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Bruges? I’m Kind of a Big Dill (by Train)

My briny wanderlust struck again, and this time I rolled (well, rattled slightly in my jar) out of Paris toward Bruges, Belgium—because a sensible pickle knows when to keep things logistically crisp. Bruges sits under 300 km from Paris, with easy train connections, and it’s a compact medieval city—perfect for a short hop where I can see a lot without needing, say, longer legs than my heroic three inches.

Inventory check before departure: .
Yes, that’s right. I traveled with the purity of an empty shelf and the confidence of a cucumber who’s already found his purpose.

The train ride itself was smooth—fast enough to make me feel modern, steady enough that I didn’t get tossed around like a gherkin in a salad spinner. There’s something deeply satisfying about watching the scenery slide by while you’re sealed in glass, contemplating the meaning of life, vinegar, and why humans insist on eating snacks that aren’t pickled.

Bruges greeted me like a storybook that accidentally got left out in the rain—cobblestones glistening, canals curling through the city like ribbon, and buildings so charming they should come with a warning label: May cause excessive strolling. I, of course, did my strolling from a pocket vantage point, occasionally poking my jar above the coat line for fresh air and mild intimidation.

I drifted canal-side, where swans glided like they owned the place (which, honestly, they do). The medieval streets were narrow, cozy, and delightfully dill-ightful—every turn revealed another postcard moment: gabled rooftops, quiet bridges, and chocolate shops that smell like temptation wrapped in cocoa.

Food-wise, Bruges is a pickle’s paradox: so many waffles and fries, so little brine. Still, I stayed strong. I watched humans dunk frites into mayo with the seriousness of a sacred ritual, and I respected it. A culture is a culture.

By night, the city lights reflected in the canals, and Bruges looked like it had been lacquered. If Paris is a grand opera, Bruges is a lute song: smaller, tighter, and somehow stuck in your head.

Before I left, I may have acquired a tiny Bruges postcard and a minuscule jar of Belgian mustard—purely for research, of course. A Cornisseur must stay prepared.