The Road Less Traveled

Getting there is half the battle 

When I boarded the train in Mannheim headed toward Frankfurt Flughafen (Airport), everything seemed to be running smoothly for a change. (My former roommate Bethany was not so lucky—her train was running about 45 minutes late).  When I arrived in Frankfurt, however, I was told that my train to Brussels was not running. Instead, I would have to take another train to Koeln (Cologne), then a third train to Aachen (on the German-Belgian border), then take a bus to Brussels.  Frankly, I was pissed.  I had paid 89 Euros for the comfort of the ICE, not to be stuffed into a bus. The train to Koeln was overcrowded and I stood for half the ride.  Eventually, I sat next to a young woman from China who studies Biology in Liege.  She said this type of cancellation happens quite often, especially in winter. I swore to myself if I ever had to take a train internationally again I would try to take the Thalys train instead because it’s not run by Deutsche Bahn..

It took a while for everyone in Aachen to board the buses and find a seat.  We finally took off around 9:30 p.m., around the time my train was originally scheduled to arrive in Brussels.  We arrived two hours later.  The only good part of the trip is that on the ride in I saw sights I knew I would want to return to later. 

Because it was so late, I was tired, the streets were icy, and I had no idea how far the hotel was from the Metro, I ended up taking a taxi (12.50 Euros) to the Hotel Queen Anne. The taxi driver was nice, and told me that if I knew English, French, and German I could get a very nice job with the European Commission, with my salary paid by both the EC government and “my” national government. 

 Meeting Goliath, I mean, the European Commission 

After enjoying the free breakfast at the hotel (eggs, bread, deli meat, cheese, coffee, and juice served buffet style), I meandered towards the Place de Brouckere Metro station.  Along the way I discovered the Place des Martyrs, a monument honoring those who died fighting for Belgium. I also found a charming street leading to the opera house. I tried to scope out a place to have mussels and a bier for dinner, but was surprised to see that most restaurants served only steaks, pasta, fish, and pizza. 

I finally got on the Metro and took it to Shuman, per the instructions on the European Commission Education Culture and Audiovisual Executive Agency (ECAEA) map. When I got off, I took pictures of the grand European Commission administrative offices I had seen last night—the Berlaymont 3000-person building. On the outside was a huge banner wishing happy New Year in 20 languages of the EU. Across the street was another building with a banner in English and Spanish welcoming the new Spanish president of the EU. 

The area around the Berlaymont building was under construction, but I managed to find the bus to the ECAEA. I got off in the fairly residential area, went inside the ECAEA office, and asked the security guard where the library is.  He replied, “there is no library.”  Mind you, I had called and asked about the library the week before and was told it was closed until January 4. On the other hand, that entire exchange was in French so I may have missed something or miscommunicated along the way.  The guard told me the phone number I called and the address I had given last week didn’t match my current physical location.

The guard was pleasant about the whole thing. He first tried to call someone in the office who was an expert in the Bologna Process, but without an appointment no one (unsurprisingly) was available. He wrote down directions for me to the Info-Press center near Place Shuman. On the way out I grabbed three things sitting in kiosk, two of which turned out to be beneficial to my research:  the last Russian-language brochure on TEMPUS (the grants program that seeks to “modernize” education outside the EU), and two periodicals for civil servants in the EU. 

 Touring Brussels 

I caught the bus back to Place Shuman. I had no map on me and couldn’t find the street I needed walking around Berlaymont, so I went into the Metro station to look at a neighborhood map. I found the street I needed to take (Rue de la Loi) on the map, but the strange thing was there didn’t seem to be a second street on which to turn left.  This street headed straight into the Jubelpark.  Ahead of me was an amazing gate that made the Brandenburg Gate in Berlin looked small. It was flanked by the kind of long, columned buildings that an American can only see in the great cities of Europe.

I walked through the thin layer of snow to the gate and still did not see the street I was supposed to turn left on.  I did, however, see the military museum and the Autoworld museum.  At that point, I decided I wasn’t meant to find the Info Press center, and instead plunked down 6 Euros to see the Autoworld museum. I saw some of the first Mercedes Benz cars, a Model T Ford, and even the first Honda.  They had some more “modern” cars as well such as Cadillacs and T-Birds from the 1970s. I was disappointed to see that some of the cars on display were in really poor condition—some of them had rust, low tire pressure, cracks/dents, or all of the above. 

Following the guidelines of the map inside the park, I wandered out the other end of the park and headed in what I believed to be the general direction of the Grand Place (Main Square/Market).  Along the way I saw the first restaurant offering mussels—for 20 EUROS. WTF!?  I decided I’d better eat cheaper, and found a small sandwich shop with a line out the door (always a good sign).  I ordered the “Nordique” sandwich for 3.15 Euros—a foot-long baguette with “Philadelphia” (cream cheese), lox, and cucumber.  Yum! 

 Place Jordan 

I meandered until I arrived at Place Jordan, a cute square that seemed more lively than the quiet neighborhood I’d just wandered through.  I again looked at the restaurants and noticed a couple of them had a strange sign saying (in French), “we partner with Maison Antoine—frites accepted here”.  I thought maybe it was some kind of discount card, until I completed my circuit of the square and found the Maison Antoine, a 50+plus year old kiosk that serves frites (Belgian fries) topped with mayonnaise (or any other sauce you want) in a paper cone for 2.50 Euros. 

