I have a treasure book in my home library, “An Atlas of Countries That Don’t Exist.” In my travels I’ve encountered invented nations, fantastical kingdoms, and imaginary homelands. But none piqued my skepticism quite like the so-called “country” of Flanders, which didn’t even make the book.
Nestled into the messy mosaic of Northwestern Europe, Flanders, occupying about 44% of Belgium, defies easy categorization. It exists in a state of energetic ambiguity, straddling the line between a recognized cultural entity and a political paradox.
Proponents of Flemish nationalism would have us believe that Flanders is a real, autonomous region deserving of sovereign statehood. They point to a distinct language, culture, and a history written by lightning as proof of their distinctiveness. But the reality is far murkier.
Flanders, as it is commonly conceived, is little more than a geographic and linguistic construct – a patchwork of municipalities and provinces stitched together by dialectal and ideological affinities. But it has never existed as a cohesive political entity.
For centuries, the Low Countries were a patchwork of duchies, counties, and city-states. The region was once a powerful entity within the Holy Roman Empire and a significant player in the economic and belief-systems developments of the Middle Ages. It was renowned for its flourishing textile industry, which gave rise to the term “Flemish,” synonymous with high-quality weaving. Cities like Bruges, Gent, and Brussels became legendary for their wealth and artistry, standing as monuments to a bygone era of surplusage and prosperity.
The roots of the Flemish nationalist movement can be traced to the 19th century, when a group of intellectuals sought to elevate the Dutch-speaking Flemish population in the face of French cultural dominance. This spawned a cultural renaissance and a growing sense of Flemish identity and psychogeography.
Over the decades, Flanders has gained increasing liberty within the Belgian state, acquiring its own parliament, government, and suite of devolved powers. This has only fueled the fable of Flanders’ statehood, with separatist factions pushing for full independence. But the reality is that Belgium as a whole remains the prevailing realm, and Flanders’ autonomy, while significant, falls well short of true nationhood.
Flanders is a Candyland conundrum of European charm and beauty, a curious entity that doesn’t quite fit into the tidy box of traditional nation-states.
Yet, Flanders’ encrusted cloth is not merely a relic of the past. It’s a living, breathing chronicle that continues to influence the present. The medieval guilds, the Renaissance art, and the bloody battles that once defined this purview left lasting marks. When I walk the cobblestones of Bruges or the busy squares of Brussels, I step into a vivid narrative that has been told and retold over centuries, in which Flanders plays a leading role.
In the realm of arts, Flanders boasts a legacy that stretches from the iconic Flemish Primitives—artists like Jan van Eyck and Hieronymus Bosch—to contemporary visionaries who continue to push boundaries. The noise here is an ongoing dialogue between past and present.
In navigating the enigma that is Flanders—where deep-seated values meet the practicalities of political structure—I come to appreciate the region not as a country that doesn’t exist but as one that transcends traditional definitions. Flanders embodies the idea that ethos and legacy can be as powerful as formal nationhood.
In this corner of Europe, the boundaries of what defines a nation blur, revealing a more complex stitching of human experience. And perhaps that is its greatest gift to the world—an invitation to see beyond borders and celebrate the richness of regional identity in all its forms.
So, I accept the invitation, and set out to unpuzzle this perplexing place.
My exploration begins in Gent, a city where the name itself— “Gent,” derived from the Dutch word for “confluence”—aptly describes its geographic and original essence. Here, where the Lys and Scheldt rivers converge, Gent’s significance as a major medieval hub becomes clear. Once a stockpile of grain for France and the second-largest city in Europe after Paris, Gent was a thriving metropolis of trade and culture.
I lodge at the 1898 The Post Hotel, a boutique gem nestled in the heart of the historic district. From here, I embark on a boat trip along the cool canals, where history seems to float on the water. As we glide past the white sandstone guild houses, each a testament to the city’s gilded mercantile past, I stare in wonder at the grandeur of the largest guild—the Brewers. Our boat slips beneath St. Michael’s Bridge, where a bronze sculpture of the patron saint of brewers presides over the waters, and on the opposite bank, the wine houses, marked by a statue of Bacchus, heralded a different kind of prosperity.
