At 7 a.m. the streets of Brussels were just as vacant as they were last night. The absence of crowds and traffic jams helped me notice how clean this city is. Not only do they have people sweeping up stations and keeping up well-traveled areas, but they also have a waste system similar to Seattle’s, except they have one extra bin in addition to the recycle, compost and waste bags.I noticed something else this morning. The subway stations don’t smell like pee. They either have no distinct smell, or they smell like baked goods. At Midi, the pleasing aroma of pastries circulated with the train breezes making Midi my all-time favorite train station.
I kicked off my Bruges day trip by getting on the wrong train. The guy I bought my ticket from said track 15, I went to track 15, saw a train, and figured since the Bruges route runs just about every half hour in the morning, that I was more than likely in the right place. But the less than likely happened and I found myself exiting the train at Central Station and waiting 35 minutes for my transfer. Which is what I would have done anyway.
The Belgian countryside is spotted with small towns, familiar birch-like trees, grassy expanses and an occasional construction project. It’s especially beautiful when there are no clouds in the sky.
I arrived in Brugge before most of the tourists woke up, so after catching a local bus to the Markt and Burg Squares, I decided to wander around aimlessly until… well, until that got too monotonous. Yes, Brugge is a beautiful postcard city. It’s not nearly as heavy on the canals as say Amsterdam or Venice, but the spacious waterways add to the magic of the atmosphere just enough. It was fortunate of me to arrive in Brugge early enough to see the two squares populated with only small handfuls of people. Later on in the day, say around lunch time, thousands of tourists would be crawling around like rush hour for a colony of ants. Yes, once the city awoke, make way for the peppy cars, the easy-riding cyclists, the hulking busses, the horse carriages, and of course, the glassy-eyed tourist paying more attention to his camera than what’s in front of him.
There are several experiences that inspire the storyteller in me, so here are some vignettes about my day.
Once upon a time, a Filipino giant lurked the streets of Brugge. The quiet streets of the early morning were easily traversed, but despite the picturesque scenes of canals and Flemish housing, the giant had something sweet on his mind. Images of giant waffles floated in his head – fluffy ones like therapeutic mattresses, hardened crispy ones with waffle cavities large enough for pools of maple syrup. Having skipped out on breakfast, Waffle Giant was saving his appetite for what he firmly believed would be the perfect waffle. Then, in the window of a chocolatier, he saw what he was looking for. Waffle.
“One Waffle with chocolate and whipped cream please… oh and one hot chocolate,” he asked the fair maiden behind the counter. She presented him a freshly pressed waffle in a rectangular plastic container with two piles of whipped cream and a healthy showering of chocolate sauce. What would happen next was a euphoric out of body experience. Crunchy edges. Gooey insides. Sweet. Warm. Waffle. Perfection. It was so good, he forgot how to speak in complete sentences. It was so good, he called his dad to tell him, but forgot it was 1:30 in the morning where he lived. It was so good, it stirred a pot of emotions – joy at unsurpassed flavors and textures, sadness at the fact that these magic waffles were nonexistent where he came from…
Hmmm. Sounds like part one of my new children’s book! I think waffle giant is going to make waffle shops in Seattle! Anyone want to help me illustrate?
Stories aside, there was still plenty to get out of Brugge. A canal cruise provided different views of the city. After that, it was off to the friterie for some “French” fries (which we all know originated in Belgium, though it’s likely that other cultures also had the idea of cooking potatoes in oil). The difference between these fries and those of the golden arches is that these 1) aren’t frozen, 2) don’t possess immortality, and 3) are free of any anomaly fries, i.e. the soggy fry, the ashen fry, or the elusive unripe green fry. Another key difference was the blob of mayonnaise on top of my potato sticks. Easily five tablespoons of the fatty sauce. And while I couldn’t finish all the fries, I did manage to vanquish the mayo. Not sure if that’s a good thing.
These fries were so tasty, I decided to go to the Frites Museum. Should it go without saying that I also went to the Chocolate museum? I would have gone to the Waffle Museum if they had one. To be honest, even though the subject matter consisted of two of my favorite things in life, museums tend to lose hold of my slippery attention span. But after trying really, really hard, I learned some interesting factoids.
