A Pleasant Surprise

We didn't mean to go to Ghent.

After Brussels, the only other Belgian place we had ever heard of was Bruges, and that was mainly thanks to Collin Farrell. But alas, our easy-going (read: disorganized) approach to planning accommodation had made the decision for us, and so we found ourselves Ghent-ward bound.

I don’t know what we were expecting, but this was not it. Little did we know, the surprises would keep on coming.

Gazing down the canal, it was a scene of perfect symmetry. A uniform row of beeches lined the two banks, and the entire postcard was printed upside-down on the glass waters between them. In the bitter chill of winter the trees stood naked, their thick foliage now gone to expose to spindly fingers pointing out all the interesting scenes around them. One of them may have pointed toward the old quarter, which is where we were headed.

The baby blue sky, with muted sun permeating through the faint veil of cloud, cast a softened glow on the candy coloured houses. Droopy willows bowed to sip from the canals in a waterfall of chartreuse. Quaint little boats dutifully floated beside each front door, and all I could think was: as if anyone would want to leave this place.

The dreamlike calm eased into bubbling chatter and music, as we uncovered a realm of jubilation neatly nestled between the sleepy streets. A red and gold striped lighthouse rose before us, encircled in a spiralling slippery dip. I couldn’t help but thinking that I’d landed in the North Pole, and that Santa would be along soon to deliver my presents. A shrill scream pierced the air as a euphoric boy catapulted down the slide, hands in the air, grinning from ear to ear.

That feeling of thrill was catching; of a knotting stomach and tensing muscles and almost painful anticipation. It is a sensation that every traveler knows well, because it is what drives us to go.

The perfect row houses were oblivious to the spell the scene cast on the odd tourists that happened to stumble upon their world. It was almost as if they were preoccupied with watching over the square, protecting the little ones as they played.

Call it the nostalgia of looking back on travels, but this town square painted the perfect picture of innocence. It struck me as a little pocket of life that the rest of the world and all the forces that govern it seemed to have forgotten.

We didn't mean to go to Ghent, but I mean to go back.