Bruges.

I leave Paris to the sound of a pianist and arrive in #Bruges to the same. On the way to Belgium the train halts as they are defusing a WW2 bomb near the railway line a few kilometres away (as happens in Europe). They are apologetic that we'll be late (as they are in Europe when the trains are delayed - as I find out over the course of my year long travels).

I have booked a hotel that has belonged to hoteliers since the 13th century. In the old days, it housed foreign merchants. My room is spacious with shuttered windows that overlook the canal lined with dolls house like buildings bundled against each other other with peaked roofs, in shades of rust, sandstone, white, grey and dusty pink; all reflected in the water beneath the shadow of an old bridge.

Bruges is a city out of step with time. I walk and turn a corner and there she is, grand and proper. The main square is surrounded in a curve with thin, multi coloured houses. Carriages line the street, the smell of manure scented on the air, the clipping sounds of hooves on the cobblestones echoes. This is a city of lacemaking and the churches and public buildings have been inspired by the art. Even the grates at my feet are intricate and I stop to take a photo of my boots on them. Every second shop is a chocolate shop, every third it seems, a waffle shop. The scents of the sugary concoctions lingers in the cold air.

I decide to go all touristy and take a canal ride as the light begins to fade and turns the city to copper and bronze. Elegant swans glide by us, they were brought here in the 15th century and have their own park where they live and breed. We follow the small canals and return on sunset which illuminates the spires of the churches (whose bells play songs!) and the blackened branches of the wintered trees.

I find a lovely old restaurant, a fire crackling, old fashioned wallpaper, wooden furnishings, a welcome from the cold night approaching. It welcomes tourists at the ungodly hour of dusk. The friendly waiter suggests a traditional dish of rabbit with plums, that is full of flavour and arrives with the obligatory dish of chips. The waiter is Nepalese. He tells me that he met his Flemish wife in Nepal when he was a tour guide. He followed her here, married, had a son and then divorced but stayed on because the Flemish, he said, are friendly and accepting.

I spend the next day wandering. I lunch on white asparagus soup.I try one of the many artisanal beer cafes because I feel that since I'm in Belgium, I must have a beer. I ask the English couple beside me to recommend one, which they do but when it arrives, it tastes like swamp water but I'm committed and slowly drink it. I find a Salvador Dali gallery. I admire his slippery, sliding images, his morphing figures; perfectly executed. I look in longingly at the chocolate shops but sadly my chocolate craving seems to be under control and I have no desire. This causes concern as I have never felt this. I am a chocoholic! Anxiety must have the better of me. I buy a couple just to prove that I'm alive and consume them as I walk.

Night falls slowly, it's the weekend and the city is full of English. I choose a restaurant in the square so I can people watch. The city at night is glowing and glittering with lights, it could be the 15th century, the carriages full of people, the square crowded with tourists and locals rugged up in beautiful coats, gloves, hats and scarves. For dinner I order more Moules Frites, a big bowl of mussels in cream with onions and of course, chips. It's recommended by the waiter who's from Russia. He doesn't ask me if someone is joining me, he leaves the other setting and brings me bread and pours me a glass of wine. There is no markings on the glass as to where he should stop, so he fills my glass to the brim. I'm liking this place.

I wander home under a moon that is waxing and reflecting on the still canals, a moon that has watched generations of Flemish returning to their homes throughout the centuries. I am easily pulled into the past here. Time seems to have slowed.

#blendeditor

Paris - Valentine's Day.

It's Valentines Day in Paris. With my cold for company, I look out from my attic window to see a market across the road. It inspires me to head out, down the three floors of the turquoise and magenta red ornate staircase, past Audrey who doesn't bother to even look up, and out into to the cool morning. The market is full of wonderful vegetables that I haven't seen before; radishes abound in all different shapes and sizes, their thin beige roots curled against their red and pink skins. I buy clementines which I've only every heard about, a cross between a mandarin and orange, a remedy for my cold. I marvel at the delicate lettuces arranged like flowers and dark root vegetables that give off the smell of damp earth. I'm on the way to the Galeries Lafeyette and as I walk, I find a warm cocoon of a cafe, #Cafedelacomedie filled with mirrors and interesting characters, writing in journals, on computers. I look up from my coffee to see myself reflected over and over in the mirrors, it's like looking at the many reinventions of myself over the years.

