In Bruges

---

Ray: Bruges is a shithole.
Ken: Bruges is not a shithole.
Ray: Bruges is a shithole.
Ken: Ray, we only just got off the f**king train! Could we reserve judgement on Bruges until we've seen the f**king place?

That's not quite what we were thinking as Eva and I were dismounting our fourth connecting train. Unlike Ray, we made this journey of our own accord, and the lights of the town shining mysteriously though the fog of the evening filled us with excitement and anticipation. Only the rain and the bitter cold wind ruined the first impression, but only slightly - Bruges really does look majestic at night! The main tower is like a lighthouse in a sea of darkness, beckoning us towards its warm glow. And we follow this landmark, knowing that our hostel is somewhere in the town centre, which in town the size of Bruges is not that easy to get lost in.

We find the hostel pretty quickly, despite having no map and only vague directions on our printed confirmation slip. It's very central, as promised, hidden away in one of those small "alcoves" that Bruges is so famous for according to Yuri, the Russian arms supplier from the film "In Bruges". I can't help thinking about this film as I walk along the narrow street, and I know I won't be able to get it out of my head all journey long, although the peaceful quiet that surrounds us doesn't evoke even the slightest thought of shoot-outs or racist midgets.

The hostel, however, leaves quite a lot to be disired. The member of staff that welcomes us in is very friendly and speaks perfect English, but as we climb up flight after flight of stairs to our four-bed dorm we realise that he must be the nicest thing about this place. The stairs creak as if this was an old haunted mansion, but that's merely half the problem - after all, how is that different to the traditional English home? More worrying is the damn stench that hits our nostrils as we open the door into our dorm, the squaking of the bedframe as we sit on it and the ominous sounds made by the waterpipes a quarter of an hour after the tap has been opened. Not to mention the perpertually damp floor, which I discover later, when I return in a state of significant beer intoxication and try to undress for bed. But the only thing travel always eliminates are low spirits and going out to discover the town to avoid staying in the hostel is as good a reason as any. Agreeing that our first night here will be a much more pleasant experience after a walk, some food and a large quantity of Belgian beer we make our way out as soon as we can.

Bruges is an expensive town, with many more tourists than the general view of Belgium might suggest. It's nine o'clock in the evening and we arrive at the main square with every intention of having some dinner while enjoying a view of the sights. After all we can afford it, considering the price of our accommodation! Yet it is another half an hour until we manage to find a seat by the window in the crowded main-square restaurants, and the prices force us to consider the sharing option. Everything in Belgium comes not only with a portion of fries, but also often in a set three-course menu. I always feel that food is an interesting reflection on the culture of a country, but I guess you can't judge that by a tourist town, where everything is aimed at ridding the traveller of his hard earned pennies or cents. Even more interesting is the behaviour of the restaurant staff. I would be inclined to say they're less polite, but even more interestingly we seem to be coming across rather strange waiters. Our waiter is a caricature - he looks, walks and talks exactly like the "gay man" stereotype you would expect to see in a film. As I ask him whether we can have the set menu his first response is "No" and then he proceeds: "What would you like to drink?" with quite a bit of pressure. We quickly work out that in his lexicon "No" means yes and by the end of our meal we are almost used to his manner. He seems very interested in the fact that I "come" from England and Eva "comes" from Germany, but we speak Russian with each other - constant questions are the price you pay for an international family. Despite the slight strangeness of our waiter the meal is nice, and the first taste of local beer even nicer, and, rather satisfied, we leave in search of that bar - the one where I sat with Kristina, Julia and the two Petes on the way to our German New Year's adventure back in December 2009 - just over a year ago! The bar with 400 different types of beer in a massive menu. And, after wandering around the intertwining cobbled streets, we find it! It's exactly the same as I remember - a warm, welcoming atmosphere, and more choice of beer than I am comfortable with. Here we settle down for the evening, picking out stronger and stronger varieties of local brew and talking about our plans for the next day in Bruges.

The next day begins with backache and a sore throat from the stuffy air of the dorm, and of course the creaking of the bedframe. I feel as if I had partied the night away and slept for an hour, but this is less a hangover and more the consequence of spending the night in a room that was never intended for sleep. As we crawl out of our double-decker bed we realise it's almost 10 a.m. - we have missed breakfast, but it's not included anyway and all I want is a waffle, despite baking them at the Christmas market in Germany for a month. Waffles in Belgium are completely unlike any other waffles I have ever tried - they are made with pieces of sugar inside and smell of childhood. Eva, however, wants an omelette, and that turns out much harder to find - it seems that apart from the usual staples Bruges doesn't offer much variety in food, especially at affordable prices. Eventually, however, we find a place that offers both, and settle down for a late breakfast. I know that I will regret starting the day with a waffle, but childhood nostalgia is overpowering - after all, I spent three years of my early life walking around the street of Leuven, not too different or too far from Bruges, being tempted by the smells of waffles from every corner, sold from waffle vans that are in every way just like ice cream vans. The smell and taste triggers my memory within seconds and I feel as if I was 6 years old again. With its waffles and its mind-blowing choice of chocolate, Belgium is a child's heaven and a nightmare for those on a diet. But a few hours and two waffles later, I no longer find them so irresistable - for a "grown-up", the novelty soon wears off.

We spend the day wandering the narrow streets, looking at the canals and visiting old churches - what a middle-aged way to enjoy a city! But Bruges is just as enchanting in the day as it was by night, and even despite the continuous rain we enjoy every minute and spend hours admiring every stone of this medieval fairy tale town. Our evening is spent back at my favourite bar - after all, we have more beer types to get through! And somehow, after a tiring day of sightseeing, waffle-eating and beer-drinking, the second night in the hostels doesn't go too badly - maybe because we know it's the last one. But not the last day in Belgium - with a planned stop-over in Brussels on the way back to Germany, we have another busy day ahead.

---