At Home, part 24

The next day we had a long drive to Bruges, with a stop in Reims, France to see the cathedral there, with its spectacular stained glass. Ana had told me about an officers’ wives trip she’d taken to Bruges when she lived in Germany. “It’s my favorite place in the world,” she said. “I’ve never been anyplace so beautiful.” Good enough for me, I thought, and I soon saw she was right. It was a nearly perfectly preserved old town. It virtually shut down after its moment of glory in the 17th century—its river silted up, and the local merchants foolishly wouldn’t pay to have it dredged, so business moved on to the nearby town of Ghent. Its nickname is “Bruges le mort,” or Bruges the dead. But the result was that there was virtually no modern invasion, no urban renewal. Canals ran around and through the town, and horse-drawn carriages roamed its streets. It was a place where you could walk and walk, just looking at the beautiful little houses.

“You know this is my favorite thing to do,” I said to Mike. “House-peeking. I just love to see how people live! It’s easy to peek in the lace curtains here, and the houses aren’t raised much from the street, so you can see a lot.”

He laughed. “The thing I like about it is that it’s so real—not plastic and Disney-fied, just clean and pretty.”

We stopped in a little storefront with a sign that said “Lace Museum.” Inside were displays of intricate antique lace, including many samples that were works in progress—all the pins and bobbins involved in handmade lace were still attached to the half-finished pieces. There were local ladies demonstrating the craft, and we stood and watched for ten minutes or so, marveling at the cushions loaded with pins surrounded by growing webs of lace. As many as twenty or thirty bobbins of white thread hung from a single piece of work, and it was amazing to see the skill with which the ladies manipulated the bobbins in a complex pattern of movement.

“I think I want to learn to do this when I get home,” Julie said, mesmerized by the quick, skillful work of the demonstrators.

“I think it would take a long time to learn this,” I said. “But we can get a book if you want. They have them for sale here.”

She pondered this for a minute. “No, I don’t think I have the patience,” she admitted.

We went to a nearby shop, and I told the girls I would buy them each a handkerchief with Belgian lace on it, each with their initial. “You need to keep these safe and never lose them,” I said. “Then you can carry them on your wedding day, and you’ll remember this trip.” They both vowed to safeguard their handkerchiefs.