Saturday 13th, I said a regretful goodbye to London, taking the tube to Heathrow. (all the way from Zone 1 to Zone 6, about an hour.) I was early enough that British Midland checked me in for the 12:05 flight instead of the 13:05, but since we didn't take off until 13:15 I'm not sure how much I gained.
On the straight up - straight down flight I was astonished at how narrow the English Channel seemed -- such a fragile barrier to have held for so many centuries. Belgium looked like England from the air, except that the roofs were steeper.
I started off in the wrong line at Brussels airport -- 'all passports' meant 'all passports other than EU.' (Since I was in Europe I was traveling on my UK passport.) I found the train station in the airport basement easily enough, but even coming from London the train and metro were grubbier than I expected. I took the train to the Gare Centrale and then the metro three stops to Ste. Catherine -- I was relieved to see my hotel immediately in front of me as I came up the steps.
The Hotel Welcome was suitably welcoming, and the cheerful English-speaking woman who checked me in led me upward -- stairs, elevator and more stairs -- to the Japan room, tucked literally under the roof beams. All black and white, with a sleeping loft up a stair so steep I generally descended backwards. The loft also housed the TV (CNN!) and the window cum skylight. After the functional room in London I was charmed, until I realized that whatever I currently needed seemed to be on the other level.
I went for a get-acquainted walk around my part of Brussels, winding up at the Art Nouveau Taverne Greenwich - dark wood with faded gilding, marble-topped tables, coffered ceiling, filled with middle-aged men playing serious chess.
That night I ate a splurge meal at La Truite d'Argent, which occupied the ground floor of my hotel. Thanks to a mix-up with the reservations I had my table changed twice, but the Menu Homard was still delicious, and champagne and wine appeared by way of apology. An amuse bouche of sea bream pate started the meal -- light and delicately flavored it outshone the timbale of lobster that followed. Lobster ravioli and then a deliciously rich lobster bisque heralded the main course -- a half lobster, 'Grillé au beurre "Cafe de Paris" et jus de truffes'. The tail meat was a little tough, but it's hard to spoil lobster. I had just a corner left for the cheese plate for dessert.
After so much dinner, it seemed a good idea to skip breakfast (not included in my room rate). Headed for the Musee Royaux des Beaux Arts I was sidetracked by Brussels' best sight -- the Grand Place. The French knocked down all the original Gothic guildhalls that surrounded it in 1695, aiming unsuccessfully for the City Hall with its soaring spire. The halls were rebuilt in the same style, and the sloping cobbled square is surrounded by gilded facades topped by shining statues. In addition to the crush of tourists, a parade of uniformed men marched around the square behind an array of flags, and a lively group of musicians occupied a portable bandstand.
Eventually I abandoned the spectacle, wandering through the Galleries Royales St. Hubert, a glass-covered shopping arcade built in 1847, en route for the Upper Town. The Lower Town reminded me a little of London, the upper (200 meters up), more monumental, of Paris.
Figuring I had worked off some of the previous night's calories, I stopped at Le Pain Quotidien, a bakery cum cafe recommended by both my guidebooks, for lunch. I speak a little French, I even read a little French, but I was disconcerted when my tartine with 'boeuf, basil et parmesan' turned out to be an open-faced sandwich with minced RAW beef. But, well-covered with shaved parmesan, it was as delicious as it was unexpected.
My main objective for the afternoon was the Musee Horta -- a temple to my beloved Art Nouveau. I had bought a travel pass at the Tourist Information office that morning and now rode a long, thin tram to the Ixelles quarter. The museum's graceful central staircase was worth the ride, although the house was sparsely furnished. The back of the entry ticket provided a map locating a number of other Art Nouveau buildings in the quarter and I made a pilgrimage to several.
Another tram took me back to Art Museum, but I should have skipped it. Sometimes a primitive, even a Flemish primitive is just bad art, and some of the pictures were so bad as to be laughable. In addition, the Gaugin gallery was closed. I retreated to my hotel.
Turned out it was as well I had eaten at La Truite d'Argent on Saturday, as it was closed on Sunday. The Rue des Boucheres (butchers), however, bustled with tourists and with hustlers advertising their restaurants. I lasted until Le Petit Rue Des Boucheres, then succumbed to La Fermette d'Ilot Sacre, which offered chicken waterzoi, a Belgian specialty, as part of a fixed price menu. The chicken was unexciting -- basically stewed in a creamy base with carrots and leeks, but the appetizer, mushrooms smothered in garlic and oil and served sizzling in a little metal dish, was perfect. The crepes au sucre, thin pancakes with three colors of brown sugar, were a little dry.
