Brugge

Before we got to Belgium, we ate a delicious Best Western breakfast of chocolate sprinkles on bread. Of course, it was raining. And the train station did not have lockers. So we walked with all of our shit to the center of Middleburg, where there is an enormous brick Abbey, or Abdij. It is quite empty and silent, save for the pitter patter of rain and our footsteps. No one here goes to church on Sunday morning?

And...back on the train. No passport stamp, which is tragic. A minor train mix-up in Antwerp, but no big deal. Three black hat sightings. And then hauling our junk to Hotel Lybeer (which is really a hostel), located on a narrow, cobblestone street. As they all are, we soon learn. Brugge is a medieval city with a lot of old buildings and cobblestone squares. Kind of like all of the Netherlands, but even older. And it is FILLED with tourists. The kind of tourists who carry Fodor's Guides, which are very different from those of us who use Lonely Planet or Let's Go. Fodor's people stay in nice hostels and wear ironed slacks and carry purses. They eat at sit-down restaurants. Lonely Planet tourists stay in hostels, wear jeans and running shoes, and eat paninis from street cart vendors. We carry backpacks.

We carry our backpacks through a church that houses Michaelangelo's Madonna and Child statue, the only one outside of Italy. In it is playing the most beautiful choir music ever, it is called Veni Sancte Spiritus and composed by J. Berthier and M. Franck, listed under the title "Taize." I must find it somewhere are buy it. Then we carry our backpacks to a locker so we can enjoy yet another medieval art museum. And we climb up a bell tower. It is 315 or 336 steps high, depending on who you believe. I might choose to believe the building itself, because 336 steps sounds more impressive, despite the fact that I counted as I climbed. There are carillon bells inside and a fantastic view of the city.

We reward ourselves with some genuine Vlaamse Fritas, or Flemish Fries, which are made from Binji potatoes and cooked and then fried. The Dutch (and Flemish) eat them in little paper cones with mini pokey forks and mayonnaise. We request tomato ketchup. Then we take a canal cruise around the city. It is not so impressive, except for the building we pass that could possibly be the international clog house of pancakes and some swans on the grass.

After unsuccessfully using the hotel's computer (did you know there is a non-QWERTY European keyboard? Me neither.), we find an internet-snooker-bar
and did some internetting. Across the street was a fantastic sandwich / smoothie / crepes / waffle place. WE were very lucky to find such an amazing place like that, and the fact that it was still open at ten pm was double lucky. I got a goat cheese panini and carrot-apple juice. DELISH.

Back in the hostel, we meet Shane the Canadian who has just celebrated Canada Day at Vemy Ridge memorial in France. He enlightens us about how the rest of his country hates Torontonians because they not-so-secretly think/wish they were part of the USA. He is a voice talent and represents some Canadian company that I have never heard of. This last bit he doesn't tell us, but I hear it anyways, because the girl sleeping in my top bunk doesn't notice that both I and my mother are sleeping in bed and maybe she should keep her voice down. By "down," I mean not speaking as if she were on the other side of the room, when in fact, she is just three feet from Shane. He finally tells her that we are asleep and planning on waking up early and that they can talk shop in the morning. God bless Shane, although it really shouldn't have taken him twenty minutes to speak up. It was past midnight, after all. As soon as the lifhts are turned off, I fall asleep.

Oh! I almost forget the best part! My top sheet has a hole in it! Big enough for me to fit my hand through! This cracks me up to no end. My mother's also has this defect. It's like an Orthodox sex sheet, only with much more starch.