The train ride to Brugges

It was our plan to go from Brussels to Brugges on the night of the 20th, stay the night in Brugges then come back the next evening to Brussels and stay two nights in Brussels. This worked fine, and some would say, now with hindsight, almost to perfection, except for one thing (that we'll get to in a moment (and all of you know by now what happened so this suspenseful cliffhanger is purposeless (but I enjoy it anyway and for those of who don't know be prepared to be shocked!))).

We arrived in Charleroix airport from Girona, which like Girona is its own city--seperated from Brussels by a rather large distance. This being the case we got a fairly good deal that consisted of a bus ride from the airport to Charleroix station, then a train to Brussels Midi, then a train to Brugges. A simple journey for us, already seasoned travelers. It would prove otherwise.

Where Spain was sunny, Belgium was rainy; where Spain was warm, Belgium was freezing; where Spain was cheap, Belgium was expensive. Let the fun begin!

All rolled smooth, besides the frigid rain that pounded against our waterproofed chests and weather-worn faces, until the train from Brussels to Brugges. The boys were tired, I could see it in their faces. It had been a long journey and our thoughts were on beer and bed. The train stopped in Brugges and we yawned our way out. We got outside and were met by rain, wind, and cold (a Belgian greeting I'm told (I've never actually told that but it sounded good)). We walked a little way with the other departees--I behind the talking Dave and Scott--towards the taxi/bus stands. As I listened to the clitter-clatter of the rolling luggage wheels bounce along the cobbled streets I looked directly before me and asked, 'Dave, where's your bag?' (A question that will live in infamy)

He looked nonchalantly to his back and answered my query with a, 'Why, it sits upon my back, as you currently see it,' look. But then his right hand made an involuntarily grasping motion as if searching for a luggage handle to a black Osprey roll along/backpack, and suddenly the realization came to his face. His eyes became wide as they met mine, an O formed his lips and a disgruntled gurgle protruded painfully from his mouth. 'What should I do?' His eyes wild with fear, anguish, anxiety, excitement. He searched my eyes quickly for some answer of hope, of reassurance. 'Run, Dude.'

He walked quickly at first, unsure of himself and his surroundings. Another, 'Run, Dude,' excited his engines and he moved slightly quicker. His lonely backpack swung back and forth as he 'sprinted' 'speedily' down the wrong corridor. We caught up with him on foot and quietly asked, like most civilised and helpful people, 'Where are you going, Dude?' A shrug was the answer, followed by a somewhat depressed and seemingly despondent, 'I don't know.' Scott, meanwhile, ran up to the platform nearest to our train only to see the train slowly amble away (of course). He came back with a smile (for, God help us, we could not help but enjoy this, it had been cold and bleek since we arrived and a hearty chuckle was needed) and said with a satisfied and a touch disstainful (I suppose) sigh, 'It's gone dude.'

We stood silently and looked around. A light flickered in our hallway, eerily enhancing the extreme emptiness of this train station of stolen dreams. (Poetry? Yes please.)

Looking around this station so void of human souls, what little hope Dave had of finding his bag that night flickered and died like the last gasp of a waxed out candle. To interrupt our stunned silence, intermitenly there would exist the slow tap-tap of high heels hitting the hard floor and echoing off the lofty ceilings. It was ingratiatingly creepy. And I loved it.

We went outside to the cold. A strong wind sprinkled with the lightest of mists leaned cold and wetly against our faces. We decided on a Taxi to our hostel to save Dave further embarassment and to lessen the chance of him leaving his backpack on the bus. The taxi ride was quiet but only for a moment--Scott and I smiling sheepishly from ear to ear, Dave wallowing listlessly in a bit of self-pity--when finally the question was asked: 'How did that happen?'

I remember it quite clearly my dear Watson. Our destination had been announced and I rallied the troops to, 'arise, grab your packs, and deboard!' or something similar to this nature. Scott and I proceeded post-haste and were ready and able. Dave removed his bag from the top shelf, placed it in the chair across from the aisle beside him, and promptly sat down. 'Tired?' I wise cracked, as we had been sitting for nearly 6 hours on the day (thus the wise crack was a stunning supercilious success!). 'My feet,' he explained with a point, a tired, agonizing point, and for a moment he and I were lost--lost in the eternal sunshine of the spotless mind--staring at those shoes. The train stopped, I took my eyes from his feet, turned round, and was out the door, he behind me. He without a bag.

There it went on that train to who knows where. There it went on that train of captured souls. There it went, not yet to return. But a bag did not stop our journey (nor could much else!) and we were in Brugges. It was cold but we were in Brugges.

What shall we see?