Thursday, May 17, 2007

Of The Truly Most Righteous Bud

Location: Amsterdam, The Netherlands
Prostitute Hotness: Smokin’

April 25

We’re up and out of Bruges at our traditional early hour. So early, in fact, that the 24-hour reception desk has yet to open. Yeah, wrap your head around that one. I’ll wait. It’s a bit of a thing about ‘can we check out and get our key deposit back in time to get to the train,’ which is solved when the receptionist shows up for a job that by definition he must never leave. And so it goes.

Training to Amsterdam involves staring at a countryside that’s irrepressibly cute in that “little girl with blond pigtails singing on top of a windmill” kind of way. As befit’s a country that’s largely below sea level, it’s flat as a freakin’ pancake and green enough to make a leprauchaun scream in ecstatic pain, oh the pain. Pretty, yeah.

I think the best way I can describe the appearance of Amsterdam is to say that it’s halfway between Paris and Bruges, which is kind of like saying that it’s halfway between New York and the lair of Lolth, Spider Queen of the Underdark. That is to say, the comparison may not make the most sense at all times. The fact of the matter remains, though, that Amsterdam has all the infrastructure and economic schtick of a major metropolis, including a frightfully efficient though unfortunately staffed tram line, yet I don’t think I laid eyes on one building that looked even remotely like another. It almost appears as if they took all the rejected set models from the movie “Casanova” and stuck them together out of order, then exclaimed with great salivating fervor, “Look, it’s a city!”

Our first hit upon rolling into town is quite naturally the hostel, which is conveniently served by three of the Cossack-spirited tramlines that spider-web there way through the city (coincidentally, I think the motto of their tram service actually is, “the greatest battle lies within.”). The Rembrandt Square Hotel is everything you’d expect from a budget hotel in Amsterdam, right down to the strangely buzzed, aging proprietor and the fact that it is literally built upon a hash bar (or “coffee house,” in the lingo of the town). Outside is an interesting piece of artwork that deserves mention: a larger-than-life-sized sculpture rendering of Rembrandt’s “The Nightwatch,” erected by a couple of Rembrandt fan boys with way too much time on their hands. It looks pretty neat, though, to just have a bunch of Renaissance-era soldiers standing in the middle of the square for apparently no reason while a giant gold Rembrandt himself gazes down on them with malice aforethought.

Mom’s got this hankering to see the Anne Frank House, and I indulge her because she’s paying for the whole damn thing and because it’s literally been months since I’ve walked through a monument to mankind’s greatest tragedy. To do so, however, we have to secure tickets in advance, as we had been forewarned us by bloody, raving madmen who had at one time been tourists like ourselves until they attempted to just show up to the Anne Frank House and were confronted not only by winged demons and the spiritual reliving of their darkest regrets, but by very long lines, such terrible long lines.

Thus we walk to Leidesplein, dodging fruit vendors and impeccably-muscled homosexual couples along the way and effortlessly acquire tickets for that evening. While there we need food, and plop down at an Irish pub for sandwiches that, while delicious, don’t really fill us up. There was a truly bangin’ accordian player there working his way through Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons,” which helped a lot with the atmosphere. In wake of the continuing hunger we saunter down the street to an Argentinian steak house (ok, we place bets right now… who thinks that The Netherlands is a good place to get your Argentinian food on?). The food there is quite good, but once again, pathetic portions are presented.

Here I must offer a bit of Mom’s infinite wisdom, with which I concur completely. It’s no secret that American restaurants often go balls-nuts with portions, creating what politically correct folk label an “obesity problem,” and what I label a “horde of fatasses.” In this light, the European standard of offering less food is commendable, but for one very gaping problem: the prices. This seems very simple to me; if you’re going to give less food, charge less money. On the contrary, though. To get even the most meager helping of decent restaurant food, one must pay through the nose so forcefully that even keeping one’s septum becomes an issue in gravest doubt. This is a problem that must be dealt with. Offer less food for less money and let people build up to how much they want. This business of either shoving wagonloads of food at a person - that they then feel obliged to eat - for a decent price or giving them the correct amount of food in exchange for three vital organs must stop. Or all is lost.

