28 Jul 1985, Posted by Scott An Chora in Travelogue, No Comments.

07/28 Brussels Belgium

We headed into Gent to be part of its annual festival.  I, like a honeybee, danced from flower to flower collecting smiles, memorable fragrances.  The next day started off with the similar ritual of walking into Brugge’s main square for a cup of coffee, this time before we jumped a train into Brussels.  We trekked about the old section of the city and checked out the local sites.  Muscles in Brussels and beers, muscles in Brussels and beers.  I followed Jim through the shops while he looked for a potential gift to send home.  Jim wrestled over purchasing a butterfly under glass for his sister’s birthday.  He bounced between shops and after logging miles and miles of walking, he still couldn’t make up his mind.  I gave up and traded Jim’s quest for beer on the corner of the main square and ended the day waiting for Jim in the train station.  His trek for a birthday gift went into overtime.  Minutes before we were to board on our train back to Brugge Jim decided to walk all the way back into town to purchase that butterfly.  After a couple of beers in Brugge’s main square I wandered along the canals by night following the reflections that danced against the shadows the few street lamps provided.  I followed a few that crossed my path and ended up back at the place where I started the day.  The same party continued downstairs from the night before.  I hung up my hat, said a few hellos and wandered upstairs the minute my first beer was empty.

The next morning we took a familiar walk to the train station but this time we headed in the opposite direction towards Luxembourg.  It was a beautiful day under clear blue skies and I spent the majority of the day lounging on the grassy hillsides, pondering meanings and taking a midday nap.  It was perfect, since I still had the alcohol from the night before lingering in my veins.

I know and sunk before my vain despair and knelt, to my own desolation, for fear of the end
day by day, the waters lap the sands away

Inaccessible winds, they do blow and felt, like spring blossoms,
with winter fade and die

one by one, returning where my walk begun