Bruges

Bruges has, in other quarters, been described as a "fuckin' fairytale."

We, of course, are educated folk from Dawson Creek. We don't believe in fairytales. Therefore, we'd say that Bruges was "fuckin' spectacular." With a lasting cool and intermittent drizzle that brings to mind the climate of our eventual home in Seattle, Bruges was a pleasant contrast from the baking heat of Frankfurt.

Bruges had the romance of Venice with the canals, but without the tourists and pigeons. And their bridges were flat, unlike Venice's, where every bloody bridge had four steps up and four steps down. (I'm a lazy, lazy person.)

Bruges had the free Internet of Frankfurt, but without the drug-users asking, in perfect English, "Excuse me, my English is not that great: but can you spare me a euro, please?"

Bruges had the beautiful churches of York, but without the steep admission fees. It also had the vial of holy blood -- with venerations thrice daily. I had to explain the Catholic process of kneeling and kissing things to Jenn. Rosaries? Veneration of the Cross on Holy Thursday? Stations of the Cross? There's a lot of Catholic ritual to absorb, and, to her credit, Jenn has taken it all in. Indeed, while I am usually the proud owner of the worst pun in each city we visit, Jenn took the cake in Bruges, while pondering the concept of the vial of holy blood: "Have they substantiated the church's claim that the blood wasn't transubstantiated?"