As I ate my frites with a little fork, I tried to find a map at a bus stop to orient myself to the direction I should keep walking in to get to the grand place.  It was at this point I began to realize that Brussels is a city of crooked streets that leave one more disoriented than a kid spun around for a piñata hit or Pin the Tail on the Donkey.  Fortunately, I had bought two metro/bus combo tickets (1.70 Euros each) at the de Brouckere metro station.  I used my second one to take a bus that was headed to the Namcourt, a place I remembered from earlier maps had a metro station. On the way I saw another bus sign for Bourse, a stop I knew was close to the main sights. I hopped on that but hopped off as soon as we passed by the Royal Palace, a building which was truly palatial.  I took photos of that, the Magritte Museum, and city view in the valley below.  I found the tourist information bureau and finally got a map of the city. It was at this point that I realized I had taken the wrong part of Rue de La Loi at Place Schuman.  But it was already nearly 3, and I didn’t think I’d have enough time to get to the Info-Press to get meaningful information and see the Grand Place all before dark. 

The Tourist Area

Instead, I half walked, half slid down the icy hill past the royal library to the maze of shops around the Grand Place.  I splurged on a gaufre du Liege (Belgian waffle), and a few minutes later I splurged again on hot chocolate from the Valrhona store (wow!).  I would have bought some chocolates there for my roommates, but the clerk was so officious and snooty-sounding, I felt too unwelcome to linger and look for more to buy. 

The Grand Place was truly grand.  I can’t begin to describe the guilded buildings and darker walls that probably saw bombing in World War II.  I used my map to find the Mannekin Pis, a fountain that looks like a boy peeing. When I got to where it should be, though, I didn’t see it. I looked  at a map on the corner and a group of people standing around and soon learned that the Mannekin pis is truly a little pisher.  My friend has a 9-month old who is bigger than that statue. I felt like we were all perverts for taking pictures of this little baby peeing.  [NB:  I heard about and later found a card for a similar statue built in the 80s of a young girl squatting and doing her thing, which I find equally disturbing.]

I got the hell out of there and back to the main road (Boulevard Anspach). I stopped at a supermarket where I got a liter of Evian for 54 Eurocents, and saw shopping baskets with wheels (very clever).  I walked all the way back to my hotel and collapsed in bed for a few hours.

 Lassez le bon temps moules (Let the good times mussels) 

Around 9 p.m., I realized I really should get outside.  I picked up a Brussels guide book in the hotel lobby, and found a place that is open all night. However, the stupid brochure didn’t have a map that showed clearly where the restaurant was, and I couldn’t even find the street on my map from the tourist bureau.

I started wandering back down the way I’d come up this afternoon hoping to find another good bar or restaurant.  I found another city map, and this one listed the street where the all-night restaurant, Si Bemol, is. I discovered that the restaurant was very close.  I took the dicey walk at night past the nude clubs down a fairly empty street, and found the restaurant. I almost didn’t go in, especially since the mussels were 21 Euros there, but there were signs outside in Spanish and there was 80s music playing inside. 

I sat at the counter of the small restaurant; there was only one other party in there.  I ordered a biere and was disappointed to be offered a Jupiter beer from a bottle. Apparently their tap wasn’t working.  The Leffe I ordered after that was equally disappointing. If I were going back there again, I would definitely stick with wine; their collection of was more impressive.

Once again I engaged in a culinary splurge and ordered the mussels.  I had figured out from some of the restaurants advertising mussels at “market price” that these mussels were pricey because they were so fresh.  I was given an aperitif of green olives and salami. I asked if that was traditionally Spanish or Belgian; the server replied that it was Spanish. Her mother was Spanish. 

The mussels came in casserole pot filled with the vin blanc (white wine sauce) and diced onions.  A metal bowl of steak fries was served on the side. The mussels were so fresh I could still taste the water they had been caught in.

After all the salt of the mussels and fries and the bitterness of the beer, I needed something sweet to cap off the night. I again splurged and ordered the chocolate mousse.  The server asked if I wanted it with crème fraiche. I said, “a la costumbre” (which I hope meant “as is customary). The cook then explained in English, “the chocolate is very strong. Do you want something [to soften it]?” I replied in English, “I like chocolate. Bring it on!”

The chocolate was dark, heavy, and should not have been eaten by one person. There was more caffeine in it than a shot of espresso.  I didn’t care.  It was good and I was enjoying it. Sated, I paid the bill and waddled back to the hotel.  I had an early train to catch in the morning. 

Around 6:45 p.m., Peter grabbed the Rotkapchen champagne and the giant bag of fireworks and put them in the back of the Mercedes.  20 minutes later, we were in the city center of Heidelberg looking for a parking space.  The parking angels I’d prayed to seemed to have shined upon us, as we found a free space not too far from Bismarckplatz.  The weather angels were not quite as kind—it was raining hard enough that even Peter decided to use an umbrella. 

