A little trip on Eurostar

I had always been ambivalent about going to Brussels. Full of well-meaning but almost useless European bureaucrats, grey concrete buildings and touristy chocolate chops, Brussels wasn't at the top of my priority list. But on the other hand, I was at a loose end and could get to Belgium reasonably cheaply on Eurostar.

So off I went. I took along my flatmate my Frances who I've started to refer to as my "wife" (along with some of my other friends in London), although Frances and I have agreed totally and utterly that we would never want to marry each other. Although, we did privately concede to each other that we must look like an old married couple - hidden away in our flat in the depths of South-East London, eating chicken wings while watching Frasier and laughing our own jokes that even Frances' mother thinks are entirely without humour. I believe the word 'freakish' was used.

Nevertheless, Frances and I set off to Brussels on the very comfortable Eurostar. There was an incredibly loud Dutch girl on the train showing off how clever she was. She was seated next to a family who chatted to her, and in the process managed to tell the entire carriage that she thought the French were unpleasant, rude and arrogant. All while we hurtled towards Lille from... wait for it... France.

Arriving at Brussels Midi station, we encountered one of the rudest tourist information booth ladies I have met. Questions were met with studied indifference. She paused for a good 10 seconds after each question, pausing to turn over the pages of a collection of documents which must have been vital for the security of the European Union's second pillar (OK, that's a joke for you EU politics geeks). I told Frances that I hoped that she was stuck in that booth for the rest of her life answering mundane questions such as how long it would take for us to walk to Grand Place from the station (for the record, the doddery old cow was out by 50%).

Arriving at Grand Place which wasn't so grand after all (although I concede it was nice), we walked past the lying-down-gold-statue (don't know what it was called) where everyone was rubbing the gold for good luck. I declined on the basis that I didn't want to offend the other Gods whom I was relying upon for good luck to think that I had resorted to paganism or what have you. We ended up at Mannekin Pis, a tiny little boy pissing into a fountain. Frances assures me he should be naked, although on the 2 days I went to see Mr Pis, he was wearing different costumes (the first day what appeared to be traditional Belgian dress, and the second a Unicef tee).

There were heaps of chocolate shops, and it was hard to resist the chocolate seashell siren. I wanted to prance through about 300 kiligrams worth of chocolate seashells (like the ones you find in Guylian chocolate boxes), but given the price at 5 euros for 250 grams, thought the better of it. With appetite whetted, off we went for dinner where I had a Flemish stew, and then off to bed.

I had banned Frances from booking any accommodation since her 2 horror stories (a student hellhole in Bath - one of the wretchedly bleak student dorms I have ever stayed in; and having to share a double bed in Salzburg despite wanting a twin room), but now it seems that we would both be stuck in London forever. The hotel was decent enough - basic, but clean, But our room overfaced a street with pubs and bars and all night we slept through sirens and drunks and music.

The next morning we groggily wandered to the Museum of Comics which was quite cute. I hadn't realised that the Smurfs had also originated from Belgium along with Asterix and Tin Tin. My favourite poster was one of all the Smurfs - vain Smurf, grumpy Smurf, workman Smurf. Like any other adult, I mused out aloud about Smurfette.

We also stopped by the Museum of Fine Arts which was nice, although slightly boring. The modern arts section which I had wanted to see was closed, although there was a fascinating globe (about 2 metres diameter) which was made entirely of insect bodies. It was frankly revolting on closer inspection, but the artist had painted the bodies all a translucent green so you could really see the detail. I hate bugs and crawlies at any time (even the best of times), but it was a rather interesting piece of art.

Then it was the moment I had been smelling for. A nice waffle with stewed cherry sauce and icecream. What more needs to be said?

That afternoon we took the subway out to the Atomium Monument which is a huge exhibition structure in the shape of an atom which had been built for the World Expo in 1958. I had not even known it had existed before, but when visiting my uncle and aunt in Hong Kong, I noticed they had a cool black and white photo of this interesting-looking structure on their wall. I later found out that it was Atomium - they had bought the print while they were living in Brussels when my uncle had been in the diplomatic service.

The building looked better in person, but the entrance fees were steep. We ummed and ahhed about going in, and then decided to enter, having made the effort to get there. We were sorely disappointed. It was an exhibition about the north and south poles in each of the "molecule" exhibition spaces (see photos to see what I'm talking about). The north and south pole can be such interesting topics, but the exhibition was poorly done and hopelessly inadequate. The 45 minute wait to get to the top for really quite unspectacular views was also painful.

Regardless, I am still glad I went so I never have to look regretfully at my uncle's print on the wall in Hong Kong. Later that dinner, we ticked off another Belgian must - mussels and fries. We had run the gauntlet of a little laneway of people touting their restaurants, and after being persuaded by one man sitting at a table in front of his restaurant, another waiter from next store implored us to go to his restaurant - "at least I am standing up!" he cried. We laughed and ate at the first restaurant.

Looking at a bowl full of mussels at first sight is quite appealing, but by the end, I decided that I had eaten enough mussels to last me for a year. It had been flavoured with garlic and chopped up celery, and by the last mussel in my bowl, even the celery tasted good. I used to get ribbed at school for eating like a rabbit (as in the pace, not in the action), but now I am starting to wonder. Bags of baby carrots are however available at my local Sainsburys in Woolwich.

Our final day in Belgium saw us taking a train out to Bruges, which had been recommended to me a number of times. A small city, it was undoubtedly very quaint, but there was nothing too much to do. I took a photograph of the canal which I later found out was "the most photographer place in Bruges". I suppose the city would have been spectacular in the sunshine, but it was a very cold and grey day. We huddled in a cute cafe away from the main drag for a while after stopping in numerous chocolate shops and came across a Michelangelo sculpture of the Madonna and her child in the main cathedral (one of the few Michelangelo pieces to make it out of Italy).

Close by were the grounds of a seminary for spinsters and widows where signs asked to walk through the gardens with 'reservation'. Again, I wanted to skip my way through the field of beautiful daffodils in full bloom but restrained myself enough to take a photo. By then it was raining, and we decided to amber along the main shopping promenade with some of my favourite European retailers such as Cielo. I didn't find anything I liked, and we returned to Brussels to wait for our Eurostar train. At Brussels station while eating in the food court, we were accosted by a homeless man who kept on talking to us in French. I felt sorry for him, but he was making us uncomfortable - sitting right next to us at our table and pleading with us in French. I didn't know what to do, until we were saved by a gentleman eating his takeaway dinner at the bench next to us. He talked to the homeless man in French, and the man sat next to him and bothered him for a while, continuing to stare at me. As I left, I threw away my rubbish, and turned around the smile at the man who saved us. He shrugged his shoulders as if to say this happens all the time in Brussels. I was later saddened to see that the homeless man had gone through my rubbish to see if I had left any food behind.

Despite all the grandeur of Brussels, it was a good reminder of the poverty and helplessness in Europe. Belgium was certainly a good weekend break away, and although I didn't get to see the EU Headquarters or NATO headquarters (the EU Parliament was closed due to a plenary session and I think you needed to be an EU citizen to visit), it was a nice taste of Belgium nevertheless.

I wonder if Mum would relinquish our family waffle maker to my London flat?