Still reeling from all things Amsterdam, we packed up early to drive to Brussels, Belgium. Belgium is separated by French, Flemish (a variant of Dutch) and German languages, with most everyone knowing English (or having an English-version menu). Before leaving the U.S., I searched online for potential hotel locations in Brussels because we expected this stop to be a good place to relax (and unpack?) mid-vacation. TomTom gave us the Hotel du Congress
. No surprise, it was not the same "Congress" hotel I located online. Regardless, when we arrive in the hotel lobby, it's more than what we expected — newly renovated, trendier in that we-designed-all-our-furniture-in-Sweden kind of cool, semi-cheap for the night (about 80 euros) and free wi-fi (sweet).
(This is not our hotel, but the building across the street).
We get to our room… it's small. I mean just enough space to have a queen bed and knock yourself into windows-that-open-in every time you pass through the room and hit your head on the wall-mounted TV-small (OK, I'm not really that tall, but it was strangely fastened super-high for a TV). And the bathroom? Well… at least we had one, right? The most strange of all was that we checked in and the desk clerk just gave us a key. No credit card or euros down. Just a key with a large "Room 113" charm and our name left with the front desk. It's as though we were implanted with GPS devices upon entry… and he would find us.
After settling in, we took off for a short walk to the downtown area. We came upon an amazing church — The Saint Michael and Saint Goedele — during our walk through Treurenberg hill. After a few more blocks (such an easy downhill walk!) to the St Hubert Gallerie, we find the vortex of outdoor fish-market restaurants called the Beenhouwersstraat/Rue de Bouchers, for whichever language you choose for the evening. The waiters call at you like cars salesmen. Everyone is crammed together like sardines (pun intended) and enjoying the cool outdoor temperatures. We opted for dinner at an
outdoor italian place with little-to-none attention for manipulation — and no heat lamps. Our waiter spoke over eight languages fluently and remarked he knew conversational phrases in several others. There were too many fish selections for my liking, once again, but the hot pepperoni pizza did just fine. It started to sprinkle a bit during dinner. I asked the waiter if it rained all the time in Brussels. He responded with, "It's Belgium time…" (Le Dylan — Dylan is the name of my surrogate poochie).
From our restaurant, it was a quick right-left-right to Grand Place (or Market Square). Unfortunately, there was some television show or concert being broadcast, and I felt uncomfortably uneasy with the hundreds in police presence and mobs of people. I felt as
though I was in the middle of a governmental uprising convention outdoors… with rain and nowhere to go, but squished against another building. Seriously, "time" for an umbrella? And where is Mannekin pis?
After attempting a tight squeeze through the barriers and people, we leave the square, marvel at more buildings and find some Irish pub, with what seemed like every-other American in the
city. Our first choice was this tiny bar called Nua (open until 7 am!) whose bartenders were strangely absent. There were more cops in there too though. Enough blue for me for one night! The DJ was certainly playing to his American audience climaxed by a fine moment from a group of guys that sang and motioned along to "Bohemian Rhapsody." Yes, you knew when at "that part" of the song where all heads bang to replicate Wayne's World? Yes, afterward, everyone was toasting up their beers to each other,
like Awesome! American in Brussels! I was just content with my tall Belgium beers. We attempted to make friends with a group of girls who traveled to Brussels from Italy, where they were studying for the semester — and were ALSO from Texas — but they were less than responsive. Hearing them all young-and-single-and-drunk-in-a-foreign-country certainly made for some interesting eavesdropping.
When it was time to go, we discovered the Flemish Fries after-hours shop! (Or Belgium Fries.
What-have-you, just don't mistake them for "french" fries or you will be subjected to all the "dohs!" in the house). Oh, and mayo… lots-and-lots of mayo to dip into. It's Belgium, people! I see no fat people and it is a national requirement to dip your fries into mayonnaise. It made all that time walking uphill back to the hotel disappear.
