I’m in Bruges!
I had gotten to Brussels Central early as I wasn’t entirely sure I knew what I was doing… though do I ever?
The trains apparently run a little late here in Belgium… but your ticket is good on any train all day. As a result, I caught an earlier train that after a late departure got in at about the time when I expected.
When I was riding on the train though I was struck by how quiet it all was. Not just the passengers who seemed as mousy as if in a library. But by the train itself. I guess maybe it’s because I grew up with SEPTA and AmTrak, with their click-clacking cars, and rumble grumble trains. Yet even during my extended time in England I found their trains noisome and noisy. Efficient, but noisy. This Belgium train was like a glider – just zipping along, a slight rhythmic hum that’d be at home on the starship Enterprise. It was an entirely pleasant, civilized way to travel.
“Ken, I know I’m awake, but I feel like I’m in a dream….”
–In Bruges (2008)
Bruges. It’s overrun with tourists but that’s to be expected given its history, both medieval (some of the oldest buildings in Europe) and cinematic (the violent and darkly comic flick In Bruges).
I stopped at my Airbnb which is, as has so often been the case, typically weird. At least this time instead of being in a cupboard under the stairs I’m in the attic. It just means climbing three flights of narrow, twisty stairs. But at least there’s a window. And working wifi. The bath is a bathtub with an extended shower head that seems designed for pygmies. Is this what happens when I DON’T book a murder hotel?
Heading into the city proper, my first order of business was to see the famed Belfry, and ya know what? It kinda lived up to the hype. It’s no Eiffel Tower but I wasn’t expecting that. I just wanted it to be impressive. Fairy tale-ish. And ya know what? Once upon a time I saw the Bruges Belfry…
My second order of business was to board a canal boat is cruise the area in the hopes of getting a lay of the land. I didn’t catch our skipper’s name. Let’s call him Robert. That’s “Row-bear.” Not “Rob-art.”
As we motored along I saw where Colin Ferrell… or, as Robert said, more likely Colin’s stunt double… leapt into the canal during the climatic chase of In Bruges (2008).
And of course, I saw some swans.
Here’s a quick selection of the boat pics. The bridges were super low ceilings… to the point one unnamed bridge was nicknamed by Robert as “Bridge Guillotine” as if you didn’t duck it would take your head off.
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After the cruise I happened to see another umbrella in the square offering Free Walking Tours. I missed the very beginning of the talk but for the next two plus hours Rick regaled us with some legends and a bit of true history of Bruges.
A few tales from Rick. Mistakes are mine in my frantic transcriptions and poor listening skills.
Back when Vikings raided the small village that was this place, they called it “Brygga” which means “mooring place” or “harbor.” This Scandinavian word would eventually filter into Flemish as “Bruges” which Flemishly apparently means “harbor” or “mooring place.” Water and the trade via water played a big part in Bruges’ history and thus the canals have a special place in the city’s heart and soul. There are only 12 km of canals these days, no more than 2 meters deep. But when the place was founded, shipping and trade was the be all end all. Textiles were big in Bruges and its cloth and materials were famed far and wide (and still are). And all this trade and commerce, this center of European markets, generated massive amounts of money. So much money that the Bruge-ians built the famed Belfry to show off their wealth and prestige; it was also useful as a lookout for enemies approaching… but it was MAINLY about the ostentatious status.
At some stage, the King of France took notice of the cash pouring into Bruges and duck into the archives to prove he had a claim to the land… and thus started to tax the town. That didn’t go over well and two locals, a weaver and a butcher, started a local militia that on May 28, 1302, went door to door and killed all the French in town. The theory was that a French person’s accent would give them away when they were made to say the Flemish phrase schild en vriend that translates to “Shield and Friends.” The king was obviously upset and dispatched 8000 of his top soldiers to sort out the town… but the cunning militia decided to boldly ambush the approaching army at a chokehold point in a swampy, marshy area. This ragtag band of merchants milita defeated the French finest in what is known as the Battle of the Golden Spurs (July 11, 1302). That date then is a special day for the Flemish community of Belgium.
The French King made peace with Bruges, marrying off and aligning power, ushering in a golden age for the town.
It would all go sideways in the late 1400s when the town would kidnap Maximilian I to protest his rule and taxation. They imprisoned him and made him watch as they killed his biggest supporter in the town, Mayor Peter Longneck. Eventually the people released the king with promises that he would not tax them as harshly and would not punish them for kidnapping him. Bold and stupid. Maximilian symbolically punished the town by saying they must forever and three days protect the longnecks as penance for killing his friend the mayor, thus explaining the swan population that exists to this day in Bruges. And then he elevated rival cities Antwerp and Ghent as trading centers, leaving Bruges the bastard stepchild and struggling financially thereafter.
It wouldn’t really be until 1900 when there was a rediscovery of Bruges as a tourist attraction and a new harbor reinvigorated the town’s trading profile.
Again, all of this is reductive and told on the fly — and even now as I type it, I’m truncated and ellipsising and omitting and cherry picking some fast facts. There are some great stories to be told, as is true of all towns and places and history. I have done a poor job of summarizing but if you’d like to know more, perhaps you could visit your local library… or, sigh, yeah, I know… you could google it as I do all too often.
Some photos with more to come in the next few days as I revisit and re-explore.
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After the tour, I grabbed my complimentary vouchers and discount coupons. The line for waffles proved daunting and I wanted to queue up for the blood of Jesus Christ. Did I have to?
It was a weird conveyor belt of revenants. We were in line, waiting to walk up a set of stairs to the vial encased in plexiglass, overseen by a priest. You deposited your offering and placed your hand on the glass, taking a moment for a silent prayer or contemplation. The priest handed you a tiny card about the vial and you walked dine the stairs as the next paying pilgrim ascended.
The card doesn’t say, “I touched the blood of Christ!” Or “Jesus Christ! I touched the vial!”
I only wish it did.
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There was something mechanical about the whole thing. The same could be said for the Waffle Truck guy but whereas the Basilique Du St. Sang felt a little gauche to me, watching the waffle man in action was like poetry. He’d take a set of four orders and then whip up each one, flipping the waffles from his grill and customizing as he went. Banana splits, strawberry chocolate, powdered sugar, and dulche de leche all receiving individual attention and topped with a tiny Belgium flag. It was glorious.
And my gooey, globby, good gravy Marie! crumbled speculoo cookie waffle was great.
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And as the sun set and the moon rose, the lights on the various buildings twinkled. Here then is my take on Bruges at night:
