We returned yesterday from a lovely trip to Belgium.
We felt inspired a take a holiday getaway over our three-day weekend, and Belgium--with plenty of beer, chocolate, waffles, and mussels--seemed just the ticket. Wanting to avoid that...morning-of-travel-early-wake-up-and-drive, we decided to stay Thursday night in a London hotel, in order to be fresh and rested for the following morning's train ride. After work and a frenzied packing tornado at home, we kissed Lego goodbye and hit the road (For those of you who are worried as you read this, thinking, "HOW could they LEAVE that sweet little black puppy?! He has the fuzziest little face anyone could ever wish to kiss!" Do not be alarmed, dear concerned reader. He was lovingly entrusted to our neighbor friends whose love and care for their own puppy-child rivals our own. Also, said puppy, Venus, is Legs' girlfriend and they like to spend time together when one set of parents travels).
As we drove into the sunset towards London, the weather was perfect, the car was full of petrol, and we'd had a lovely cannelloni dinner, courtesy of my darling husband. So, happy and ready for adventure, we parked at Epping station and rode the tube to the hotel. En route, we noted with pleasure that our hotel was only about a block from the international train terminal; we fell into a contented, pleased-with-ourselves sort of sleep in our modest hotel room.
The following day came with London-waking-up-on-a-Friday-morning sounds, and with them, we excitedly (and a little groggily) bid London adieu. (Actually, this reminds me of a funny thing I've noticed about travelling here: customs is never the same, trip to trip. Some countries require a full passport check and landing card every time you cross the border. Others seem not to care two figs whether you have a passport or not. (Belgium is a good example of the latter--they cared a maximum of one fig. Apparently, since we had to show our documentation to French customs--as we were travelling THROUGH France into Belgium--Belgium doesn't feel the need to see the passports. "Well, if they're good enough for France, they're good enough for us!") But I digress...
Our decision to take the Eurostar high-speed train was made for the following reasons:
1) It was fast and cheap--just over two hours.
2) It would give us the third passport stamp style that we needed to collect all three: plane, train, boat. Our collections are now complete.
3) We think trains are neat.
After finding our seats and settling in, I promptly fell asleep. I think Travis maybe read a magazine, but I'm not really sure, since I basically just woke up in Brussels.
The weather in Belgium was rainy and chilly and drizzly-grey, but our spirits were NOT dampened! We bought an umbrella at the train station (we forgot ours) and cheerfully headed into the "ten minute walk" with our crisp, new Brussels map. The rain continued, but we persevered, enjoying the quirky sights; at every little bend and hill, we expected the historic market square to burst into view, beautiful and breathtaking. But somehow, while we saw many lovely shops and statues, we never came to the square for which we were searching.
At some point, we saw some interesting Gothic buildings down an alleyway, and Travis wanted to go look at them, but I insisted that we first find The Square. If we found The Square, then we could later venture out into the many alleys, nooks and crannies in order to look at all the random Gothic buildings the city had to offer. By the time we reached the far side of Brussels, we realized we must have missed something, so we consulted our map. Yes, of course those "Gothic buildings" were actually the corner of The Square. Oops. In the end, The Square was really beautiful.
After all this exhausting walking-around, we felt it was time for our first sampling of Belgian lunch. We chose our restaurant from three or four in a row (that honestly looked EXACTLY the same) and had a delightful meal of garlic butter drizzled mussels with parsley puree. This was accompanied by a Brussels salad (which had an increadible warm bacon dressing). We felt refreshed and ready to continue our tramping through the city.
We perused a museum or two, and learned much about Mannequin Pis, the small statue of a boy, peeing into a fountain. This small boy is much more than a chuckle-inducing absurdity to the Belgian people (We learned all about this in the museum); he is a symbol of the people's freedom. He wears patriotic clothing at different times of year, and has over 700 "outfits" stored and displayed at the Brussels museum. He also makes people laugh because he's peeing--definitely a good tourist combo. We went to see the little tyke, and--fortunately for us--there is a delicious waffle shop just around the corner from his fountain.
