, pondering. Just taking it slow. Then, I realise that we’re in a secluded corner. I see no one around. It’s oddly quiet too. The air is cool, the sky is clear. And she is oddly close. I look at her. She looks at me. Then, with no warning, she leans and kisses me. Wait, what?…

It’s a very innocent and sweet kiss, but there is no mistake here. It’s not a little girl kissing a friend in the park.

We break away, and I look at her face. We say nothing. She is very blushed. I bet I am too.

Then we slowly head back to where the parents left us. They are back there. The father is licking an ice cream cone and is smiling like a happy child. Time to wrap up the visit and go home.

The rest of the evening, as well as the night, is uneventful. The trains pass by once in a while, noisy, rattling the house a little. But it doesn’t stop me from falling asleep. I keep wondering if I imagined it all, until I drift away.

The next morning I have breakfast with the parents. The girl is nowhere to be seen. I thank them deeply for their wonderful hospitality. They fiercely refuse my money; it’s obviously a lost cause. In a mix of French and broken English they tell me about the Han cave, that I must visit on my way to Luxemburg, and invite me to come back one day. I accept, of course.

I never returned to Dinant. I also never knew the girl’s name. Dinanderie?