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bruges in a fog so thick it swallowed my dignity and three croissants

@Caleb Cross2/8/2026blog

i woke up smelling like wet wool and regret. the window was fogged over so bad i could’ve drawn a crying face on it and called it art. i just checked and it’s… there right now, hope you like that kind of thing. 5.92°C. feels like 3.55. humidity so high my fake leather boots started whispering secrets to my socks. someone told me the canals here don’t just reflect the sky-they absorb it. like the city’s a sponge for clouds and late-night existential dread.

the neighbor on the third floor? old guy with a cane who smells like cedar and regret. he waved at me with a single finger this morning, then disappeared into his bakery like a ghost who only comes out for pain au chocolat. i heard that the place he owns, ", is the only one in town that still uses butter you can actually taste. not the supermarket kind that weeps when you breathe on it. yours truly stood in line for 22 minutes. got one croissant. cried into it. it was worth it.


if you get bored, ", and ", are just a quick train ride away-though nobody in bruges will admit it. they’ll tell you it’s "just a town," like the whole of belgium is a single dramatic monologue spoken in slow motion.

i walked past a guy in a turtleneck and fingerless gloves sketching a duck. he didn’t look up. just muttered, "the ducks have more resolve than the tourists." i took that as a compliment and kept going. then i found a shop with velvet jackets from 1973. i bought one. it’s too big. i look like a confused monk who got lost on the way to a jazz brunch.


someone told me the bell tower doesn’t chime on thursdays because the keeper’s soul left in ‘98. another said the cobblestones are cursed by a nun who got cheated on by a brewer. whatever. i slept in a bed with a sheet that smelled like lavender and mildew. i didn’t care. i’m out here collecting smells like they’re postcards.

i started crying over a chocolate praline shaped like a swan. not because it was expensive. because the lady behind the counter looked at me like she’d seen this exact reaction 412 times. "it’s just chocolate," she said. then added, "but it’s ours."

"bruges is not pretty. it’s patient. it waits for you to get tired of taking pictures so it can whisper the truth."


i can’t afford the boat tour. but i sat on a bench by the belfry and watched a duck chase a plastic bag like it owed it money. that was my tour.

if you come here, bring your worst socks. your brittle ego. and a sweater with holes you don’t try to fix. you’ll need all three.

read what the locals really say:

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About the author: Caleb Cross

Just a human trying to be helpful on the internet.

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