I didn’t know how far the restaurant was, but I figured there would be time to come back to the car for the fireworks and champagne before midnight, and suggested we leave stuff in the car.

As we headed towards the pedestrian street (Hauptstrasse), Peter asked me if I knew who Bismarck was. I said of course—he was the person responsible for unifying Germany [in the 1800s].  He replied that in Germany, Bismark is more famous for starting the social security system, a move which was designed to curry workers away from Marxist or socialist ideologies.

We hurried down the long Hauptstrasse through the rain and about half an hour later we arrived at Alte Gundtei, a Turkish restaurant famous for its lamb grill. (No one knows what “Gundtei” means.) On the way to the table we saw a group of Americans but I didn’t say hello to them; ditto for the Russian speakers at the table next to us. 

Peter’s friends were already waiting for us at the table:  Christiane, her husband Thorsten, and their 11-year old son Yannick; and Christiane’s brother Stefan and his friend Wolfgang. We shared a platter of appetizers and two bottles of wine. The stuffed grape leaves and hummus were fantastic.  I had Patlican Kebap, lamb grill with eggplant (in a tomato sauce).  Peter isn’t a fan of lamb, so he had beef kebap with mushrooms. It looked really good. 

Our waiter was in surprisingly good spirits.  When everyone but Thorsten had gotten their meal, the waiter said to Thorsten, “Oh, you wanted it for this year?”  Later he asked us if everything was all right.  We said yes, and he said, “Truly?” Then he told a story about a man who ordered a steak. The waiter asked if it was good and the man replied, “I’ve had better steaks.” The waiter responded, “Yes, but not in this restaurant.”

The restaurant closed at 10, just around the time Peter’s friend Christoph joined us.  We lingered drinking our Turkish coffee (in Germany called “Turkish mocha”), milk coffee, or Turkish tea in traditional glasses until the waiters began closing the blinds.

By that point (i.e. after Peter’s friends teased him for parking so far away and leaving the fireworks in the car), it was clear that we were heading not back to the car but onwards.  We first went to the Alte Bruecke (Old Bridge), which has a lovely view of the castle lit up in orange. Once again, my camera was crap at night and I couldn’t get a decent shot. More importantly, Christiane became nervous around all the people setting off fireworks on the bridge so close to us. It was decided that we should instead head up to the castle.

The Burgweg (castle path) was a 10 minute hike up stairs; I probably took longer to pause and catch my breath.  The castle itself was closed off for a private party, but there was an outlook near the castle where we could see the Alte Bruecke. Or rather, we could have seen the bridge if there weren’t already a ton of people standing at the edge of the outlook.

We parked ourselves around a bench a few feet away, and Thorsten opened the first bottle of champagne even though it was 50 minutes until midnight.  I’m not sure if that was because his backpack was getting heavy, we needed something to do until midnight, or if he needed an empty bottle from which to shoot off his fireworks. After a couple of sips, I couldn’t be bothered to ask.

Stefan and Wolfgang disappeared momentarily; when they returned they said they had found a path below the outlook where we could have an unobstructed view of the bridge and safely set off fireworks.  We packed up and headed down.  We started setting off fireworks slightly before midnight like most people were doing. Stefan used his radio-controlled watch to help us countdown to true midnight, at which time we took a more meaningful sip of our champagne and clinked glasses.

For at least another half an hour, we along with everyone in the region set off our own fireworks. I was a bit surprised there was no single, publicly-run fireworks in Heidelberg, the kind one would get in an American city on fourth of July.  Yet I also can’t deny or adequately describe the energetic beauty of thousands of personal fireworks set off in rapid succession over the orange lights of the Alte Bruecke and the Neckar river.  Even the rain that fell on and off couldn’t dampen the joy of that.  Peter said 1.3 Billion Euros were spent on fireworks in Germany alone for New Year’s.  In that moment, it seemed like money well spent.

Around 12:30, we started walking down the mountain.  We didn’t take the path the way we came, and there were good reasons why our path was the road less travelled. Part of the road had collapsed, and when we got to the bottom of the hill we found the big wooden gate was locked shut. Fortunately it was only wood and we could pull the door open just wide enough to squeeze through.

In the corner near the gate, Thorsten noticed a man was passed out. At first I thought it might be a homeless man, but he turned out to be a young American. Peter and I separately guessed that he was under 21 and enjoying his first chance to drink legally in Germany. He could barely stand up, but Thorsten managed to place him near people and we eventually saw him on his cell phone calling friends.

We walked on down the Hauptstrasse (main street).  It wasn’t crowded, but there were definitely people out in various stages of dress and drunkenness. The streets were littered with trash and broken glass. Some clubs had people lining up to get in. One of the most humorous names for such a place translates roughly into English as “Assisted Drinking Facility”. 

We made a big loop on side streets back to the Hauptstrasse and finally sat down in a quiet restaurant for a nightcap. I had gluehwein (mulled wine), and the others had beer or soda.  Yannick sat and drank his soda and built a house—not out of cards, but out of coasters.  Around 2:30, we finally headed back to the car and drove home.  It was the best New Year’s I’d ever had in Germany. Prost Neu Jahr!