The Belgium Story: Part 2

There are some days when I think, I am going to die of an overdosis of satisfaction- Salvador Dali

One night, a couple of years back there was a public meeting in JNU. Stanly chettan informed me that at that point in history Sidharth Varadrajan was wearing a moustache just like that of Salvador Dali. Somehow, that was the first thing I thought of as I glanced at the pompous looking man gazing back at me from the entry ticket to the permanent Dali exhibition housed in the ancient Belfry of Brugge.

Barron Saint Mythelfinger has transformed the medieval hall into a showroom that goes perfectly with the works of art on display. The exhibition includes a vast collection of watercolours, paintings, drawings, series of graphic work and authentic sculptures of Dali with their multiples.

Honestly, I am not the best connoisseur of art.All I can say is that I liked some of the exhibits and some rather less, that I was surprised by his renderings on 'Alice in wonderland' and 'The Old man and the Sea', and that the series on the twelve disciples neither had twelve paintings nor the disciples.

I was in Brugge. Here one cannot step out of the surreal exhibition hall to the real. Brugge is like a book of fairy tales thrown open on the streetside that you accidentally step into. Then you get lost in her alleyways and boat trips. Or, linger like me in front of the neo- gothic front of the post office building, expecting the wary messenger to arrive on his horseback anytime.

Brugge is the capital and largest city of the province of West Flanders in the Flemish Region of Belgium. It is half an hour by train from Ghent where I was staying with Reuben and Keerti. The history of the city was mediated by its sea connection. Foreign merchants frequented the city from the the 10th century onwards.

The local merchant and artisanal guilds prospered with the renowned Flemish cloth industry. Within her frontiers, the Reie River was transformed into a network of canals that enabled the traders to bring their products into the city. With the advent of industrial revolution, Brugge became gradually impoverished and disappeared from the mercantile scene.

The canals cater only to the tourist boats now. But they weave into the same sights of Brugge preserved in the medieval exteriors of the buildings. The malnourished ghost of the 17th century lace industry hangs around the numerous little souvenir shops.

Our enthusiastic boatman and tour guide pointed out at the many windows that were painted over, as in the 18th centuries taxes were imposed on each window you could open. There is a calculated meanness to the idea of taxing some body's fresh air! Some one had drawn over a fake window from which a grumpy old man stared at the boatriders perpetually.

I missed many of the guidebook attractions of Brugge. The 366 stairs up the 15th century Belfry was supposed to give a panoramic view which, alas!, was closed for the visitors that day. With my excellent navigating skills I never managed to find the brewery that seemed temptingly close by in the map.

But Brugge is for a one-time visit. As Reuben said, it is not real city like Ghent that i was to visit the next day. A few streets away the townspeople thronged the modern day shopping complexes marking the opening of the sales season. If you join the crowd, it is difficult to decide whether the swans on the lake and the horse drawn carriages were real, after all.

Towards the evening I joined a group of orange T-shirts in front of the beer parlour to watch Brazil play. I should say it was Holland's foot ball boots that finally kicked me out of the fairytale wanderings.


(cont..)