I was traveling this time with Kathleen, Marie, Adeola, and for the first time ever – Conny (hooray for roommate adventures). Since most of us had already been to Belgium, we decided to make the trip a short one, leaving Friday morning and coming back Saturday night.
Our adventure began (as our adventures so often do) with an early morning trek to Centraal Station. There we went to buy some tickets, but were informed that the ones we purchased (weekend returns, which are a special deal) were valid only after 9 am… and the train we wanted left at 8:54. We asked around at the various ticket desks to see if those last six minutes would really matter. The salespeople insisted they would, and our only other option was to wait a whole hour for the next train to come.
On a whim, we went up to the platform to see if we could somehow talk the train’s conductor into letting us on with our tickets. The train pulled in not two minutes after we arrived, and we strode along its length trying to find someone to approach. Conny and I made it all the way to the front of the train before we found anyone, and then it was the train driver himself, who said we needed to talk to a “car manager.” So we scurried back down the way we had come, trying to find such a person. The first conductor-type we ran into just shrugged and shook his head. The second one referred us to his boss, who was rapidly walking away from us back toward the front of the train. I had resigned myself to catching the later train, but Conny ran ahead to catch up with the manager, and after talking with him for a minute or so, smiled and waved us onto the train.
We had an uneventful trip into Brussels, arrived on time and made our way to our hostel, which was called the Van Gogh because apparently Vincent van Gogh had briefly worked and lived there at some point. Pretty cool, but I think I’ve become a little bit jaded about that artist since I see his things in the Netherlands all the time.
The hostel room itself left a lot to be desired. It smelled vaguely of urine, the furniture was wobbly, and only one of the three bunk beds had a ladder to the top. There were also five of us in a room meant for six, which meant we would probably get an odd roommate later on. Not ones to be too bothered by any of this, however, we struck out to explore Brussels. This basically entailed eating our way through the city and wandering around with rather aimlessly.
We stopped to get lunch at a cheap falafel place near our hostel, where we discovered that a sandwich “avec frites” meant that the french fries were actually included on the sandwich. We ambled down a prominent-looking street basing our direction on whichever way looked most interesting. We managed to pass a couple of intriguing things, like a giant pillar (The Congress Column – national monument of Belgium) and a lovely old cathedral.
Our adventure began (as our adventures so often do) with an early morning trek to Centraal Station. There we went to buy some tickets, but were informed that the ones we purchased (weekend returns, which are a special deal) were valid only after 9 am… and the train we wanted left at 8:54. We asked around at the various ticket desks to see if those last six minutes would really matter. The salespeople insisted they would, and our only other option was to wait a whole hour for the next train to come.
On a whim, we went up to the platform to see if we could somehow talk the train’s conductor into letting us on with our tickets. The train pulled in not two minutes after we arrived, and we strode along its length trying to find someone to approach. Conny and I made it all the way to the front of the train before we found anyone, and then it was the train driver himself, who said we needed to talk to a “car manager.” So we scurried back down the way we had come, trying to find such a person. The first conductor-type we ran into just shrugged and shook his head. The second one referred us to his boss, who was rapidly walking away from us back toward the front of the train. I had resigned myself to catching the later train, but Conny ran ahead to catch up with the manager, and after talking with him for a minute or so, smiled and waved us onto the train.
We had an uneventful trip into Brussels, arrived on time and made our way to our hostel, which was called the Van Gogh because apparently Vincent van Gogh had briefly worked and lived there at some point. Pretty cool, but I think I’ve become a little bit jaded about that artist since I see his things in the Netherlands all the time.
The hostel room itself left a lot to be desired. It smelled vaguely of urine, the furniture was wobbly, and only one of the three bunk beds had a ladder to the top. There were also five of us in a room meant for six, which meant we would probably get an odd roommate later on. Not ones to be too bothered by any of this, however, we struck out to explore Brussels. This basically entailed eating our way through the city and wandering around with rather aimlessly.
We stopped to get lunch at a cheap falafel place near our hostel, where we discovered that a sandwich “avec frites” meant that the french fries were actually included on the sandwich. We ambled down a prominent-looking street basing our direction on whichever way looked most interesting. We managed to pass a couple of intriguing things, like a giant pillar (The Congress Column – national monument of Belgium) and a lovely old cathedral.
