Blonde Folie: The Venice of the North

Upon the booking of my bus ticket to Bruges, Belgium, I found myself announcing to everyone my spectacular day trip plan. In previous conversations, I heard marvelous things about this small Flemish city. Naturally, at dinner a few nights before my departure, I mentioned to my host mother of my day trip set for the 17^th of February. Like any typical French person, she began to ooze with passion when the word Bruges fell out of my mouth (I have come to realize that the French may be the most passionate people on this planet…everything from the beauty of rain and snow to documentaries on giant squid-more to come on that topic, I promise).

For the next 20 minutes, my host mother poured all her adorations and obsessions with Bruges right on to the dinner table and into the goat cheese, tomato and mushroom quiche. When her speech came to an end, she casually mentioned how Bruges is considered the Venice of the North…and that is when my heart sank. Italy and I have an interesting relationship. I fawn over their gnocchi and carbonara, I admire nearly every piece of artwork that is a product of the High Renaissance, and I marvel over the intricacy of Baroque architecture and décor.

Yet every city I have been to in Italy has been an utter disappointment. Florence- rainy, overly large pigeons, insane amount of fanny pack wearing tourists. Rome-just as dirty as Florence, incredibly small metro system, creepy men. And then Venice. I was in Venice for only two days in the winter of 2011, and it was horrid. The rain, the cold, the winding, claustrophobic streets and passageways…Venice was not the city for me. So when I heard that Bruges was the Venice of the north, I felt an ominous cloud form over my head in preparation for my day trip Sunday (I’m not this dramatic in person, I swear…)

My bus departed from the Musée du Louvre metro stop at 7am. The four hour bus ride was pleasant and I found myself loving the deserted country side as the sun rose quietly over the small green hills. It was also interesting to learn that it is required by French law that bus drivers must stop for a minimum of 30 minutes to rest, so as not to over do it. Only in France would a break be required by law.

When we arrived in Bruges, all of my fears dissipated into the thick fog that hung over the city. In Paris, I would moan and groan at the sight of a cloudy day, but in Bruges, the cold misty, fog was almost comforting. We toured most of the city in an hour and a half and then had three hours or so of free time. After a wonderful lunch of cauliflower soup and smoked cod fish at the family-run restaurant called Beethoven, Joelle and I went to the Groeningemuseum, visited Notre Dame, took a short canal tour, and popped into a few lace shops as well.

And then….there was death by chocolate. OH THE CHOCOLATE! The woman behind the counter at the Chocoladehuisje on Wollestraat did not look amused when I changed my mind nine times about the chocolates I wished to purchase. But what did she expect? I may have the biggest sweet tooth of anyone I know, so I had reached my chocolate paradise. Bruges was the city for me.

Leaving was difficult, but Paris was waiting for me and I hated to be away from the City of Light. On the night bus back to Paris, I reflected on all the ways in which Bruges was not the Venice of the North. Instead, I found Bruges to be a wonderful conglomerate of Prague, Amsterdam, and Venice. The architecture was reminiscent of Prague thanks to the varying styles and colors in buildings. The abundance of brick and the small canal reminded me of Amsterdam. And the winding streets brought back memories of Venice. Bruges was a fabulous city and I wish I had another day to tour. But if there is only one thing I can say to Bruges, it would be: You had me at chocolate.