This set me back a few hours, but I was not too stressed about it. After all, I was looking forward to the next 48 hours and had been all week. I took the intercity train through The Netherlands (Den Hague & Rotterdam) into Belgium where it stopped in Antwerp before depositing me in Brussels. I had a 19 minute grace period before my connecting train left, which was, coincidentally, the most amount of time anyone should have to spend in Brussels.
I arrived at the Brugge train station at 5pm. I had a small map I had printed from the Internet which would get me to the door of my hostel on the other side of the historic centre. In the late afternoon sun I traipsed through Old Brugge accompanied by the clicker-clacker of my suitcase’s wheels as they bounced along the cobbled roads. I felt a bit like a child in Toys’R Us; everywhere I looked I saw something that drew my attention and I had to keep focused to remain on course.
I arrived at St Christopher’s Bauhaus hostel and checked myself in. I went up to my room where I met the one other occupant; Ben from Australia. He had decided to take a year off work and travel Europe. Like so many Australians I met on my travels in 2007, he planned to make the UK his home base, work there and do smaller trips. We chatted as I got myself settled in and swapped travel stories. After a change of clothes he invited me to join him for supper as he knew of a place that offered a plate of pasta for €4. I kindly explained that I was looking for something a little more high-end as I was here for a weekend of indulgence. Of course, I could relate to his thriftiness as I was constantly looking for a deal when I was travelling. But this weekend I wanted to enjoy the better side of the Belgium
kitchen, the side that is often talked about as one of their only redeeming features.There was another reason why I declined Ben’s offer; I had just arrived and was eager to do some exploring on my own. When I decided to come to Brugge, I considered inviting Marc as we get along so well and I think we would make decent travel companions. I recalled last fall when I spent two weeks travelling with Shawn and the week over New Year’s when I was in Austria with Nina and her family. Both were excellent trips, but ultimately, I missed the excitement of being a solo traveller, alone in
a new city.With my camera in my pocket I set out onto the streets of Brugge, relieved of the burden of trailing my suitcase behind me warning anyone within a two block radius that yet another tourist was coming. I quickly observed there were a hell of a lot of tourists here and it’s only March. I imagine the next six months are hell for the locals as they see 4 million tourists annually. Over my weekend I found the tourists penetrated every
nook and cranny of the town, inescapable by the poor people who try to lives their lives here. I felt for them, but at the same time, I was one of the “tourists” invading their peaceful way of life.I wanted to head to the centre of Old Brugge, the market, where the clock tower stands proudly, but that wasn’t as easy as I would have thought. Typically, you need do little more than look up and walk toward the
prevailing structure dominating the skyline and you will find yourself in the town centre. Brugge had many towers, all relatively of similar height, spread throughout the old town. After some careful study I was able to distinguish the church towers from the belfry. I tried not to use my map too often as that takes a lot of the fun out of the experience. For the most part, I only used my map to find my way back to the hostel.
Brugge has a population of 117,000 making it the sixth largest city in Belgium. However the old town is quite compact and surrounded by a large canal, keeping all the tourists in one dense area. There are eight bridges to allow traffic into the old centre and smaller canals carve their way through the centre giving Brugge a charm that reminded me of Edam (where Dad and I spent a day). Amsterdam would be the obvious comparison, but it wouldn’t be apt. Although in the Flemish part of the country and dominated by Dutch architecture, the feel, look and atmosphere of Old Brugge had more of an Italian feel to it than anything else. I was really surprised by that, but I kept finding myself on small streets and thinking how much it reminded me of Florence.
Once I found my way to the centre of Brugge I set out to find a place to dine. I investigated some of the restaurants canal-side, moving away from the tourist-dominated centre. But I wasn’t dressed appropriately for most of them, so I weaved my way back to the centre and picked one of the dozens of restaurants placed there solely for the tourism trade. In the shadow of the belfry I settled into a comfortable spot with in an older heritage house.
It has been noted that I sometimes tend to focus too much on food in my blog, but I feel I would be doing a disservice if I didn’t describe the food in Belgium as that was a large part of the experience I was seeking.
