In Bruges ...

It is fair to say that my visit to Bruges ended better than Colin Farrell, Brenden Gleeson and Ralph Fiennes trip to the quaint Belgian city did, but I must admit to a bit of partiality. Bruges is known as the “Venice of the North” and when I was told by my couch-surfing host, Enrique, that he would be studying for an exam all day, my day trip to Bruges was instantly cemented.

Bruges lies a short, but pricey train ride, 90 km outside of Brussels. I reached the train station about an hour after I intended, a bit weary from not too much sleep the night before. The train ride is a bit longer than I expected; but, after an hour, I’m there. I walk out of the train station, taking eager glances to my right and left, ready to catalogue this small quaint city that is to be my home for the day. Immediately outside the station, I find that my eager glances fall upon a busy highway. “Where’s Bruges?” I wondered to myself softly. As it would turn out, I exited the wrong side of the train station ... it took longer than is defensible to sort myself out.

But, minutes later, I knocked down the stone mosaic paths, smoking a positive cigarette, and tried my best to unfold myself to the city ... didn’t quite work. I carry along the alleyways, making a quick turn here and there, knowing from my map (yes, I had a map and managed to get myself lost leaving the train station) that the city’s streets were not laid out in a fashion entirely conducive to efficient paths to the city centre.

I found myself walking away from the city centre, tracing the curved path along a river through a park (again) but I was not bothered about that. When you open yourself to a city, you also open yourself up to its city planner (or lack of one); however, when I rediscovered my place on my map, I noticed that my location was tediously close to the train station. “Damnit” I said, half scolding, half laughing at myself. I needed a plan. I smoked a cynical cigarette, checked out the flipside of my map (a guide to Bruges made by locals for young travellers) and after a quick skim, instantly found my destinaish.

The bar was called De Garre, which is famous in Bruges for being the only place in the world that serves Garre beer, a thick, creamy, luscious, amber beer. My mouth was watering by the description of it. I flipped my map back over and plotted my route to De Garre, a nice 15 minute walk, I estimated. Six minutes later, I found myself lost, frustrated and smoking a perplexed cigarette. However, when I located the source of confusion, I found that I was not entirely at fault. I had walked passed it. Well, not passed De Garre, but passed the groovy alleyway that leads to the tucked in bar. This was due to my failure to adjust to just how small of a city Bruges is. What looks like a fifteen minute walk in a normal city turns out to be just around the corner in Bruges. I had just misoverestimated my walk to the bar.

I get inside, order the fateful beer and take a seat, eagerly awaiting its arrival to my table, lips, tongue, mouth and stomach. It arrives, I taste it. “Oh, god.” It’s like beer-candy. Not being particularly prone to Belgian wheat-beers, favouring the dark Czech lagers instead, Garre instantly rose to among the peaks of my European beer tasting experiences. The sweetness, typical of Belgium, mixed with the dark, heavy body of it and rich amber colour, struck a balance that demanded both laudation and repetition. “Another Garre, si vu ple.”

As I left De Garre, smoking a rejuvenated cigarette, I was finally able to unfold myself into Bruges in the manner that I intended from the get-go. The alcohol may have helped a bit, sure, but it was more the feeling of authenticity, of engagement with the city. I had tasted its treasures, twice, and I had a pleasant rest-of-the-day to spend at my leisure in the most picturesque (while tolerably touristy) wonder of North Western Europe.

That familiar, tangible feeling is back. I did not expect to get a third crack at continental Europe, but The Stud is back in full effect, prancing along through this tremendous playground built for 21 year-olds. That cocktail of apathy and cynicism that I felt in Norwich has been washed down by two glasses of Garre, and while more treasures lie ahead for me in this sacred playground, more revelations will unfold ... LW