On college visits as a high school junior, my parents reminded me it is easy to love a school when strolling the open campuses in perfect weather. However, if you visit a college on the coldest, rainiest, snowiest, greyest, most miserable of days and still love it, you know it's true love.
We spent the day in Bruges under grey skies and constant rain. Though it is July--and we packed for summer--the temperatures just crept above 50 degrees. Cold, soaked, and blinded by rain gear, we still managed to see the beauty in Bruges.
The center of old town hosted a farmer's market that day. In a city whose population doubles daily with the onslaught of tourists, it was nice to see something authentic. Tourists did buzz around the flowers and fruits that huddled under tightly-packed tents, but for the most part locals did their shopping. Instead, a line of foreigners gathered at the waffle truck parked at the edge of the market. Of course, we joined that line in a hurry and indulged in a waffle each, my dad with the traditional square Belgian waffle, while my Mom and I both savored the more oval shaped Liege waffle, which is chewier and flavored with caramelized sugar from within.
When my mother expressed interest at seeing the city hall I shuffled along in silence, dragging my apathy behind me. Upon entering the grand hall, however, I was thankful I'd kept my disinterest to myself. Any church would have been jealous at the city hall's grander. Personally, I think the towering gothic spires of old churches can be a touch gaudy. This warm room of wood and gold enticed us with enough detail and splendor to keep us sitting there for fifteen minutes, staring in wonder. And if you look just right, the front of the room stares back at you, like the big eyes of an owl peering through the darkness.
By around noon the rain fell more heavily. Even so, as the Venice of the North, a canal cruise is a must in Bruges. Despite all my father's objections, my mother insisted we hop a boat to a state of total wetness. Despite the shield of umbrellas we put up en masse, no one left the boat dry.
Despite the fairy tale quality In Bruges (ever see the movie?), we eventually could not take the cold rain any longer. The wind had broken my father's umbrella. When he went to the trash to throw it away, he saw an umbrella graveyard within, wooden handles sticking out in a testament to the weather's abuse of the tourist.
Before we left, however, we sat in a distant cafe--away from the main square--populated only with us and a young couple also from the United States. We warmed up by the fire (in summer!) while sipping hot soup and tea. With enough blood back in our fingertips to make our way to the train station, we left Bruges. Miserably, we made our way back to the hotel in Ghent. Yet, somehow, the day was still worth it.