brussels

I woke on my first morning in Belgium without a thrill.

Here's how it went the night before:

We've treated ourselves to a private room in a hotel that is a remarkable replica of the worst hotel ever from <insert holiday-themed chick flick of choice>, complete with rude and portly French-speaking attendant, stairs that sag in the middle, flickering lights, and a comically small bathroom that forces its occupant to sit sideways on the toilet to avoid bruised kneecaps. We have a stunning view of the back end of two other hotels. The walk to the place provides a surplus of jeering men and shop attendants who smoke while they sell dusty oranges and bottles of rum.

I spend the evening reminding myself about the phenomenon of 'culture shock' -- that it is a thing and, yes, I am human, therefore fallible, therefore susceptible to it and, no, that doesn't mean I'm going soft, probably, hopefully -- and trying to digest the over-priced and underwhelming salad that might be the only breadless option within a kilometre of Midi Station.

Oh, Europe. You and your bread.

So there I am, underfed and admittedly nostalgic for safe Australian streets lined with restaurant menus featuring little 'gf's on every item. I'm no hero.

Ella and I have a quick sook then decide to find our way to Grand Place -- the centre -- in the morning and hope we'll leave the creeps at the hotel. 

We step outside the next day and are absorbed into a vibrant produce market that apparently sprang forth overnight from the pavement. After the sleepy dark of the hotel room, the fruits and shining olives in stainless steel bowls seem oversaturated like morning cartoons. Nuts cover meters of trestle tables: salted, unsalted, crushed, ground, slivered, mixed, roasted. High cooled trailers peddle cheeses and meats in the shaded underside of the rail bridge. I begin to warm to the city when I realise I can subsist for days on avocados and nectarines.

It's warm olives for lunch that day, in a patch of shade in the centre of town beside a busking brass band that we happen across during one of our frequent 'not lost' wanderings. We share the olives with three gypsy girls, because they ask. I don't know if they ask nicely, but my appalling French can't be helped.

We're looking for the royal palace, but what we find is a gothic cathedral just hanging out in the business district. Naturally, we manage to enter through the (disused) side door. I push open the heavy wood and I’m met by a cavernous and apparently empty cathedral wing lit by candles and stained glass. The first tremendous chords of a traditional Latin hymn echo off the vaulted ceilings. A mournfully catholic group of stone figures stands before us. I think, briefly, that my time has come; I'm about to be told that because I laugh when attractive people get bad haircuts I'm being cast into the fiery pits. Then there's the familiar swivel-click of cameras from behind a barricade. It's choir practice day, and the cathedral has the usual surplus of tourists. I walk amidst mortals another day.

We find the royal palace, eventually (absolutely not lost), and wander around the cordoned visitors sections in awe of the grandeur and extravagance, just like you’re supposed to.

Some of the best places in Brussels are stumbled upon. The Sunday market and the pop-up fairground down the street, the cathedral, the buskers, the spontaneous day trip to Ghent: all gloriously unplanned (seeing a theme here?). The city centre delivers an abundance of tasty hide-always.

The Musee du Cacao et du Chocolat has an inoffensive façade in an alley behind the Grand Place square, and offers a glimpse of the production and history of the famous Belgian chocolate tradition. My French isn't good, but that name needs little interpretation. Don't look surprised. You really thought I’d come to Belgium and NOT come across the chocolate museum?

  

 

In a side alley off a street lined with restaurants, behind a metal dumpster, the entrance to Toone is advertised in rusted letters that fade into the brick behind them. This is an old puppet theatre and bar, which has been in the building since the 1830s. Inside is dark and cool. The poor bar boy looks at me very strangely when I ask for cider, and kindly hides his smirk when I ask for beer made from apples. He offers me a peach flavoured Belgian barley brew, and doesn't even look offended when I turn him down. Upon discovering the place is not overrun with hipsters (and in fact suffers a lack of them, bless!) I’m grateful for a slow afternoon drinking wine by the puppet stage and harassing the staff for information about how darn old everything is.

 

We eat moule et frite, the national dish, in a place near Toone. I'd say it does everything a huge bowl of mussels and fries can do. The waiters make only the most appropriate Australia jokes.

So I guess Brussels proved itself despite dubious beginnings. The place is overrun with mussels, chocolate, bread, and beer (not a bad way to be I suppose). Bread and beer not being my thing, and mussels mostly exceeding my daily budget, I was forced to eat Belgian chocolate and wander around stumbling over little gems of history and culture. Such a shame.