So, now somewhat satiated, we find that we have just enough time to walk at a leisurely pace and arrive at the Anne Frank House in time for our tickets, or perhaps a little early. And God knows we want to get there early to avoid the mongrel swarm of Frankophiles that is sure to be clustered there in mute anticipation. We stop twice along the way, once to duck into an English-language bookstore so that I could stock up on sci-fi travel entertainment (David Weber rocks my world), and the second so that Mom could trip while dodging a tram and take a header onto the sidewalk. She ended up with only a mangled pinky finger, though (which I now understand has healed completely), so we move on with more tram-related caution.

The Anne Frank House was, predictably… well, I don’t want to say ‘deserted,’ but, ok, let’s just say that the aforementioned mongrel swarm was nowhere in sight. We waltzed in there easily, continually emphasizing our lack of jack boots so as not to frighten the locals, and proceed through the museum in good order.

As the name suggests, the Anne Frank House is the house - the actual physical structure - in which the Frank family et al huddled in secret against the scourge of the Nazi regime, and its effect as a grim testament to how messed up things were surround that whole Holocaust thing is naturally quite potent. It’s a strange thing to be able to say, “Look, there is where an innocent 16-year-old girl slept immediately before being betrayed, hauled off into the night, and sent to her death… and check it, there’s her picture on the wall.” It’s much as you would expect it to be, really. At Mom’s request I refrain from voicing the majority of my terrible, terrible Holocaust jokes or from talking about how Anne Frank has a dumb face that I just want to smack, and we more or less slide through without incident. I did have to give the finger to the Diary, though.

After that we’re hungry AGAIN (this will make three meals in the last 5 hours), so we pop across the street for some Indian food. Now that’s the ticket, Indian food never fails to disappoint, and this was no different. The food was delicious, plentiful, and barely overpriced at all, served by a very cheerful staff in a pleasant, vermillion setting. That’ll do us for the night, I think, and we head home to sleep off the travel and prepare for our main day of exploring tomorrow.

April 26

We’ve got a late start today, mainly due to travel fatigue and general laziness. First stop is the hotel breakfast, which is not contained within the hotel itself, but rather in its partnership bar/restaurant downstairs (bearing the ever-classy name “Smokey’s”). There’s a bit of a mix-up at first since the place is actually split in two halves. First, the part that serves booze and food, and second, the place that serves organic juices, coffee, and weed. This is fairly common practice across Amsterdam, as it turns out. I’m not sure what ancient blood curse would be invoked if an establishment sold both alcohol and marijuana, but I’m certain I’d rather not find out.

Breakfast is delicious and we leave full well satisfied. There’s not a whole lot on the agenda for today since Amsterdam’s main attractions are its museums (which we’ve about had enough of lately) and its hedonism (which is a night time activity, even assuming that Mom wanted to take part in any). As such we head for the Vondelpark, which is the greatest of Amsterdam’s green spaces and, I’m led to believe, the largest park in The Netherlands.

Ok, I can’t ignore this any more…. This place is called “The Netherlands.” What in the hell. Honestly. Yes, Holland, too, but The Netherlands is just as common if not more so. This has got to be the only country in the world that could have gotten its name from the pages of a C-grade fantasy novel. “You, Agrath, must travel over the Swordspine Mountains, outwit the Dragons of Eternity, and journey deep into the heart of the Netherlands. There you shall find your brother’s soul, clad in wooden shoes. Only there can he be restored to his former blitzed self.” No part of this sounds more out of place than any other, I think. On that note, is there actually a place on this earth housing the Spear of a Million Unsung Warriors? If so, that’s where my next excursion must lead me.

