Long before I met Lauren, Leine and I traveled Europe, landing in Brugge in a small aircraft and…read moretwo overstuffed bags, out for blood. And eventually, out for beer at Bar des Amis.
It's the kind of place you get drunk and look around and marvel at the inevitability of life's wonderment. That if you choose a path, it somehow finds you. And with Leine being blonde and gorgeous carrying around a tiny jar of moonshine infused custard for occasional dips of her pinky, I felt myself turning into an image I'd dreamed of since the age of nine, a traveling artist with a muse and the caked wavy hair once worn by Tristan Tzara, the dark sunken eyes of Man Ray, Leine posing at Bar des Amis as if in black and white with a bottle of Duval. She pours it slowly. Sips, leans in to kiss me and I can still hear the bubbles fizzle out on her lips.
The bartender is tall and modelesque, and takes to Leine. He adds us on Facebook. I order three rounds of beer here and they're sweet; this moment is so rich, it's cloying. I can't help but think of what can go wrong. Yet the barstools feel stable beneath us.
The Bar des Amis furniture is nothing special. The patrons, though, are. They are glad, not yelling at the TV during soccer like in the other pubs. The bartender gives us a free shot and smiles at my flirtatious girl. Her shoulders are exposed and she's receptive. Her energy is a powerful light beaming from the chest. She reminds me of me! He leans in to tell us that Brugge is thinking of creating a network of underground piping strictly for beer because the cobblestone alleyways are too narrow for the beer trucks.
Leine laughs but I've turned cynical and profess that the town looks a bit like the town in Pinocchio. Like the buildings are set pieces and that our perfect little world might crumble. How much beer did I have here? Am I that unsure of her love? I'm being unfair, of course. Leine has done nothing to deserve my darkness. Her hand has been a fixture on my thigh. It's not until later, when we meet an Englishman here, who warns us of pickpockets in Rome, that our night unfolds into powder white oblivion.