This was our first experience with the truly Belgian waffle, and though we did not have high hopes (I mean, it's a waffle, right? How great could it be?) Well, I'll tell you: it can be AMAZING. Banish your preconceived notions about waffles--keep the waffley, criss-cross pattern, but forget the dry, crusty texture. The true Belgian waffle is not circular, it's a sloppy rectangle. The inside of a Belgian waffle is gooey and sweet, hot and slightly chewy. The outside of a Belgian waffle is soft, with ever-so-slight a crisp to the outer crust. There is a taffy-like browned sugar substance at the corners and edges. It burns your tongue and your lips, but you don't care because it's so delicious. They are sold in the Belgian streets like hot dogs in NYC--and the smell! Let me just tell you that it's fantastic. The good news about all this is that we had the joy of such an enjoyable experience; the bad news is that I will never be able to eat at IHOP again.
With mouths still burning from melted sugar, we caught a cab to the art and history museum, took a look (it was cool--big architecture and arches and old buildings, etc.) and headed to our B&B, previously booked online. This is when things got interesting.
When we pulled to the side of the road, I looked out the cab windows to a third-world country. We were clearly not in the better part of Brussels, and when we found the building number, it was fixed to a solid iron door. I rang the bell for #38, and the door unlocked for us. We wound our way through a scary little alley, to an open courtyard. Through open French doors, three greasy men were sitting on the floor around laptops. They looked up at us and without prompt, one of them--the ringleader--said, "You're in the right place."
This did not give us comfort. The ringleader led us upstairs, approached a room, changed his mind, and said, "No, there," pointing to the door opposite. We anxiously glanced at each other and entered the room to which he indicated. The ringleader encouraged us to look at the bathroom--to make sure it was satisfactory, he said--which we did. "Go inside--please make sure." [At this point in the story, dear readers, I was quite certain that Travis--who was closer to the bathroom--was going to be clubbed by a junior member of the B&B mafia.] Travis checked the bathroom, declared it to be very nice, and politely thanked the ringleader for his help. When he finally left us alone (after informing us that we would be required to pay in cash), we closed the door and turned to each other. "We're going to die," I said.
It is times like this that I am thankful for my cool-headed husband. "We're not going to die, Carrie. I'm going to die; you are going to be sold into sex-slavery."
We considered leaving, but to be honest, neither of us wanted to go past the billy goats gruff downstairs. Instead, I prepared for bed by tucking our passports and debit card into my sock, in preparation for rapid departure, if necessary. [I am not joking about that.] Thank goodness the room was clean and presentable, as though someone had put much care and thought into decorating. We woke up and went to breakfast with some trepidation. We stood just inside our door and took a deep breath before we headed down to eat.
At this point, the whole story changes. There was a lovely woman preparing crepes in the kitchen area, a beautiful spread of bread and cheese and jams and jellies, tea and coffee, omelets and fruit was set up on a pretty table. The downstairs was filled with travellers from all over the world (we sat next to a really nice Italian woman who chatted with us while we ate. Also, we got some great ideas about visiting Italy later this year). There were children and daylight and people smiling and laughing. [Actually, it really reminded me of Bearenstein Bears book about strangers. In the first part, the apples were rotten and wormy, the people were angry and mean. THEN! The apples were bright red and friendly again. The man on the street had balloons and the people were smiling! If you haven't read this book, I am sorry for confusing you, but more sorry that you haven't read this book; I hope you'll take the time to do so--it's quite a good life lesson.]
We paid, then left our Italian friend, thanked the chef, and headed back to the train station to catch our commuter to Brugge.
Upon reaching rainy, windy Brugge, we walked from the station to the town center (with much less difficulty this time). There are beautifully manicured paths and stone trails for walking and biking in Brugge which lead a wanderer to cool little courtyards, large stone churches, museums, chocolate shops, and all manner of food stops. We checked out a few cool museums and walked through the alternating rain and bright sunshine. We stopped into about a hundred chocolate shops and sampled various delicacies. We saw a really nice bronze statue-man who performed on one of the more popular street corners. I took a picture of him (he posed for me!) and following the shot he pointed at me, beckoned me with his finger curling, and pointed at his cheek, indicating that the price of such a photo was a kiss. The crowd thought it was funny, and he was insistent, so I obliged. When I blushingly returned to Travis, however, he was laughing and pointing at my face, which was covered, lips to nose with bronze oil-paint!
