Assumption Day

2002

I have been traveling for months. Ever since my girlfriend, Emily, had decided that we needed a break. Much to her surprise, my response to our “break” was to take what money I had, get a passport, and jet 4700 miles the hell out of Dodge. I am twenty years old, alone, and the farthest from home I had ever been in my life.

I had flown from Seattle to London-Heathrow and spent a week in the city. From there I took the tube to Brussels, where I stayed for another week, drawing, writing, making pals and learning about beer that was a hell of a lot weightier than the PBR I was used to back home.

After Brussels, I popped up to Copenhagen, and then Amsterdam. In Amsterdam, I smoked a great deal of weed, and saw some seriously weird shit in the red-light district. To regain my sense of reality, I caught a train to Paris, which, ever the cliché, I fell in love with forever.

In Paris, I lived off cheap wine and fresh baguettes. I engaged in a brief affair with an Australian girl named Michelle, who was my accidental roommate at the Peace & Love Hostel on rue Lafayette. I got mugged at knifepoint at an ATM and spent 3 days at the Louvre, taking in all the history and wonder that it had to offer. On a drunken dare, the bartender at the Peace & Love hostel got a drawing of mine tattooed on her back.

I can confess now; it was not a good drawing.

Man, I loved Paris.

After Paris, I took a quick trip to Nice, then jetted off to Málaga to meet my buddy Ryan and his family. My week in Málaga was an experience in the true Spanish lifestyle. Dinner at 10pm, then off to the bars, finished with dancing at the discotheque until 6am. I crashed for a few days with some Welsh guys on holiday that I had met at the bar.

My new buddy Daveth introduced me to the Stone Roses and finished each night with a recitation of Dylan Thomas’ Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night. His performances took place in a blow-up toy tugboat on the back deck of the flat. “We shall now read from Dylan Thomas… in the ding-gee,” he would wit in a growling, nasally, thick, welsh accent.

It’s been one of my favorite poems ever since.

Each night at the discotheque I would flirt with a Welsh girl named Helen, but alas, skinny punk kids with tattoos and a tight budget were not quite her cup of tea. C’est la vie.

After Málaga, I stopped into Barcelona for 2 nights and cooped myself in a hotel room the entire time. I had a spell of homesickness. I was lost and lonely.

But after a couple of nights to myself, I pulled myself together, and decided I would head back to Brussels, a place where I had been happy, and had found some friends.

Whatever it was I was looking for in Europe, I hadn’t found it.

Not quite yet.

*****

“Where do you go?” Says the voice next to me in some measure of politely broken English. I open my eyes a little. Hazily, I respond: “Sorry. What was that?” I’m still half asleep and in a travel daze. Am I in Spain still, France? “Where are you… um… oh… where do you go? Now?” The man says to me. I can’t place his accent, maybe French, maybe Flemish. We’re heading to Brussels, so I assume that he’s from Belgium, he’s definitely not Catalonian; his accent doesn’t fit with that.

He’s in his early 20’s, I think, not much older than I am. “Oh!” I say. “Sorry, yes, I am heading back to Brussels.” He nods in recognition and smiles. “Brussels, yes, yes, me too. Beautiful! But not as beautiful as Barcelona!” We’re on the overnight train from Barcelona to Brussels, and he’s right. Barcelona is beautiful.

“Yeah, but Brussels is nice too, I was there in June, and I loved it. That’s why I’m going back,” I say. He smiles back, “Yes, yes, Brussels is very nice.” Nodding and smiling politely, I check my watch and scan the aisle on the 2nd class car. It’s 12:20am and most everyone is sleeping. It’s August and the train car is hot, even at two o’ clock in the morning. I imagine to myself that most of my fellow riders are coming back from a binge drinking weekend in Barcelona, maybe Málaga, where I was a week ago.

It’s Monday morning now, and most of these folks are probably heading back to work. But not me, I’m off to Brussels to meet back up with some folks I had met my first time around, and to more adventure.

*****

On the train from Barcelona to Brussels, I stand up to stretch my legs and my Flemish seat mate asks me if I want any hashish. I decline and tell him I am going to make my way to the smoking car for a cigarette.

