I had no particular ambition to ever go to Belgium. Really, especially after Mr. P told me that Belgium is the hapless butt of many-a-joke in France, sort of like how the US pillories poor Canada. But when we were planning to visit his sister’s family in southeastern England, we wanted to extend our visit into a surrounding area. At first we thought about going to Ireland, Scotland, or the English countryside, but late November isn’t exactly the best time of year to be traipsing around the highlands. It seemed safer to stay in a city, and when we found out that a high-speed train to Brussels stopped not 10 minutes from Mr. P sister’s house, we decided that we could do worse than visit a country known primarily for its chocolate, waffles, and beer.
So after landing in Heathrow, we found our way to the international train station via the London Underground and less than 2 hours later, we were in Brussels. And we wondered… what now?
Belgian Waffles
Well, neither of us could envision ourselves walking down the street scarfing down a waffle unless we had just skied the Matterhorn, although it was lovely to have the option.
Chocolate, however, is another story. We picked a chocolate store out of the dozens that lined the Grand Place, marched in, and demanded a sample. Heavenly. We also checked out the most amazing-looking cookie store ever.
Brussels Cookie Store
Ummm… where are those lovely green local sprouts that I so adore?
Somehow, we managed not to spoil our appetite for a lovely meal featuring oysters and the ever-popular Brussels mussels.
Brussels Mussels
After dinner we wandered around the Grand Place, admiring the fine buildings built centuries ago by Belgium’s colonial wealth. While Brussels as a whole was a fairly seedy and indistinctive city, the buildings in the Grand Place were impressive.
Bread House in Brussel’s Grand Place
Brussels Town Hall under a Full Moon
Bread House from a Side Street
We cashed in a chunk of loyalty points to stay at the Hilton Brussels City, a hotel that seemed lovely and friendly until we found out that they charged 30 euros for breakfast. We had plenty of plush, white bath towels, but no place to put them.
The next day we woke up, found a cafe that sold 2 euro croissants, and ventured to the Royal Museums of the Fine Arts to tour the Ancient and Modern Art museums (skipping the Magritte museum devoted exclusively to Belgian surrealist Rene Magritte.) It seemed sensible to shell out an extra 4 euros each to rent audio guides, as I have found that looking at art without informed commentary is like watching a movie without sound. We started in the Ancient Art museum (pre-1800), an era in which Belgian Art excelled (probably because Belgium as a country didn’t yet exist, snark snark) and produced simply astounding illustrations of numerous Catholic fairy tales.
The coolest thing about the Royal Museums is that photography is allowed sans flash, a policy that we did not discover until we reached the Modern Art museum (post-1800), when Belgium stopped keeping pace with the rest of the art world and started producing bizarre imitations of Impressionist, Realist, and Surrealist art. “What will the Audio guide say about this in 300 years?” I asked Mr. P as we gazed upon a piece that consisted of a mirror partially covered by a green curtain.
Royal Museums of Fine Art in Brussels
Belgian Realism
Art
Of course, the most popular piece of art in the city of Brussels is the Mannekin Pis, a small bronze fountain statue of a strikingly-muscled naked boy pissing. The statue has enjoyed an enduring, mysterious fame for centuries, so we were behooved to marvel upon it amid a crowd of unabashed tourists.
Mannekin Pis
Ah, Brussels. So tasty, yet so tawdry.
Brussels in a Nut Shell
