Ring My Belgium: Partie Deux

Beer. Chocolate. Waffles. That holy Trinity of Belgian delights we Americans long for from across the Seas.

These were the foremost thoughts of mine before I came to Belgium. Delicious thoughts.

Having been here for a few days, I had yet to experience Waffles or Chocolate. Enter: Matthias and Kathleen!

Matthias is leaving for a big trip today, and we decided to grab lunch before he goes. In the square in front of Église Sainte-Catherine, Saint Catherine’s church, there is a blue covered shop called Nordzee; half fish market, half corner cafe. We pulled up on the corner and started ordering everything on the menu that caught our eyes, along with a couple Belgian beers. The fishmongers kept crying out plate after plate to be picked up as we stole pieces off one another’s dishes and hungrily decimated the culinary landscape before us.

After far too much lunch, Matthias looked at me calmly and said, “Perhaps we can go for a waffle.”

It wasn’t a question; it was a statement that we were going for a waffle, which is apparently what Belgians do after a meal. I was fast falling in love with this country. Along the way, Matthias and Kathleen described to me the two different kinds of waffles and how they are made traditionally, and how tourism has affected the types of waffles available in the city. It was all quite interesting, and I was quite ready to eat them.

On the way, we just wandered past a bunch of people in haz-mat suits that were acting as if nothing was out of the ordinary. I wasn’t convinced, but hung around long enough to snap a pic for evidence, should I need it.

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Along the Rue de e’tuve, there are a number of waffle places. Some are touristy, but the best are small, unassuming, and will sell you a waffle for €1. Loaded down with whipped cream and strawberries was €1.50! 🙂

If you proceed south, braving the sweating bodies of untold countries of tourists hellbent on the best photo or the most souvenirs, you will come across one of the National Treasures of Belgium; The Manneken-pis. The Little Man Pee.

Seen world round as an icon of phallic fountain perfection, the tiny peeing statue is the template by which so many others fountain wieners have been produced. Writing this, it makes me wonder how citizens of Vienna, Wieners, came to be synonymous with penis…

Kathleen, Matthias, and I all took our turn snapping a ridiculous tourist photo in front of his exposed member.

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I had to get back to work, so the couple walked me home, and Matthias dipped into a shop for a moment to pick me up a commemorative bottle of Kathleen’s favorite beer; Bush!

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I was off to work again, but as the hours wound on, I found myself in constant appreciation of the day and the lovely Belgian day I had had this far. I took a quick break to walk back to the Grand Place and stop through several of the most highly rated chocolate shops and pick up some gifts for the friends that I had yet to visit on this trip.

Back at the house later, dangerously near 10 o’clock, I realized that I had to leave and get some food, or I would not eat until the following morning. Le Pré Salé was close, delicious, and most importantly; open! Charlotte, the lovely waitress from earlier in the week was working again alongside a different young pretty waitress that I had not seen before. The unknown curvaceous quantity stopped in her rounds to fix her hair in a strangely placed mirror and lean in to ensure there was nothing in her teeth from whatever snack she had last consumed. It is fun to watch others concerned with their appearance when I am traveling, as that is often the furthest thing from my mind. 🙂

The pair of them wound their serpentine routes through the restaurant, which always seems a bit hectic to my untrained eyes, and Charlotte even found time to stop in and ask me how my time had been in Belgium. I answered honestly, that I wish I had more time to stay and see the local side of things. She gave me the names of some local bars, then paused thoughtfully before asking for my number.

I’ll call you when I get off work. I’ll show you around with my friends. We are going out around 1:30.

Now, when you are pushing 40 like me, going out at 1:30 am is a damn late night. However, being the intrepid adventurer that I am, going out with locals to do anything is always a priority, so I agreed.

Already, today, I had had beer, chocolate, moules, waffles, lunch with Belgian friends, and was now going to go tour the secret bars with the locals. This was shaping up to be a banner day; a Belgian Day!

I went back to work. I was hard at work until 12:30 Belgian time, cranking out request after deadline for work, finally shutting down just before 1 o’clock. I still hadn’t heard anything from Charlotte, but thought maybe she just wouldn’t call, and so I took a shower and started getting ready for bed.

At 1:10, the message came in from Charlotte. “Meet in the Grand Place in 20 minutes?”

I was already undressed and sitting in bed. Weighing the effort of remedying my current state of undress with the potential for hi-jinks, I promptly responded in the affirmative, threw on some clothes, and hit the road.

The Grand Place is filled to bursting with tourists during the day. They are everywhere crawling over the place like an overturned anthill. At night, the square is peaceful, but not abandoned. There are groups of kids everywhere, sitting on the large flat stones with bottles of beer and wine in varying stages of emptiness. They are laughing, playing games, smoking… even puking.

Nearby a teenage blonde does her best to hold her brunettes friends hair from her face as she sprays the paving stones and her Converse low-tops with the overflow of too much beer on a Thursday night. Drinking is legal at 16 in Belgium. It doesn’t ensure that they are any better at it. The two cars of police look on but do nothing. This isn’t the first time they’ve seen this, and certainly won’t be the last… maybe not even tonight.

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Interesting thing to note. The Grand Place in Brussels has free WiFi. It’s clearly labeled, and available at all hours of the day and night. This helped immensely at 1:30 am when I was trying to figure out whether Charlotte was still coming or not.

After taking some time to appreciate the moon over the square and the quiet beauty of the location in the dark, we took off through the now happily empty streets to a bar named Bonnefooi. Her friends Emily and Ana follow. We dance and sing and laugh and drink beers until one of the barmen comes to our table and tells us it is time for shots. I don’t know what was in it. I have no idea why we were the recipients, but he poured one for each of us and himself, taking care to keep them lit and explain wordlessly the process for downing them without setting your face on fire. Not the simplest of things to do in the wee hours of the morning, after a healthy share of Belgian beers.

Ana is somewhat the worse for wear, and Emily decides it is time to take her home. I offer to walk Charlotte home through the cobblestone echoes of words that wish I could pronounce them properly just once. The night is so quiet compared to so much of the day. Staying up until people being to wake up does that, but this is the only time of day when you get the movie shots of these old streets: the solitary boy and girl swaddled in thousands of years of history.

It’s a lovely thing kissing a girl under the moon in a foreign land. It’s a lovely thing kissing a girl at any time of day anywhere in the world, but there is a certain uniqueness to the innocent good night kiss and the goodbye forever in a language one may never speak again. It’s a bit like a lost childhood love, fondly remembered, but destined to be only that fond memory.

These moments are fleeting, made all the more special for their rareness and impermanence; impossible to hold in anything other than memory. Combined, they compose the days that burn bright for us. The days that stay with us when we feel as if we are living entirely different lives. I hope you, dear reader, get to go out and find yourself a day like this very soon. I hopy you have your very own most Belgian day ever.

Wrap-up:

  • Bonnefooi is a great place to kick it after hours with locals
  • La Grande Place has free WiFi
  • Get out to dinner EARLY!
  • Waffles!
  • Manneken-pis is ridiculous but fun. Go see the golden shower.

Fast French Food

Never have I ever… wanted to go to France.

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That’s not entirely true. Once, I met a lovely French girl in a hostel kitchen in Costa Rica. Her name was Sonia, and she just spoke to me, deeply and direct, as we sat across from one another; equally ignored by and ignoring the others around us. It was the only time when I have ever wanted to go to France; to watch the sun play in the ringlets of her hair on the breeze.

Now, after more than 6 years, I am finally on my way. I won’t have Sonia or her angelic hair to accompany me, though I probably have her to thank for it as much as anything, so… Merci beaucoup, Sonia!

Now for the informative part of our post. You can take the TGV to Paris in less than two hours from Brussels. The international information office is just to the left of the main ticket counter in Brussels Central station behind a pink door. They can sort you out quickly. All international high speed trains leave from the Brussels Midi station, just a few minutes train ride from Brussels Central. Allow 20 minutes for the transfer. Your international ticket should get you passage on the local train to and from Brussels Midi, so no need to spend the extra few euro for a local connection ticket.

As I had limited time for the trip, I opted to go to Lille; just across the French border from Belgium. The TGV high speed train could be in the city in 30 minutes, leaving me ample time to explore and still get back to Belgium in time for work.

Yes, I am working almost every day of this Eurotrip, aside from Travel days. It’s not optimal, but it’s keeping me employed and out of trouble… mostly out of trouble.

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Prior to this trip, I’ve only met one French person in my life, Sonia, who spoke to me willingly. Most ignore me or treat me with open disdain. I know I’m a hard pill to swallow, but really? I met two Frenchmen in a hotel in Bogotá, and addressed them both in English and in Spanish asking a simple question. They stared at me blankly, then shook their heads “no” until I walked off to ask someone else. A while later that day, I head them speaking Spanish with the hotel owner, and English with another guest. It was mildly infuriating.

Recently, a Belgian posed a theory of his to me. He believes that the French education system is so weak on foreign languages, that French people simply don’t have the confidence to speak to others in their own tongue. This particular theory doesn’t really address why Parisians in particular are reported to have refused to acknowledge foreigners speaking French…

I know next to nothing of the French language. Merci. Fromage. Escargot. That about sums it up. Though, being clueless hasn’t stopped me from doing a great many things in my life. France was going to be tricky, I knew, but it would not be the first time this month that I’ve been a stranger in a strange land. Leaving the train station in Lille, grab a map from the information counter, or at the hotel immediately on the left as you go down the main road. If you are in need of WiFi, there is a Burger King with free internet immediately within the first entrance to the Mall left as you leave the train station.

I had looked up some places for breakfast the day before and planned to go to Tamper; an espresso specific breakfast place deep in the old quarter. The city was supremely calm and enjoyable at the relatively early hour of 8 am. I took many wrong turns walking through the city, but I was in no rush, and the lostness of it fit well with my morning. The old city was just waking, not quite asleep, but still refusing to get up and start the day. Accompanied by this half-waking entity as I arrived at Tamper I almost kept walking just to prolong our sleepy morning together.

Inside the tiny but never cramped shop at Tamper, I was impressed by everything. The decor, the cakes, the menu, the English skills of the proprietor, the tiny plaque on the door proclaiming that Yelp! had rated Tamper the #1 place to eat in France in 2016. A pretty laudable achievement.

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When the owner told me they had fish pancakes as an option for breakfast I knew there was no way that I could order anything
else. How many times do you get to say, “Bring me your finest Fish Pancakes, good sir!” and have someone comply?!

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The food was nonpareil. The coffee was top notch. Everything was seamless and lovely. I bought some slices of cake for the road, and took off to meander through the old town, just taking in the sights for another hour until I had to catch the train back across the border.

Nothing wild, nothing fancy, I just went to France for breakfast. Strange thing for an American to say. America has such a
shared history with France. Our independence, the Statue of Liberty; even awful things like D-Day and Bastogne. There are few
foreign countries that we are more closely intertwined with than France, and yet we’ve drifted from that in recent decades, I
feel. This was a short trip by design; like dipping a toe in the water before you decide whether or not to jump in. This little jaunt made me think about these things, and want to return to explore more of the country… and more of the Food!

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wrap up:

  • TGV train from Brussels midi to Lille or Paris is fast and comparably cheap. 60-100 euro round trip depending.
    International ticket office is the pink door to the left of the main ticket counter in Brussels Central. Take a number and wait.
  • There may be free WiFi on the train, but do your homework ahead of time and know where you are going. Download offline areas in google maps.
  • For Lille, grab a map and have fun. Free wifi is available at the mall in Burger King or at McDonald’s in the main square.
  • As we’ve established in a previous discussion, French Fries aren’t actually French… they are Belgian, so try something weird and you will likely be rewarded!

Ring my Belgium: Partie Un

Hungry for the heat and friction of the ground, at odds with every other flight oriented piece of the plane, the wheels bounced with delight in the dark waking the other passengers. I hadn’t slept as the last flight from Frankfurt slipped in to Brussels Airport. The spots of light in the dark did nothing to let me understand what was out there waiting.

From the moment I touched down in Belgium to this moment, waiting for my plane to take me away, NOTHING has gone according to plan. And it’s all turned out just fine. This has been a practice of just letting go and rolling with it. Some things get figured out… and some just remain a mystery and you move on with life. Like why are the vowels missing in all the airport signs? And what IS Nutroma, and is 0% REALLY premium quality?!

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I was to meet a friend, Tim, at the central train station, but Tim had lost his passport and sent another guy, Matthias, to come meet me. Unfortunately, Matthias and I had never seen each other and I had no way of contacting him after I left the airport. A bit like a microcosm of slingshotting a probe to where you think Mars will be at some future point.

Oddly, my innate American-ness saved the day. As I stepped out of the train station, I said “sup” to a guy riding by on his bicycle who turned out to be Matthias. As Brussels natives would never speak to a stranger, given the choice, he figured I must be the lost American he was looking for, and we walked across town to Tim’s apartment. Tim’s apartment that was 20 meters from the start of the neighborhood in Belgium where some of the nastiness in Europe recently is purported to have originated: Molenbeek. If you don’t know about this, read up on it.

Tim’s place was awesomely Belgian and reminded me of something from the opening scene of Moulin Rouge. The door didn’t meet the doorframe. Toilet and shower were separated by the kitchen. Three tenants and three visitors staying there, and not a level surface in the whole place. I was in love with it immediately. The first floor of the building was a typical Belgian bar, so we wandered down and sat on the street drinking as Tim and Matthias explained what Belgian life was like. Once we had closed the bar down, it was finally time to sleep. Tim gave me a sleeping bag and pointed me at the futon in the haphazard living room.

I slept like a king.

The problem that would ultimately separate me from my beautiful new abode arose with me the next morning. Tim’s wifi wouldn’t work and he had already left town at 6 a.m. for Germany to see his girlfriend. I decided to wait and see if the other roomie, Pieter, could do something about it and I took wandered off through the city to hit the train station and see about tickets to France, Holland, and Luxembourg.

Returning home from my mostly successful sortie, I hoped that Pieter would be available and we could see about the wireless and my laptops. Having walked across the city and back without disaster, I was feeling chuffed. This was short lived, I’m afraid. After some unsuccessful troubleshooting, I was forced to concede that I would be unable to work from Tim’s place. I booked an apartment nearby on AirBnB and got settled into my less authentic, but serviceable digs and get some work done.

Along with my lovely new apartment came new neighbors. A young, very dark guy from Senegal 20-ish, accompanied by a 50-ish distinctively white lady. I remember them as they were bringing in groceries while I was leaving, and they were quite pleasant, if in a hurry.

I also remember him because he was sleeping on my doormat in the hallway the following morning as I left. More on that later.

Brussels is full of lots of good food. Just make sure you go eat it before 8 p.m. Everything begins closing down shortly after this, and your options narrow rapidly. This is always something of a learning curve when entering into a new society… how and when do they eat? Years ago when Joe and I went to Argentina, we would go out for dinner at 8 p.m. only to have the restaurant manager laugh in our faces, telling us that they weren’t open obviously and to come back later, at a more reasonable hour. I made this mistake a couple times in Brussels; trying to get dinner shortly after 9. I have a sneaking suspicion that Argentines don’t come to Belgium, or Austria for that matter. They would all be emaciated and starving in the streets in a few days. One night, I went to bed hungry. Another, I managed to slip into Le Pré Salé for moules, which are a huge thing for Belgians and they were right in season for my visit.

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Did you know Belgians invented “French” fries?

The practice in Belgium when going to a restaurant is to walk in and sit down wherever the hell you want. This is similar to Austria. Once there, you wait until the server notices you and comes over to see what the hell you are doing there. I am not accustomed to this, and often find myself standing around looking obtuse when I first enter a restaurant and stand around until someone asks me what my problem is because I’m behaving like a crazy person.

OK, so, back to the dude sleeping in the hallway… I was on my way out to Lille on my second morning in Brussels, this would be my first visit to France, and opening my door I saw the dude had taken my doormat and slid it away from the door and tried to curl his almost 6 foot frame onto it; rather unsuccessfully. He looked around in a very confused manner and started stammering in French. I just told him to get his act together, and messaged the property manager informing him of the situation. Once I got all the run down from the property manager and the Senegalese himself, I decided he was having the most fucked weekend I’d heard of in a while.

Apparently Senegal isn’t exactly overflowing with lucrative business ventures, even for the most enterprising of young men. In a time honored tradition, perhaps the oldest profession, some of these guys had turned to tricking; selling their bodies.

In my lovely North American life, I am not exposed to this sort of thing.I don’t know any prostitutes, and sex tourism really takes a different feel in the USA becoming more of a green card marriage than a cash transaction. This was something of a surprise to see.

The Senegalese was away for a weekend as a boy toy to an older woman who wanted to scratch that itch, and he had apparently lost his luggage after they arrived. This included his passport and basically everything other than the clothing he had on. He and his matron had a falling out the night prior and she had kicked him out of the apartment, but he hadn’t left the building; leaving him awkwardly perched on my door mat. The best part of it all, for me at least as I’m sure the humor was likely wasted on him, was the phrase slapped across the doormat in black bold lettering…

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I can’t imagine that he agrees.

A Quickie

I am off again.

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The idea of a Eurotrip this summer actually materialized last year, but my partner dropped out. After the bombings and madness in Istanbul, I really started to worry about friends and wondered what their lives were live; I wanted to go see for myself. Add in that Zsofi is having her first baby, and Eda is getting married, and this is the first year Austria has hosted the MotoGP and I had all the reasons I could want to go back and visit.

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This is how I find myself sitting in a historic room in Frankfurt; jetlagged, tired, and grinning. I don’t know where I will sleep this weekend, but I brought a hammock and optimism, so I believe it will work out. 🙂

On the docket are Germany, Budapest, and Turkey; all of which I have been to before. Along with the old favorites, this trip will mark my first time to Austria, Belgium, Netherlands, France, Luxembourg, and Portugal!

Roughly a month abroad in all, which is almost a quickie for me. I have been looking for something to help me realign my perspective around my life, and I think this time away from home will be just the thing!

Stay tuned for more stories.

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