Clouds in Brugge. I’m watching European tourists at a bench across the cobblestone eat Begian French fries with mayonnaise. His girlfriend takes a digital picture of him then shows him the result.
Today behind the hostel we smoked a fat blunt that Kelly and I had fashioned out of two cheap cigars. We are so hungover and so high. We just ate Belgian waffles. They tasted just as I had dreamed they would, clouds of whipped cream sat on top of the glistening perfection as I dropped powdered sugar all over my shirt and sipped a steaming hot chocolate. Kelly tipped her cup upside down to ensure that every last drop would slide down her throat. We sat there in confection heaven of Belgian splendor and I was hungover and stoned but the moment wrapped itself around my shoulders and my waist and took me in. We share this. Now we are sitting in the middle of the square, sitting by a statue below the Belgian clouds and the sun that gazes on my hair, back, shoulder and right leg, and the church bells are singing to gather everyone on the cobblestone and my hands are cold in a pleasant way.
What you want and what you have are, more often than not, two completely separate identities.
This morning while we were quite stoned and wandering the dizzy streets of Brugge, a European gentleman on a bicycle stopped Lauren, who was wearing big sunglasses, and told her how he had seen her and was struck, as she reminded him of a woman from his past. He was shuddering as he spoke to her and we were far too high to clearly assess the situation. At first I thought, maybe he was going to rob us, as Lauren removed her sunglasses at his request he held himself back from reaching to touch her face. The whole situation was desperately intense and eventually he apologized and climbed onto his bike, apologized again, and rode off.
We didn’t know what to make of it. We were somewhat frightened but also intrigued by what we had just witnessed- he really did seem to be in shock at the sight of Lauren, and I imagined being older and randomly noticing someone who reminded me of someone from my past and being struck by the whirlwind of traveling backwards in my mind. I’m glad we met him, and I am also gld that we did not ask him who she was.
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Belgium. That was quite a trip. We were so much together and all so alone. There was something poetic about the haze we were in for the better part of that trip.
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