Shortly thereafter we found our Brugge hotel--which was everything we needed and more. It was luxurious and offered all the little indulgences I needed following our harrowing night previous. The bathroom was well-stocked with L'Occitaine French bath products (in my favorite scent, no less!), and the minibar was packed with tiny, rip-off products--just the way I want them! The bedding was soft and perfect white (and smelled like lemons), there was a bathtub and a separate shower, all of which was separate from the toilet. The whole beautiful place was exactly what I needed!
With no idea where to eat dinner (and feeling quite peckish, despite our ample waffle and chocolate sampling earlier in the afternoon), we asked the hotel concierge for advice. We were looking for a quiet, friendly place with exceptional food. He immediately recommended a restaurant across the square, Brasserie Raymond. With little to lose and high hopes, we traipsed with our slightly soggy, crinkled map to the little spot. We were seated immediately, and enjoyed a perfect dinner.
I love eating in Europe at restaurants, since the diner never feels rushed by the waitstaff. In fact, our kind waitress offered many helpful suggestions for beer, wine, and local food specialties. I ordered a life-changing steak--it could be cut with the side of my fork! It was so tender--utterly delicious, with a warm pepper cream sauce. Served with crispy pommes frites and fresh greens. Delightful! Travis had one of the specials; guinea fowl with sweet bread over wide fresh pasta--killer good. He enjoyed a local brew or two and when I asked if there was a local red wine, the aforementioned kind waitress apologetically told me their wine came from France. Ummm...okay! Sounds good to me! It was perfect. Delicious bread and olives rounded it all off beautifully.
We woke up to an absolutely stunning breakfast room--three kinds of flaky pastry, three or four breads, a cheese and meat plate with brie and smoked salmon, prosciutto, hazelnut spread, sausage, eggs, bacon, cereal, a dozen teas, coffee...I was glad to finally get something to eat on this trip...!
At this point, I must inform you of the sad part of our trip. Unfortunately, when we called the hot air balloon company to make sure the flight was still going to run as planned over Brugge, they informed me that due to rain and wind, it would be cancelled. I would be fully refunded, of course, but no magical flight over the countryside at sunrise. I expressed my disappointment gently, and told him that I was sorry for his loss, since this weekend is a significant one in Europe (due to the bank holiday). The balloon man was quiet for a moment and said, "I appreciate your saying you're sorry for me--most people are only sorry for themselves."
With no hot air balloon ride, we found ourselves with more time than we'd planned, and really more time than we needed, so we called Eurostar to see if there was any possibility of changing our train to an earlier one, in order to get me home at a reasonable hour to sleep before work Monday. We were very coldly informed that it was not possible.
The morning was a slow, lazy one. We didn't have anything left that we HAD to do (Waffles? Check. Chocolate? Check. Mussels? Check. Beer? Check.) so we strolled through the streets, visited a park, watched the horse-drawn carriages...we stopped for tea when it started to rain, but the neighbors at the next table had a giant pot of fragrant mussels, so we ordered some as well. We ate a leisurely afternoon lunch and watched the people walking by in the rain, then beautiful sunshine. Brilliant.
We meandered back to the train station on beautifully paved, lovely walking paths through a wooded park area. We had the nicest conversation--loved chatting and laughing and pointing things out to each other.
The local train took us back to Brussels to head home, but since we gave ourselves time, we ended up at the large station early enough to have one final good-bye waffle; Travis even branched out and ordered his with whipped cream and berries.
As we were finishing our delectable final waffles, Travis saw the train departures sign and suggested we try--once more--to get seats on the train leaving one hour before ours. We headed to the check-in desk and asked the gentleman whether there were any last-minute seats unbooked on the boarding (getting ready to depart) train. He stated that it was normally out of the question for the non-flexible tickets we had booked (aka, the cheap seats), "But my manager called this afternoon and said I could make an exception, just for you." And with that, he stamped our tickets, guided us through customs (this time: England (including landing cards), Belgium, and France), and we were on the train, one hour ahead of schedule in order to get me home safe and sound for sleep.
This is nearly the end of the story. But for those of you, dear readers, who are concerned about Lego--not to worry; we picked him up from the neighbors, gave him lots of petting and ear-scratching, then kissed him goodnight as we all went to sleep.