The smoking car is in the back of the train and, even at 2am, you can count on at least a few Europeans to be congregated there. There are a few seats open in the back, next to some kids who look about my age, three girls and two guys. I mosey over to them, my steps swaying back and forth with the rhythmic rocking of the train. Approaching them sheepishly, I say, in terrible French: “Um… Hi… parlez vous anglaise?”

The two guys giggle a little and say something to each other in what I understand as Italian. Oops. One of the girls smiles at me. She has big brown eyes, full brown hair, and olive skin with a few dark freckles under her eyes. Christ almighty, I am in love.

“Americano?” She says, lighting a cigarette. Slightly embarrassed, I nod and respond. “Si, si, Americano. I’m sorry… do you speak English? May I join you?” One of the guys pats me on the back and says: “Si, si, please join us. Certamente!” I take a seat next to the brown eyed Italian girl. Her name is Evelina, and she and her friends are on holiday from the University of Milan, where she studies architecture.

“Are you going to Brussels?” I ask, taking a drag off my Camel Light. “No, no, we go to Bruges. Have you been?” Her English is fantastic. Much better than my Italian. That is to say, she speaks English, and I definitely do not speak Italian. “No,” I tell her, “I have some friends in Brussels that I’m hoping to catch.”

“No, no, no. You are too cute. Come with us to Bruges. We are staying for the week.” She says, flashing those big brown eyes and a brilliant smile. My head goes gooey. The fuck? I would be a madman to skip my hostel reservation and go to Bruges with these people. Who does this? Crazy people… But oh my, what big brown eyes.

“Maybe,” I say, “I don’t really have a place to stay in Bruges.” I had a place in Brussels already reserved, but it’s 1:15am in Europe, and hostels rarely demand a deposit. “You can stay with us. We have room. Come! Sarà fantastico!”

“I’ll tell you what,” I tell her, “I am going to go back to my seat to get some sleep. We’re gonna land in Brussels in what… eight hours? I’ll track you guys down at the transfer. We will have a couple hours in between, and we can see about this in the morning.” I snub out my smoke and bid farewell to my new friends.

“Ci vediamo in mattinata,” she says coolly, with a shrug. Because I am twenty years old and a naïve fool who thinks this is a good move, I take her hand and kiss it. “In the morning,” I say.

I make my way back to my seat. My seat mate is sound asleep, presumably passed out from the hashish he had hitherto offered to smoke with me. I check my bags to make sure they haven’t been touched, a habit I’ve gotten accustomed to over the last two months of train travel.

Everything secure, I slump in my seat and fall asleep with the fantasy of skipping Brussels in favor of a new city and a love affair with a gorgeous Italian girl who has an affinity for dopey, naïve American boys.

*****

I’m startled awake by the blaring of the trains whistle. My seat mate is already awake and sipping coffee that he got from the dining car. “Brussels!” He says. Happy to be home, I assume. I give him a lazy smile of recognition at his excitement. I get it, I would be excited to be home as well.

Grabbing my bags, I step off the train in Brussels, my intended destination. The summer air is musty and hot. I light a cigarette and look at the train schedule on display at the platform. The train to Bruges is down the escalator and to the left.

The friends that I met in Brussels were nice. But I remember the fascination and romance of the moment I shared with Evelina in the smoking car on the train the Brussels and I can’t help but feel overwhelmed by a naïve sense of optimism. Not out of lust, though that was there, but because I am here, having an experience, a moment of adventure in a foreign land, full of wonder and romance.

If I stay in Brussels, I’ll have fun, I’ll drink some beer, and I’ll do the same thing I did a month ago. But if I go down the escalator and to the left, who knows… maybe I meet my wife, or at least get a great story. At minimum, I’ll have a night or two in a new city. And that, in itself is something.

*****

I have been listening to Bob Dylan’s Greatest Hits on repeat for the last two months. “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right” is playing when I get on the train to Bruges. I haven’t seen my Italian friends, or Evelina, but I keep my eyes up.

