A Night in Bruxelles. Or, “Excuse me. Sorry.”
24 October, 2005
I just got off the train in Brussels from Rotterdam. I meant to get here a little earlier in the day, but… eh… you know how shit goes. I’m really just passing through, as I have to catch an early bus to the Charleroi airport. So, just the day. Or less, really. I’m down to about 15 hours before my bus leaves in the morning, so I better make the most of it. I wanted some time to check out the city, so anything I need daylight for I better do now. It’ll start getting dark in a few hours, especially with the overcast weather that’s been prevalent for the past week. So, I’ll start off doing what I love best about being somewhere new…. getting lost walking. I’ve never been to Brussels before, other than the couple hours spent in the train station on the way to Rotterdam in the first place. Oh well, not like that’s ever been a problem before. I have a map and my camera… time to check out the scene.
I’m at the Midi station, and my general plan is to head towards Grand Place, which is to the north and looks to be not too far away, so I’m off. As with all old European cities, I immediately become enchanted with the old architecture, such as this castle chillin’ in the city.
I’m starting to get hungry, so naturally must indulge in the local food. Something quick to eat while I walk…. frites it is. They just smelled so damn good as I walked past the vendor. They are certainly different than American fries, and nothing at all like the crap you’d get at a fast food chain. No deep fried mush here. Instead, there’s actually some substance to the potato, fried just enough to give it a crisp shell… and slathered in mayonnaise, of course. They’re damn hot, and the mayo isn’t just a glob like most American stuff. It’s seems a little more whipped. So I think I should stay put for a moment while I eat, and luckily there’s a small plaza area next to the vendor with some statues and stone benches, so I make my way over there.
Before long, a rather ragged man appears on the other side of the plaza, talking loudly to himself (well, he may have thought he was talking to other people…) and kicking a tin can around. He’s quite clearly drunk. There’s a woman also in the area, but as the bum got nearer, she grabbed her things and left. I’ve dealt with plenty of drunk bums in my day, so I’ll continue to stand by the statue/fountain and finish eating. The can shoots my way, and the man follows it over, still slurring and blathering loudly… in French, of course. He says something to me, but, since I don’t speak French, I just look at him blanky and continue eating. He sure is persistent, though, and continues with whatever he has to say. I look at him again and just say, “Non francais.” To the best of my knowledge, this means “No French.” I hope I’m right, because everytime he looks to me for some sort of response or acknowlegement, that’s my reply. After a few times of me responding with “Non francais”, he walks off, kicking the can, still blathering loudly.
Well, that was mildly entertaining, at least. I’ve now managed to finish my frites, and have sucessfully covered my fingers in mayo, so I think it’s time continue.
After a bit, I find myself above the city. I’m not totally sure how this happened, but here I am looking over buildings, like this
and you can see that it’s getting rather dark as the rain starts to drizzle down. Nothing major, just general dreariness. I think I’m getting close to Grand Place… it’s confusing because all the street signs are in Dutch and French. No matter, I’ll find it. I keep walking, window gazing, and find a cool antique shop. Inside are lots of things I don’t want or need, and a lot of furniture… Most stuff is too expensive for my taste, besides, I don’t want to deal with carrying anything around. But there are some cool Asian pieces- a couple hand drums and some candle holders with some konji characters on them. I’d consider the drums, but again, expense and carrying them… The candle holders are fairly inexpensive, but something just doesn’t seem right about buying Asian goods in Belgium. So I continue again.
Before long, I find myself approaching Grand Place, a square contained within the borders of the Hôtel de Ville, as well as other shops, cafés, and guildhalls. Despite being in the centre of Brussels, as well as a high traffic area and top site to see, Grand Place is almost difficult to find. It’s nestled inside typical Old World European side-streets… narrow and crowded. But once you make your way through, it opens up to the square, revealing the magnificent old buildings. I do wish there was a bit more light for some pictures, but… eh… you know how shit goes.
Well, mission successful thusfar. I wandered Brussels aimlessly, ate some frites, and made it to Grand Place… now for the next, and possibly the MOST important mission… BELGIAN BEER! So now the true task. The one that can make or break the traveler/destination relationship. Am I able to find some place that will offer me sufficient enjoyment for the evening based purely on my wandering and finding it? Or perhaps, is the city capable of producing such a destination? Will Brussels guide me towards an appropriate establishment? It’s a symbiotic relationship. As I amble, looking for somewhere to go, the city must pull me in the right direction. We’ll see.
