The Flemish Islands

I just came back from two weeks in the Azores. "Where's that?" people ask. These Portuguese islands sit in the middle of the Atlantic, a two-hour flight west from Lisbon. Absolutely stunning. I'd describe them as a mix between Portugal, Costa Rica and New Zealand.

After the trip I went to a networking event at Wintercircus Ghent, and I talked about it. People smiled politely.

"Oh, that's nice, did you have fun?"

"Where's that again?"

"Would you recommend going?"

All valid responses. Clean. Nice. It's how people respond when they hear someone talk about a trip they didn't take themselves.

Then I said: "Did you know the Portuguese used to call them the Flemish Islands?" The energy shifted. "Really? Huh, explain." People leaned in.

In the fifteenth century, Flanders was worn out. The Hundred Years' War had finally ended, the cloth trade that once made Bruges and Ghent rich was fading, and there was poverty and unrest. A Portuguese princess named Isabella, who had married into the ruling house of Flanders, opened a door, and Flemish families left for islands on the far side of the Atlantic. For a while the Portuguese called the archipelago the Ilhas Flamengas: the Flemish Islands.

And you can still taste it. The Flemish were dairy people, so they brought their cattle and their craft. People from a wet, green land found a wet, green island in the middle of the ocean, and did what they did best: cheese.

The São Jorge cheese the islands are known for today comes straight from them. Five centuries later, a piece of Flanders on a plate in the Atlantic.

The person next to me noticed: "Bram's a storyteller, can't you tell?" It caught me by surprise, because yes, I did tell a story. It shifted the conversation from me broadcasting about something I did to something shared, a mutual interest. It made it interesting for them.

That's what stories do. You can tell people what you do. Or you can meet them where they are. It decides whether people hear you, or really listen.