Today I remembered that in a few months it will have been 20 years since I visited Brugge. I arrived there on July 3, 1984 and spent the first night in the youth hostel. It was my first trip to Europe and I had just spent the previous 3 weeks travelling through England and Scotland.

On the next day, I went into the delicatessen in the Market Square, which is (was) next to Cafe Cranenburg (sp?) to buy some cheese for my lunch. I was waited on by a tall, raven haired woman with whom I flirted. She was decidedly unimpressed with me, so I took my cheese and left.

Later that day, I had just walked out of the post office on the other side of the Market Square when I saw the woman from the deli go past. I went after her and caught up to her as she was looking at a store window display. I began a conversation and within a few minutes, we went to a cafe to have a drink.

We hit it off quite well this time and made plans for dinner that evening. Well, to make a very long story short, I spent the next two weeks with her. Everyday that she had to work, she would finish at 2 pm. I would be waiting for her in the Cafe. Then we would spend the day seeing the city. There's really not a whole lot there, as it's quite small, yet I never tired of walking around the lovely canals, admiring the buildings.

Every evening we went out to a different restaurant and then we would go to 3-4 bars. I developed a taste for Stella Artois and French wine in those two weeks. On her days off, we visited other cities. The most memorable for me was Ipres.

After a few days with her, I was in love and she as well. It was the most intense period of my life. I felt as if I had lived two years of wonderful experiences in such a short time. I acquired an intimate knowledge of the city and I came to love it almost as much as I loved her.

After 10 days, I had to leave, as I had to see more of Europe before the summer ended. Leaving her was so difficult, that we both were crying the night before. The next day, she went to work in the morning and left me sleeping, not wanting to wake me for she knew I was leaving. We had said our goodbyes the night before. That day it was raining lightly. I walked to the edge of town and began hitching. It was a good thing it was raining, because I was crying on and off most of the day.

When I reached Brussels, I called her at home. Unfortunately, I had written down the wrong number. Dejectedly, I continued on. By 7pm that night, I was in Liege. My pain was so great, that I couldn't stand it any longer and I went to the train station and bought a ticket to Brugge on the very next train.

I arrive back in Brugge about 9:30 that night. I went to her apartment but she wasn't there. I went to her mom's house and her car was out front, but there wasn't any answer at the house. So, I left a note on her car telling her that I had returned and was waiting at the Cafe.

After sitting there for about 30 minutes, she came walking around the corner with her brother Josef. When she saw me, she broke into a run and said, "I can't believe it. It's a miracle. You've come back to me." After 20 years, I can still see her reaction as her face lit up with joy and she broke into a run almost yelling those words. I can still hear her voice say, "It's a miracle."

We went back to her place that night. For four more days I stayed with her. But finally I had to leave, without any doubt this time, as the Tour De France was ending and someone better left unidentified was returning to Brugge.

The second time I left the weather was better, a beautiful summer day. Josef had volunteered to give me a ride to Frankfurt, Germany on the back of his 850 Moto Guzzi. Our departure this time wasn't so sorrowful, yet it was just as painful. She stood there on the sidewalk by her mom's house and waved to us as we pulled away. She was so beautiful. I wish...so many things.

So here it is, twenty years later. I'm a university professor, sitting in a computer lab letting my students do as they please because I have this incredible need to tell someone this story. It's been twenty years since I fell in love with Hilde, and though I stopped loving her a very long time ago, I've never forgotten her. The periods in which I go without thinking about her have gotten longer over the years, but when I do remember her, the intensity of the memories is still as strong as if it had happened last year.

I just had my 46th birthday last week and I'm feeling extremely melancholy today. I wonder what has become of Hilde. I wonder if she's happy, if she's had a decent life. I wonder if she met a man that respected and truly loved her. I wonder if she's a mother. I wonder if she's still alive. I wonder if we would have anything to say to each other now, if we would have anything in common beside the past.

I was thinking of going to Brugge this summer. I'm finished with work in June and I could be in Brugge for July 4th. Would I be able to find her? Is it a big assumption to think she's still living in Brugge? I believe it was Thomas Hardy that said that you can never go home again. I've asked myself what is it I want. I'm happily married now, but it's not a sexual desire or one of passion. It's more about finding someone who played a short, but important role in my life and seeing how they are. To say hello, to look her in the eye and tell her that I've thought about her thousands of times over the years. To hold her hand and let her know that our lives were once intertwined and the mark it left was indelible. If I were to live for another 40 years, I doubt it would disappear. I want to know if she feels the same way, if she's thought about me again and again over the years. I want to know if she's aware that it's been twenty years this July. Does she have a small desire, unexpressed, that maybe, beyond all reasonable possibility, that some day we'll meet again. When I think of how simple it is for me at this point in my life to get on plane and be in Belgium, I wonder why I don't. Maybe I will. Maybe this summer, I'll be sitting in the Market Square in Brugge on a beautiful day watching for her. Then I'll see her walking past. I'll hesitate because I won't be sure it's her. But, like the first time, twenty years ago, I'll be bold and run after her and call her name. If it is her and she stops and turns, what will be her reaction when she recognizes me?

Robert Natarelli