At the end of April, tourists from all over the world flock to the Netherlands to see the Keukenhof flower festival and enjoy the atmosphere of the queen’s day (Queen’s day). Keukenhof, I knew, and the queen’s day I heard that there is nothing special but noisy, crowded and tired. Thus, I decided to “hide” from the Netherlands for a few days by catching a late-afternoon train on Friday to Belgium to travel and visit my friends.
In fact, this is the second time I set foot in Brussels so “the heart of Europe” doesn’t have much to discover. The most awaited destination is a city located in the northwest of the country, which is still called by the Belgian people in general and Flemish in particular by the very name “Venise du Nord” (Northern Venice).
The Brussels rain rained throughout the night on Friday, signaling that Saturday was not good, but it couldn’t stop the steps I had taken to Bruges. A few days ago, I asked some comrades in Belgium to go out for fun, but no one responded to it, busy people, busy people meeting relatives, people who were bored with Bruges … to the neck because they came here to some three times, but not the “feeling of strangeness” anymore. Of course, that didn’t bother me at all, because the monopoly beast had eaten my blood since I was in Germany. Independent travel means that there is no one beside you to share joy, sadness or even danger, but in return is a free sky. If you like it, you will be happy again, tired and rested, not depending on anyone. Everything has its price. Knowing my other hobby, a friend told me that it started to look like Western. Westers often travel alone, sometimes taking some pictures of commemorative photos, not clicking the buttons to be like our people. They also often hold a small travel book to go where they read and contemplate it. Damn, my barefoot, barefoot, but also enameled to the level of windstorms like West?
It can be said that Bruges is a small city that I listed as a place to go in one day. It takes about 10 minutes to walk from the central station to the intertwined canal area with Venice. It was an accidental coincidence because I visited Venice on a gloomy rainy day like this, considering having a ground to compare. As a very intelligent referee, I prefer Venice because of the beauty and the beauty, and Bruges only stops at the graceful level. Nevertheless, Bruges has a strength that Venice cannot win. It is Bruges less tourists so it still retains the pure beauty, it must be like Venice is massively attacked by the wave of commerce, so “the inner wind and copper scent flies away.” Well, I should not compare anymore because all comparisons are lame.
Bruges has many houses, canals, bridges, small and beautiful churches. It is a way of architectural thinking throughout, so it is difficult to catch a house more than two stories high around the corner of the city embraced by the canal. Each row of trees is planted straight along the riverside streets that look very eye-catching. Occasionally there will be willow trees (or a species that is very much like willow) that draws the ball down the river, waving to visitors looking at the city on tourist boats. And even more flowers, blooming flowers on small wooden pots along the railing of bridges, flowers hung into tiny, colorful rolls right in front of restaurants, shops, speckled flowers growing on the trees climbing as adorned with distinctive gray-brown brick walls, flowers sticking out of the window railing show off to visitors strolling below.
If this natural picture is added with a bit of golden sun and a swan slowly swimming in the river, what is more alive.
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Tired, I bought the fried potato with mayonnaise and then picked up a seat right on the central square, leisurely eating and watching the people go back and forth. A couple of lovers approached me to ask for a picture. Hot potatoes, cold rain and I absorbed the loneliness to heart.
A soaring bell tower, not so beautiful and ugly, and I don’t know any architectural style, a statue of a warrior riding on a horse, and souvenir shops close together with many postcards. placed on the revolving shelves on the front, the wooden tables and chairs are set out to the sidewalk to serve visitors with boring popular meals, such as chips, steak and a cup beer. It’s an image that is repeated quite often in European central squares, sadly, not Bruges is an exception. When I was done, I wandered around the square, of course not finding anything interesting, then quickly crossed the busy shopping street towards the art museum Oud Sint Jan. When I passed this morning, I was keen to notice a free concert performance at 3pm.
It must be said that the word “free” has an extremely strong attraction to the outsider who is completely blind about this kind of scholarly academic music. So, for the first time in my life I went to a concert, in a small auditorium small enough for about 50 people, mostly in my parents’ age or more. Amidst a world of music full of popular fashion genres such as rock, rap, hip hop, maybe the young people who listen to concerts like me today are fad, classic, warm?
At exactly 3 am, the lights were turned off and the stage lit up. An old man wearing jeans, a stylized shirt without neck and a silver-white hair that was clawed back and back was very artful on stage. He is Luc Vanlaere. After a brief introduction, he sat next to the very beautiful piano that I didn’t know and started to glide soft fingers into the stories of my first grandson, about the artist’s life, about people Mom’s gone, and also Bruges. Indeed, the melodious sound of the melodious music brought me a lot of great musical emotions. Just like his gratitude for the audience at the end of the concert, this is a “music souvenir”. And also for the first time in my life, I put a bit of money in the box placed at the exit instead of a deep thanks to the talented artist.
It still hasn’t stopped the rain, the short, long rain rains come and hurry. On the way back to the station, sometimes I come across pretty little alleyways just two people who walk quite similar to the long and deep alley that smokes near my uncle’s house in Hai Phong. The spire of the church is hidden in the thin, sad rain, instead of my “fly” tourist machine, it is impossible to obtain such a great frame. That image made me stand still for a few minutes.
Goodbye and date back, Bruges!