Rented a bike the other day, rode it from the city to the North Sea. Took a left when I hit Zebrugge and headed along the coast until I found an empty beach. More specifically, until I found vast emptiness where past armies landed, scattered feet through sand with dreams of home and victory, hope and love...fears of battle and death, which day would be their last.
The beach was endless. I stood on the boardwalk, far from the sea and decided it would be a decision of poor standing and ill fate to not walk out, soak my content and dry feet. 600 long paces from the boardwalk, I reached the water, accomplished my symbolic gesture...stood and admired...and went on my way.
Rolled back into Brugge after riding through the Belgian country all day...anywhere from 40-60 miles, I imagine. I stepped off, noticed for the first time that the pedals were tilted down at an angle...very not straight. Following the next logical step in preserving the anatomical balance of the rider, I checked out my problematic left knee. It was perfectly fine...all save the mysterious bone to the left of my kneecap that was gallantly trying to push its way through skin. Ill protrusion, it's the only way I could describe it. I thought back to my childhood, there was only one way to fix this...and it would have to come under the tutelage of Suzanne Sommers. I hobbled back to my room, salty over my subconscious insistence to ignore any and all pain as a form of warning sign. I sat on the ground, lined my ankles up with the posts of the iron bunks and squeezed that motherfucker until the muscles on the insides of my legs began to cramp. The next day, I ran painlessly (Automatic for the People) along the parks surrounding the city, thinking the entire time...how can one man be so instinctively perfect?
...
Brugge is a not so secret gem tucked in the Northwest region of Belgium. The beer is good enough to make you shudder, the chocolate is good enough to...well, dirty, messy things.
Every corner I turn, I wait to find Gene Wilder or the original, moppy haired Charlie Bucket. I don't know where Wonka's factory is, but I've been asking geese the ENTIRE time I've been here. That much I assure.
Sometimes, I try to judge a city's hold by asking if I'll ever come back. My reply last night was that I would return in my golden-er years. The kind of place I'll come to sit back, think of the man I used to be...dream of a life beginning with the woman who accepted my ring some 30 years prior.
