I’m literally annoyed by this whole place.
It’s basically everything that the Road to the Extremes series is not about: crowded, noisy, easy, touristic. I could come up with dozens of adjectives to describe my lack of enthusiasm for being here, but I don’t have the whole day to list them — although, ironically, I do seem to have the whole day to wait.
A group of people arrives, then another. One leaves, another replaces it. On the rare five-second window when no one stands directly in front of me, a car or a motorcycle appears out of nowhere. Where are they even going? I stand up from the bench and walk toward the tower, hoping movement might help. It doesn’t. It’s busy everywhere. Too many people.
Next to the tower — the 50-metre-tall Boudewijntoren observation tower — lies the three-country point of the Netherlands, Belgium, and Germany. And, unsurprisingly, it’s even more popular than the actual reason I’m here. People queue eagerly to photograph themselves in front of the flags, while I stand a few metres away from the highest point of the Netherlands, Vaalserberg, patiently waiting for two uninterrupted seconds at 322 metres above sea level.
I wait. And wait.
There is a steady stream of people gathered around the marker, and they can’t possibly imagine that someone might want a photo of the place without people in it. I understand, of course. These are “cool” places, and this one is so easy to reach that it would be stranger if it weren’t crowded. Still, eventually I give up.
I walk past the tower to the Belgian side, where there’s a parking area, then a little further on, where I find a pleasant view over open Belgian fields. For a brief moment, I think this might be it — until two men stop right in front of the view and begin an animated conversation. That’s enough. I’m not waiting again.
I head back toward the tower, pass the three-country point once more, and briefly hesitate. Should I give it just a few more minutes? Maybe a gap will appear. But why bother. Everyone seems to be their own supermodel today, exploring every possible angle before the next person steps in.
I return to the same bench where I started and watch people walk by. It’s a warm autumn Sunday, and you can’t really blame anyone for coming out to have lunch, explore the labyrinth, or enjoy whatever else this place offers. The problem isn’t the people — it’s the timing. I simply came here on the wrong day for the experience I was looking for.
After sitting restlessly for a while, I stand up again. And finally, improbably, the moment comes. A short, fragile moment when nobody is standing next to the highest point and its monument. I take my photos.
Whether I waited an eternity or whether that sense of time was just created in my own head is irrelevant. I leave toward the parking area — and of course the parking automat has a line. I walk past it in search of another one. There isn’t one. I walk past all the parking areas — huge ones, by the way — detour to a lookout point I noticed earlier (nothing special), then walk back again. When I finally return, the automat is free.
I know I should have waited the first time. It would have been far more time-efficient. But I was tired of waiting, and tired of this place.
I walk back to the car with the pole in my hand and the next destination already in mind: the southernmost point of the Netherlands. Hopefully, that one will be less crowded.