H20 in three phases

Never consult weather.com in Belgium. Not once in the past four months has it been correct or in line with local forecasts. For the past week, it was forecasting snow on Saturday... but nobody else expected snow, and the sky never fell.

Fortunately, we got our share of ice and nearly froze in the artifically arctic Ijssculptuur exhibition in Brugge. Jostled past wonder after wonder by throngs of last-minute sightseers, we studied castle walls, chained moats, children putting their faces and hands into ice stocks, an opulent sword and treasure chest encrusted in ice, an ice bar and ice shot glasses, and finally a room of drunken ice servants drinking frozen beer. So when are they going to hire me to play an ice carillon?

Best steaming hot Indian meal so far in Belgium: Bhavani on the Simon Stevinplein in Brugge. They'll assume super-duper-extra mild unless you ask. On the way back, the Bruggemuseum - Archeologie and an observation: Mothers yank their children out of the way the moment they see me approaching. If I saw a three-legged foreign freak clattering my way, I'd chuck my young'uns into the gutter too.

Guided somewhat randomly to Knokke (site of an infamous drive-by shouting) by the decidedly un-sexy computerized voice of Mevrouw GPS, we followed streets bursting with glowing shops, their warm yellow lights piercing the cool blue winter light, to the sea. My crutch left deep prints in the wet sand as we walked towards the sun, which burned coldly orange in the west, leaving the endless line of highrise apartments in shadow. When the sun had buried itself in the sand, we too disappeared westward through surreal gateways of yellow sodium lights to the intersection where I had been run over.

Just as for het weerbericht, never believe your memory of an accident. It was the first time I'd returned, but I recognized the corner from which I started pedaling right away. I did not, however, recognize the road itself. It was a feeble, poorly maintained two-lane road, not the six-lane monstrous thoroughfare I somehow remembered. And it was eerily silent and empty that night, not roaring with traffic. The accident must have blocked the entire southbound route, and my bike... it must have been lying just three meters away from me.

Strange, the fantasies your memory fabricates to both horrify and protect you from the truth.

Destination: Zeebrugge. Not only home of the Zandsculptuur festival and the Old Fish Market (home to a fish auction and plethora of seafood restaurants), but also of a large industrial port and abandoned factories such as the Carcoke. Folks who've never met me but are about to: Urban Xplorer and StahlArt.

What crazy Dutchman came up with the word appelblauwzeegroen to describe cyan? And since when were apples blue and seas characteristically green?