Do not stop in Brussels. Not even in Bruges, the “Venice of the North”. However, it would be easy and even logical, but the train still travels a quarter of an hour to the sea, to Ostend. Less than three hours from Paris, and yet so far. “Oostende good evening”, as sings Arno, but hello to understand a single word of Flemish. This is part of the charm: the change of scenery is almost accelerated, here in “Ost-End”, at the very end of the East. That of the northern beaches.