As the song plays in my headphones, I consider Dylan’s message of the nature of fidelity and the scarcity of love. I think about Emily and wonder, if she were in my place, what would she do? Emily would get on the god damn train to Bruges. She always begrudged me for playing it safe. She thought I was weak. That I never took chances. Well now is the time to prove her wrong. I think as I walked up to the ticket counter and consider what I am about to do. Jump on a new train, to a new city, with no confirmed place to stay, no research, and nobody to count on…

“Ahhhhhh… Fuck it,” I mutter, as I pay for my transfer, and head down the escalator and to the left. The train to Bruges is already at the station, awaiting passengers. I don’t see my pals from the night before, but I’m optimistic. Adventure has its whimsy.

I step onto the train, throw my bags on the shelf above, and look around my car, hoping to catch a glimpse of my Italian companions, especially Evelina, who was nowhere to be found, either on the platform, or the train.

*****

It’s only a couple of hours from Brussels to Bruges, and I spend the bulk of it in the smoking car, hoping Evelina makes her way back. I am unlucky in my pursuit.

The train comes to its grinding halt in this new city, and I am immediately struck with the realization that my whimsy has worn off and allowed the space for worry to take its place.

It’s around 2:45pm and the afternoon sun is high in the sky. Bruges is on the ocean, and the train station isn’t far from the coast, but it’s still incredibly hot. I’ve slept maybe a total of 6 hours since Barcelona, which I left a day and a half ago, and I have zero idea where I am going to stay tonight.

I watch the flood of passengers make their way off the train realize that my hopes of reunifying with my Italian Venus seems farther and farther out of reach. Evelina is nowhere to be seen and I realize now that I am just a fucking sucker.

I look at the timetable on the platform. There’s a train back to Brussels in a few hours. I could be back in Brussels by 5:45, not much would change. I could still meet up with ‘Lissa and the others, and this, well, this is just another route to the same destination.

But as I stare at that timetable, I consider my weakness. I consider the weakness the Emily saw in me only a few months ago, I consider the naivety that Evelina must have seen in me the night before. I consider all the reasons that I came to Europe in the first place. To grow, to be challenged. To grow up and not be the same scared, naïve kid who lived a sheltered life in private Christian school.

I considered my intentions to become someone other than the person I had always been led to believe I was.

I make a compromise with myself. There’s a 10pm train to Brussels that I can hop on, so I decide to stay and wander around Bruges for a while to see what this little city has in store for me.

*****

What would eventually become Bruges was a prehistoric coastal settlement where humans lived during both the Bronze Age and Iron Age. But it wasn’t until Julius Caesar’s conquest of the Menapii, a Belgic tribe in northern Gaul, that the area began to take a real foothold in history.

The area would essentially remain a coastal roman outpost until the 9th century, when Bruges, the city, was officially founded by the Vikings. The name is thought to derive from the old-Scandinavian word “Brygga”, or “harbor.”

The golden age of Bruges occurred between the 12th and 15th century, when the city itself became a strategic trading outpost and coastal city. Somewhere between the 14th century and the 19th century, Bruges experienced a drastic economic decline that lasted, like many European cities, a few hundred years, until it experienced a revival in the late 19th century, when it became one of the world’s first tourist destinations that intentionally, and directly targeted wealthy tourists.

The city itself was occupied twice by German forces. First in World War I, where it ostensibly suffered virtually zero damage. And again in 1940, under Nazi occupation, but was again spared any of the same devastation that many of its neighbors in every direction suffered.

By the time I got to Bruges, this 53.44 square mile coastal city had already existed, officially, for a nearly a millennium.

*****

It was a 20-minute walk from the train station to the central area, where the bulk of the hostels and hotels were located. After about 4 hours of traversing reception desk after reception desk of every hostel and hotel I could find, it turned out there was simply nothing available.

Apparently, it was some religious holiday, and Bruges, on this day in particular, was a wild tourist trap.

