In which we bounce through Belgium.

 

A wee corner of my heart will always be striped black-gold-red (--not to be confused with a neighboring corner striped black-red-gold). I'd returned to this silly little country only once since my year spent there, being a short visit before starting my German existence in 2009. 'Twas, therefore, high time for another hello. After not having found any available camping places in Beautiful Bruges, we decided to shoot for Groovy Ghent instead. I'd visited this spired and pointy city once upon a whim over six years ago and didn't have to be asked twice about whether I wanted to go again.

After a cold and uneventful night in the field, I was excited to cross the border into this silly little country of my memories. The excitement only grew as the cow fields turned to, erm, traditional potato harvesting establishments, and the squat brick architecture started looking familiar.

 

We didn't have any time to toodle around Wallonia, which prohibited my feelings of nostalgia from getting too out of hand. Once we finally arrived at the popular recreation area we'd been aiming for, we snagged ourselves a campsite and cooked up a mighty fine meal on the ole GDR-era Gas Cooker before hitting the beach and the Stadt. After a rather unfortunate encounter with stinging nettle for which my feet have yet to forgive me, we wandered our way along the water into the city.

 

When the evening sun tiptoes along these streets and waterways, you notice.

I got a little bouncy when the downtown clocktower came into view. Its picture has been gracing my walls for years.

 

(Silly Belgians.)

 

Another old friend.

There came a point when nourishment was necessary, and where better to find such a thing than in a friterie? I chuckled to see the array of fry-able things on display again and my stomach immediately crossed its intestines in disapproval. Even after all these years, it was still upset with me about all those things I'd done to it so long ago.

It took a little coaxing before an exception could be made.

The fellow who had sold us our fried yummies came outside to do some co-mooching as the sky shifted through electric blues. He was of immigrant descent and asked us many questions about immersion in Germany, such as whether all German children now had to learn Turkish in school. Things he'd heard and wanted to know if there was any truth to them. It was an unexpected and interesting conversation, carried out in crinkled English, and the first of many on this trip in which I accepted the German identity that was assumed, what with traveling with Germans and all. Not that it made much of a difference, but it felt slightly badass all the same.

I was once discussing Ghent with someone who had recently been there and the first thing they said to me was, "So did the castle surprise you, too?" I don't know why I didn't expect to see a medieval castle in the heart of a medieval city, but the truth is that it totally snuck up on me. Twice. Sometimes you're just toodling along in life and you run into giant medieval fortresses. Could happen to anyone.

I am particularly fond of this photo because the shadow of the motorcycle looks like a snail.

The highlight of that evening for me was stumbling across a courtyard celebration of sorts. It was a festive affair with rockin' Balkan brass, joyful people to observe, and lots of beer. It was exactly the side of Belgium that I had decided to remember most fondly.

I'm sure there's a story behind this. I just haven't gotten around to googling it yet.

(The people walking toward the camera look so totally out-of-century.)

It was summertime and the happy hooligans were plentiful. And it was good.

I would have liked to have stayed longer and seen some friendly faces from days gone by, but the ocean was calling and there were still many kilometers to go before before the next sleep. So sleep we did, and away we went.