I enter #GaleriesLafayette, the famous art nouveau fashion store built in 1912, I'm unimpressed until I reach the middle of the store and look up. The glass dome and surrounding balconies are stunning. I decide to buy a drink for my companion cold, an expensive glass of orange juice, just so I can sit and gaze at the building. Then I'm off to another small museum of the artist #GustaveMoreau and then onto #Montmatre; but my cold is demanding that I return home for a rest.

On the way back, I pass an an amazing patisserie where I buy myself a Valentine's gift - a huge raspberry macaron, filled with whipped cream, half dipped into chocolate, with a syringe of raspberry couli, the whole masterpiece sitting on a thin biscuit attached to a gold board. I am careful to get it home safely where I consume it in between my newly acquired coughs, envisioning myself in a garret in the 1920's, with a bit of consumption; Moulin Rouge in the back of my mind.

I manage to go out for dinner, the waiter is again saddened by my lack of male companionship; bringing me a very large glass of wine to compensate. It'll have to do.

Paris - day 2.

The cold is worse today, I stare out over the rooftops, rose pink in the sunrise, feeling like a struggling writer in a garret, sickly but hopeful. I am going out regardless of feeling so poorly. I dress in what I feel is a very Parisian black jersey dress, pulled in on one side with a metal clip, tres chic. I walk kilometres because I'm too scared to take the Metro. I don't like taking the underground trains when in big cities, my anxiety prevents me from heading down the beautiful belle epoque entranceways. I head towards the #Musee D'Orsay to see the paintings I had studied in art school. Matisse, Renoir, Degas...I am blown away. This used to be a railway station/hotel, built in 1900. There's an amazing clock there, in memory of the train station After I'm done here, satiated after room after room of paintings only every seen in books, I wander through the #Tuileries gardens, loving the elegant outlines of the bare branched trees against the wintered deep blue sky, and in the distance, I see the Eiffel Tower. I'm heading to the #L'Orangerie to see Monet's Water Lilly paintings. Maybe it's my flu condition but I'm strangely unimpressed. I have been coloured in by the vibrancy of the Gauguin's and Matisse's from the last gallery and this seems washed out. I see a woman sitting on a bench, her head on the wall, asleep. I feel like I could be her soon so I head off for what will become my affordable 'go to' meal in France - goats cheese on rounds of toast, drizzled with honey, nestled on salad; and as much as I want to go on, I have to head back for a nap as I have a date with an old friend of my husband's later in the afternoon.

Fact check. My husband was always late and I am always on time. When we were dating, we lived in opposite parts of the city and I would meet him in between at a trendy cafe in King's Cross. If he was caught up on a job, he would send his architect friend to meet me and keep me company until his arrival. This was the man I was meeting, who had moved to Paris many years ago and has been here every since. He was an eccentric then and even more so now, as I meet him at the restaurant and he stands to greet me. His skin is whitewashed, he's wearing a paisley waistcoat, there's an old diamante brooch on his lapel, he looks like he has just stepped out a meeting with Hemingway in the 1930's. We catch up of almost thirty years of news and then he takes me to a poetry reading across the river at #ShakespeareandCo, which, since 1919, has been a gathering place for writers and poets. I feel again as if I've stepped out of time. The building is all wonky, it's beams at odd angles, sagging here and there. I love it. We listen to two wonderful young women poets and then make our way back past Notre Dame in the early evening light. She is lit from within and we admire her beauty and I decide not to visit this time; a huge mistake on my part, as not long after, she is consumed by fire.

We eat at a French bistro on the Seine, duck a l'orange, crisped potatoes and vegetables. I watch as a huge tray of meat is delivered to a young couple next to us. Chips accompany it but that's all. I wonder how they'll get through what looks like half a small calf but by the end of our evening, they've consumed it all. My companion tells me that wealthy Americans still have apartments here and have evening soirees with talented artists and writers and that, as an architect, he has managed to get invites. Paris, I think exists in a time warp, I hope it continues to do so.

I am so exhausted by the time I get home, that even Audrey, who looks up with a face that shows no emotion, has no effect on me.