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| Bruges Market Square from the Historium Tower |
The evening of my birthday, I opt for healthy Tunisian veggie mezzes and sizzling chicken tagine at a Trip-Advisor favourite. However, for most of my sojourn in Bruges, I dutifully sample some of the local cuisine. Around the corner from the Town Hall & Burg, there’s a gaggle of restaurants that come tour guide approved. I’m not usually one for chips but it’s a Belgian speciality. I am told there are few places that use the authentic recipe.
Two nights in a row, I order traditional beef stew with Belgian fries from two different establishments. One restaurant’s chips surpasses their stew. It's vice versa for the other. Both eateries are run by families from the former Yugoslavia. Three Bosnian brothers talk excitedly about driving to Germany that night to celebrate Eid Mubarak with relatives.
I get into the habit of staying out late for dinner. One evening before supper, I catch an outdoor concert by a jazz trio at The Half Moon Pub and Brewery. I have chosen the right week to visit. Jazz only plays on alternate Thursdays.
After my meal I stroll around the environs, not too concerned about the late hour. At this time of year and this far north of the hemisphere, dusk falls close to 10pm. I’ve not heard of any problems with crime in Bruges. Besides, everything is so close.
Returning home from dinner one evening, I’m reminded to be on my guard. A couple of inebriated men walk ahead of me, just as I approach my accommodation. I can hear strains of what sound like NWA; as if they’re undergoing some pre mid-life crisis. The younger of the two keeps turning around in my direction. They walk too slowly for me to drop back.
As I pace ahead, I switch off my own music so I can be fully alert. I hope their attention is by now drawn elsewhere. No. A comment floats on the wind…
She has a good swing.
Any momentary satisfaction is subsumed with anger and frustration of how predictably this scene plays out. At any given moment, especially at that time of night, a woman walking past a group of two or more men can expect to have her form audibly scrutinised. Like some perverse rite. I consider how the average man would never have to consider either his safety or dignity in similar circumstances. How, if the tables were turned, it wouldn’t even occur to him to feel nervous. How he might have the luxury of not even noticing a group of women were around.
Thankfully, such an exchange isn’t characteristic of the trip. It’s mostly just the respite I need. The best moments are the most serene; far from the city hub and with an element of surprise. Like discovering the church round the corner from my Airbnb doubles up as a community culture hub. Even prior to COVID, the only services that took place were weddings and funerals.
A smooth wooden cylinder swing hangs from the church roof. I scramble on whenever I have the chance. At first the concept is incongruous, even irreverent. Yet on the other hand, for me, it makes absolute sense. I like visiting classic Western orthodox places of worship. I also appreciate the repetitive motions of a swing. Both can be soothing for a busy mind.
Outside the church building I exchange a kind word with a German tourist evidently battling with an eating disorder. She embraces me; a gesture that takes on much more significance at a time when we’re all a lot more paranoid about physical contact.
I'm less of my frugal self on this trip. I patronise local artisans, selling their wares almost on a daily basis at the various markets close to The Burg. One of them, claiming to be from Bruges, speaks with a strong Hispanic inflection. He explains he was born and raised in Argentina, returning to Belgium in the 1970s to escape the dictatorship. It's the start of a stimulating conversation about travel, language and the state of South American politics.
It's fitting that my last full day in Bruges is the most placid. Walking in the opposite direction to the city centre, I head to what remains of what were dozens of mills that lined the outskirts of town. A steady breeze mellows the 35C heat. I traverse canals and sprawling manicured landscapes. It’s calm but far from isolated. Cyclists and fellow pedestrians take advantage of postcard-worthy surroundings. I venture into side streets, on the hunt for the chapel on Jerusalem Street. I pass up on a ticket to stroll around the grounds built by the aristocratic Adorne family. Their estate has enough money.
I make my way instead to St Anne’s church and square. Inside the spectre of COVID looms; a quota on who can access the building, extremely sparse seating and many corners off limit to the public. I return to the serenity of the old docks and continue my windmill search. I stop for lunch and a talk with God. If the usual morose thoughts about ageing and the disappointments of life haunt my first night of the trip, they’re kept at bay for most of its duration.
On check out day, the house is empty. Brenda and I have said our farewells the evening before. She warned she might have popped out to the market by the time I leave. Following a café brunch, still with much time to spare, I take no chances and catch a bus to the main station. I arrive nearly 20 minutes before the departure of my coach. A mixture of confusing signs, busy customer service agents and the useless direction of Bruges residents means I will eventually miss my Flixbus (one of the few occasions it's actually on time, in my experience). Refusing to pay double for the train, I book another coach a few hours later.
It won't take long however for this inconvenience to be eclipsed by sweeter memories of Bruges.
Soundtrack: Quarantine Casanova by Chromeo, Lockdown by Anderson .Paak, Dinner Party by Dinner Party.
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