Belgium is very cartoon-oriented, since the guys who invented Tin Tin and the Smurfs were both Belgian. There’s a Comic Strip Museum in the city somewhere, and there are a bunch of “cartoon walls” where people have painted giant comic-style murals amid the normal buildings. They added a bit of color and fun to what was otherwise a fairly drab city, and give Brussels some of its trademark absurdity.
Fireworks!
And Zorro? Absurd.After our brief bit of exploring we managed to find ourselves in a touristy center full of chocolate shops and restaurants selling all the french fries and waffles you could ever want. We bought individual bonbons at one of the chocolate stores so that we could at least say we tried some of the fancy chocolate, and then we sat around eating waffles and being entertained by a guy who was awkwardly drunk at 3:00 in the afternoon. This man – of some ambiguous nationality, though he was speaking in English – was stumbling around the square, standing on the bistro tables and swapping hats with random passersby. “I love your hands, they are so gentle,” he proclaimed to the exasperated shop-keeper who tried to help him down from the tables. “They are the nicest hands in the world.” Absurd.
Chocolate!
Waffles!After waffles, we did what we do best – wandering! We had a acquired another map for young travelers, which was similar to the one we had in Bruges, but unfortunately not as reliable. Many of the places it mentioned were either closed or not where they were supposed to be, but it was helpful in directing us to some Brussels staples like the Mannekin Pis and the Grand Place, where the UN building and some fancy old guild houses are located.
Mannekin Pis. Absurd.
Le Grand Place. Pretty typical, actually.We continued our wanderings in and out of various stores (one devoted entirely to Tin Tin, one devoted entirely to beer, most devoted entirely to chocolate) until we started to feel hungry for dinner. After some fruitless questing for a so-called “food street” we saw in our map, we settled on a reasonably-priced Chinese restaurant. There, we were served heaping portions of food, and I had a plate flung (and shattered) in my direction by an oblivious small child who was related to the proprietors in some way. There was also something called “basilisk” on the menu. Absurd.
Mmm. Basilisk!We decided to give our map one last chance by following its directions to get to a nearby parking garage. From there, it said, you could catch a spectacular view of the city, and you wouldn’t have to pay for any of it. The view was indeed spectacular, particularly at night with all the buildings lit up. We stayed on the roof taking pictures for awhile, and then returned to our hostel for the evening.
The next morning, at my request, we set out for the Musee des Beaux-Arts/Magritte Museum, where I was pleased to discover that even a year and a half since my last French lesson, I could still read 90% of the text on the walls. We also saw some very weird art (typical of Surreal Magritte) and some very amazing art. The best part for me was seeing Jacques-Louis David’s The Death of Marat, a perennial favorite of art historians and regular historians alike.
The next morning, at my request, we set out for the Musee des Beaux-Arts/Magritte Museum, where I was pleased to discover that even a year and a half since my last French lesson, I could still read 90% of the text on the walls. We also saw some very weird art (typical of Surreal Magritte) and some very amazing art. The best part for me was seeing Jacques-Louis David’s The Death of Marat, a perennial favorite of art historians and regular historians alike.
Morbid? Maybe. Awesome? Absolutely.
Plus, Marie and I even managed to stumble upon our first real Rachel Ruysch painting! A happy surprised after all our foiled questing earlier in the week/semester.
We spent several hours in the museum, and afterwards we were ready for lunch. We managed to find a street that was literally just cheap Greek pita shops, and picked one at random to go to. After lunch, we began to wander some more, but there wasn’t a whole lot else we wanted to see. We found a couple more interesting statues and went into a couple of semi-interesting shops, but it was probably a good thing we had only intended to stay for one night, because by the end of Saturday afternoon, we were running out of things to do, and mostly wanted to head home and sleep.
We spent several hours in the museum, and afterwards we were ready for lunch. We managed to find a street that was literally just cheap Greek pita shops, and picked one at random to go to. After lunch, we began to wander some more, but there wasn’t a whole lot else we wanted to see. We found a couple more interesting statues and went into a couple of semi-interesting shops, but it was probably a good thing we had only intended to stay for one night, because by the end of Saturday afternoon, we were running out of things to do, and mostly wanted to head home and sleep.