By the time that we hike halfway across town towards the park - a lovely walk in the Dutchy sunshine - we’re getting kind of hungry again, which has the added beast of financial burden thanks to our multitude of meals yesterday. The problem, we reason, is that one never knows if the food is going to be tasty or plentiful in proportion with the price one pays. Or does one? This is when we spy a Hard Rock café and realize that they operate on a standard that we know to be favorable. And, would you look at that, there are still spots open on their canal side patio. An hour and a couple of delicious burger/sandwiches later, we’re moving on.

The Vondelpark is what the handy-dandy Lonely Planet guide describes as “an English-style garden.” I’m not sure how that’s true, though, in light of the utter lack of croquet games in progress and the fact that the sun was allowed to shine. Nevertheless we enjoy it immensely, walking along tree-lined ponds and watching storks hunting in the rushes (by the way, watching a stork grab and devour whole a fish is pretty badass, even if it is a freakin’ stork). There are a few people chucking a Frisbee around (Americans, as it happens), and they graciously allow me to join in while Mom sits and reads. I toss around with them for about half an hour or so, long enough for me to determine hat I’m the best player there (mmmm, ego stroke), but not long enough for Mom to get too bored, then we move on.

After the park it’s shopping time. I need new socks, Mom wants new sandals, it’s this whole consumer thing. The socks shopping goes well, not so much for the sandals. At the shoe store they have a bowl of foam rubber armadillos near the cash register, which the clerk says are kind of seat belt cozies to get kids to buckle up. They’re free if you give them your name and email address, which I gleefully do because, hey, free armadillo.

On the way out of the shoe store we cross the street right in front of a van full of clowns, who I jovially exchange waves with. I don’t know what the deal is with this town, but I kind of like it.

After dropping our purchases (there was some food shopping as well), I decide that it’s time for a little hedonism. After all, what’s a trip to Amsterdam without getting a little wrecked. Fortunately there is a coffee house right downstairs, and I pop in for a couple glasses of juice and some weed. Oh, and if you’re the kind of person who is shocked that I would partake in legal weed when it was available, maybe you shouldn’t be fucking reading this blog. That said, I waltzed up to the counter and ordered a couple joints, one of White Widow and the other of some type of hash I can’t pronounce (judging by the names of everything else around here, I’m gonna go with “Hash of Giant Strength +7) then sat down with a few people to smoke them. And yes, there is something strange about buying weed straight over the counter of a bar. It’s a little like the first time you order a legal beer after turning 21, but much more sticky. After two of these fatty bad boys I’m pretty lit up, so I part ways with my company and head to the Red Light District.

The Red Light District of Amsterdam has reached such storied acclaim that it is actually a recognized zoning district of town now; no longer is it defined by the hazy area that streetwalkers tend to frequent, but rather it can be looked up in one - nay, many - volumes of city ordnance, as though proscribing the exact boundaries of purchased poontang is a natural part of the day for any municipal paper pusher. Thus, it’s not hard to find. It’s very strange. No, I need to emphasize that more.

The Red Light District of Amsterdam is one of the single most bizarre things I have ever encountered. Period.

First off, it’s not like a dark, twisty catacomb of alleys preyed upon by cutthroats and women of loose virtue. It’s like a fucking carnival. Or Carnavale, more like. For the most part it involves wide streets, at least once with a canal running down the center, brightly lit up by neon signs and wrapped in the blanket of really good bar music, feeding the eyes and ears of hundreds of people traipsing up and down gawking at the scenery, if the word can apply to such mangled meat husks that were once, but once, human. Most of the people wandering around want nothing to do with the whores or the drugs or any of it… they’re just there because it’s a part of Amsterdam you need to see, and it is not at all unheard of to see a married couple in their seventies pointing at a window and cooing, “Look, honey, I think that one wants you to stick it to her… Yes, she definitely needs to ride you like an animal. How quaint!”

