Voyassitude

In hindsight, I shouldn’t have drunk a beer before the beer tasting. Or a few more after it. However, it was a bright, breezy evening in Brugge on the last day of March, and I was still celebrating turning 32, so I (wrongly) assumed that one more drink wouldn’t hurt. And it didn’t, as far as I remember. But it is precisely that, remembering, the one thing I fail to do because I blacked out.

Here’s the thing: Belgian beers are strong. Strong. People tell you that, and it’s not like you don’t see their high percentage of alcohol printed on their labels. But when you get trapped by the idyllic, historic aura of Brugge, it’s hard not to accompany good times with a local drink.

I booked a beer tasting set to begin at 10 p.m. on a Sunday evening, the only available time I had. Tired after a day of walking and biking tours, I threw myself into one of the chairs available at Cafe ‘t Klein Venetië. It was cozy inside, but the terrace granted a view of alleys and canals impossible to resist, so I ordered something by the register and went out to enjoy the street view before the tasting began at another bar. I planned on drinking coffee but once the menu revealed that they had picon bière available, I couldn’t pass the opportunity because that drink was a reminder of happy French travels and special friendships.

Then came the beer tasting. You could tell it was a Sunday because only four people showed up: a Dutch couple, the tour guide, and me. The Dutch were quiet, and so was I, which left most of the talking to the tour guide, a woman who was clearly exhausted but did her best to start conversations with us. I don’t remember her name but I can still hear her quirky laugh, sometimes not genuine but well-intended.

As for the beers, they were unique, exquisite, and damn strong. We tried six of them (Goedendag, Barbar, Troubadour, Rodenbach Alexander, Chimay, and Gouden Carolus) and most of them had eight or nine percent of alcohol. We weren’t given whole bottles or glasses, but because it was just three of us we got to drink more, which eventually led to this Colombian idiot losing his soberness. The tour guide knew her beers, and despite her tiredness she had answers to most of our questions, doing a great job explaining what made each drink so distinct and popular in town. Then, shortly after bringing the last beer, she excused herself and left because she had a long day.

It didn’t matter that the Dutch were as introverted as I am, because alcohol was already doing its business and made us all more talkative. His name is Melle, her name is Lieke, and they were visiting for a few days to have some fun and, of course, plenty of beer. It always amazes me how extraordinary it is to meet people in places you have never visited before. I was born in Colombia, they were born in the Netherlands, but for one night our paths happened to cross somewhere in Belgium, and I’m so glad about it because they were so kind and their love for each other pure, vivid, and joyful.

They talked of their recently purchased home, and how they were doing some renovations to it. They sounded so excited, so proud and happy to have a place of their own. We talked of politics, my country, the very touristy Amsterdam. Melle also mentioned a secretive and odd ritual that takes place in the Netherlands, which is called Sunneklaas, and the beers we were sharing combined with the bizarre descriptions about the ritual made his story truly come to life.

Finally, it seems like we talked about a type of mayonnaise called Zaanse. I say “it seems” because I don’t remember that at all. The last memory I have of that night is about Melle mentioning the Sunneklaas festival. I only know about the mayonnaise thing because I took a picture of Melle or Lieke’s phone with an image of the sauce. That happened at 1:35 a.m. Later, at 2 a.m., I took some pictures of the three of us in the middle of a deserted bar; they looked happy, while I looked increasingly drunk.

We parted ways and somehow I made it back to my hostel, which was half an hour from the bar. But before that, I obviously had to embarrass myself by recording a video of my drunken walk of shame, which luckily I only shared with my best friend. After that, by some miraculous reason I managed to climb some of the steepest stairs I have ever seen to reach the third floor of my hostel. It remains a mystery how I didn’t trip over, falling down and awaking everyone in the building. Or perhaps I did, but thankfully I have no memory of it because at that point everything was part of a forgotten Belgian night.