Godiva window display. Absurdly cute.So after stocking up on some Belgian chocolate at the most reasonably-priced place we could find, we grabbed some fries for dinner and headed off to the train station. The train we wanted was listed on the boards, but instead of a platform number, there were simply three asterisks (***). Knowing this could not bode well, we cast about for some more information, alternately eavesdropping, schedule-scanning, and battling our way to the ticket counter, only to be referred down to the information desk on another floor.
En route I saw a station employee (a maintenance worker of some kind, I think) who seemed to know something about what was going on, as he was pointing to one of the schedule boards and talking at the crowd of people milling around it. Unfortunately, I think he was speaking Flemish or a very strongly accented sort of Dutch, because I couldn’t understand anything he said, and my inquiries (first in English and then in French) yielded nothing but apologetic blank stares.
When we eventually found the right information desk, we were given helpful advice by a young-ish man who was surprisingly cheerful for having to work the Saturday night shift at a train station. No, he didn’t know the reason our train had been held up, but he recommended we hop aboard a train to Antwerp and then try and catch a different train to Amsterdam from there. If all else fails, he reminded us, we would at least be that much closer to where we wanted to be than if we stayed in Brussels.
Eager to trust in the friendly, smiley information guy (and honestly having nothing better to do), we got on the incoming Antwerp train and made it to that station without issue. We had about half an hour before another train headed to Amsterdam came in, which was just enough time to use the bathroom and get waffles out of the vending machines (one of my favorite European commodities). The train to Amsterdam was incredibly crowded (likely because the train we had wanted – and all other trains using that stretch of track to Brussels – had been canceled), but we all managed to find seats scattered throughout it. Adeola and I actually sat in little fold-down seats in the in-between compartments, but it worked, and we had a long and engrossing conversation until we made it back to Amsterdam.
We reached the doors of Funen a few minutes before midnight – just in time to see some of our friends heading out to start their Saturday evenings. We were all exhausted, though, so we stowed all of our Belgian goodies and settled down to sleep.
En route I saw a station employee (a maintenance worker of some kind, I think) who seemed to know something about what was going on, as he was pointing to one of the schedule boards and talking at the crowd of people milling around it. Unfortunately, I think he was speaking Flemish or a very strongly accented sort of Dutch, because I couldn’t understand anything he said, and my inquiries (first in English and then in French) yielded nothing but apologetic blank stares.
When we eventually found the right information desk, we were given helpful advice by a young-ish man who was surprisingly cheerful for having to work the Saturday night shift at a train station. No, he didn’t know the reason our train had been held up, but he recommended we hop aboard a train to Antwerp and then try and catch a different train to Amsterdam from there. If all else fails, he reminded us, we would at least be that much closer to where we wanted to be than if we stayed in Brussels.
Eager to trust in the friendly, smiley information guy (and honestly having nothing better to do), we got on the incoming Antwerp train and made it to that station without issue. We had about half an hour before another train headed to Amsterdam came in, which was just enough time to use the bathroom and get waffles out of the vending machines (one of my favorite European commodities). The train to Amsterdam was incredibly crowded (likely because the train we had wanted – and all other trains using that stretch of track to Brussels – had been canceled), but we all managed to find seats scattered throughout it. Adeola and I actually sat in little fold-down seats in the in-between compartments, but it worked, and we had a long and engrossing conversation until we made it back to Amsterdam.
We reached the doors of Funen a few minutes before midnight – just in time to see some of our friends heading out to start their Saturday evenings. We were all exhausted, though, so we stowed all of our Belgian goodies and settled down to sleep.
"I love your hands, they are so gentle." This is my new go-to phrase anytime when I want to make things uncomfortable. Also, mad jealous of all the art history 102 slides that you have now seen in person throughout your European travels.
ReplyDelete"Just enough time to use the bathroom and get waffles out of the vending machines". I hope to hear you say this anytime anyone inquires about how much time they have.
ReplyDelete