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Published: June 24th 2008
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Grand Places
The main market square in the "Vielle Ville" (old city). Brussels, Belgium
It is a *very* short ride from Limburg and the 5-city area over to Brussels. 3 ½ hours, with a train change. So when we got to Brussels at 2:30, we met Martin de Wrangel in the train station, dropped our things by his house in the Uccle area, then went back out to see what there was to do on a Saturday afternoon. We ended up walking around the center of town, seeing the Grand Place with its guild houses, and spying on the Manneken Pis doing his thing. It was a very cold, truly Belgian afternoon, complete with a nasty snow-rain-mixy thing, so I took it upon myself to suggest a trip to a book store (it seemed appropriate after all) and after the fairly long walk to get there, we were spent. It was nearly dark by the time we returned to Martin’s, anyhow. The following day, Sunday the 27th, the 3 of us went back to the center of town to see what the museums had in store. See, there’s not a whole lot to do *except* museums on a Sunday, because all the shops close (a hold over from the past when the church
Grand Places
Facing the other way, me and Martin, with the guild houses in the background had a stronger influence on the morals of the common shopkeep). The
Magritte exhibit we ended up at on Mont des Arts was not your run-of-the mill Magritte exhibit, either (like Magritte was *ever* run-of-the-mill…) It was a photographic record of his life, actually, and it explained how he became the person he became, what the influences in his life were that contributed to his way of thinking. It also helped that he’s one o’ my favorites. I should note that I developed a nasty cold the day before I arrived in Brussels, so that kind of dictated the total amount of energy I had for sightseeing, unfortunately. We had to skip the Musical Instrument museum, but it couldn’t keep me from getting to the Art Nouveau masterpieces in town! Martin took us on a quick driving tour of some of the more important Art Nouveau homes before parking and entering the Hotel Hannon and the pièce de résistance,
Musée Horta. There are no words, and (very) unfortunately for the later, there is no photography allowed inside. And for those of you who are as crazy about Art Nouveau as I am, FYI, Plaias Stoclet is still private property, so there was
Place Royal
Looking down the street at Musee d'Art Ancien no way in hell to visit. Maybe in 25 or 30 years, non?
Oh, don’t worry, bored reader, there’s more. If you’re sick or Brussels, give up now and proceed directly to moving into the dorms. I shall keep rambling,
Monday Martin had to bow out of sightseeing; he had to go to work, of all things. Melissa and I trucked up into town with the trams. We got to experience one of the joys of relying on public transportation: a temporary power outage. When we did finally get into town, we immediately went in search of waffles (gaufres), and found them two shops away from the legendary Manneken Pis. (Let me quickly say that Eggos are nothing but the very inbred, redneck, mutant cousin of the true waffle. In comparison, they more closely resemble freezer sponges than what I had on the street in Belgium.) Ah, the
Manneken Pis, how do I explain? The Belgian sense of humour is encapsulated in this laughably small representation of a young boy relieving himself. It’s a fountain, folks! And it runs all year, it seems, so any old time you are moved to come and visit… Next mission: chocolate. We hiked up the
hill to the Quartier Sablon to find a most amazing store. Being my favorite food in the whole wide world earth, I declare that
Pierre Marcolini is a genius with chocolate, and I was pretty proud of the strength my will power showed when I did get to the cash register. Mission three was to find the Galeries St. Hubert, the “ancient” ancestor of the modern day shopping mall (inaugurated in 1847, sez the guide book). In spite of what our motives might have outwardly seemed, I really found it a great example of industrial revolution era architecture.
The last evening we were in town, Melissa and I went out to dinner with Martin’s two children (Olivia and François) and their respective boy- and girlfriends (Eli and Anik). The restaurant we went to was one that you can only find in as old a place as Europe; it had been functioning as a restaurant, with pretty much the same menu, for over a hundred years. If I could remember the name of it, I would recommend it. It was really good, even if the staffs’ purposeful jokes did seem a bit too aggressive to be entirely funny… The next morning we
were back on a train, heading toward Coburg, wondering if our dorm rooms were available to move into yet, and eager to find out how Kate’s was, now that she’d arrived.
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