After dinner I discovered that the Grand Place became magical at night, with the delicate tracery of the City Hall's spire lit from within. I settled down to enjoy it with one of Belgium's signature Iambic beers -- framboise. While I loved the raspberry bouquet, the taste was unexciting, and although I can drink beer in Asia, in Europe it always seems to give me indigestion. I noticed that the beer came in different shaped glasses, just like wine. Mine arrived in something approaching a champagne flute.
I rode the metro, then the pre-metro (basically an underground tram) to the Gare Midi for my train to Bruges -- and to buy a ticket for Wednesday's train to Cologne, a Thalys train for which I needed a reservation. An hour's ride through pleasant countryside and a final ten minutes on the bus through crowded streets delivered me to a quiet side canal.
I had chosen my B&B based on recommendations on Rick Steve's Graffiti Wall and the posters had not led me astray -- Trees' 150-year-old house was clean and comfortable, with wide-planked wooden floors and narrow-planked wooden ceilings. Trees was friendly and well-informed, and even arranged for her husband to drive me to the station on Wednesday to make sure that I caught my train.
Bruges was well-looked after too, a once-prosperous Hanseatic port frozen in time when its access to the sea silted up during the 15th century. It's now a medieval time capsule, almost too cute. The two main squares overflow with tourists, but when I walked 5-10 minutes away from the center I found another, peaceful, world.
Of course, I took the canal boat tour along with everyone else, took the same photos, admired the swans on the Minnewater, ate fries with mayo in the shadow of the belfry and made a pilgrimage to Michaelangelo's Madonna in the Onze Lieve Vrouwekerk (Church of Our Lady). Brussels and Bruges have both retained their cobbled streets, aesthetically pleasing but surprisingly hard to walk on, and my feet were unhappy. I retired to the palpable quiet of the Begijnhof, formerly home to Beguines -- a community of women a little short of nuns -- and now home to a real nunnery, of black-clad Benedictines.
Three restaurants occupied the street round the corner from my B&B, off the main tourist trail, and I picked the most atmospheric, 't Nieuwe Museum, to try mussels, another Belgian specialty (although in Luxembourg I would see big signs announcing that 'Les Moules Sont Arrivee.)' A woolly dog sprawled on the tiled floor of the restaurant, three old glass-fronted cabinets held bottles behind the bar and an ancient brick fireplace with two arches and carved wooden sidepieces occupied half a wall -- it was used for grilling meat. On the end wall a dozen Heath-Robinson type cartoons showed 'The Gentle Art of Making Guiness.'
My mussels came in a black enamel pot, whose domed lid held the empty shells. The pale liquor was flavored with onions, celery and parsley, and a big plate of crisp fires arrived soon after the mussels. Not a combination I would expect, but I enjoyed both.
Next morning I embarked on the key central sights -- the 13th century belfry and the buildings round the square called the Burg. I made it up the Belfort's 366 steps ahead of the crowds (little room to pass on the spiral stairs) but found the sun in the wrong place for the best photos. I admired the elaborately decorated Basilica of the Holy Blood and its silver tabernacle, and the massive oak fireplace depicting the Emperor Charles V and his grandparents (all the men boasting remarkable codpieces) in the Brugse Vrije, where I tried to ignmore the copy of Gerard David's Judgement of Cambyses in which a placid-looking man is flayed alive. I saw David's original later in the Groeningemuseum along with some slightly less gruesome works by Bosch and the Breughels.
The highlight of the morning, however, was the Stadhuis (Town Hall), because a wedding was taking place in its heavily frescoed Gothic Hall. A man wearing a black and yellow sash round his waist, and a woman, conducted the low-key civil ceremony from behind a long, heavy table. (An optional church wedding could follow.) All the participants wore everyday clothes, although the bride's and flower girl's were white, as were the bouquets.
The rest of the day involved a lot of walking, a forgettable folk museum and some closed windmills. And an Internet cafe with an English keyboard -- elsewhere in Belgium the 'qwerty' line had been replaced with 'azerty', along with some other changes that totally destroyed my typing ability.
While I was glad to have seen Brussels, I doubt I'll be back. It's worth a day and a night -- you have to see the Grand Place by night -- but I think not more, especially if you're not fond of Art Nouveau. Of course, if you're into beer and chocolate you might feel differently. I could see visiting Bruges again, perhaps further out of season and as a base for the Quasimodo tour of Flanders fields (WWI battle sites).
My first morning in Bruges I woke to find the canal outside my window occupied by a very unromantic dredger. The second morning I was pleased to see instead three white and three grey swans, busy with their morning baths. It was a nice memory to take to Germany, as I headed for 'The Romantic Rhine'.