They rang out across the water, a symphony of sound in chiming echoes down the brick-lined canal. The bells of Bruges, incongruously peeling out disco music to peal against medieval facades, held me captive. Even the cafe goers across the canal left their sedate mugs and tables to dance with abandon.
Invisible behind those ancient brick buildings, the great Bruges Market bustled with life. I closed my eyes, memories of its timeless sights and aromas flooding my mind in rhythm with the bells. I could almost see colorfully robed guildmembers shouting over the chimes, haggling with the shoppers of yesteryear over the price of bread or the value of a bolt of fine fabric.
For a moment, in Isolda’s shop, I had entered that world. She had looked over her flowers, braids peeking from beneath a knit cap and voluminous dirt-streaked apron swallowing her slender frame, bells chiming a muted soundtrack through medieval walls. She had smiled when I introduced myself as Tristan.
The Word Worker 