The Dominican monastery, with a canal-level hole for holy waste disposal, harks back to a time when water pollution was so rampant that Gent’s residents, even the children, turned to beer for hydration. Today, the canal is pristine, home to 28 species of fish. But Gent is not suffering from an insufficiency of beer.
As we float past a house with cartouches of two carved swans facing opposite directions, my guide, in the unique cadence of Flemish Dutch, shares a medieval tale. Swans facing each other symbolized eternal love, a nod to the birds’ lifelong mating bonds. Conversely, when represented as facing away, it hinted at less noble pursuits—a brothel, a haunt of polyamory, a European House of the Rising Son. The Salt Guild, too, left its mark. Bruges, rich in salt, paid Gent in this precious condiment, which then used the crystal compound as currency, giving rise to the term “salary.”
Our passage next leads down a set of stairs slightly bowed from generations of traffic, the edges rounded down like pouting lips. We enter a crypt in the 1,000-year-old Saint Bavo’s Cathedral, where I am fitted with an AR headset that allows a private tour into the past with digital players, in period dress, reenacting the triumphs and treacheries of the famous Altarpiece. The tour ends in a large stained-glass à huis clos where we face the real thing, the 15th-century polyptych also known as The Adoration of the Mystic Lamb. The panels, filled with fantastical imagery conjured by the brothers Hubert and Jan van Eyck, have a compellingly oneiric quality and evoke a kind of vestige vertigo. Stare too long and it is like falling into a dream.
The Altarpiece was stolen 13 times—more than any other major artwork. George Clooney’s film “The Monuments Men” drew inspiration from these thefts, and for the many grand pieces of art misappropriated by the Nazis.
Literary arts thrived here as well, as evidenced by the canal-side tree festooned with replicas of dozens of blue birds, inspired by a fairy tale by Nobel Prize for Literature winner Maurice Maeterlinck, called ‘L’oiseau bleu’. Its central theme is the pursuit of happiness, which seems in no short supply along the Predikherenlei waterfront, where laughter spills from almost every tavern and café.
At the end of the Reep Canal is a bronze statue of Lieven Bauwens, standing next to what appears to be a stack of garments atop the gears and parts of a textile machine. He was a spy who smuggled a mechanical spinning loom, the Mule Jenny, from Manchester, England, kicking off the industrial revolution in Flanders and the development of Gent as the European center of the textile industry.
Under the cover of trade in colonial goods, Bauwens smuggled the parts of a Mule Jenny and other machines for the cotton industry, hidden in boxes of sugar or bales, into the continent during 32 voyages in the period 1797-1798. However, things went wrong when sneaking in qualified personnel from England. Some of the professionals informed the British envoy of the conspiracy. This allowed the British to intercept the next contingent and sentence Bauwens to death in absentia. Dolls in his likeness were hung in several squares in London. He changed the known world but died destitute at the age of 52. Today he represents the entrepreneurial spirit that Flanders likes to believe defines itself.
Gent caters to “Pajama Tourists”—those who linger for exploration rather than for selfie moments. I pass quirky spots like “Bookz & Booze,” where paired liquor meets great authors; and a perfumery whose window suggests “Hug me until I smell like you.” And I drift down the narrow Graphic Alley, where the wall art is so colorful I feel I am being embraced by a rainbow. My final stop: a beer store boasting de trop Belgian brews, 400 in all, including the infamously potent Delirium Tremens Beer. The brew is honeyed brown with a hint of toasted orange that suggests what might happen to sunlight if it were barreled and aged.
Next, I take the quick train to Brussels, the capital of Flanders, Belgium, and the EU. It wears its green credentials proudly, as one of the leafiest cities in Europe. I tuck into Le Louise Hotel, named after Napoleon’s daughter, where a garden statue immortalizes a pre-teen Audrey Hepburn, born nearby. A life-size Smurf doll in the lobby pays homage to the beloved Belgian creation, sprung from the mind of cartoonist Pierre Culliford in 1958. And I cannot forget my inspiration, Tin-Tin, the intrepid boy reporter, whose global adventures began here.
