DO THEY STILL SPEAK BELCH IN BELGIUM?

I always laugh at that sad joke. Why? I'm just like that.

My first time in Belgium I was on a train from Berlin. It was about dusk and I was wondering, wandering. I'm not sure which. You see, my uncle Carl, whom I never met, was killed in Belgium at the Battle of the Bulge. I was wondering if his body's still there. Oh, they brought it back, but you never know which soldier's actually buried there. For some, there were no dogtags left. Of course, I prefer to think his was properly identified.

Bruges, Belgium, has the quaintest old church I've ever seen. It's huddled at the end of one of those European squares. It was built in 800 AD and people were coming out of worship service when we were there. Little, old Belgium people wrapped up in Winter garb on a nice but brisk autumn day, they could have looked the same way on the day the church held its first service.

A memorable little city, the river that bisects the community attracts houses, mostly stone and masonry as in the photo, right up to its shore. A community based around a nunnery has identical houses built the same way. And as in many European communities, at least to me, it seems that not much is going on. No rush.

Except when getting off the train. A burly old man dropped his heavy suitcase on my foot as we were waiting in line to get off the train. I hopped up into the aisle as soon as the train stopped. You won't beat me out of my seat when the ding indicates it's time to de-board a plane either. But somehow he took offense that I'd gotten ahead of him. He mumbled something in German or Belch and then let it go. Perfectly placed to smash my right foot. I winced and some gutteral words of pain emerged. He just scowled.

For a split second, I thought about decking him right there. I really did, and it really hurt. Better sense prevailed as I limped off the train. Wondering if the guy was a traveling anvil salesman.