residual travel fever - part III - One Night in Brugge

It was a 14th century townhouse converted into a cafe. The cobbled streets refused to reveal their ancient secrets. And under a dark sky, millennia old, I brought the mug to my mouth and sipped the cold beer slowly..

This was Bruge. Bruges to the English. Brugge to the defiant Dutch who were pained at the massacre of their pharyngeal grunts.
The Jupiler beer was only 1.90 - the cheapest I had in whole of Europe. B seemed very happy, giggling over a colourful cocktail. T had gone to escort G back to the hotel, because he was convinced he would be raped in Europe. I saw M poring over the menu, contemplating his next poison of choice. Friendship with him, here on a different continent, surprised me. He was wonderful company, especially drunk ;) !

I settled deeper into the cushioned settee, comfortable in the knowledge my packing was done. The Bell Tower glowed in the distance. Someone cursed in fluent french. The other responded, just as enthusiastically, in lusty Scotch broth. Aaah it was sweet!

I had done churches. Seen the only Michelangelo sculpture outside of Europe. Wept at the sight of Belgian chocolates, custom-made to titillate even the least decadent of us. Soaked up the sun in the square, watching students of architecture take notes...And kicked myself for not carrying more money.

Good trip. And this last bit sums it all up for me -