June 26, 2022. After breakfast with my friends, I packed up for Bruges—well, almost. I made it halfway to the car before realizing the keys were still back at the house. Classic. After a 40 minute delay, I got on the road and arrived around 11:45. I thought about visiting a museum right away but decided to just walk around instead and soak it all in.

I meandered past the Belfry of Bruges, a medieval bell tower which had quite a history. It had housed a treasury, municipal archives, and served as an observation post for spotting fires and other dangers. I learned that Bruges had been a major center for the wool trade in Flanders, with a flourishing wool market and woolens weaving industry which attracted numerous foreign merchants, including Castilian wool merchants. I walked from the city center toward the ring canals that encircle the town. And enroute, discovered Guido Gezelle’s childhood home, now a literary museum. There was something really peaceful about it: the garden, the museum, his love of nature, his teachings about natural history… it all felt very rooted and alive. I read some of his poetry and felt even more connected with him. His prose and poetry had had quite an influence, and I was surprised to learn that he had been a Catholic priest given his environmental leanings, since Christianity has often been used to justify the domination of nature.

Craving chocolate (as one does in Bruges), I wandered into a candy shop where I watched them make hard candy. I bought a chocolate bar, some violet and orange pastilles from Provence—which I hadn’t been able to find in France—and some nougat. Sadly, the nougat was a letdown. Nothing like the chewy, real-tasting stuff from Rochefort-en-Terre. This one tasted like air and sugar.

The old meat hall or Vleeshalle was located in the Great Market Square where the Wednesday market is held. Across the way is the new Concertgebouw Brugge built in 2002. I was told the concert hall was one of 1001 buildings in the world to see before you die. Curious statement. I walked along a canal, saw a statue by Jan Van Eyck, and came upon the inner courtyard of a church that felt like a hidden paradise with a fountain, lush grass, and trees. And I couldn’t help but think: this tranquil space was for the church fathers to relax, while the peasants had nothing.

On Hendrik’s suggestion, I looked for the chocolate museum which unfortunately was closed. I decided I’d have to return another day. I crossed a bridge and ended up in the neighborhood with the English seminary where Gezelle had once worked. There were all sorts of restaurants and tapas places there—had a nice vibe.

Desperate to pee, I used the bathroom at the Crown Hotel—thankfully they let me in without charging (I refused to pay .50 on principle, although I did cave once in Reims). Charging for bathrooms reminded me of Urinetown, the musical, and the ridiculousness of it all.

By nightfall, I was relieved to find the car still there—no ticket, no towing. I’ve been on edge the entire trip about whether my handicap placard would be accepted in Europe. In Ghent, a kind policewoman called her boss and confirmed it was valid, but in Rennes, it was a shrug and a “probably not.” So every time I come back to an untowed car, I feel like the Stoics were right—expect the worst, be pleasantly surprised.

The drive back, though, yikes—got cut off by a guy who was clearly annoyed I was going the speed limit in the middle lane. Point made, buddy. People here tend to swing right and then shift left last-minute without signaling. I’m all for lane discipline, but the weaving freaks me out.

June 27. I headed back to Ghent City Museum, letting the receptionist know that Kate and Kristof had said I could return. While the woman eyed me skeptically, Kate popped up moments later and backed me up. She told me the party had gone well—they liked their drinks, she said, and made a motion that looked like she had to shovel people out. Loved her.

I went through the exhibits again and finally made it to the modern section, where I learned about the political refugees of the 1980s, the big influx of Turkish workers during the textile boom, and just how much of the city’s makeup had changed. During a sudden downpour, I took shelter in the monastery room with that gorgeous plaster ceiling and watched the storm roll in—rain pelting the windows, air turning cold. It was oddly calming.

After the rain let up, I biked across town to the Industry Museum—only had about an hour before closing. I would need much more time to do it justice, but made a beeline to the top floor, which focused on factory owners and textile workers from different periods of Ghent’s history, including lace, flax, wool, and cotton workers. I learned how the American Civil War disrupted cotton supply chains, affecting Belgium’s economy too. There were grim exhibits about working conditions for child laborers—especially the ones who had to crawl under machines to cut flax knots, getting paid by the weight of the knots they brought in. Brutal stuff.

I realized too late there were three more floors—printing presses, raw materials, sales and marketing—so I sprinted through, snapping photos and trying to take it all in. No working looms, sadly, like in Lawrence, Massachusetts. At 5 pm sharp, they gave me the boot.

