Bruges, Saturday Dec 6

It is Saturday, December 6th, and we are on our way to Brugge, or Bruges in English, or Brujas, in Spanish. We are enjoying the early morning train ride, in a spacious cabin, clean, with large panoramic windows, thru which the morning sun makes itself present, as if making sure we are finally awake. The ride is “ a trip”: exciting, another adventure, traveling along unknown paths, depending on the mercy of English speaking commuters and/or train station staff for guidance. 

A quick Wikipedia search provides some highlights: Bruges (Dutch: Brugge) is the capital and largest city of the province of West Flanders in the Flemish Region of Belgium. It is located in the northwest of the country. Along with a few other canal-based northern cities, it is sometimes referred to as "The Venice of the North". Check out this link for more information on 'Brugge': http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bruges. 

Bruges was greatly expanded in the 1970’s and early 1980’s and has become one of Europe's most important and modern ports. International tourism has boomed and new efforts have resulted in Bruges being designated 'European Capital of Culture' in 2002.

  By the way, Brujas, or 'witches' in Spanish… I wonder why...What happened that the name seems to portray 'witches, witchcraft' stuff? I imagine it is something to further pursue, and patiently research…

Well, after arriving and walking just a short while, I'd say "none of it!; dispel any notions of mystery!” Just a few blocks from the train station, making a right onto a small side street, we came across a beautiful scene: a small walk bridge over a channel bordered by greenery, and a very pastoral, idyllic scenery. Soft greens, water in the channel just barely moving, sun shining low - early morning - making it a wonderful reception into the mysterious and famous Brugge. Exciting! 

We continued our walking into the larger city main, along very narrow cobbled streets, brick-lined walls on our sides, and cute, homey small houses, neat apartment facades, inviting, speaking to the wonders of an old past, calm life, without the glitz and chrome of present day hurried life. It made the mind wander: why rush? And, am I rushing? If so, to what? How? What about this for a way of life? We were in a distant place, distant from all familiar things, yet this was soft and comfortable, befitting and hospitable. Bruges: why not? Or, maybe, also, why? 

We came across more channels, and as we walked further, we found ourselves in the middle of 2 - 3 groups of tourists, each with a guide speaking multiple tongues - describing in various languages  versions of the story of the site being alluded to. I wondered how close those versions were: identical?, no nuance differences? I sensed a tingle of envy at that ability. Can you imagine – fluency in three or 4 languages! 

Ahead there was a small plaza, a courtyard with small shoppes, one of which had a great looking waffle plate, a baguette sandwich, and a cup of coffee in its display window, items which were not to be passed up. And in we went: wow, did they taste good! 

A short walk away, we came across a line of horse carriages, used by tourists to ride thru the city and take a break from the walk, and the insistent falling rain, which had been with us for over an hour by now. The horses were wet; the horses were 'working'. In this cold weather, how long were they worked around these streets? I wondered if they did have a warm, comforting 'room' to long for, as I was starting to? I wanted to ask the carriage attendant, but an inner voice de-insisted: communicating in chopped-up English and Dutch might not have been wise on my part, I thought. 

In the church - one of the many historic ones around us - a group was huddled around the main altar. Wandering there, to catch up on what they were so interested in, Sherry and I saw a unique sight:  the Madonna and Child by Michaelangelo, showing up from “the inner substance of the Carrara marble”, as if the finest of the finest marble had become play dough in the hands of the artist. The softness of the lines, the expression on Her face, the thighs and legs of the child - much like the memories of those of my own three children when they were babies - the presence radiated by the sculpture, made me realize the greatness of the artist. Who was he? Was he an advanced soul? What made this man so special, in so many fields? What was his role, for his time, and did he have one? 

Having seen that, there was no more reason to wander further around the streets of Bruges. The cold had started to seep in - deep inside the thick, but now wet, leather jacket. Tiredness started to make itself present: the legs were feeling stiff, and cold. It might be time to go back. Sherry agreed. 

With that, we said goodbye to the town center, and walked to the outlying train station. There was a train to come by within the half hour: “we'll get that one", Sherry pointed out. And so we did.