The ladies themselves are not out on the street hawking their wares. Rather, they rent out floor-to-ceiling windows in the buildings that line the street, which they pose in, illuminated by strips of red neon lighting that frame the window (at this point, teacher asks the class if they know there the name “Red Light District” came from). If you see something you like, you merely approach, they open up the window and let you in. Bing, bang, boom.

It’s a very odd thing to walk amongst the working ladies. In the kind of cultures that we run around in, the vast majority of women play their sexual cards very close to the chest and, though they may not want to admit it, they are very keen about the fact that they hold the sexual power and are thus quite judicious about how they muscle it around. Hence the complicated game of cat and mouse that is modern courtship, or dating, or cock teasing, or whatever you want to call it. These women, however, are the exact opposite. They pose, wearing the absolute bare minimum of clothing, and entice all comers (pun) with the knowledge that, yes, they are only objects and, yes, they exist only to please your genitalia. Naturally this represents a complete reversal from the conventional wisdom in which we operate (though it might be seen as a slightly more pure exercise in “You ordered the lobster, now you owe me this,” with which we are so familiar) and is thus more than a little amusing to see.

I do question how happy they are. I know there’s this whole believe that no woman could possibly be happy in that line of work, which there is a valid argument for, but if that’s true, the Amsterdam whores contain some of the finest actors in our modern world (bear in mind, this is coming from a guy who’s not actually partaking, so I think I can avoid most of the ‘see what you want to believe’ bias). I don’t mean to suggest that these girls wake up every morning (afternoon?) and say “Hooray, I get to sell my body today!” I just mean to say that it would be an interesting study to see, in a therapeutic context, how they felt about their vocation. It is my hypothesis that you would get much the same response as you do from modern office workers asked the same question.

Fun prostitute fact: contrary to the image one has of old, broken down, world weary whores with syphilis sores riddling their shattered bodies like bullet holes in John Dillinger, the majority of these women are hot. I don’t know why it feels a little dirty even to admit that Dutch whores are attractive, but the fact of the matter is that they looked good, which is not unfathomable that sexual attraction is their stock in trade. Though it makes sense, I was a bit floored by it, as well as by my own instinctual desire that bubbled to the surface. I wouldn’t go for a prostitute (I share the common distaste for the practice) even if I wasn’t in a loving committed relationship, and yet as I walked along I found myself musing, “Hey, it wouldn’t be that bad,” as though my Y-chromosome was leaping forward at this very clear opportunity to spread my seed and insisting to the brain to move over, it’s my turn, pal.

I didn’t, though. I swear I didn’t. Ask anybody.

Ok, that’s all I’ve got on prostitutes. And all I've got on Amsterdam.

Saturday, May 05, 2007

Dark Travails: In the Chocolatiers Guild

Location: Bruges, Belgium
Duck Organization: Maverick Warlords

April 23

Dawn sees us up and at the proverbial “em,” at least to the degree that the shambling dead could be described as such. We have a two-stage train to Bruges leaving from Gare du Nord, and it would surely disappoint the Gods of Punctuality if we were, you know, late. That fantastical metaphor works both ways, really.

Train #1 to Brussels is just peachy, though due to a slight delay our platform-hopping changeover in Brussels is a bit more hurried than we would like. To make matters less bon, our InterCity train to Bruges has been severely overbooked. You know the kind of overcrowding when you start praying for a new Black Plague? I mean, I would say that I was so frustrated that I pantomimed punting a four-year old child off the train, gleefully chortling as he went spinning into a chocolate windmill or something (which I did, indeed, mime), but honestly it doesn’t take a whole hell of a lot to drive me to that point. Anyway, we are forced to stand for most of the hour-long ride that we (and by “we” I mean “Mom”) paid through the nose for in a train car brimming with snot-nosed, apple-throwing toddlers and teetering old ladies in equal measure, designed with such sublime disdain that baggage storage is a children’s prank gone awry, leaving me to straggle my backpack the entire way. This city had damned well better be worth it.