This is some fucking luck. It’s my 16th attempt at finding a place to board. I have a shoulder bag with books, CD’s, sketchpads, pencils and pens, as well as a giant backpack full of dirty clothes and other essentials. My backpack weighs about half as much as I do by this point, having lived off bread, cheese, and wine for two months. I’m tired of carrying this weight.

God damn it, I want to rest.

It’s getting closer to the time where I can either fuck off and grab a ticket to Brussels or figure out what I’m going to do to make it through the night in this new city. The summer sun hasn’t quite set yet, but it’s not long until it does. I give up on hotels and hostels and make my way to a nearby pub.

I order a beer from the bartender. He’s a transplant from the UK, and he is the first person I meet in Bruges with whom I can have an entire conversation. I ask him: “Is it always this difficult to get a hotel in Bruges? I’ve had a hell of a time.”

“Oi Mate.” He says. Perfectly British. “This is Assumption Day, you ain’t getting a bed in fifty miles.” I take a sip of my Palm beer, the cheapest thing I can find in Belgium. “What’s Assumption Day?” I ask.

*****

The Assumption of the Virgin Mary is a yearly Catholic tradition celebrated on August 15th, in Bruges, every year since 1304. The day is massive, and celebrates the Assumption of Mary, the mother of Jesus, into heaven. According to Catholic doctrine, Mary was taken, like the prophet Elijah before her, physically, body and soul into heaven to join her son Jesus.

Celebrants of Assumption Day fills the hotels, the hostels and the bed & breakfasts. The streets are filled with believers. Righteousness abounds through the day and the evening.

*****

As a guy who grew up in private Christian school, and learned, firsthand, how oppressive and awful dogma can be, at its worst; my feelings about this event are ambivalent. On one hand, this type of reverie is the very last thing I would imagine partaking in.

But on the other hand, I do find this type of ritual and spectacle absolutely fascinating, and I’m tempted to stick around to see how the night plays out. “It doesn’t really matter,” I mutter to myself. “There is no fucking way that I am getting a hotel room tonight.”

It’s been just about 17 hours since I met Evelina, and my heart is still a flutter. However, it becomes increasingly clear to me that the likelihood of fulfilling my fantastical Italian romance story here in Bruges is nearly zero. “I give up.” I think to myself. I’ve got about an hour until the train leaves, so I finish my beer and head out.

The city square is still brimming with life from today’s parade, and I find myself trying to wade through a sea of nuns and tourists alike. It’s a surreal scene, but I soon manage my way out of the reverie, and into the train station.

*****

CANCELLED / ANNULÉ, blinks in and out of the sign at platform number 9. CANCELLED…. ANNULÉ…. CANCELLED… ANNULÉ….

“MOTHERFU-uh… Excuse me, er’… Excusez-moi?” I ask a fellow would be traveler who had just arrived at the platform and was reading the information flashing above. “Oui? Ah. Yes.” He says, pointing his finger towards the sign. “This part is saying that this train is out of service until tomorrow morning. Emergency maintenance.”

I look up at the notice board, feigning as though I can follow the text. “Got it. Ok. Thank you so much!” I say. My new friend gives me the universal sign for OK and walks off, leaving me at the platform, staring at a notice board of flashing words that I do not understand.

The escalator down to the main station from the platform is only about 20 feet, but honestly, I am freaking… the fuck… out, and this day feels like it’s never going to end.

I’m 20 years old and lost in a European city full of nuns, and folks who celebrate the idea that 2000 years ago, a human woman who birthed a deity got sucked into space by a space man with a big white beard, a zeal for stoning folks, and a deep hatred for pig meat and shellfish.

Whatever this moment is, I’m confident that it’s my own particular version of hell.

There is zero chance of finding a hotel, so I pack my bags into a storage locker and play the “The Very Best of the Stone Roses,” which had just come out that summer, and was gifted to me by Daveth in Málaga, on my CD player.

I figure if I am going to freak out and face a night sleeping in a train station where someone is… again… likely to creepily push hashish my way, then I may as well enjoy myself. I head back into town to see if the reverie is still going on.

