Belgium - Bruges & Brussels
4 September 2007
Rob and Marissa woke me this morning as they were leaving for Bruges; I went back to bed and, like a smart girl, slept through the free breakfast. Once I did actually tumble out of the bunkbed, though, Andrew and I took the subway to the train station, and we're on the train to Bruges now. I've come to the decision that it's pretty rude to go for English without even attempting the native language. I saw an English couple walking around the platform at the train station, asking everyone they passed if they spoke English. Asking in English, naturally. I've seen a lot of things like that since we hit Brussels. Is it really hard to learn how to say 'I'm sorry, I don't speak French; can you help me?' in French? I know how to say it. I can't spell it, naturally, and my accent is atrocious, but I can say it.
The Belgian countryside is lovely. Pastoral, red-roofed houses and barns, horses and sheep and cows, lots of greengreen grass and trees and bushes, the occasional church steeple. It looks quiet and sleepy, like the sort of town you'd set a low-budget horror movie in. I keep half-expecting to see a blood-and-brain-drenched zombie stagger out from behind a haystack, dragging its busty blonde prey by the ankle. Or maybe the hair. I haven't decided yet.
There's no way I'm actually going to type this and put it into my blog.
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In Bruges, we walked from the train station into the town. I wasn't sure about it at first; the long walk along a canal was pretty, sure, but it seemed to be mostly path and grass. There were insane bikepaths and amounts of bikes; a very cycling-friendly city. We walked through the outskirts of town, along narrow cobblestone streets, mostly residences rather than businesses. Just as I was beginning to despair ever finding civilization again -- BAM, we turned a corner and hit tourist central. Not exactly what I had in mind when it came to civilization, but it, I decided, would do. We got lunch, in the form of pasta bolognase in a long cup from a tiny pasta shop, and sat in a square to eat and watch groups of elderly tourists congregate.
Breakfast/lunch over with, we walked farther into the town to find, big surprise here, the tourists swarming. It was easy to see why, though. The little cobblestone streets alongside canals, brightly colored flowers in all the windowboxes, and then, suddenly, a cathedral. It was enormous, from rising among the low-lying buildings and twisty streets, and stunning. We went inside to find vaulted ceilings, a cavernous space that was remarkable for its relative quiet, considering its space and the numbers of people inside. There were signs in numerous languages calling for silence. It affirmed my faith in humanity a little bit that people actually obeyed the signs' request. We saw a statue by Michelangelo, one of the very few to make it out of Italy. Andrew was pretty into that. For me, it was the cathedral itself that took me by surprise. It was incredible. The hush, people wandering quietly; old paintings and carvings and statues tucked into dimly-lit alcoves, some with rows of candles burning in front. Piped-in French choral music sounded like the proverbial choirs of angels singing, I shit you not.
I dropped the suggested Euro donation into a box and lit a candle in front of a bust of the Virgin Mary, and I said a prayer. I can't remember the last time that I said a prayer. I'm still not entirely sure what drove me to it. I felt awed, I felt humbled and really tiny. There was a sign in several languages. From what I remember, it said, 'Welcome, citizen of this town or pilgrim, you are welcome here in this house of God, for He loves all His children of the world,' and for a second, just a second, I felt close to God in a way that I haven't since I was a little girl. I believed in Him. I wanted to capitalize His name (and look at me, I'm still doing it now). I felt something fill my chest and I blinked a couple of times. I sat down and stared up at the ceiling and the moment passed; I saw drunk Irishman from last night walking down the aisle, and I waved to him. I found Andrew at the entrance and we moved on, but outside, the steeple rising high above the rooftops still brought a lump in my throat.
There was another cathedral in town, too, but for whatever reason, the second didn't elicit the reaction, that second of warmth and understanding, that the first had. I can't begin to speculate why. We found the Grote Markt of the town, which was essentially a giant town square, closed off to vehicular traffic. There was a huge statue in the middle, which we sat at the base at to catch our breaths, and I took a look at what was surrounding us. It reminded me of a small-scale version of the Grote Markt in Brussels, with a clock tower, tourists swarming across the square, and the addition of the horse-drawn carriages that we'd seen all through town, which apparently picked up and disgorged passengers here. We were pretty done, by that point, so we headed back toward the train station. I stopped into a shop along the way to pick up a couple of postcards, and the shopkeeper made my day by assuming that I spoke French after I said 'bonjour' to him. I would have gotten away with it scotfree, too, except that he asked me a question in French, and I had to pull out the patented 'oh God, oh God, are you talking to me?' blank stare, and he immediately switched into English long enough to tell me that he'd thought I was Belgian, and to have a nice day.
The train back to Brussels was uneventful; I closed my eyes in Bruges and opened them in Brussels, where we went to the Comic Strip Museum, which I was disappointed in. I stupidly missed the 'strip' part of the title, so I went in first expecting to see comics by Miller and Moore and Vaughn, X-Men and X-Wing and X-Something else, I'm sure. After realizing that this was a comic strip museum, I was Shocked and Appalled (not really) to see that there were no "Peanuts," no "Cathy," and certainly no "Family Circus" or "Prince Valiant." Here's a shocker: the Belgian Comic Strip Museum was, gasp, mostly about Belgian/European comic strips. A large section of the museum was given over to Tintin, who's apparently an iconic and famous Belgian comic character (who I had never heard of; Andrew was horrified). What made me happy was the display on the Smurfs, who were apparently a Belgian invention. Who knew! But I still have yet to receive the answer to a question that has plagued me since I watched Saturday morning cartoons: How did the Smurf race survive with only one Smurfette?
The museum had some interactive exhibits that looked like a lot of fun. Unfortunately, there was this thing where I, A) didn't know the characters, and B) can't read French or Flemish.
Exhausted, we wandered back to the hostel, where naps were had and I cemented my friendship with new roommate Megan, an accountant from Texas traveling on her own for four months, by blowing out her power adaptor with my surge protector. Thankfully, my surge protector exploded as well (pretty spectacularly, actually; there were popping noises and wisps of smoke and everything), so at least I managed to destroy my own electronic gear along with hers. As there were no hard feelings, Andrew and Megan and I wound up talking at a table in the hostel's bar for a good, long while before bed.
Talking American politics and baseball scores in Brussels felt very weird. Also, I'm not quite sure how I managed to wind up traveling with the most enthusiastic Yankees fan I know, but we haven't killed each other yet! That counts for something.