And boy-Belgian-howdy, is it ever. To fully understand the Sherlock-Holmes-esque, D&D-riffic nature of Bruges, you have to know its history. Way back in the day, Bruges was the capital of Flanders, and a very powerful trading city dealing with chocolate, fine fabrics, and other luxury goods (they just barely missed out on the slave trade, but I’m sure it would have been all the rage… better luck next time, guys). However, at the peak of its popularity, two disasters struck. First, there was an untimely death in the ruling family. I don’t have information on how exactly it happened, so I choose to believe the royal in question was beaten and hanged by a brutally vengeful and rather politically-active Cheshire cat, who tried to make the whole thing look like a suicide but failed, generally incensing the local populace in the process. Second, the harbor silted up. I’m not sure exactly what this means. I mean, I know it means that the harbor was filled up with sand and shit, making it unusable, but I’m far too poor and oceanographer to understand how that actually happens. Does the harbor just wake up one day and go, “being water sucks, I want to be mud now”? At any rate, usable harbor now becomes screwy harbor. So, people are now both sad and poor (surely two conditions never found side by side anywhere else in human history), and the town goes into ruin.

As such, Bruges never got touched by anything after, say, the 15th century. I mean, not really. The entire place looks almost like it must have then, except for the electric lights, modern plumbing, and automated green-laser defenses (it’s an Imperial city, if you want red Rebel lasers, haul your ass somewhere else). The irrepressible quaintness of the place eventually drew visitors, who showered the locals with bundles of fat cat foreign cash and demands for “authentic” and “historical” crap that everyone was only too happy to provide. Thus, the modern city of Bruges is born.

Say what you will about the touristy-ness, which is, inarguably, intense, this town is gorgeous. Starting about 45 seconds after we walk out of the train station, Mom and I are agape at the sheer pleasantness of the place, all pretty cobblestones and pretty trees and pretty churches and pretty people and pretty horses and PRETTY! PRETTY! In Bruges, if the pretty don’t fit, you lose your shit.

Our hostel, the Lybeer, is really very nice, built high and tight in the local land-is-a-precious-commodity custom. We hang there just long enough for a phone call from Jen and analysis of local sights/eateries, then we’re out, seeking lunch as oh-so-many Americans do. Lunch is an excellent three-course at a local café, sautéed hake washed down by Hoegardden (oh Jake Goldman, oh Jake… the Hoegardden). It’s freakin’ delicious and we enjoy a pleasant hour and a half there.

After that it’s the wandering ticket for us, just kind of soaking things and up and getting the lay of the land. We wander - crossing canal and dell - all the way up to the Markt (not a misspelling), the central square of the city, which is dominated by one huge friggin’ belfry and more of the same. Oh, there was a stop for delicious Belgian chocolate in there, as one might expect. I’m just thrilled with it, one amazing taste sensation after another, although Mom is not (she prefers solid chocolate to all this fancy stuff). Take my word for it, Hershey is just as full of crap as Disney, Sesame Street, and Tinkerbell; this Belgian stuff is good. It melts in your mouth the way a perfectly cooked steak would, if it were made of delicious chocolate.

We’re baffled at one point by a church of awesomeness (another Our Lady church), which all signs assure us it open but to which we are unable to find an open door. Conclusion: try again tomorrow.

By this time we’re worked off lunch and want to try some dinner. Consulting our quite knowledgeable hostel workers, we find a restaurant called The Hobbit, reputed to have excellent ribs. ….ribs. I haven’t had ribs since September. And I have needs. This place is just as good as they say, a wood-sheathed bung-and-barrel type bar and restaurant decorated in light neo-Lord of the Rings. The ribs are all you can eat, peppery and served with several dipping sauces. I go for local beers, Bruges Zot and Kreffe (not sure about the spelling there), which are both excellent, if very different. We’re there until the place starts to close, me having rocked through four and a half servings of ribs, much to the - I suppose - annoyance of our waiter.