I locked up my bike and wandered toward a gelato place I’d heard about—Nonno I Mundo—but it was closed. Disappointed, I walked through the city center, found a stir-fry stand (blessedly not fried food), ate on a park bench near the abbey, and took the long way back along the river. It turned into a beautiful evening.

June 28. I felt compelled to return to Bruges, and headed first to the Gruuthusemuseum, a 15th-century Gothic mansion and architectural masterpiece with intricate carvings and ornate interiors. I strolled through the halls and rooms decorated with art and tapestries, admiring the beautiful furnishings and decor and learning about the Gruuthuse family. I loved their collection of medieval manuscripts, musical instruments, ceramics, and silverware which gave a flavor of what life had been like for the wealthy. It was also interesting to find out about the English gentlemen who romanticized Bruges. A strange affection that shaped a lot of how the town was restored and preserved. Through the audioguide, I learned a great deal about the Neo-Gothic revival, a movement started by Englishmen in the 19th century. They saw Bruges as charming, quaint, and inexpensive—almost frozen in time. The museum provided fascinating insights into how Bruges was perceived and how historical narratives are often shaped by outsiders.

At 3:30 I zipped over to the Church of Our Lady to see Michelangelo’s Madonna and Child—the only sculpture of his to leave Italy. It’s made from Carrara marble and nestled in this beautifully preserved chapel. The chapel had a little window where the lord could watch the priest giving the service in the choir stall from his seat like a box at the opera. The public could not see the priest as the choir stall was hidden by a rood screen, at least until after the Reformation. The seats in the stall were adorned with coats of arms from the Knights of the Golden Fleece—a nod to Philip the Fair, who started the order. So much symbolism, so much power embedded in design. Guilds had tremendous influence and there was signage about how they conducted business.

At 3:30 p.m., I hurried to the church whose entrance was included with the museum ticket, eager to see Michelangelo’s Madonna and Child. It is the only sculpture of his that ever left Italy, carved from Carrara marble. Inside the church, I was struck by the noble chapel window, which allowed its occupant to view the priest conducting the service in the chancel. The choir stalls were adorned with the coats of arms of the Knights of the Golden Fleece, a chivalric order founded by Philip the Fair. There was extensive information about the importance of guilds in Bruges and how they conducted business in the medieval period.

With minutes to spare, I ran to the chocolate museum just before last entry at 4 pm. I forgot my phone at the entrance and had to run back to the beginning of the exhibit, which caused the audio guide to stop. They kindly gave me another, and this time I took my time absorbing it all—how cacao had essentially been stolen from indigenous cultures by colonial powers, the manufacturing of sugar which had deep roots in the slavery economy, and the invention of Dutch cocoa and other types of chocolate. There were many videos that detailed this history, I skipped the demo to finish the exhibit but still got a chocolate sample (and took a few extras from the machine that dispensed chocolate pastilles like a gum ball machine). I bought lavender chocolate for Hendrik like I promised—though it contained lecithin and vanilla, which Claudio Corallo at Alegia Chocolate would not have approved of.

From the museum I rambled around the neighborhood and found an Americana hamburger joint. I ate a good burger for only 4 Euros, while two Aussies chatted with the owner about local rents—apparently you can get a place for 700 Euro a month. That sparked my interest, and I found myself daydreaming about living in Bruges. A fairy tale. I wondered whether I would tire of the beauty and historical importance of such a place. I hoped not, but reflected on the way that many take their life (and people, places, and circumstances in their life) for granted. I was certainly guilty of this at times.

They were a friendly bunch and we talked for a bit before I walked back through town, checking out the edges—old churches, the abbey park, and a fascinating garden behind another church that was just stunning. JC told me that his partner Becky (and a dear friend) had taken a turn for the worse. She had been battling a rare form of bladder cancer. I called and told her I was sending her love and hoped that she would heal. That conversation stayed with me for days after, and I thought of her often, sending energy to her spirit and hoping it would uplift her.

I walked back past Gezelle’s childhood home where I found what looked like a commune, perhaps a beguinage which looked slated for destruction. I loved the quaint homes and shared gardens. In the center of town I discovered a hospital apothecary museum complete with a garden detailing medicinal uses of the plants. I wished I’d seen it prior. I headed to the car, looking for Belgian fries, which Shawn told me I had to try. On the way I walked through Queen Astrid Park, then headed home. I stayed up late talking with my friends and said goodbye to Katharina who would be gone before I was up in the morning. For some reason I couldn’t sleep.  Probably too much chocolate.