I picked one of the tourist menus and chose traditional Belgium/Dutch options. I started with fish croquettes (minced fish, breaded and fried) followed by a pot of steaming mussels in a broth with frites. To be honest I have had better mussels at the Belgian Vancouver restaurant Stella’s on Commercial Drive, but these were edible nonetheless. The
dessert was the best part; a ramekin full of chocolate ice cream with a frozen thick layer of pure chocolate on the top and smothered in a warm vanilla sauce that teamed over the edge onto the lining plate below.After dinner I went for a walk in the brisk evening air, strolling along the canals and taking in the city lights. I came across a little pub on a small side street and settled in for a drink. I sat at the small bar on the only available stool. Almost immediately I
got into a conversation with two ladies sitting beside me; a Brit and a Bruggeling. The Brit had spent a few years living in Montreal with her ex husband and the Bruggeling had lived for some time in the US, so we had great conversations, each having experienced the other’s culture while coming from opposite backgrounds. Unfortunately a large drunk man appeared and decided he would like to be part of our conversation too. Normally, this would have been OK except he had no comprehension of personal space. After hitting on the 
British lady, to no avail, he moved over to where I was sitting and talked at me as the two ladies watched with a look of pity. He was a tall man, hovering over me with his arm over my right shoulder holding his beer a few inches from my face while talking into my left ear. I asked him to give me some space, which he took as meaning come 
closer. I was almost finished my drink and the ladies had long finished theirs, so they settled up their bill. The drunken guy told the bartender he wanted to buy me a drink, but the ladies intervened and said I was leaving with them. I quickly paid, we left and I thanked them for helping me. We said goodbye and I headed back to the hostel.It was still early, by some people’s standards, but I wanted to go to bed so I could get an early start the next morning. I heard
the hostel before I saw it. The bar in the lobby was a party scene and I started to understand why they handed me a set of earplugs when I booked in. My room was directly above the bar and I dare to say it was actually louder in my room than in the bar itself as the vibrations of the music punctuated the noise. I put in my ear plugs before getting ready for bed to naively see if they would help. I was probably the only person wanting to go to sleep in the whole building and I was bunking in the loudest room in the place.I went down to the reception and was able to negotiate a different room, in the back of the building behind the kitchen. To my great
surprise, you couldn’t even tell there was a bar from within this room; it was perfectly quiet. I read for a while and went to sleep shortly before midnight.I woke up early and went for a morning walk at 7:30am. I walked down the road toward the market and came across a bar I had seen the previous night. The music was quieter, but there were still partiers from the night before sitting inside drinking beer. I headed to some of the locations I had seen the previous day with the intention of getting some photographs without hoards of people in them.
I returned to the hostel for breakfast, packed up my bags and checked out. This hostel was not my first choice. Before making hostel reservations I carefully read the last couple dozen reviews. You can tell a lot about a place this way and I pay particular attention to the age bracket of the people making the comments. I knew St Christopher’s was a bit of a party hostel, but it was the best (2nd best) of the bunch.My first choice was the Lybeer Traveller’s Hostel, but they could only accommodate me on Saturday night. One of the reasons I knew this hostel would be the right choice for me was from a
review written by an American traveller in his 20s who wrote “The lounge/bar closes at 11pm. This hostel sucks, it is so boring” Perfect!I walked across Old Brugge marching to the sound of my suitcase bolding announcing I was moving hostels. I arrived at Lybeer which sat on a quiet side street near one of the numerous churches. It was too early to check in, but they allowed me to stow my bag before coming back in the afternoon to check in. I took a quick glance
around the main floor and knew I was in the right place. Instead of a rowdy bar as a common area, they had a large room with breakfast tables. On one side was a tiny bar with four stools and some comfortable leather sitting chairs. Off to the other side was a separate lounge with a few couches and a bookshelf full of books for travellers to swap with ones they had finished reading.
It was now 10am, opening time for the information centre and the belfry, the only two locations I planned to visit. The information centre was a few blocks away where I was able to get a detailed map of the city. I glanced at some of the brochures advertising the city’s attractions, but decided against them. I had downloaded a lot of information on Brugge before coming, but never actually read any of it. I knew there were museums and galleries available, but with only 48 hours, I had to decide what type of trip I wanted. Walking and exploring with no timeline and being completely unrushed appealed to me more than anything else. I was at the mercy of my whim.
I did want to ascend the belfry tower as it would afford the best views of Brugge, so I braved the line, paid my fare and started the 83 metres to the top. Being a UNESCO World Heritage site and a prominent location from the movie In Bruges just made it all the more appealing.When construction started in the 1480s they clearly hadn’t the forethought to know this would become of the most visited sites in the region. Had they known this, perhaps they would have
made the staircase a tad bit wider. For one way traffic, it was steep and narrow. But considering it was used to ascend and descend, it made for an interesting exercise in impromptu traffic management.As I made my way down I called out to allow people coming the opposite way a chance to find a spot to stand hugging the wall. People on the way down were given priority and visitors climbing up huddled in the corners to allow us passage. It became clear why they were only allowing 70
people in the town at a time.Now, it was time to explore! As I walked down each street I would look around me with great interest. At each intersection I looked from side to side and would inevitably see something that would take my fancy. With the above-mentioned large canal that encircled the old town, I knew I wasn’t straying too far as long as I didn’t cross it. Because the other side bared the reality of commerce and industry;
something that would shatter the fairy-tale illusion of this town.Brugge dates back to the 13th century and has been sparred through all the wars, leaving it a medieval town in pristine condition. The eye candy is unabashed with Medieval Gothic
architecture around every corner. You can also see Romanesque, Renaissance, baroque, neoclassical and neo-Gothic architecture making every block of the old town a photo opportunity. I should know, I took 500 photos and that is not an exaggeration at all. After combing through my photos to weed out the poorer ones, I was left with 117. This is not to highlight my obsession with my camera, more to explain how photogenic this town really is.I can’t image anyone that wouldn’t
enjoy coming here. If you like food, beer, chocolate, old towns or architecture there is something here for you. There was an overabundance of pubs and chocolate shops, a one-to-one match for every resident Bruggeling. The smells that wafted out as you walk by the shops was intoxicating and explained the nose prints on the windows. I bought some chocolate for Nina and for my roommates as Jaana had specifically informed me the locks would be changed if I did not return with Belgian chocolates in hand.Some of the chocolate shops were more traditional than others as can be seen from the photo to the left with some chocolate treats in interesting shapes and sizes.
