This is one essay in a six part series:
Postcard from Ypres, Bruges, and Brussels
Monday the City Sleeps: October 16, 2000
Darkness comes early to Brussels this time of year, and doesn’t flee until seven or later the next day – particularly when accompanied by fog and rain, which has been the case these last two days. I’d provide a more precise time but I saw no compelling reason to spring out of bed this morning. So I lolled about until there was precious little left of the morning. So shoot me.
Like any large city, Brussels is divided into sections. Paris calls these arrondissements, NY calls them boroughs, and my guess is the locals here have names for them as well. My map calls out names like Vrije Gemeente, Zavel, and Europese Instellingen, which are presumably Dutch, as well as their French equivalents. My guidebook, on the other hand, wasn’t nearly as expansive, admitting only to: The Upper Town, The Lower Town, and Greater Brussels (I’d love to see their interpretation of NYC: Places With Big Buildings; Places To See Shows; Places Wherein They Play Baseball; and Greater NYC including the Palisades, Upstate, and Most of Jersey). Having walked and sampled the delights of The Lower Town yesterday, I set my sites on, well, The Upper Town.
I’ve not studied these matters closely, but I gather that this upper/lower thing has something to do with a change in elevation, or what the guidebook elegantly describes as an “escarpment.” In times past, this divide tended to also separate the Flemish merchants (lower) from the French-speaking aristocrats (upper).
Today, this same sensibility is preserved as upper is where one finds the old royal buildings, the local version of the Arc d’Triumph, which in this case celebrates the fiftieth anniversary to Belgian independence, the big museums, and of course all the EU buildings that house all those pesky folks bent on turning all of Europe into a single political, economic, and trading block run by sensible bureaucrats. Apparently the lessons of the great Soviet adventure have been lost on the nice folks in The Upper Town, but that is another subject altogether.
No trip to a European city would be complete without at least one trip on the Metro. As my hotel is atop one of the big stations, I started my trip there. I did manage to hand signal my need for directions to the pleasant French-speaking gentleman in the toll cage (yes Madge, this isn’t Paris so there are pleasant French-speaking people) who took my 50 BEF and directed me to the proper line. Beyond that, I didn’t understand a word he said, though I presume he told me where to get off. So I rode until I started to get really nervous that I had gone too far at which point I got off – much too soon as it turned out. More map reading ensued and then I once again did a most un-guy thing: I asked for directions.
Like a conquering army of one, I strode henceforth up Rue do la Loi towards the parc du Cinquantenaire and its towering arc. If that image sounds improbable, let me rush to assure you that I looked splendid, if hardly threatening, in my Moonstone parka, Levi relaxed fit jeans, and comfy walking shoes. The rain whipped about in a nasty sort of way while I continuously assured myself that I was having a great adventure and that there would be many fine things to photograph any moment now. At last, the park and arc lay just before me. In I strode, the conquering hero, kind of wet and soggy if you want to know the truth, but pleased that I had finally arrived at the seat of Belgian power, art, and antiquities.
There had been some sort of woman’s equality parade on Sunday that had even made it to CNN (at least the version I watched). I briefly wondered if I might find some sort of museum exhibit celebrating the considerable achievements of the fairer sex, but decided instead to keep the whole Venus/Mars thing properly in balance.
So I went to the Museum of the Army (I’ll spare you the French rendition). At least that was my intent. Only then did I discover that Monday meant that Brussels was closed, at least all the parts I wanted to see. From the dim recesses of my brain I vaguely recalled that this might be the case in other European cities as well, though I fervently doubt that this is the case in REAL CITIES like NY and London where they speak you know what! So back I went, walking and then metroing, exiting in The Lower Town where everything seemed to be open.
A colleague told me the other day that there are two kinds of restaurants in Brussels: the really expensive kind and the kind that serve chips (French fries to those of you who’ve never had fish and). While I don’t think that’s a technically accurate statement, it does seem to sum up the polarity of choices. For my mid-day repast, I selected a sandwich dive deep in the Passage du Nord (which may or may not be famous – I’m just reporting what it said on the arch above). I had a cup of soup and a hot pannini for which I paid 150BEF (about $3.50), for which I failed to get a receipt, and which I mostly certainly plan on expensing.
Walking back, I further dented the daily meal allowance by purchasing $5.00 of Belgian chocolate. In case you missed the news, the chocolate they make over here is a lot better than the kind we get in the local superette back home. Even to this culinary cro magnon, the tastes are sensational, yea even overwhelming. After about three pieces I started to sweat from my eyelids and felt an overpowering need for some bread or water or gum or something.
My day finished with me comfortably ensconced in my hotel room, the sounds of those funny French sirens eeeeoooooing down below, my fingers flying from key to key on my laptop. Duty called from Texas and California. Duty met with the usual literary tonnage of Kevinisms duly typed and shipped at 34.4 baud from 3:00 pm, GMT +1, until midnight. Tomorrow, I have to go back to work (though not back to the states just yet).
. . . (continued)
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