From the Kingdom of Hamlet to the Kingdom of King Lear – Part I
- havasalad
- Jul 15
- 10 min read
Updated: Nov 6
Based on the information I've gathered over the last few decades, I know that my father is a third-generation Englishman, meaning his father and grandfather were born in the United Kingdom. On the other hand, his mother, my grandmother Dora (Deborah), was a pure Polish Jew and a Zionist, who at the age of 16 left her parents' home in Krakow and, together with her friend, traveled by train and ship to Palestine. There, she joined Gdud Ha'Avoda, the Labour Zionist work group in Mandatory Palestine, settled in the Jezreel Valley, and busied herself producing gravel for the new road that will cross the valley. While she was smashing rocks, an Englishman riding a horse, carrying a rifle, and guarding his uncle's lands in the Balfouria area passed by. The two fell in love, contracted smallpox or malaria, and had to move to a cold climate where they could recover from the terrible disease. Thus, my grandfather returned to his town of origin with his young wife, and in Manchester, their three sons were born, with the middle one being my father.
My mother is a first-generation Englishwoman. Her mother, my grandmother Marion (Miriam), arrived in Britain from Romania when she was one year old, making my mother almost second-generation in England. Had I been born in Britain, on my father's side, I would have been a fourth-generation Brit (oh, what an honor!), and on my mother's side, almost third-generation. But my parents are Zionists, and in 1955 they immigrated to Israel, and in 1956, at the dilapidated Maternity Hospital in Nahariya, after thirty-two hours of agony, I was reluctantly pushed into the world from a very weary cervix. Once, an old friend who at the time was a medical student, noted that it was a miracle that both the baby and the mother survived the pangs of birth. But not only am I alive, as my mother tells it, from lying on my back and staring at the ceiling, I very quickly turned into a Speedy Gonzales of sorts, never walking, always running, and maybe, this is somehow related to my restlessness and my longing for travel.
The 90-day rule in the Schengen Area refers to the stay limit for tourists who are not European Union citizens. This limitation allows us tourists to stay a total of up to 90 days within a 180-day period in all Schengen Area countries. "What is Schengen?" you might be asking yourselves. Well, the border between Germany and Luxembourg is the Moselle River, and it is the widest border in the world because it is as wide as the river, and the river is pretty wide. So, if you go swimming in the Moselle River, you are simultaneously in Germany and Luxembourg. If you swim south, you reach the point where the river meets the French border. Right near the confluence of the borders is the village of Schengen, and this absurd law is named after it.
Today is the 85th day of my stay in the Schengen Area (all Western European countries except the United Kingdom, Ireland, Cyprus, Romania, Bulgaria, and Croatia), and therefore I am leaving Orbaek on the island of Funen in Denmark and starting my journey back to my roots in the United Kingdom across the English Channel.
Somewhere beneath layers of denial, avoidance, and the demands of the moment, lurks a significant fear—if not an enormous one—about the upcoming move to the British Isles, where, heaven help us, they drive on the wrong side of the road. Right now, as I drive (on the correct side) toward the bridge connecting the island of Funen to mainland Europe, I'm doing everything I can to avoid thinking about this issue. Consequently, I'm not allowing fear to be present, which means I'm not allowing myself to feel anything so I'm not really enjoying the drive or the scenery.
Travel Plan:
First Stop: Bremen, Germany, to spend the night.
Next Destination: Eindhoven, Netherlands.
From the Netherlands: I'll proceed to Calais, and on the night between July 31st and August 1st, I'll cross the English Channel using the Channel Tunnel train.
At the moment the journey from Orbaek to the Great Belt Bridge is nice—the sun is shining, the skies are blue, and yellowish fields stretch beyond the horizon. But as I approach the descent from the island to the mainland, right in front of me, I see a dark and foreboding winter front. That's how it is. What's happening inside is immediately translated into what's happening outside.