After walking along the majority of the old centre, I returned to the hostel. I was a little tired and my feet were starting to hurt from walking for many hours on cobbled roads with uneven ground. I checked in, went up to my room and enjoyed the 
view out over the rooftops of Old Brugge. My room was on the top floor, three storeys above the town and tastefully decorated with 2 bunk beds and a sink. I chose the lower bunk by the window and lay down for an afternoon nap. I woke an hour 
later, dressed for supper and headed back into the town. The previous evening I had settled for a meal that was less than perfect and I was looking for something a little more upscale this evening.I found a charming little restaurant on the main floor of an old house. The dining room was small, perhaps sporting the capacity for 24 guests with a fireplace burning as the centre point. The plaster was painted white and accented by exposed wood trim, beams and floors. The atmosphere was warm and inviting, so I took a seat at a small table in the centre of the room.
I had noticed many of the menus in Brugge advertised eel and seeing as it was obviously a specialty of the region, I decided to give it a try. My only other experience with it was smoked in sushi back in Vancouver which I frequently ordered. This time it came baked in a rich cream sauce accompanied by pomme frites. It was delicious; delicate in flavour, yet meaty in texture. The sauce complimented it well which I enjoyed with a half bottle of Alsatian Pinot Gris. 
It made for quite the enjoyable meal.I left feeling full, more the outcome of the wine than the food. I walked it off and ended up back at the hostel at an early hour. The common rooms off the foyer had a few guys flipping channels on the TV and a young Spanish couple sitting at the tiny bar chatting with one of the Belgian hostel staff members pouring beer. I took a seat on one of the stools and spent the rest of the evening chatting with the Spanish couple and the two alternating Bruggeling hostel employees who took turns standing behind the front counter and the bar.
I went to sleep early again and was out at 7am on Sunday morning. The town was still asleep and apart from the odd bakery that was opening their doors and restaurant’s cleaning crews on their way home, the town was still fast asleep. I made my way to the Beguinage, similar to a small commune in the centre of Amsterdam for nuns. This one, being an UNESCO site, was a zoo of the people when I had visited it the previous afternoon. Now, early on a
Sunday, a small cat trotted across the brick path as a procession of aged nuns made their way from the church to their homes.I returned to the hostel for breakfast and to pack my bag which I left at the front desk as I checked out. My plan was to take an early afternoon train, leaving me a few more hours in this preserved paradise. I walked along the edge of the town, bordered by the big canal which allowed me to see the modern life of Brugge that lived and worked like “normal” people on
the other side. Only 25,000 of the 117,000 Bruggelings lived inside the parameters of the old city giving an illusion of life that is really only a reality for 20% of the population.As I snaked my way back through the old town I found myself in a small square I had been to many times already; the home of the old Town Hall, renaissance inspired Old Recorder's House (white building pictured to the left) and the Basilica of the Holy Blood (the picture below the Recorder's House). I had seen a
few churches the previous day and was interested in this little gem. As I climbed the stairs and the sounds emitting from above became louder and louder, it occurred to me it was Sunday morning. I entered quietly and sat along the back wall. This church was fairly small and not as ornate as the others I had seen. In fact, it appeared the only decorations on the vaulted white arches of the ceiling were painted on in rich reds, pinks and greens. My timing was perfect as the Priest was retiring to his chair and the organist playing a beautiful piece of music. As she finished the Priest stood up and announced his sermon, even mentioning in English that he would not be able to translate it for us non 
Flemish-Dutch speakers. I waited for an appropriate time and quietly left.Time went by too quickly, but I achieved what I had set out to do. I quickly fell in love with the pace of life, the buildings and atmosphere cast over Brugge. I was successfully able to find the farthest reaches of the old town where there was little appeal for the tourists and I found myself among locals. I could imagine myself living somewhere so beautiful and was consciously thankful Europe still boasted places like this.
I would like to say I will be back at some point, but in all honesty, I really don’t know if I will. While walking the small streets it occurred to me there are probably dozens, if not hundreds of other small towns dotted around this continent every bit as beautiful and worth seeing. Why retrace my steps when there is a lot of virgin territory out there… at least, virgin to me.
