Brussels

Don’t leave home without it!

Brussels - Day 1

I shoved the £5 bottle of water back into the Pret a Manger fridge at St Pancras, fuming at the absurd price and the lack of water stations. Dropping my black ops persona I asked a freckle faced kid in uniform for help. He directed me to a cooler, where I filled my trusty Harrods Paddington Bear water bottle. Mission complete, I boarded the Brussels-bound Eurostar at 6:45am.

About an hour later T-Mobile welcomed me to Belgium with a cheerful message about my unlimited data and their blazing speeds—a helpful reminder, with no border checkpoint or announcement.

Day one of my Eurotrip, and I was too knackered to feel excited. Instead, I fantasized about what the trip would have been like if I were slim and young again and whether being younger meant you had more fun? Of course it bloody does! 

An eerie morning mist wrapped around the train, clearing just enough to reveal solid stone farm houses nestled in neat green pastures. The Belgian farmhouses brought to mind our Moroccan family friends who had recently paid us a visit. The three brothers and their mother, Mina, (who was also staying with me at Mum’s house), have built homes in rural Morocco, each equipped with remote security cameras that allow them the luxury of monitoring their houses from afar. Over dinner she shared the footage so I could appreciate how smart they were at being able to check on the comings and goings. 

I long to own a home of my own, A Place in the Sun, but I dread the upkeep and feeling anchored. But what I fear the most is having a security camera of my house exterior attached to my phone by an app that I will one day share with close friends because they may slap me for being daft. Just the thought of owning a house left me tired and hungry, so I shifted focus to what kind of mussels I’d eat in Brussels while I listened to Scott Hamilton’s Swedish jazz and watched the man beside me write emails for a chemical company until I fell asleep.

I woke up hungry and ate my sandwich of beef brisket with Tesco’s mustard. I prefer Colman’s but Mum buys what’s on offer. (I think Tesco’s was 241). 

At Lille, everyone in my carriage disembarked. One girl in a headscarf and an orange sweater got on and sat beside me. She moved after realizing the carriage was completely empty. I was devastated—she smelled like she’d been dipped in lilies, draped in a blanket of roses, and anointed with honeysuckle.

Rain streamed down the windows as we arrived in Brussels. I trudged twelve minutes against the bullying downpour from Midi station to my Airbnb in St. Gilles. Hang on!—Brussels Zuid is Midi? Nobody told me that! I’d been carefully plotting separate directions to both, thinking they were different stations. Balls!

As I stepped into the house trying not to drip everywhere, a woman’s head briefly appeared in the hallway before vanishing. Inside, a spacious lounge stretched toward the back, opening into an eat-in kitchen. The space was stark and minimalist, with a fireplace and a blackboard covered in chalk-scrawled salutations from past guests.

In the kitchen, a stout aloof woman, whom I’d glimpsed earlier, stirred a simmering pot, while a sparrow-like man hovered with unease. The man was English—I guessed from his sparrow-like mannerisms. James was from Surrey. He’d moved to Brussels two weeks ago for work and was waiting on permanent digs. He gave me the skinny on the colorful hood and recommended a bakery for the best croissants in Brussels then vanished, only to reappear moments later to inform me that the bakery was closed because it’s Monday.  

As I mulled over what to take on my wander, I was distracted by the woman in the kitchen who appeared to be cooking up a storm. I wandered over, curious. 

Leeza was from Congo and in the middle of preparing a smoked fish and okra stew. She explained that she’d come to Brussels to decompress from life’s stress and visit close friends and family. I asked about Congolese restaurants in the area and she waved a hand saying there were ‘too many Congo restaurants.’ 

I eyed her stew as she pulverized the okra. Sensing my interest she curtly offered me a taste, thinking I was hungry rather than curious. I politely declined. Okra and smoked fish may one day feel appetizing at 10am after a 5am wake up call. Today was not that day. 

The Magritte Museum, along with every other museum I’d considered visiting, was closed—it was Monday, of course. But I was thrilled to discover an Elliott Erwitt show at Grand Place, just a 30-minute walk away. 

Sporadic gusts of wind and relentless sheets of vicious sideways rain did little to soften the grim landscape. Saint Gilles might be cosmopolitan, but it’s far from picturesque. At an intersection near Rue de Stalingrad, sidewalks vanished under a flyover surrounded by construction barricades. I trudged through trenches of sand, where pools of smoky rainwater gleamed like oil slicks. Traffic was loud, obnoxious and stagnant. Everything was gray and fugly.

Gray and Fugly

Locals enjoying coffee sans the sidewalk.

Despite the bleakness, stoic North African locals perched outside cafés smoking shisha and sipping dark, viscous coffee like they were on the sunny Champs-Élysées.