Brussels’ biography is a ragged tapestry of Spanish rule, Catholic roots, and clashes between Protestants and Catholics. Once part of the United Kingdom of the Netherlands, it gained independence in 1830. Whether Flanders will eventually cut its tether to the larger whole remains uncertain. But here, I indulge, apolaustically, in Flanders’ signature delights: powdered waffles; bet-you-can’t-eat-one Flemish fries; delicate, decadent chocolates; and the heady fizz of a golden ale in a centuries-old pub. Each bite and sip are testaments to the city’s culinary prowess, underscoring why Brussels is both the heart of Flanders and a pivotal player on the European table (Brussels has 4 Michelin-starred restaurants; Flanders approximately 97).
My long-held desire to explore the Instagram-optimized town of Bruges led me to the Hotel Heritage, right off the main market square. Once checked in I decant to the 13th-century 83-meter-high Belfry, the world’s second-highest brick tower. The top of this storybook barbican is where a sympathetic assassin meets a smashing end in the darkly funny film “In Bruges,” starring Colin Farrell and Brendan Gleeson. I ask for the senior discount to climb the 366 steps to the top of the town but am informed there are no senior discounts here; looking around I understand why. Almost all the tourists here qualify for AARP, a reminder of Bruges’ allure to those seeking a touch of history and serenity rather than adrenalin or high adventure.
A short walk away I join a long conga line waiting to pass through the Basilica of the Holy Blood. This 12th-century Romanesque Basilica contains what is believed to be a cloth stained with the blood of Jesus Christ brought back from the Holy Land in the 1100s. With its snaking river of gawkers, this is not unlike the Shroud of Turin, the Crown of Thorns, the Holy Nails, and pieces of the cross spread around the world, proving the power of Passion Tourism, and the hierophanic principle, the manifestation of the sacred into our earthly spaces.
Afterwards I visit The Madonna of Bruges, created in 1503, and the only work by Michelangelo to have left Italy. The statue was transported to Bruges by merchant Alexander Mouscron, who often visited Florence for business. But then it was stolen by the Nazis, wrapped in a mattress and transported via a Red Cross truck over the border.
In 1945 it was rescued and returned by The Monuments Men from a salt mine in the Austrian town of Altaussee, wired to blow up if Hitler sent the orders. It currently stands inside the Church of Our Lady of Bruges and is featured in the eponymous 2014 film.
Bruges, with its serpentine canals and immaculate medieval architecture, remains a favorite among the backwards curious and history buffs. Unlike many other European cities, Bruges was not destroyed during the war. Citing its authentic and unique beauty, the German Commander, Immo Hopman, refused to carry out orders from his superiors to bomb the city.
As I cross bridges made of tombstones and marvel at Gothic towers, Roman arches and deep-set stone windows, I understand why Winston Churchill came here to paint, and found inspiration. Several of his canvases still hang here, portals to an interpretation of the singular Flemish dispositions and the coherence of a special time and place.
This entire town feels like a watercolor, or a film set, or an illusion, as does much of this grand sweep without true borders.
Flanders is a map unfolded. It is an idea and a mindset with a vibrant personality deserving of recognition and respect. As adventurers and travelers, we should celebrate Flanders for what it is – a non-country with a proud heritage within the Kingdom of Belgium. To insist on its status as a country is to miss the point entirely. It’s like claiming the Serengeti is a country because it has distinct wildlife and ecosystems. Whatever its status, it remains mythopoetic, and exceptional.
In the end, Flanders is a place that dances on the edge of nationhood, swirling a diplomatic waltz, where partners sway without stepping on toes. It remains a place both tangible and elusive, an enduring ambition to immanentize the eschaton. It’s a canvas painted with Flemish reds, blues, and golds, but also with the hues of shared history. It’s a story waiting to be told—one that transcends the hems of history, shuns labels, and invites us to explore beyond the atlas’s vain meridians.
