Misguided adventures in Flanders

I was recently asked to write a piece about literally anything for a journalism class. I admit that this blog is turning into visitbelgium and I concede that I am powerless to do anything about it.

First, I saw it on a map. Poperinge: it rolled off the tongue. I’d been in Hazebrouck for a couple of weeks at this point, and my confidence was ever improving. With a Gallic shrug, I resolved. Somehow, I would get to Poperinge.

My small northern French village was well connected. I was only a brisk 10 minute walk away from the train station. From there, one could go to Paris but that wasn’t an option for me, since I wasn’t going to the train station. Outside was the bus stop. I had never seen the 61 departing and for that reason I didn’t believe it did.

With its cartoon like headlights, the number 61 wouldn’t have looked out of place on CBeebies.  It possessed a certain elegance and as I walked on, I could almost feel its iron construction struggling to give me a nod and a wink.

I asked the driver for a ticket to Poperinge. A greying man with a friendly face replied that it would be two euros and that I could pay only by card, on the scanner behind me.

I noted that he didn’t pronounce it in the Gallic way I did; not with the guttural R one would usually associate with the French language, but a softer rolled version. His G was equally surprising; not soft, but harsh, an abrupt release of air that I don’t think either of us expected.

We winded through the Flanders countryside and the vista was predictably wonderful. We rolled through seemingly empty villages and to keep myself company I imagined them coming to life on a Sunday afternoon. Without characters, I didn’t believe they existed. Like figurines on a model railway, I concluded they’d be added eventually.

All of a sudden, the dress code turned grey and the roads and buildings were happy to oblige. All around were corrugated iron buildings which could’ve been industrial beehives, yet just as much entirely hollow polygons housing nothing.

Shocked, I began to wonder what Poperinge was: a slight town with picturesque alleys, or an ambiguous sprawling jungle where I would struggle to find pleasure? I didn’t hold my breath when we finally entered the slight town I’d desired. We’d passed through many a pleasant village, none of which were my destination.

I only shuffled out of my seat on the sound of the engine turning off; here I was, in Poperinge.

I hadn’t questioned that I was in a picture postcard northern French town; that’s what everything was up here. Yet, inside the Spar shop I’d entered in search of a lunch time snack, not everything was as expected. The alcohol section was vast, which was far from unusual, but the garish colours of the bottles and cans was striking. A tower of red Jupiler cans stood ominously. The voices around me sounded foreign. Was the lager skyscraper affecting the room’s acoustics?

At the checkout, I realised that they were speaking a language more like English than French. The realisation that they were speaking Flemish and that I was in Belgium hit me with a thrilling flood of realisation. On leaving the premises, I noticed what I hadn’t noticed before. In front of me was the Belgian flag.

I took full advantage of my bizarre predicament and went in search of the sort of divine obscurities one finds on an accidental bus trip to Belgium. In a stationery shop, I purchased a Tin Tin ruler and made plans to return for the expensive staplers. The shop lady told me of all the places I should travel to and insisted on noting these recommendations on a nice piece of paper.

Outside of the shop, I saw that a green space had been furnished with large photos of people on colourful backgrounds. The elections had been a few months earlier and the faces of the more moderate candidates were only just starting to fade. The harsher ends of the political spectrum had been, well, treated more harshly.

Down the road, I found myself in a tiny bar which seemed only to serve Jupiler. I took a half pint and watched the Brugge game as two younger members of their fan club fought on the table beside me. I didn’t quite know where I was, and that was alright.