Maybe I should listen to some music. I don't know why, but almost every time I turn the radio on, I stumble upon one of ABBA's songs. Back when I lived during the time the band was active, I thought their songs were very 'middle of the road' and I kind of looked down on them, believing that only The Beatles counted. But today, now that the band is a thing of the past, history shows that they were an exceptional band and I think they are played in Europe a thousand times more than The Beatles. In short, I listen to the song, my mood improves quite rapidly and I don't even notice that I'm speeding at around 160 km/h. There's no point to this story. I don't get caught by the police (there hardly is any police on European roads) and I don't crash into a pole. I just notice suddenly that my old Nadedet is leaving all the Beamers and Mercs behind.
Sometimes when we sing at the top of our lungs and fly down the road, that thing we're trying to ignore, without much fuss, finds its way from the bottom of our stomach to our chest and mouth and flies out the window. Finally, the fear of crossing the channel calms down a bit, and despite the rain starting to splash against my window, I believe that somehow all will be fine. Dad is watching over me, I have a ticket for the train, my cousin is expecting me in Toddington and... 'Mamma Mia, here I go again, my my, how can I resist you?!' I sing along with Anni-Frid (the blonde) and Agnetha (the brunette who I actually prefer).
After about five hours of driving, I reach the suburbs of Bremen and with the help of the aforementioned Park4night app, I direct myself to a spacious parking lot located near the OVB Arena, which is currently quite empty. The parking lot is cobble stoned, so it takes me a while to find a spot where my camper van bed is parallel to the ground and not at some angle that would roll me onto the ground.
Not far from the parking lot is a large public transportation station (trains, trams, buses, and more). I lock up the caravan, take the bicycle off the rack, and start pedaling, heading in the general direction of the station where, presumably, I’ll be able to buy some groceries—mainly mineral water, which is always good to have on hand. On the way to the central station, I ride along the road circling the ÖVB Arena and pass by an artificial lake. On the opposite side stands a classic building that might be a museum or a hotel.
Behind me is a large public park filled with trees, bushes, right-angled paths, grass, and benches. Everything is well-kept and clean. As I enter the spacious public garden, I catch a familiar scent, and for a long moment, I lose myself in a thick cloud of local marijuana.
The public station mall is crowded with the hustle and bustle of people, engines, constant movement, and clothing and food shops. Many burger and fast food stands are scattered throughout all levels of the station, and along dark red tiles, a wide variety of junkies, drunks, destitute unfortunates, and people with glazed gazes are hanging about, sprawled on the ground or leaning against pillars and walls. It seems that human suffering feels most at home in big cities and especially in large public transportation complexes . I buy a few bottles of water and some herbal tea extracts, and make my way back to the camper van.
Inside my little home, I lock the doors both with the electric and mechanical locks. You can never be too sure. At night, I hear the addicts crying out from their highs or from the depth of their pain to each other or to God or to their dead mothers, their cracked voices echoing back and forth between the public garden and the arena walls.
Despite everything, I sleep a deep good sleep, and the truth is, I almost don’t remember that just two days ago I was spending time with my beloved gray hen in the vegetable garden in Denmark. The day begins with a wonderful sunrise and clear skies that for now promise a rain-free day—but, as I’ve learned, not only is the sun a liar, the European skies also lack integrity.
The next destination is Eindhoven in the Netherlands. But there’s one important thing I need to do while I’m still in Germany: buy a large gas canister. Since I bought the van, I’ve been using a relatively small gas canister I inherited from the previous owner, and all this time I’ve been having these small anxiety attacks that the tank will run out at any moment. It definitely is not good to be under such stress. In short, I search “hardware stores” in Bremen on Google Maps and get a list, from which I pick the nearest “store.” I wrote “store” in quotation marks because when I arrive at the “store,” I discover that it’s actually a planet called “Bauhaus Bremen.”
I’ve traveled in America and visited quite a few malls, and in my youth, I frequented Galeries Lafayette in Paris, but I’ve never seen anything like this. For anyone who wasn’t one hundred percent sure about my inclination, here’s the smoking gun. Only a full-fledged lesbian could get so excited about a “store” like this.
Although Bremen is in Germany, it is located in a relatively flat area and therefore resembles the Netherlands. However, when you cross the border into the Netherlands, you really feel how flat it is. An elevation of 37 meters feels like climbing Everest. Nadedet really enjoys the smooth ride and flat topography.
