This is one essay in a six part series:
Postcard from Ypres, Bruges, and Brussels
Time to Go Home: October 18, 2000
I’ve just turned off CNN. What a bunch of Dementors (gratuitous reference to Harry Potter). I’ve just heard about unrest and killings in Nigeria, Zimbabwe, and Israel, from Amnesty International on the fact that torture is practiced in 150 countries, from World Business to find that global equity markets are in a freefall, and from World Sports to discover that we’ll finally be having a subway World Series after lo these many years. Is there no good news in the world or is it just Ted Turner’s perverse view of reality?
I bring this up because those of you who’ve traveled overseas know that CNN is the one channel you can be sure to find where English and American are spoken. Though I don’t watch a lot of TV at home, I find myself drawn like a firefly to the electronic wallpaper from Atlanta whose only other redeeming feature I can see, other than the English part, is that James Earl Jones does the voiceover for the lead ins (This, is CNN).
My final thoughts bring me full circle to where my thinking about Belgium began. In planning my journey to Europe’s formerly favorite battleground, I had determined to go have a look at its most famous killing fields. In so many ways, the previous century was characterized by war and more war, and though most people of our generation have no sense of it, The Great War was arguably the most cataclysmic in history. The endless mechanized slaughter obliterated the optimism that had been fairly bursting through the Victorian era (at least in Western Europe), not too mention a generation of young men who surely had other plans.
Everything in art, music, literature, politics, and geo-politics took a nasty turn following the crushing loss of faith in modernity as well as mankind’s humanity, producing more and more discord throughout Europe and finally the rest of the world. It is hardly a stretch to suggest that the events in the Middle East today are nothing more than a continuation of the terrible events of 1914 to 1918 (for those who don’t know, what is now the modern state of Israel first began to emerge under the British in Palestine immediately after The Great War, thank you Lawrence of Arabia, though Israel didn’t become a nation state until later).
After the work stuff that occupied my morning had finally concluded (yes, I spoke to another group, and yes I managed to not embarrass the side), I once again boarded the metro back towards Museum Land, known in my guidebook as The Upper Town. The twin siren songs of the Auto Museum and The Museum of the Army beckoned as I once again made my way through the park and towards the great Belgian Arc. Thinking that I should at least try to meditate on something other than The Great War, I headed straight to the Auto Museum where I was lead to expect no fewer than 300 motor vehicles.
Billed as one of the great collections in the world, and dating to the twenties, the selected species are all gathered in a wonderful glass-topped hall that is reminiscent of the Musse d’Orsey in Paris. I’ve been to more than a few of these sorts of things in both Europe and the US, and its always interesting to contemplate what the curator has chosen to assemble (assuming there was even that much thought given), if not wonder why.
Even with 300 vehicles, almost all of which looked like they’d just been driven in and left, this isn’t an especially comprehensive or representative collection (way too much strange European stuff, but then, we’re in Europe Bubba). Arranged in chronological order were all sorts of makes that I’d only vaguely heard of, a bunch that I know but hadn’t ever seen in person, and a few oddly selected American makes.
Okay, okay, so then I went to the Museum of the Army. Like the wheeled wonders, this collection is housed in a virtually identical hall on the other side of the courtyard behind the Arc. I’ll spare you all the fascinating details other than to point out a few observations, the first of which I’ve already made about eleventeen times: they sure have had a lot of wars here.
The great hall is filled with case after case of uniform-clad mannequins dating to the first parts of the nineteenth century. Another hall covers all the armor and requisite metal things from days of yore, and yet another is chockablock with swords and guns and things. The walls are up to their very tall ceilings with portraits of folks who were important enough to get their very own paintings done, and the whole sweep of it is very impressive.
There’s no question that officers got much better looking attire and far better hats including, at least for a brief time, some very spiffy tall furry things. And yes, like the French at the turn of the century, the foot soldiers were cursed to wear those notorious red pantaloons that their Gallic neighbors wore so proudly until the German invaders used them for target practice. The very large room devoted to The Great War is suitably impressive with a staggering collection of cannons and howitzers. It’s funny, they don’t look that lethal with their wooden spoke wheels and rivets everywhere, but the pictures of the moonscape that used to be Flanders are all the reminder you need.
In the end, I found the museum, like the cemeteries I visited days before, to be suitably contemplative and up to the purpose of laying out the who, what, where, and how, leaving the visitor to fill in whatever conclusions about the why that he or she deems appropriate.
My journey back to the hotel took me past one of the many fine chocolate stores the locals have so thoughtfully littered about and I did my very best to repatriate my remaining Belgian Francs to the EC. I trust those waiting for me at home will greet me with extra enthusiasm, as I know they are reading these missives shortly after they’re written.
Even if you don’t share my fascination with YOU KNOW WHAT, a few days spent in Belgium would not be wasted. The weather is a bit gloomy this time of year, but not to the point where you’d rather stay in and watch CNN all day. The good food is very good and the sidewalk fair is more than adequate. The old stuff is suitably old looking so you won’t mistake your surroundings for Minneapolis or Orlando. The people are just as friendly as they can be (assuming you’re not trying to buy a large media company). It has been a great place to visit.
Finis.
Send mail to
webmaster@kevinhoffberg.com with
questions or comments about this web site.
Copyright © 2002
Kevin Hoffberg
Last modified:
05/03/06