After that we’ve got a little walk around, just enjoying the perfect nighttime weather, talking, and such. As a city primarily populated by the elderly segment of tourists, at this time of night it might as well be a ghost town. So much so, in fact, that the most we notice any form of life was a single duck paddling his way down the very center of a large canal, as if to declare himself the alpha duck and challenge all web-footed comers to a mighty, quackish battle royale.

The last episode for the day is a bit of an unusual one. You see, our hostel does not have 24-hour reception, and to ensure that guests can come and go as they please the employees provided us with a 4-digit code to punch into a security panel on the door if we come back too late. This is an important thing, so naturally we forgot about it as soon as we checked in, and certainly did not bring the slip of paper with us when we went walking. So imagine our consternation when we arrive back at the hostel after midnight, happy and exhausted, and discover that we can’t get into our room. The scene that unfolded was pretty hilarious, really. We tried everything from rattling the door to trying various combinations of numbers to throwing rocks at the windows to wake up guests who might be inside, to no avail. I thought that I might have remembered the code from glancing at the sheet once, but it was not to be. After about half an hour we’re starting to wonder if we need to sleep in a park or something, or perhaps vainly try to find another open hotel and pay for that for the night. As often happens, though, we were saved by the college student’s first dictum: When in doubt, trust the person in charge of the booze. In this case, the bartender at the Napoleon Bar, right down the street. When Mom questioned her, she new the code to the hostel right off the top of her head (and probably to other hostels as well). So, never let it be said that bartenders never saved anyone’s ass. It’s just not true.

April 24

Navigating in Bruges is almost painfully easy. As a port city constructed around a system of canals, one might fear that it would suffer the same nightmare-inducing rat-maze effect that Venice does (NOTE: neither Bruges nor Venice employs municipal workers who actually dispense cheese upon successfully leaving… must fix that), but Belgian city planners apparently lack the Venetian love of dead ends. Plus, the city’s normally low skyline is dominated by three enormous spires, two of them belonging to churches and the third being the town belfry, and one is never far from a vantage point in which two, if not all three of these towers are visible, allowing for very simple landmark navigation. It’s the same principal that Orthanc and Barad-dur were going for, but they placed their towers too far apart and substituted cute Belgian canals with rivers of elvish blood, so it didn’t work as well.

This is our only full day in Bruges, so we have to make it count. We’re out relatively early, but not so much to hurt the brain. Our first stop is the “Our Lady” church that had foiled us so handily yesterday. This time around we manage to find the entrance in short order, applying the time-tested heuristic of ‘follow the old people who paid for the guided tour.’ The church is quite neat, especially since it’s been partially turned into a museum. Most European churches end up being museums of a sort by default, but the actual effort to collect stuff there adds a little zip. The piece de resistance is Michelangelo’s “Madonna and Child,” his most famous statue that you couldn’t pick out of a line-up. It’s neat, and we go for the accustomed photo-op, though after a bit of internal wrestling I decide not to flip this one off (I’ve already hit 3 or 4 of Michelangelo’s works, and there’s only so much you can give the bird to one guy’s stuff before it just gets trite).

Next stop is the belfry, which is notable both for being tall and having many stairs, two facts that I’m told are linked by something called the laws of physics. This is one of those really cool center-of-town towers built for the local duke or whatever to be able to address his minions in grandeur as they huddle in the town square wondering what basic human rights he’ll be taking from them today. It contains 366 steps to the top, which I tried to reason out into some sort of ‘days of the year’ symbolism, but I’m forced to conclude it’s just happy coincidence, at the summit of which you are greeted with a pretty spectacular three-sixty degree view of Bruges and the surrounding countryside. Our climb was made all the more interesting by hordes - hordes- of terrible, screaming schoolchildren. We’re not sure exactly what the deal was, but this little 11-year old rug rats plagued us from top to bottom, side to side, and other directions throughout the day. Presumably this was the date agreed-upon for all Flemish school field trips. Either that, or the Revolution truly has begun.

