Bruges la Morte

From my sitting room, today.
An antidote to the following first two paragraphs,
which are melancholy and grey.

David Brooks
New York Times journalist

After last week's delightful wander in the garden of illuminated manuscripts while assiduously ignoring American Trumpery, this week after the xenophobic and shoddy election, one just has to wonder aloud at what has happened to cause this tectonic shift in the culture of the U.S. echoing, as it does, the ugliness of the far Right parties in France, Spain, Germany, Scandinavia, Eastern Europe. I have fairly recently discovered the marvel that is the New York International Times and I read it two or three times a week. It has become my political bible on American politics, with its incisive comment pieces in particular. I discover, from a super piece by David Brooks at the weekend that populism [against which I have been ranting since the Brexit campaign] is always a warning sign that there is some deeper dysfunction in a country's economic, social and cultural systems. Globalisation, unfettered capitalism, and weak governments which do not seek to mitigate the worst effects of the first two, contribute. The arrogance of the rich, the bankers, capitalists, in accepting the relatively recent huge increases in their wealth and their apparent disregard of the very real adversity faced by the majority, have become insupportable.  And the disconnected, the powerless, have struck back and to electrifying effect.

So welcome to the prospect of terrible people as Supreme Court judges; States implicitly encouraged to indulge in even more 'voter suppression'; Jim Crow barely concealed. Oh dear, Europe might add, N.A.T.O. David Brooks hopefully suggests that Trump's main problems will be his own attention span, ignorance and incompetence while blithely and cheerfully guessing that the man will probably resign or be impeached within a year. A cheerful, possibly over-optimistic, note on which to end this depressing little soliloquy.

One example of Nov 15th activity in putting away terraces till
next year. Hotel Craenenburg in the Markt, a more
traditional café than most in that area.

And now back to Brugge and the thankfulness of acknowledging that I do not want to know too much about the labyrinthine politics of Belgium. Today, November 15, important things are happening here. Christmas decorations are up in Genthof; the wooden chalets for the Christmas Market were in the Markt this afternoon and everywhere, cafe terraces had disappeared or were disappearing. November 15 is obviously deemed Disappear Day and I remember last year being shocked when I noticed that all the terraces had vanished, virtually overnight. Now I realise it is timed to coincide with the Christmas Market celebrations even if not all the aforementioned terraces are anywhere near the Christmas Market locations. Certainly pavements are roomier and the November weather today, very Bruges La Morte, with misty, moisty, dim greyness, doesn't invite anyone to sit over a coffee at a little table on the cobblestones. I was surprised though this afternoon to see that the spanking new, expensive glass-sided terrace outside Tom Pouce in the Burg came under the heading of temporary [though it did look expensively permanent] because it, too, had disappeared since yesterday almost entirely.

En route through Astrid Park earlier this week.

We have had an abundance of glorious sunny early Autumn weather but this morning's foggy vapour, through which the Belfort was barely visible though it normally almost knocks on my windows, was strangely welcome. As I said, it is very Bruges la Morte; very reminiscent of the Georges Rodenbach 1892 mournful elegy to his dead love and so poetically evocative. I almost love the dim wetness, the slimy, russet leaves dying beneath one's feet, the emerging skeletons of the many trees, dripping moisture,
guarding squares and corners beside grey, silent canals, more than the bright and shining summer days. These late, quiet, hazy days encourage a blessed anonymity; give a melancholy space for recollection and memory and alone-ness in the often crowded streets. This face of Autumn encourages introspection and a public privacy that is as mysterious as it is compelling.

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