I venture past a club and hear some good music. Some jazz cats are getting down, and the crowd inside is lovin’ it. Peering through the window, it looks like a 5 piece combo, and they’re tearing it up. Unfortunately, it’s also pretty crowded. It looks like pretty close quarters inside and I’m not sure I want to deal with all that. Plus, everyone else looks a bit better dressed than I am at the moment. But that’s not stopping me from listening from outside for a bit longer. As things slow down a bit, I remember my primary mission… BEER! So again, back to the walk. There are plenty of pubs around, but nothing has quite caught my eye yet, until I walk past one that has one of those small chalk board easels outside that says, “Mondays- Live Blues Jam”. What day is it? Well, whattaya know, I’m in luck. So the Café Bizon it is. It wasn’t a bad choice, either. Walking through the door, there’s a small stage area to the right, and a spiral staircase going up to the left. Straight ahead about 8 paces is the square “U” shaped bar. There’s nothing overhead of the bar, but along the perimeter of the building is the upstairs, more like a balcony, with a gated railing around it. It’s designed in such a way that people upstairs can lean over the railing to tell the bartender their order, and the bartender can hand them their drinks up through the railing. Actually seems like a better idea than carrying drinks up the spiral staircase. I order a Hoegaarden, and it’s delicious, and for €1.80, a fantastic deal compared to what I’m used to paying for good beer. The one thing I love about the Belgians, is they have certain glasses for each beer. Each one is special and unique… a love affair with their beer, and I don’t blame ‘em. There’s a fair amount of others in the bar, but not overwhelming. No band is playing yet. I have a couple beers down there before venturing upstairs, where there are less people, and more tables, so I grab a seat for a bit. Before long, a band comes on. Sounds like a small group- drums, upright bass, and guitar, although sometimes a sax jumps in. After all the walking, I decide to chill there for a bit while I have the seat. Behind me is a window where I can look to the street below, and see that more people have been coming in. Two 40-something American guys take a seat at a table across from me, on the railing side. I’m guessing they were from somewhere like Tennessee or North Carolina based on the accent… definitely a bit of a southern twang, but not a drawl. I decide not to engage them in conversation, though. Just not feeling up to it right now. The upstairs is starting to fill out quite a bit, though, so I think it’s time to make my way back downstairs to actually see the band and get some more beer. Man, it got pretty packed down there. I had to fight my way back up to the bar. 
The band’s rocking, though. There’s not enough room to have any sort of dance floor, but people are still getting down. There’s a metal pail hanging on the wall that one girl grabbed. It must have been a tip bucket, because there was a bunch of change in it. She bangs and shakes it in rhythm as a percussion instrument as she struts and dances around sticking it in people’s faces, trying to get them to contribute. I hang out by the bar, since there’s not much other room to go anywhere else, and I might as well be near more beer! After a bit longer, another guy grabs a mic and starts singing. This got the dancing bucket girl back, and she grabs it off the wall again, playing along. There’s a lot of energy in this bar.
But soon it comes to an end. Wow… it’s that late already? Holy shit, did I really drink that many beers? How long before my bus leaves? Can I find my way back to the train station while this drunk? Let’s find out…
Perhaps the only thing better than aimlessly walking and getting lost in a big, unfamiliar foreign city, is doing so while tanked. I have a map and a small compass… no worries. I eventually find myself in an Arab neighborhood. I know this, because many of the signs on buildings are in Arabic. Pretty intuitive, eh? Kinda makes me feel at home in Detroit. I’m hungry again, so I enter a restaurant that I’m lucky enough is still open. I’m not sure about what a lot of things on the menu are, but I see a word I recognize, “lasagna”. Sounds good to me. The guy behind the counter indicates they don’t have it. I don’t really understand what he’s saying, but he asks me if I want ????? instead. Umm…. sure… I really am not sure what I just ordered, but that’s what I love about the adventure of travel. You never know what’s going to happen. So I take a seat and wait for my food. Hey, I’m in luck. Chicken. And it’s good.
Ok, a couple more hours til my bus leaves… I guess I’ll head back to the train station and maybe sleep a bit til then. As I get outside the station I remember, I still have a little something left over from Holland, and it’s not going on the plane with me, so I better take care of it. It’s pretty barren around here, so seems like as good a place as any. As I walk and puff, I see a man walking on the other side of the street. He notices me and calls over, and starts my way. He doesn’t seem threatening, but I am drunk, somewhere I’m not familiar with, and there’s nobody around… so my guard is up. I do a quick check to make sure I know what’s in which pocket, shove my hands in them as well, and wait for him to get to me. As he gets nearer, I see he’s about 6 foot or so, pretty thin, with a darker complexion. He motions that he wants a lighter, so I hand him one. He offers a cigarette that I decline since I don’t smoke. He says something in French, to which I respond “Non francais”. He tries again in broken English, but I couldn’t quite catch what he meant. He motions towards a bench nearby and asks if I want to sit. Sure, why not? A chance to talk with the locals. So we sit and try to figure out the best way to communicate with each other. He speaks French and a very little English.
“Excuse me. Sorry.” is his key phrase. He begins many sentences with it. He knows some words, but sentence structure is beyond him. I know English (duh!) and some Spanish, but that isn’t helping much. So very basic English, gestures, and drawing it is! We get to talking (a term I use pretty loosely. Communicating is really a better one.) and he asks the standard questions, “Where are you from? Where are you going? Where have you been? Excuse me. Sorry.” It takes a few tries, but he gets it. The mention of coming from Holland sparks his interest, but I wasn’t about to take my hands out of my pockets yet. He then asks if I like to drink, and if I’d like to have one, pointing towards a liquor store around the corner. I’m not sure if something got lost in the translation, but I didn’t quite catch what he meant, although the mention of Carlsberg beer was in there.