I passed several seafood restaurants where diners could pick their own fish from a display then settle in at a table to wait for their deep-fried selection to arrive. The reviews for these places were glowing, but I didn’t see myself returning for fish that required navigating a miniature Niger Delta.

A colorful array of eateries had me peering into murky windows: Afghani, Peruvian, Arabic, Lebanese, Moroccan, Congolese, and even a dim sum spot. Every other man I passed had a striking resemblance to the Moroccan professional footballer Hakimi.

A young couple walked ahead of me laughing and chatting in Arabic, until the boy darted into a doorway, leaving the girl to walk on alone. He whistled after her, ducking out of sight. She turned back, puzzled, until he popped his head out and flashed a cheeky smile. She humored him with a coy smile, then smacked him on the head. Young love…

Windows of Brussels

I arrived at the Elliott Erwitt exhibition but entered the shop instead of the main gallery. The girl at the counter, fair, plump, and pleasant in a crisp white hijab, struggled to explain my mistake before kindly directing me to the correct entrance. At the ticket desk, another girl in a crisp black hijab sold me a ticket, took my heavy bag, and gave me a rundown of the show. Their warmth and smiles helped erase the memory of the fugly walk.

Erwitt’s dogs

The show was eclectic, witty and inspiring, full of Erwitt’s knowing winks, dogs and understated humor. I left feeling energized and eager to use my real camera—until I turned it on and discovered the battery was dead. My spare was back at the Airbnb. Disgusted with myself, I shoved it back into my bag, but dropped my headphones. When I bent to reach for them, I slipped on the wet cobblestones and almost did an impression of Prince in Purple Rain, which would have made me walk funny through the rest of western Europe. Thankfully I managed to grab a nearby railing and paused to gather my horses.

As I shuffled around the stunning Grand Place, I spotted a Japanese lady who looked like she had just wandered out of a fairy tale accompanied by two impossibly cute poodles. Inspired by Erwitt, in my finest mime-sign language, I asked if I could take her photo. She smiled in agreement, but her appalled babies objected.

To ease tensions, she handed me some treats to bribe them. But hang on 'Wait… only MUMMY gives us treats! Who IS this imposter?!' They yapped in rage and betrayal as I tried to dispense the treats, checking my fingertips after each foray.

“Who are you and why are you talking to my Mummy?”

I snapped photos of her, while they snapped back at me—it was overall a very happy snappy experience.

I checked directions to my Airbnb as it began pelting down again. Once at the #48 bus stop, I waited, until my bus sped past. I waved at it, palms outstretched. The driver waved back and gestured back there. Not helpful.

Nearby, a stationary bus sat idling. I asked the driver if he knew where the #48 stop was. He too gestured back there. What was this “back there”? I showed him the map on my phone and pointed to my destination. He nodded, signaled for me to take a seat, and assured me that I’d be home in just two stops. Magic!

As the bus lurched off, I tracked the progress on my map and realized that two stops were two stops in the wrong direction. But, hang on, wasn’t that the parliament building? Suddenly, I’d stumbled onto an accidental bus tour of Brussels, complete with a scenic route past Espace Leopold, Palais Royal and the Royal Science Institute.

The weather was truly awful so being on a warm bus, despite heading in the wrong direction, was comforting. Eventually the tour ended and a glance at the map showed that I was even further from home, so I took the nearest metro and was soon remarkably happy to be back in fugly St. Gilles.

After a shower, I began the classic quest: Mussels in Brussels. But hunger quickly spiraled into hanger as I discovered that Mondays in Brussels are a cultural wasteland—not only were the museums shut, but so were most of the decent restaurants. Moules frites sounded great, but it was too rainy to traipse across town again so my dulled brain defaulted to pizza and steered me to a nearby Italian spot that seemed...decent.

Frowning into a now familiar drizzle, I set off along narrow streets past lamp-lit grocery stores offering shriveled fruit, tiny falafel stands and heaving shisha bars. Approaching the restaurant I balked. It looked like a New York deli crash-landed in Europe—blinding bright lights, formica tables, linoleum floors. It had all the charm of a hospital canteen. This was not the candlelit, checkered-tablecloth trattoria of my dreams. I hovered outside, rereading the reviews: Don’t be put off by the decor, the pasta is authentic and pizzas are amazing. Skeptical I ventured in.

Inside, the warmth, aroma of roasting garlic, and the scent of sweet dough bubbling in a brick oven wrapped around me like a loving mama. The service was efficient and welcoming, and the pizza, magnificent! My crust was raised and charred to perfection, layered with generous folds of Parma ham and fresh mozzarella that bubbled and blistered. Chili garlic olive oil drizzled lightly over the colorful ensemble added zing to each bite. I devoured it with half a carafe of Montepulciano and left with two slices tucked away for breakfast.

There’s always pizza!