For about 366 kilometers, I drive on the highway and then leave it for more rural roads. As has happened several times before, the closer I get to my destination, the narrower and, for some reason, wetter the roads become. Google Maps directs me to turn right and left, and after the roundabout, to continue straight until finally, it announces, "You have reached your destination." I see on the right side of the road a well-maintained grassy area with caravans arranged as only the Dutch know how, ready for inspection. I turn into the parking lot and stop by a sign that says "Office."
In the office, which is actually the counter area of the snack-bar, there are two very friendly Dutch women. "Yes, hello! How are you? Would you like a cup of coffee? Tea? No? Okay. No need for a passport. Yes, you’re on the list here. Your reserved spot is right here, the first parking area, close to us, yes, yes. Great. There, down the road, there are new showers and restrooms. Their use is included in the parking fee. I’ll give you a voucher for a free hot drink, and you can come by later after you get settled." The difference between the ÖVB Arena parking in Bremen and this place couldn't be greater. In the evening, I enjoy a long shower with hot, hot water.
I don’t know what it is about the van, but I sleep so well in it, especially when the rain is tapping on its roof and windows. In the morning I make use of the luxurious toilette, have a light breakfast, organize myself according to the famous list and set off towards France and Calais. The drive isn’t long, just 286 kilometers, so I choose to to drive through quiet villages and farmland dotted with Frisian cows, just like the ones on my kibbutz. The day is beautiful, the green fields are of a deeper green, and out of nowhere, a tsunami of fear washes over me. Images of a tunnel carrying hundreds of thousands of tons of water above it race through my mind, along with the unreasonable crossing time I chose in my well-known thriftiness—three o'clock in the morning, the darkest and loneliest hour. How will the exit from the tunnel on the other side turn out? How will the sudden switch to the left side of the road happen? And in England, it's always raining and the roads are shit, and overall, I’m sure I’m going to die, and this time it’s final. “Okay,” I tell myself, “so you’ll die.” What a special talent I have for saying encouraging words to myself.
Around the afternoon, I arrive in Calais, but instead of driving straight into its center, I find a small village southwest of Calais where, near a sports hall, there’s a spacious parking lot where parking is allowed.
I don't visit the city of Calais at all. Instead, I take the bicycle for a ride and from the top of a hill, I look out at the sea—the same sea that will be sitting on my head in a few hours.
Amazingly, I manage to fall asleep and sleep for about three hours before the phone wakes me up at one in the morning. I get ready quickly and decide to skip breakfast, thinking I will surely find a place to stop along the way, either on this side of the channel or the other. Lots of clouds above and the night is very dark, but the highway to the tunnel is lit by floodlights, and for now, it's not raining. I rush towards my destination.
From afar, I see the glow of the border crossing area, but when I arrive, I find that while there is plenty of light, there isn't a single human being there. There's no one directing traffic, no one raising a hand to guide you to stop and ask how they can help, nothing except lots of stripes on circular roads, white arrows, red lights flashing like a disco on a bad trip, and instruction signs in French and English. All the fear that had been incubating inside until this moment is completely justified. This is hell for people like me who lack confidence, who might have a slight sensory processing disorder and are sixty-seven, and who are convinced that instead of reaching the train crossing the Channel, they'll find themselves on a highway leading back to Germany.
Finally, I reach the dazzling gates that signal the descent to the entrance of the tunnel, and to my great relief, more and more cars gather around me, along with trucks and buses full of tourists. I breathe a sigh of relief. I am in the right place at the right time. At the border police booth, I present my British passport, and the border officer just glances at it and sends me on my way. Now, representatives of humanity appear in various places, raising their hands to signal "stop" and then rotating their hands in a "continue" motion. Within a few minutes, I am driving onto the train until another human raises his hand and says "Stop!" He approaches the window and asks, "Are the gas cylinders closed?" "Yes," "Are all the doors closed?" "Yes." "Turn off the engine and apply the handbrake." "Yes," I say and comply, releasing my diaphragm just a little. I can check off stage one. Now, only God knows what is waiting on the other side.
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