Jetlag is such a strange experience. Rather than simply feeling tired at the wrong times, I find myself in the middle of the day unable to walk or interact, yet sleep seems to flirt half a moment out of reach. I lie in bed with sweating shins, staring at the ceiling in a queer sort of semi-somniferous dream state. Moments and concepts mingle like different colored smokes and I float at the cusp of lucidity, drifting in and out with the tides of sleep. When I finally rise, I have no concept of time whatsoever, and I would as much believe that I had been down for 20 minutes as that I had missed a whole day and was feared deceased.

This is what the ceiling above my bed looks like at the R&Breakfast in Roeselare.

I suppose that the better way is to fight the thing. To drink coffee and stay active throughout the daylight hours, and waking for the day at 3 a.m. to remain still, count the breaths, and trust that sleep will come. I struggle to do that, because as much as I like coffee, I love napping. And in the midst of a jetlag nap it is as though I’m napping like my life depends on it. That’s how good it is.

“I am not an overtly religious person,” Lex explained to us as he led a meandering tour through the catacombs and verandas of his guest house, “but historically, the great castles each had a chapel.” And what a castle it is, belied by its normal avenue.

The journey to Roeselare has taken me from Missoula by road to Spokane, from where I embarked on a three legged flight. Each portion of the trip, first to Denver, then to Frankfurt, and culminating in Brussels, took place in quick succession so that I never had much time to sit stewing in an airport. All the better. Aside from my economy class ticket being kin to steerage, the trip so far has been without incident and generally as pleasant as air travel can be expected to be.

The final portion of this initial voyage has deposited Tom and me at the R&Breakfast guest house (his photos are much finer than mine). The place is unassuming from the street. Its glass door barely stands out in the facade of shops and swinging garage ports.

We arrived to locked doors and were quickly pounced upon by the gregarious and immediately familiar Lex, proprietor of the B&B and a friend of Tom’s from trips before. “You should have texted,” he scolded, “I should be here to show you in.” We had arrived unannounced at an inopportune time, finding Lex running errands and us standing on the curb for a few minutes.

The Red Room.

Lex whisked us inside and began the tour. A melange of old and new, the place was built in the 1920s and its old world charm is somehow complemented by frosted glass doors, a remodeled kitchen, and austere, modern bedrooms. The common areas maintain a century old aesthetic with only updated accents, and he showed us the separate mens’ and womens’ lounges. “This room is for the ladies,” he explained, before adding, “or for men too. That’s ok too.”

Boss Tom in Robertson Hall.

The two had met years before when Tom was covering the robust local cyclocross culture, their friendship burgeoned and Tom has been certain to return each year. Lex dedicated a room for Tom’s European office, but “I had to convert it,” he apologized, “it is the mens’ lounge now.”

On the same floor he pushed open a cracked door. “This is my secret sanctuary.” The room gapes open with a tall vaulted ceiling and is mostly unfinished. Wires for light fixtures hang naked from rough hewn rafters and bare plaster still covers three of the walls. The only working finish is a yellow ceiling light which bears down on a 3’x5′ canvas, held up by a sturdy wooden easel. The sketch and beginnings of a watercolor landscape lilts across the cloth. “This is where I paint,” he declared softly before closing the door.

Just one of the balconies overlooking the narrow winding medieval alleys.

The kitchen and rooms each came with a balcony, fitted with a table and chairs or sometimes with bare turf. Beneath them he led us across a walled garden to an outbuilding with a stained glass window of three old men from Bethlehem. “Some people think that it is strange to have a chapel,” he said finally, “but I am the king of my castle here, so I built a chapel.”

And so I met Lex, and began to get situated for the next two weeks riding bikes in and around Belgium. We ate at a (perhaps?) Egyptian restaurant and I did not bring my Dutch (or Arabic) phrase book, so the ordering process consisted mostly of me pointing, grinning like an idiot, and saying “thank you” in heavily accented English. It is a well known fact that the best way to blend in when abroad is to simply speak your native tongue and assume the accent of the country you are visiting. I ordered something with a lot of syllables that sounded very adventurous. I received plain grilled chicken breast and a pile of raw shredded carrots. Next time I will remember the phrase book.

It dawned on Tom and me last week that while we are over here working on some work projects, we likely have a great deal more time (two weeks) than we are likely to need for the project (perhaps a few days). And so to keep ourselves and our subscribers amused, we came up with the idea of a Belgian scavenger hunt. We’ve got a few ideas, but because it would probably be lame to pick out all of the items on your own scavenger hunt, we’re asking you all to join in. In exchange we’ll do our best to get it done and document it either here or on Tom’s website. Here’s what we’ve got:

1) Get a hair cut.
2) Eat at a Mexican restaurant.
3) Use Tom’s press credentials to get into a sporting event for free.
4) ???

Chime in, if you’re willing, and we’ll see what we can do.