“Yes, I like Carlsberg” I say, and I think he wants me to go get some.
“Excuse me. Sorry.”
Something seems a little weird, but… I guess the whole situation could be construed as such, as well. Eh, whatever, I’ll go grab a couple. As I round the corner and get to the store, part of me thinks, “I should just take off. Something’s not right. I could walk the other way around this store and get into the train station through another entrance on the other side, and he wouldn’t see me… or am I just being paranoid? I’m drunk, maybe I’m just reading into this wrong… different cultures and all. I don’t want to offend him… But… Did he just send me over here to buy beer and not throw in on it?” Fuck it. We’ll see how this goes, and I buy 2 bottles of Carlsberg and head back over to him. We sit back down and drink. He seems a little confused about something at first. Maybe I didn’t get the right thing? I’m not sure what he’s trying to tell me. I don’t know… it was a free beer… he shrugged, indicated nevermind, and drank it.
“Friend?”
“Huh?”
“Friend?”
“Oh, sure. We’re friends.”
We start talking again. “Excuse me. Sorry.” Somehow, through our lack of communication, I find out his name is Asbai, he’s 40, originally from Morocco and has been in Belgium for 15 years. He’s a taxi driver in Brussels and has a friend in Chicago who is dead. It took about half an hour to learn all this. Since he’s Moroccan, I have to assume he also speaks Berber… but since I don’t, we’re still in the same position as before. As we talk, the wind kicked up a bit. I’m just wearing a fleece sweatshirt and with the cold beer, it makes me shiver a bit. Asbai offers me his coat, which I try to decline, but he insists and drapes it over my shoulders. Well, that was nice, I suppose. Maybe I had the wrong idea before. Maybe it’s just a cultural difference I didn’t quite get at first.
“Excuse me. Sorry. Friend. Coffee?”
“Coffee? What? You want to go get coffee?”
I think he’s indicating there’s a coffee shop nearby. But… wait… did he just say something about breakfast? Does he want me to buy him breakfast?
“No, no coffee” I tell him.
Two mid-20’s guys walk by, and Asbai gets up and begins talking to them in French. Naturally, I don’t know what’s being said, but they talk for at least 5 minutes or so… and did he motion my way? No… I’m drunk… But I wonder what they’re talking about. The two guys walk off, and Assad comes back over and sits. He’s trying to tell me something…
“A square? You want to write something? Umm… a picture?”
“Excuse me. Sorry.” and we continue our game of Charades mixed with Pictionary. I still have no clue what he’s trying to say.
“Airplane? Mail? A postcard?”
“YES! YES! Friend. Your home. Send me.”
Oh, ok… sure. I’ll send him a postcard, but we have nothing to write his address with. So he motions to follow him. Apparently he knows someone close by, somehow related to him being a taxi driver, that he can get a pen and paper at, and I should follow him there. It’s just over there, he points.
“Um… how bout you go, and I’ll wait here.” The direction he wanted me to go was the same way the two other guys walked, underneath a large, dark overpass. And who is this friend you can get paper and a pen from at 4:30 am? Something’s weird again. I’m getting uneasy, and he’s being fairly persistent that we just go over that way.
“Excuse me. Sorry. Friend.”
Ok, what are my options? Well, I’m not going to puss out and just bolt the other direction…. I’ll start walking with him, play it by ear. I can lay this guy out if I need to, but I’m on guard. As we start under the overpass, I’m ready… I walk a bit of a distance away from him, my eyes darting around, looking for the other two guys. I’m half expecting to be jumped, and I’ll go out swinging if I am. We’re just about to the other side and…. nothing. But I still feel uneasy. The building Asbai was talking about was indeed just on the other side. There’s a bench outside he motions for me to sit in as he goes in. I stand… and pace… He’s inside for a few minutes, but does in fact return with a pencil and piece of paper. Well, maybe I got worked up over nothing.
He writes something down, then points to them and says “Asbai. Bruxelles. Taxi.” and makes sure I understand his address.
“Ok. I’ll send you a postcard.”
“Excuse me. Sorry.”
Then he writes one more thing and points to it “€20.”
“You give me €20?”
A-ha! I knew something was going on!
“Excuse me. Sorry. Friend”
“No, man. I can’t give you money.”
“Excuse me. Sorry. You give me €20?”
“No. I’m not giving you any money.”
“Friend. €15?”
“Sorry man. I bought you a beer. I can’t give you any money. I have to catch my bus.”
And with that, I stand up, say goodbye, and leave. Well shit, at least I didn’t get jumped. And I have about half an hour before my bus comes, just enough time to grab a baguette from the café in the train station right as they open.
It’s been an eventful day, I’m gonna crash hard on the plane.
Tags: Beer, Belgium, Brussels, Europe, Travel
nerokerr1
You’ve helped me decide on my future destination… I like your way of telling the story 🙂