For my annual birthday/summer trip, this year I’m cutting my cloth according to my COVID-19 adjusted size. Ironically, the last time I was in the low countries during the summer (2016), I vowed not to spend any more such trips in Northern Europe. I needed to go where the sunshine doesn't just make the occasional cameo. Southern France has hence been my destination of choice late July/early August.
But then COVID.
Even before the number of infections started to creep back up, I questioned my chances of making it all the way to the Med without issues. These days, travel plans have to be held very lightly. There is also the time versus cost factor. Finally, I am conscious of the impact the virus might have on general ambiance. I wouldn’t want my memory of an unfamiliar city to be characterised by tension.
Better to stay put in Belgium. Even if cross-border travel might suddenly be put on hold, I should still be able to circulate relatively freely within. I decide to visit Bruges, which was left off my Netherlands list back in 2016. I recall a primary school day trip in the early 90s to Brussels' smaller, more charming cousin. The only memories that remain of that visit is a frantic souvenirs dash, purchasing little dolls in satin pink and blue dresses and almost leaving my camera behind in a shop.
Having started my new job half-way through the annual leave year, I have to ration my pro-rata holidays. I work part of the week and head to Bruges one Tuesday afternoon in late July. I am temporarily leaving behind my ever-more frustrating flat hunt and the uncertainty that entails. I also hope for a break from an increasing mask-wearing tyranny. Obtrusive fellow citizens gesture to me on the bus to cover my whole nose and mouth area-even if I’m just about to drink some water. As if they don’t know how hard it is to breathe with material on your face.
I understand. The latest figures in Belgium are not promising. We need to be conscientious. We must offset what now seem to be the adverse effects of a complacency about adhering to health measures. Yet mask-wearing has taken on almost a superstitious status. As if salvation from this terrible disease can be found in a humble piece of cloth. Meanwhile, the state's preventative measures are inconsistent. We can still sit cheek by jowl on public transport.
On arriving at Bruges station, however I’m immediately admonished by patrolling police guards for bad mask etiquette. Damn you, Mr Rona.
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| Pralinette Chocolatiers (website image) |
I’ve
found a cheap and cheerful Airbnb close to the city centre (not that anywhere in Bruges is very far). I’d normally hire a studio but there aren’t
many options available within my budget. I’ll be sharing with
elderly
host Brenda and, as she explains later, a French family renting a capacious room upstairs. The walls are thin. The husband’s snoring will reverberate late at night
and their familial chatter will fill the corridors briefly in the
morning. Apart from negotiating the shared bathroom, I don’t mind.
It’s good to be surrounded by life and activity.
The evening I arrive, Brenda ushers me to the garden to go over virus-related house rules and give me a potted guide of the town. In her best English, my Flemish-speaking host shares useful tips on what to see, where to dine and where to buy the best artisan chocolate.
The house is large; built high rather than wide. My room is at the top of the first of several steep and narrow stairwells. The room is old but spotless. I don’t know if Brenda does all the housekeeping herself. It would be a feat for anyone at any age; especially with the constant disinfection the pandemic now requires.
A skylight, accessible by ladder, is the only source of air and light in the room. Traces of her children and grandchildren’s presence are everywhere.
Once unpacked, I step out mid-evening to explore whether Bruges really is as accessible by foot as they say. I take my print out of must-sees and cut through the picturesque Koningen Astrid park, where the play area is still full of children and revellers are enjoying a balmy mid-summer evening.
Bruges has a Germano-Gothic charm that makes me mildly nostalgic for Strasbourg. It’s clean and tranquil. One thing it isn’t, is cosmopolitan. I see a few residents and tourists of African descent here and there. I make a point of greeting them, even if fleetingly, as a show of solidarity. That first evening, heartened by my cordial nod in his direction, a young Gambian man stops for a natter. Despite Bruges’ international reputation, gauging from the bizarre looks I receive from some locals, it can’t be easy for the melanated living amongst them.
Within two hours I have stumbled across a number of sites of particular interest such as the Minnewater Lake and Beguinage, where proto-feminists created an alternative community for single women. These lead me all the way to the main station. It really is all so close. By some ironic twist, the only time I have trouble finding my bearings is on the way back to my lodgings; on that very same road.
