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.