Harelbeke, man. It's a dump—but in a darn good way. I live here and it wears its crap proudly. Bro, the streets here are like characters. There's Nieuwstraat, crammed with old brick shops. That lane near St. Peter's Church? Damn, it's like stepping into a faded film. "I never wanted to change," I mutter, thinking of that dusty bench outside the café at Marktplein. Hmmm, reminds me a bit of that line from the movie "The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford"—you know, where every damn moment feels heavier than a loaded rifle.
The parks here are odd and charming. I stroll through Droegemoal Park sometimes. That place? It's quiet. Too quiet. Too much time to think. "There's a right chill in solitude, always!" I say, feeling like Jesse James on a hard day. The river Maas? Actually, not here, but there's a little creek near the old mill on Witte Molenstraat. Funny how nature sneaks up on you there, even amidst concrete and stale beer smells. I'm utterly grateful for these rough gem spots.
I hate the pretension, I really do. Everything's loud near the train station. Still, that's where I got my zen. I sat on a chipped bench, mind drifting like those slow bullet shots in that movie—quiet, waiting, and I swear, the silence roared.
Look, Harelbeke got these neighborhoods full of sputtering life. Marode Houses? Nah, scratch that, it's De Melkerij. Odd name, ain't it? Reminds me of a time I got mad when a local butcher ruined my peace by playing stunted rock—annoying, really. I turned on my heel, muttering, "I coulda been a contender!" And yeah, I may have yelled at a pigeon once. You're welcome for that moment of genius.
The locals here, though crude, have soul. A friend at Café 't Rustpunt—yeah, that's his joint—served me a beer like it was liquid gold. I got tips: avoid the back alley behind the town hall on rainy nights. Too many smells mingle there. Totally not my vibe. But I love every stinky, unpredictable corner.
My days start with bitter coffee at 7am on Vlierstraat. I nearly choke that morning brew thinking of dirty deeds. "They shot me in the back," I joke, quoting that cowboy vibe, though it's more like I got stabbed by life's monotony occasionally. Heaven forbid we forget, every street, every face here tells a story. Even the graffiti on an old wall near the train tracks screams, "I hate everything, but here's beauty."
I keep it real. Harelbeke is raw, messy, interesting as hell. It ain't perfect. It's full of guts, scars, and a strange, stubborn grace. And that, my friend, makes it worth every damn typo in my rushed ramble.
Come visit. Bring your earplugs for chaos and an open mind for whispers. And maybe, just maybe, listen to my favorite flick and feel that old, cold wind every damn time you walk those streets. It's all true.