,
Stairs. They’re everywhere. It’s like I’ve
never even noticed. The. Dreaded. Stairs.
It’s only when schlepping wheelbarrows of over-loaded luggage onto
planes and trains (no automobiles, only buses) does the issue of staircases
present quite the problematic conundrum, throwing a wrench into sprinting
efficiently from Point A to Point B. And let’s not even get into the
other type of stares that are frequently thrown my way, a few glares and
snares, snickers and giggles from gaggles on onlookers doubled over in
hysterics at the sight of a middle-aged Auntie huffing and puffing, lugging a
truck-load of baggage along the cobblestone rues and avenues, a trail of socks
and shawls haphazardly spilling along the way.
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| The other half of my luggage ran away on a train |
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| YIPPEE!! Escalator!! |
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| Schlepping!! The picture says it all! |
If you must know, my misery commences several minutes
before the locomotive pulls into the station, my knapsacks and suitcases
meticulously lined up by the exit door, so as to quicker facilitate kicking my
luggage to the curb (down the steps actually) and exit the train
lickety-split. In reality however, woe is I, for obstacles and hurdles
await, as an inevitable struggle ensues - with pink sneakers versus baggage in
a showdown to beat the clock and extricate said bags from the train - all
within a two minute time frame! European trains are notoriously punctual
and wait for no one, not even you know who, to quickly extrapolate all belongings
from the carriage; and it pains me to reveal that on more than one
occasion I’ve watched in stunned disbelief as my luggage journeys off without
me to destinations unknown. Sad-but true. On the bright side,
at least that’s one less piece of baggage to lug!! Yikes!!
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| Baggage lined up by the door, ready to be kicked to the curb!! |
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| Wait! Wait! There go my bags!! |
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| The. Dreaded. Stairs. |
Having now successfully circumvented the first hurdle,
a second one anxiously waits in the wings, eager to challenge my resolve and
trip me up. A mantra of please let there be no stairs, please let
there be no stairs plays incessantly over and over in my mind, silently
pleading with the deities to spare me from having to endure a Mount Kilimanjaro
trek onward and upwards upon arrival at my rented digs. And so here I
stood, in the lobby of my hotel in picture perfect Delft, mouth agape, staring
at what could only be accurately described as the staircase from hell.
Numbering at least 15 steps, the stairway to heaven was narrow and
steep, the only way of entrance to the attic and my bunk, located somewhere in
the upper stratosphere of the inn.
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| This is the second staircase! Almost at the top! |
Short of having to resort to the tedious and
time-consuming task of unpacking in the hotel lobby, unglamorously carting
fistfuls of clothing up and down the stairs for hours on end, my options were limited,
leaving me no choice but to valiantly attempt to forge on and scale that
impassible mountain range, one pink sneaker at a time.
Now, to be perfectly honest, the hotel brochure had
specifically stated that the steps were treacherous and steep, cautioning one
to tread carefully, as the ascent could prove to be a tad challenging for the
faint of heart. And, since we’re on the
subject of coming clean, I had absentmindedly skimmed over the fine print when
booking my accommodation, jubilant at scoring a four star hotel for the price
of a one star, paying scant attention to the warning at hand.
After all, time was not to be squandered on figuring
out on how to navigate a vertical ladder that doubled as stairs, as there were
other more pressing issues at hand – vino to be appreciated, bistros to be
frequented and boutiques to be visited.
Oh, and let’s not forget about the museums.
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| Bistro dining in postcard perfect Delft |
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| Vino, anyone? |
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| Cheese, anyone? |
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| Shopping!! |
Back in the day, with space at a premium, the
medieval edifices were taxed based upon their width, so in order to avoid
having to pay even a fraction more of the exorbitant tax, the most logical and
ingenious solution was to build tall and narrow skinny houses. Hence,
those treacherous staircases! It’s no wonder then that the Dutch word for
stairs is literally “trap”!! Like,
trip? Trap? Trip?
Come climb steps upon steps upon endless steps…one, two, three and four and five. Six.
Seven. Eight and so on and so on
– the undeniable charm of Delft’s canal houses – Nine, ten and eleven. Yikes.
Still climbing!!
Next post – In two weeks!! Stay tuned for more of the fabulous
adventures of cuckoo ol’ Auntie Nora in the Netherlands. What next?
Windmills, perhaps?
Catch up on Wed, Feb 18th!!
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