What does one do in Brugge (pronounced “Brooj” by some and, just to be confusing, “BROOG-he” by others) for nearly three days while waiting for one’s RV to be unloaded from the boat?
In the central market square of Brugge, there flies a flag very like the one best known because of the Olympics: five circles, each a different color, intertwined with one another on a white background. This one signifies that some years ago Brugge was identified by UNESCO as a World Cultural site, largely because so much of its architecture dates back well into medieval times (and so much of the rest of it, although of a much later date, mimics that earlier style).
How did Brugge escape the aggressive modernization of much of the rest of western Europe? Poverty, goes the story: the last of Brugge’s good times were in the 11th Century, after which the river silted up and trade died, so that for many hundreds of years it was worth no one’s while to pull down the old buildings and put up newer stuff. Then, during both of the 20th Century’s two world wars, the combatants agreed to leave it untouched.
Then came UNESCO’s recognition, and ever since Brugge has been making the world pay for its centuries of poverty. Have they ever. Even modest 2-star hotels in the off season are €60 a night; with few exceptions, meals are €30 and up. From early morning until dark, horses pull carriages of tourists, their drivers turned sideways on their stands to point out items of interest to the passengers: “The narrowest street in Brugge,” and everyone turns to the left; “the smallest Gothic style window in Brugge” or "the oldest canal bridge" and snap-click go the shutters of a dozen digital cameras. And canal boats: “Do we have speakers of Dutch? of English? Deutsch? Francais?” And (an afterthought) “Espanol?” (Not that the answers make much difference: our canal boat guide would rattle on for half an hour in Flemish, followed by a sentence or two in English.)
So what does one do for nearly three days in Brugge, while waiting for one’s economical RV to be off-loaded? One walks, takes photos, visits a chocolate museum, takes photos, seeks out a reduced-price art museum featuring aptly named “Primitive” Flemish works, takes photos, attends a service in a centuries-old church, takes photos, examines countless restaurant menus looking vainly for bargains….
In truth, the town was lovely and the people staffing the restaurants and museums were unfailingly gracious, good humored, and remarkably fluent in half a dozen languages. Often before we’d spoken a word they divined which language to use with us. And on Monday we fortified ourselves with a big breakfast, checked out of the hotel, and took a taxi to the dock in Zeebrugge, half an hour away. Rover had been waiting there since Saturday, but the employees at the shipping company of course had the weekend off, and the shopkeepers and hoteliers and restaurant owners of Brugge thanked them for keeping us in town instead.