For starters, the Aztecs (Or was it Mayans? Or both?) used to mix their blood with cacao and offer it as a sacrifice to their gods. Speaking of deities, thank the beautiful nuns somewhere in Europe at a date I can’t remember for popularizing the addition of sugar to cacao, leading to the decadence of an otherwise bitter bean. Cocoa is broken down into three parts: paste, powder and butter, which really looks just like butter! The last fact I’ll share regards one of my favorite kinds of chocolate. White chocolate only contains one of the three elements of cocoa. Can you guess which one? Extra credit.
The Frite Museum was slightly less interesting, considering I just spent 45 minutes reading about chocolate. The history of the potato just isn’t as glorious as the cacao bean. And the frite shop at the end was a lost cause – I just had fries! I couldn’t possibly have them again… Or could I??? Do you think I did it? Do ya?!?
Still full from lunch – wait a minute. Did I have lunch yet? I think all I had was a waffle and then a box of fries. But my stomach was full, and it was just past one in the afternoon. Maybe that’s why my mind was thinking dessert. So naturally… Taco Time! … Oh excuse me, I mean waffle time! I wasn’t sure if I should try to fix the unbroken waffle I had earlier by trying another shop, or stick to what was good. Ordinarily, I’d follow the proverb, but since I was in the land of waffles, I found it necessary to be comparative. What I found was that eating a waffle in a dessert shop cost three times as much, and even though this new waffle was still better than any I’ve ever had back in the States, it was nowhere near the masterpiece I had that morning. The strawberries were a nice addition though. Still, it made me want to go back to the first waffle place and make things right. But I couldn’t possibly have three waffles in one day? Before 2 p.m., no less… Or could I?!?
Running low on cash – being frugal on vacation is not cool, but I’m here for three weeks and I don’t want to come back to Seattle completely broke – I figured I should visit a church. There were two that piqued my interest: The Church of Our Lady and the Basilica of the Holy Blood. Though it would have been cool to see the dedication to Mary, it was far, and the Basilica and its vial of blood that is said to belong to Christ himself sounded way more compelling. There was a short adoration line, and I hopped in it before masses of tourists would have made the wait discouraging. While in line, I had a student moment. I was surrounded by newbs who didn’t know how to take non-flash pictures in a church. (That sounded kind of snobby, didn’t it?) I only say that spitefully because guess who got chided for something he didn’t do… And I couldn’t help but channel my inner defensive 12 year-old and snap back, “It wasn’t me!” Sometimes, I just can’t help myself.I wasn’t sure what to expect from the Holy Blood, and when I reached the top of the stairs to lay hands on the vial, my first thought was, “Wow, if blood was to live in a glass container for 2000 years, this is what it would look like.” I’m not an archeologist or a historian, I’m merely a person of faith. And as a person of faith, I allowed the relic to fill me with thoughts. Yes, we can receive the Blood of Christ anywhere, any day of the week. But this was untransmuted blood. This is blood that was actually a part of Christ. If that is true, and I find no harm in believing that it is, then this relic is truly inspiring and I did feel a sense of that numinous awe as I walked down the stairs.
As I stood in line and as I reflected, choral music played in the background. Thanks to Diane, I involuntarily started singing along with the bass part of Ave Verum Corpus, and then later, Sicut Cervus. These moments are special, when you have an experience that connects directly to a significant part of life back at home – for me it was the connection of faith and music.
After that experience, I realized I was zapped. Also, the perfect blue skies of the morning gave way to rain clouds, so I decided to call it a day at about three o’clock. I know it sounds lame. It actually kind of is. But to that I say, that’s why I like traveling alone. Guilt free, I hopped the train back to Brussels, bought a Turkish chicken sandwich at a snack shop next to my hotel, took a shower, ate my sandwich while watching an episode of Avatar on my computer, then fell asleep at 6 p.m. And that brings us to where I am right now, awakened at 3:30 a.m. to write to you.
Despite calling it a day much earlier than I wanted, it was an amazing day. I was beaming all morning with my trademark smile throughout Brugge, I wandered not only the spiffy streets frequented by tourists and locals, but also the alleys and buildings of the medieval city. And best of all, I fell in love with an amazing waffle. If you think I’m exaggerating, you’re relatively right, but oh, I promise you, if you got grinds for waffles like I do, you’d feel the same way.
Back in Brussels, the light rain turned into torrential downpour. I opted to ride a bus back so I could get some ideas for tomorrow… or today, as it is. I didn’t expect to sleep for so long, but it definitely felt good! Now guess what I am. Here’s a hint: it starts with an “H” and ends with an “ungry.”
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