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| Beguinage in Brules (courtesy of Ulysses Travel) |
The next day, the morning of my birthday itself, I wake up to ample texts and emails of well-wishes. Many are from unexpected sources. A member of my former choir in Strasbourg, HRGS, happens to send a catch-up text the day before. I mention in passing I’m on a birthday break. A mon insu, she notifies the rest of the group. This sort of sweet happenstance will continue throughout the day. Friends and acquaintances who aren’t even aware it’s my birthday get in touch; as if by divine inspiration.
After responding to some of the kind sentiments and joining the Morphe Arts' morning prayer group, I make a mad dash to the town square. I’ve booked myself on one of those informal walking city tours for which I’ve developed a taste whilst living in Europe. It’s brisk but sunny weather. It already feels like a birthday win. Who needs Nice? By the end of the week it's a bona fide heatwave.
The volunteer guide, Jennie, carries on the cheery tradition of these sorts of tours. It’s the usual cocktail of historical facts and fun bits of trivia, such as the difference between Brussels and Lieges waffles or why Bruges has two 'bridges of love'. Jennie is also fond of suspicious-sounding yarns about the origins of expressions such as ‘s***-faced’ and ‘stinking rich’. Just a modicum of scrutiny reveals them to be bunkum. Whether she doesn’t know or doesn’t care, isn’t clear. She says at the outset that she’s more interested in amusing us than imparting 'tedious' facts.
Two and a half hours fly past. We cover the same hot spots I have come across the night before and much more besides. At the end, as donations are collected, I ask Jennie about some other attractions on the other side of town. She looks puzzled. I show her the map. She pleads ignorance. It’s a different side of town, she explains. I find it odd that, being from such a tiny city, she doesn’t know every corner inside out. If nothing else, from sheer boredom and/or curiosity. It’s not the first time I’ve encountered this phenomenon. Must be a small town thing.
I do nonetheless stick closely to Jennie’s cultural and culinary recommendations throughout my stay, starting with the House of Waffles. It’s here I learn that restaurants and cafes are required to take customers’ information for possible virus track and tracing. I have an opportunity to practise French with the attentive multi-lingual waiter; a modern-languages graduate.
I come across a lot more French speakers in this part of Flanders than I expect. Bruges being heavily reliant on tourists, it makes sense.
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| Bruges Market Square viewed from the Historium |
Speaking of tourists , the streets are comparatively quiet for this time of year; particularly in the evening. There are still signs of life, no doubt, but nothing like a typical summer in Bruges from what I'm told. I’ll hear from multiple sources how the pandemic has reduced footfall.
On an artisan chocolate shopping spree, making bilingual small talk with one proprietor, she writes the year off. It’s not so bad for established businesses like hers, she says. They can afford to have a nest egg. It’ll be far more complicated for start-ups.
Later that week, I’ll be aggressively accosted by a toilet attendant and a sales clerk in two separate incidents. The first harangues me about mask-wearing rules, even when my nose and mouth area are fully covered. I protest my innocence, whilst she pesters me about CCTV cameras and possible fines. On the second occasion, the clerk chases me around the shop, scratching me with her false nails to get my attention.
'You couldn't hear me with your headphones on!' she insists, gesticulating.
She barks at me for not having a shopping basket, something that doesn’t seem to bother her other colleagues whom I’ve passed multiple times. It’s a post-pandemic rule I’ve never understood. She only calms down and apologises when I threaten to speak to the manager.
A number of attractions are subject to COVID-19 restrictions. Climbing the Belfort tower is by limited reservation only. My chances are scuppered by the time I arrive at 3pm. I do manage to climb the Historium tower. Access is restricted to 10 people, to avoid visitors brushing against each other on the stairwell. By the time I’ve climbed the 145 steps to the top, I’m grateful for this interdiction. Expecting to be protected from the elements by a glass or perspex covering, my vertigo surfaces with a vengeance on the narrow open air roof. A wall reaching my chin prevents me from falling to my death. With great trepidation, I do one turn around the tower, take some furtive photos and leave. Thank God there’s no-one else to jostle against.
Soundtrack: Quarantine Casanova by Chromeo, Lockdown by Anderson .Paak, Dinner Party by Dinner Party.
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