Fun fact: Did you know that when you’re in the top of a belfry, right next to the bells, and the bells start ringing, that it’s fucking loud? There’s a reason that sound reaches for miles. We’re talking a couple of dozen bells rocking out “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” or something else about little girls and sheep, with all the style and grace of a 7th grade percussion section. On the plus side, the views are nice, and there is a collection of artifacts like a big treasure chest. And if you know me, you can imagine why I would love a big treasure chest. Mmmm…. Gold pieces.

After the belfry we head to the next natural Belgian attraction: a chocolate museum. And I know what you’re thinking, yeah? “It’s just like Willy Wonka’s, right?” You’d think that, wouldn’t you? But it ain’t. And let me tell you, no amount of arguing will convince these people to give you your money back upon discovering that there’s no chocolate river (and schoolchildren make a terrible substitute for Oompa-Loompas). Even given that disappointment it was pretty neat, mainly for the demonstrations of how to make various chocolate goodies. There is a certain amount of energy here that must be devoted to bemoaning the fate of cocoa bean farmers and their painstaking, unappreciated work, as well as marveling over what a big deal chocolate has been since the beginning of, I don’t know, The Godiva Temple at Manchu Pichu. Did you know, for instance, that chocolate has in the past been prescribed as medicine? I’m not sure what it’s supposed to cure, except maybe anorexia, but it gives me high hopes for other things (cross your fingers for medical Mountain Dew).

About this time we’re starting to get a little hungry, despite bellies full of chocolaty goodness. However, the canals beckons, so we put our hunger on hold for about half an hour as we jump into a little motor boat for a canal tour. It’s a pretty standard tourist trap setup, but quite enjoyable in that regard. There’s not a whole lot that the tour guide regurgitates that’s of surprise or interest, but for sheer cuteness there’s no better way to the see the city. There’s something soothing about being on the water on a bright, hot, sunny day, you know?

After that’s done it’s really time to go for the food. We managed earlier to track down the location of a local fondue restaurant, which I feel sure will be delicious because, hey, it’s fondue. Unfortunately it doesn’t open until the dinner hours, which we’re short of by about two. A bit frustrated, we hit a local sandwich shop for hold-us-over food that ends up being rather delicious despite being simple sandwiches and such. After that we make our last stop on the great Bruges tour of the day, namely the Basilica of the Holy Blood, so named for containing what is supposedly some of the coagulated blood of Jesus Christ. I don’t buy this for a second (the “Holy Blood” was recovered by a crusader in the 12th century… if you can still tell whose blood it is over a thousand years after his death just by scraping around, then I think you’re the right guy to track down all my lost socks and sunglasses), and I don’t think most Christians would either, but the Basilica is undeniably cool, simultaneously crazy-ornate and gilded while keeping a very dark, earthy feel to it. We hang around there for a few minutes before jumping ship.

Back at the hotel, we take a bit to recuperate and get in the mood for dinner, after which time we sally forth in search of fondue yet again. This time the thing is open, and we take a table out on the street where we can enjoy the evening and watch the folk go by. The cheese fondue is nothing short of excellent, and the whole meal is just plain fantastic.

This is a good time to mention that one of the primary sights to see in Bruges are the horses. Not horses on their own, but the overpriced carriage-pulling variety. They’re everywhere, although who is actually silly enough to shell out 35 euros for 15 minutes in a horse carriage, I don’t know. There are many that pass us having dinner, particularly of the larger draft horse variety pulling huge 16-person wagons. If you’ve never enjoyed white cheese fondue and Belgian beer while watching an 1800-pound quadruped slug down a medieval cobblestone street and trading banter with your mom, let me tell you, it’s a real treat.

And that’s our time in Bruges.