willie.

his name is willie. it suits him well. he's a rich rich rich old man. a native of brugges, wealthy as they come, he owns an entire block of old apartments in the center of the city. his name is willie. he gives me the willies.

there is a secret tradition that happens in brugges every saturday night. and you're only lucky enough to know about it from word-of-mouth, from chating with the bar tenders, or from that small pamphlet your hostel gives you. its a hole in the wall tradition. literally. let me tell you.

you walk to the center of the city. turn left on twinklebottom street (not actually the name, but it turns out flemmish is incredibly easy to manipulate and crack yourself up with). and look for signs that say something about lucifer (i don't remember exactly). there are a few doors labeled. there are a few signs up. "art and museum ahead." "five euros." "open tonight." keep your eyes peeled. you walk up to the door with stairs. that's the main door. if it's open you're lucky; if it's not you knock and knock until he answers. it was open for us.

willie is standing there. impeciablly dressed. and crazy as fuck. he sings to you in a beautiful accent, some sort of mix between his fluent flemmish spanish english and french; something crazy. he's wearing a black suit, but with a purple velvet robe on top of it. it suits him well. he invites you in his home. his eccentric home. floor after floor of eccentric decorations, of interesting people, of wild and crazy people, of people looking for a story and a history and a good time. he doesn't have a liquor liscense, but he's not actually selling you liquor. he's selling you the invitation into his home, his art castle, his museum. the bar has a piano in the corner. on a lucky night you get live music; on the night we were there the musician was too drunk to play. it is packed. packed. packed. the menu is hand written and easy to snatch. walk around the corner to the bathroom and find a bag of pastries that you can snag for breakfast. oh willie, always appeasing the life of a traveler.

it is the secret of brugges. the walls covered in wigs and plastic heads and pictures of naked women. the walls covered with eccentric decoration and images and stories. it's crazy. and it is willie's pride and joy. but don't wait until too long in the night to ask for a tour of his house. he'll get too drunk and only know how to lead you to the door. thanks for opening you're house to us, willie. now lets hope you never want to leave the city.

secret's out. and willie, you're a mad man. And the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars...