Belgium - Brussels
3 September 2007
Jo woke us this morning for breakfast (toast and jam and stewed apples and blackberries, oh my!) and I couldn't figure out the shower to save my soul (idiot), and we settled our laptop bags and suitcases into a corner of Marthe's room and got our backpacks ready to travel. Jo continued to be brilliant and dropped us at the train station, and we trained it in to Waterloo. It was a nice ride; I love watching the row houses and lines of chimnies and aerials pass by. It finally felt like I was in London.
Fifteen to twenty minutes later, we pulled into Waterloo. All I could think of was Mom singing that stupid song with the lyrics "Waterloo, Waterloo baby" whenever we used this train station when my family was in London years ago. After a quick jaunt through the train station and security, we hopped on the 10:43 Eurostar train to Brussels, and boom, here we are now, on the train making its way through France on the way to Belgium. The woman across from us is having a conversation in rapidfire French; the pair behind us are talking in what I'm pretty sure is Mandarin (the things you learn from A) half your friends taking elementary Chinese courses and delighting in speaking the language to everyone who will listen, and B) Firefly). I love this whole language and accent thing. It's so much more interesting than what I hear on a daily basis in Portland and in Amherst.
It's cloudy and overcast in France today, and we've already passed a few classic-looking French villages (cluster of little houses surrounding a tall church spire) set back among the fields. Nothing more to write about until we've actually gotten somewhere; time to try to learn some French, since it would be nice if at least one of us could say 'hello,' 'thank you,' and 'where is the toilet.'
/ 1300 (French time!)
* * * * *
We're in Brussels. I had a little too much to drink with dinner, I think. Legally. In a restaurant. So fun to say! I probably won't be making a habit of the drinking, though; even the littlest bit tends to make me feel sick. But I'm getting ahead of myself, as usual.
We got off the train at Midi Station in Brussels, and immediately hopped the subway for a few stops and got off at Boutique de Kr...outon (I can't spell this name to save my soul). We wandered, lost, for a little while, which wasn't a great time; heavy backpacks, hot hot heat, hard to breathe, harder to read the signs in French (and you can forget about the Flemish), middle of the city, me wanting to stop and look at maps, Andrew wanting to walk til we found the right direction. He got his bearings and found the hostel, though, after a detour through a local park and this huge, old, abandoned building that used to house botanical gardens. The hostel isn't so bad; 30 Euro for two nights, small dormitory-style room with eight beds and a sink, free breakfast and a bar and a patio. We checked in, dumped our stuff, and headed out to explore the city.
We walked through a large park, first. It started to sprinkle. I immediately cursed whatever had made me agree that no, I didn't have the space to bring a waterproof jacket and yes, I'd be completely fine without it. Suddenly, over the sound of our voices and our feet crunching on the gravel, we heard a woman's voice, singing. Andrew and I exchanged a glance. He asked if I wanted to see what it was. I said something to the rough equivalent of "fuck yeah," and we followed the soprano to an open-air gazebo deeper within the park, where a young woman dressed in black stood, singing opera in Italian. This is the part of today's notes where I geek out singing-style, because she was amazing. She had a full-bodied, rich voice, incredible pitch, the high and the low in her range, and damn but her voice carried. People wandered in, two or three at a time, to sit on the rows of benches in front of the gazebo and just listen. The singer stood with her hands clasped in front of herself, seemingly oblivious to the couples sitting with their arms around each other, the four twentysomethings paused with briefcases in hand, the guy playing with his dog.
Impromptu opera in a park on a rainy afternoon in Brussels. Not such a bad way to start off the Grand European Adventure.
Brussels is this fascinating mix of old and new. I tried to reflect that in the pictures that I took, but we'll see how they come out. The heart of Brussels' Lower Town is the Grote Markt or Grand Place, this town square surrounded by incredible, huge buildings (baroque and Gothic architecture) on all sides, spires reaching to the skies, with statues and shining gold embellishments, all surrounding the wide, cobblestone square. Flags fluttering in the breeze, narrow cobblestone streets leading off in every direction, the tourists were swarming. There were tons of Asian tour groups, like everywhere else we've been so far; I have to wonder, do you see big groups of Western tourists like that in Asian countries? The buildings were guildhalls, built over what was once marshland. There was the Gothic Hôtel de Ville (the town hall, built from 1401-1459), along with La Maison des Boulangers, La Maison des Ducs de Brabant, La Maison du Roi, and a number of buildings named after animals; Le Cornet, Le Renard, Le Cygne.
We wandered the streets after that; there were such random things. A Tin Tin store, cartoon-style murals here and there, the "iconic" Wee Manneken Pis (30 centimeter-high statue of a little boy peeing in the street; underwhelming, and surrounded by tourists) -- like I said, random. We stumbled across Cathédrale Des Sts Michel and Gudule, an astonishing (Brabant Gothic architecture) cathedral named for Brussels' male and female patron saints; tall, graceful, reminded me of Westminster Abbey. My favorite part, though, was the building next door. We could not figure out what it was, but it had corporate logos on the front and the sides. It had clearly been built with its neighbor in mind, from the long vertical lines running up the building to the metal spires crowning it. It's the best example of Brussels' old-new aesthetic that I've seen.
Directly in front and across the small courtyard and the street, on a huge screen covering the face of a building that was being renovated, there was a huge drawing of a human fetus. Significance? We couldn't figure it out. We wandered a little while longer, though similar streets (old connected buildings, windowboxes in upper stories, cafes or little stores on first floor), searching for a restaurant that Andrew wanted to go to, called Chez León. We found it eventually, and had dinner--turkey steak, fries, and the cheapest beer on the menu, something called Maes. Andrew ordered first, in English, and then I tried in piss-poor French. The waiter responded to both of us in fast, flawless French and went off. When he returned with the drinks, I managed a pretty decently accented 'merci,' and Andrew said 'thank you.'
The water kindly chose to speak to me in English from then on.
It's been very interesting to me, seeing how we're received. We got pegged immediately as English-speaking, and maybe even as American, everywhere we went. I want to see what happens when Andrew wears a plain T-shirt, rather than one covered in English writing extolling the virtues of some beer. When I went one or two places by myself and didn't say much besides s'il vouz plait and merci, I don't think I got pegged; the shopkeepers were friendly and easy-going, and spoke to me in French. It was nice. I've never especially liked feeling like a tourist, peering in at other people's lives with a bucket hat and a fanny pack and a camera, and I know how I feel about tourists at home (I loathe them), so I do try to be polite, courteous, quiet, and generally unobtrusive while in other places. It's nice to be mistaken for a local once in a while.
After dinner, we walked back to the hostel and, along the way, found that not only do the Belgians apparently not believe in street signs or predictable driving patterns, but they also don't believe in grocery stores. We wanted to make dinner tomorrow in the kitchen, but we couldn't find any food. While I've mentioned wacky driving, there aren't many Brussels drivers, especially compared to London or New York, but the ones who are on the road? Well, they drive--permit me this one obscenity--like motherfuckers. It's nuts.
At the hostel, there were a couple of guys sitting in the courtyard with drinks as we came in; two Canadians, an Australian, and an American. Andrew got a beer and me a water, and we sat down just inside. It's been sort of fascinating to watch the gender separation in here. First one guy sat along at a table, then two more started talking to him and joined them, then Andrew joined them, and then another couple of guys sat together. They flock together. Meanwhile, there's another table of guys drinking and playing poker, me sitting alone writing, and another girl sitting alone reading. All the other girls staying here? They're out in Brussels, or inside the rooms. Out here has become a kind of boys' club, with smoke and beer and pool and poker and loud voices raised about 'in America' this and 'in America' that. So far, I've already heard conversations about a whole lot of things that I never needed to know about these strangers and their sex lives.
That's all, folks. Bruges tomorrow.
/ 20:30
* * * * *
It actually turned out to be fun. I got dragged over to Testosterone Land by Andrew and Ben, the Canadian ballet dancer, where a good portion of the table was fairly trashed. Ben told me all about how studying evolutionary biology is cool because the way that the apes communicated was like the first dance. Drunk Irishman was very nice to me, despite the drunk part; he was the one who had insisted that Andrew stop 'abandoning' me (it was less that Andrew abandoned me, and more that I was writing up my notes and thought it'd be easier without a lot of beer and smoking guys) and come to fetch me, and he commended me for keeping travel notes. He also said I reminded him of my cousin, which was when things got a little weird.
Ben told a story about how the girl he loved had moved to Rotterdam from Toronto when he was in New York, so he'd been unable to say goodbye. After his show in Berlin, given the choice between eastern Europe--which he and his friend really wanted to go to, and where he had family--and Amsterdam, he chose Amsterdam because it meant that he could go to this girl. He went to Rotterdam, saw this girl, told her he loved her and he'd come to the Netherlands to say goodbye -- and she said she didn't believe him.
So he went to Belgium and was getting drunk.
The conversation, at that point, devolved into whether or his his buddy could have had sex with an Israeli girl in Rotterdam. I felt like I was in a raunchy teen comedy.
Two other guys, Brett and Nameless from Colorado, got to Brussels by hitchhiking from Slovenia, speaking nothing but English. They were full of praise for eastern Europe and Prague in particular. They said it looks like "a fucking fairytale. Like Cinderella's fucking castle, man." They were traveling for six months, and were offended that Andrew and I were spending only two or three days everywhere that we were going. Of course, they were also drunk and stoned out of their minds, so I didn't pay too much attention to any judgments that they passed.
Testosterone Land, minus Andrew, migrated to a bar, and I went to our room and met two new arrivals -- Rob and Marissa of New York City. They were funny and personable, in their mid-to-late twenties. Andrew and I had a drink with them and talked to them for a while, and then went back to the room to get ready for bed. I introduced myself to the two roommates who'd been in the room all night, speaking Spanish to each other and thwarting all attempts to go to bed. I did so in Spanish and was immediately answered in flawless English; I felt very inadequate.
Made new friends, made people laugh, dropped my purse multiple times on Andrew's head ("That's the Belgian way of saying 'I love you' ") -- all in all, successful night.