******

Fool’s Gold by the Stone Roses is playing in my headphones:
I’m standing alone, I’m watching you all,
I’m seeing you sinking, I’m standing alone,
You’re weighing the gold, I’m watching you sinking,
Fool’s gold… These boots were made for walking.

I walk to the park in the old town square. Across the square is the Basilica of the Holy Blood, a small church built around the year 1134, that supposedly houses a sample of the true blood of Jesus Christ, as preserved by Joseph of Arimathea upon the consecration and preservation of the crucified body of Christ in 33A.D.

Sitting on a park bench and staring past the crowd of partygoers, I focus on the little chapel in front of me, the Basilica itself, meek in its visage, unassuming, cornered off to the side in the central square. A massive Catholic church adjoins the Basilica, and towers over it like so many years of empire might do.

I press the stop button on my CD player and remove my headphones. Something like ceremonial music plays from every corner of the town square and people are dancing in the streets.

They sway and hug and celebrate their holy day, and for a moment, the grievance I feel at the idea of staying the night in a train station drifts away. It’s a beautiful moment, and I am grateful to be here to witness it.

*****

“Bounjourrrrr” purrs a voice behind me in a whimsical, almost musical tone. I’m confident the voice isn’t reaching out to me, so I keep my focus on the party in front of me. The voice sings out again, louder this time: “Allô!”

I feel what I think is a small pebble hit me in the back of my head. Startled, and a little annoyed, I turn around to see a couple of kids my age, giggling and drinking wine.

“Can I help you?!” I ask them. One of the girls, cute, short, with bright pink hair, a septum ring and black lipstick says to me: “Come, come join us! We have wine!”

She smiles and waves me over. I pause a beat, and some of her other friends begin to wave me over as well.

I get up from my bench and move to their area of the park. The group, four girls and three guys, all about my age, some a little younger, some older, appear to me, at least by their appearance, to be a group of Belgian punk rockers.

They are decked out in leather jackets with patches all over, chains and torn jeans. One of the guys has a bright green mohawk. They have a case of red wine between them.

I sit next to the girl with the bright pink hair and introduce myself. Her name is Elise (pronounced like E-leez), and she and her friends are locals in town. She says her friends like to make fun of the religious celebrants and their “stupid holiday”, but she secretly enjoys she the tradition.

“It is pretty, no? Watching all the people dance and sing and love,” She sighs and smiles a little. “L’amour.” She kisses me on the cheek, and hands me a bottle of wine. I love Bruges.

“It’s beautiful.” I tell her.

“There’s nothing like it back home.”

Elise and I chat and laugh and drink and kiss and watch as the parade continues deep into the night.

It’s late now, nearly morning. The town square is empty and the artificial light from the street-lamps bathe the medieval buildings in a soft orange and yellow glow. Some of the group has fallen asleep in the grass, others are smoking cigarettes and chatting amongst themselves. And I am sitting, staring at the building that supposedly houses the blood of Christ.

Elise has fallen asleep in my lap, and I think to myself about how funny life can be. Within the span of twenty-four hours I had skipped one city in favor of another, gotten lost in a thousand-year-old city, fallen in love twice, and watched a major religious spectacle pass before my eyes. I am literally, right now, physically closer to God than anyone I have ever known. This is… fucking… crazy.

Though I am not religious, religion has always been around me, surrounding me. Faith is something that I have come close to a handful of times, I think, but somehow it always seems to elude me. Or perhaps me, it.

But sitting here on a grassy hill, in a city I encountered only through kismet, a turn of fate, a smoking car and big brown eyes; right now, a beautiful girl rests soundly in my lap; a bottle of wine sits half-drunk in my hand and I have a full pack of smokes in my backpack.

Right now, I feel a little closer to faith.

In this moment, on this hill, with this girl, I feel like I have found God, even if only for tonight.

Or maybe just my version of him, at least.

The scent of dawn and new adventure fills the air, and it’s only a couple of hours before I need to grab my bags and make my way to the train station to finally catch my train back to Brussels. I’ll just stay for a day or two, then maybe I’ll go back to Paris. Maybe I’ll go and get lost again. I smile and laugh a little at that idea.

Man, I loved Paris…