Werewolves of Belgium (4 of 4)

We stayed out the rest of the night. We found a trio of windmills near a canal and spent several hours talking, catching up on chat about old friends, and watching the fog thicken in the long silences.

After a while we headed back to the town center and explored Brugge in the middle of the night. There were almost no people out by that time so we had the run of the place. We took advantage of the public solitude by shouting at the top of our lungs, holding footraces down sidewalks, trying to move pieces of public art (those are heavy!), peeing in the middle of the square and just generally enjoying ourselves by acting like a couple of complete adolescents.

Eventually we tired and by 4:30 am we could go on no longer. We found a park bench and tried to fall asleep but the damp cold and the hard iron underneath our butts wouldn’t permit it. So we headed back to the train station and spent the rest of the night on the benches in there amid all the rest of the homeless people who called the streets their abode. Even those who had no permanent address were able to summon a breathtaking air of rudeness about them.

After a restless few hours we were awakened by the combined sounds of commuters passing, janitors cleaning and trains arriving. We had no desire to remain in Brugge for another sleepless night so we checked the schedule for the next train into Wiesbaden, Germany. It wasn’t leaving for several hours so we wanted to get something to eat. What to have for breakfast in Belgium? What else? Belgian waffles! A nearby caf� featured Belgian waffles prominently on its menu so in we went.

Here is a word of advice to you. Under no circumstances whatsoever should you order Belgian waffles while actually within the borders of Belgium. Aside from those at the Hollywood tavern, the locals had been snotty, condescending and unwelcoming. But the waitress at this caf� made all the rest of Brugge look like first-semester insolence school students. It took her thirty minutes to acknowledge that we even existed. She plopped one menu on the table and disappeared. Fifteen minutes later she reappeared and took our order. After we asked for coffee and breakfast we spent a few moments wrenching out the poison darts she had launched into us from her eyes that had been accompanied by an exasperated sneer at the very thought of having to provide such a clich�d dish as Belgian waffles to these ignoramus American tourists.

She devoted the next full hour to energetically ignoring us. Occasionally appearing at tableside to other diners, the Waitress From Hell avoided any communication with either Mike or I with all the skill and dexterity of a cashier avoiding eye contact while waiting for a credit card to clear. Our pleas for more coffee went unheeded until Mike got so sick of it that he just went up and refilled our cups at the coffee pot himself.

At last our waffles were thrust in front of us by the disgusted waitress. They were quite good, but by the time we were to pay for our repast so delightfully provided by Little Miss Snooty, she was busily avoiding us again. We had to all but jump up and down on our table to get her to bring our bill and take our money. I had never so wanted to leave a restaurant without paying in my life.

After not tipping her, we wandered back to the train station for our train to Germany, eager get out of this godforsaken town and on to somewhere, anywhere, where people might be more human than these Belgian trolls.

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