Brussels and Antwerp - Travel Feature

We weren't in Belgium for long, but we tried to make the most of our stay...

Words - Suzy Sims
Previously published on Native.tv http://www.native.tv in 2007
(c) Niche News & Publishing Ltd



BRUSSELS AND ANTWERP in three parts

1. BRUSSELS

I’m in Belgium. To be more specific, I’ve got a window seat upstairs at Chez Leon in the famous restaurant stretch down the Rue des Bouchers in Brussels. It was recommended by our hostel receptionist as having a good reputation while not being a total tourist trap. To be even more specific, I was about to eat a garden pest (or a pet, depending on your age).

The menu was a good mix of local and nearby Continental cuisine, and I went for the Burgundy-style snails. Not exactly Belgian, but I was curious. I was looking forward to my snails until the waiter kindly presented me with some kind of metallic implements of torture. I’m sure he was sniggering. After a few minutes of examining I realised that the tongs let you grasp the shell and the pokey thing is used to pull the slimy bit out, or to assault the waiter with if it turns out to be completely disgusting.

I glanced again at the menu to see a dessert covered in Crème Anglaise, which sounded quite sophisticated until I realised they meant ‘custard.’ Soon my plate arrived. Twelve prettily coloured shells were swimming in a green garlic and herb sauce. I did a bit of operating with the scary metal poking stick and put a snail in my mouth. Quite nice actually. A bit chewy, like squid. After a few snails I realised that they each had a tiny unpleasant gritty part, and I really didn’t want to think about what it could be.

Unfortunately I accidentally thought about it and started turning a similar colour to the sauce.

Luckily, my friend Veronika and I had agreed to go halves on our meals so she finished the snails while I moved onto mussels and chips, washed down with raspberry beer. Delicious. The beer was in a glass labelled ‘Mort Subite’, and even my poor French skills could translate the first word as ‘Death’ which was a bit off-putting.

I was very embarrassed at not being able to speak French. I can speak the odd grammatically incorrect bit of Russian and random phrases of Norwegian, Dutch and German. I learnt French for three years at school but gave it up before GCSE level. Veronika is Hungarian and she also speaks fluent Russian as well as English – but no French. I decided to give the language a go when buying burgers from Quick. I wanted the set 3 Euro meal and tried pronouncing it in my head but could only imagine a throaty ‘Twa Ehhhrro’ that could only ever be understood by the cast of 'Allo Allo', so I gave up on that one.

“Bonjour. Je voudrais deux hamburger, et… errr… the cheeseburger thing… there.”

I was then spoken at in lots of French, so I conceded defeat and switched back to Anglaise. On the plus side, my ‘Merci’ is now excellent and I did even try an ‘Excuse-moi’ on the Metro.

Of course food is a recurring theme throughout Belgium and particularly Brussels. The waffles are almost as famous as the chocolates and the mussels/chips. After a few hours of walking around the city and passing through the Grand Place, we stopped at a vender near the Manneken Pis and ordered one chocolate and one honey Liege waffle.

“A honey for the honey,” said the grinning vendor. “You are a pretty lady. You are English? I like Chelsea! What’s your name? Do you have a boyfriend?”

Veronika nudged me and grinned. We managed to escape before I was proposed to, although with waffles like that I would have happily accepted.

I was in Belgium to see a gig the next day in Antwerp, so until then our time would be taken up with sightseeing in the capital with the aid of a tourist map and a route kindly drawn out by the hostel receptionist. The Manneken Pis is absolutely tiny. I’d imagined a large fountain in the middle of a square, but instead the ‘little fellow’ was stuck on the corner of a road having a tinkle and being admired by a party of German tourists.

If we’d arrived a few weeks later, the statue would have been dressed up in some amusing costume. We took a couple of pictures after wiping our waffle-greased hands on our jeans, then it was off again for another walk. If we’d been aware of the Jeanneke Pis (like the above statue, but a squatting girl) we’d have gone looking just to find out exactly how tasteless it is.

Despite its size – although as everyone knows, size isn’t everything – the Manneken Pis is one of the most popular icons of the city. There’s also a fairly awful range of related merchandise from plasticky fridge magnets to long, whirly corkscrews protruding from between his chubby fingers. A hike up a hill and round a bend, dodging trams and cars brought us to St Michael and Gudula Cathedral, where my legs ached and I made us sit down for a bit. There was a lone girl on the next bench sketching the building, and we watched for a bit as the worst parker in the world reversed up the kerb several times, each time stopping to slowly lean out the window and see how badly they’d missed their space. (Oooh, by a lot).

Another few hills and corners and we found the Royal Palace illuminated in the dark with a Belgian flag flying atop and the king inside eating his tea and toast, as I’m sure royals do. The front garden with its sculpted hedges looked perfect to wander in, perhaps with a glass of bubbly in hand, but I wasn’t brave enough to see how far we’d get over the wall before being shot or chased by a pack of Dobermans. There were no obvious security guards and few people walking the streets. The cars made a tremendous noise as they accelerated across the cobbles.

The next morning we dragged ourselves out of our beds. The 2Go4 Hostel was good quality, with automatic lights in our bathroom, free hot drinks in the morning (if the vending machine works), key cards to open the doors (if they work) and a free internet connection (which kept dropping). Seriously though, I have no qualms in recommending it. It’s smartly decorated, in a good location and has very clean and comfortable rooms.

We had decided to visit the Atomium in Heysel. It was originally built for the Brussels World Fair and was set to be demolished six months later. That was in 1958; almost fifty years later and its still going strong. It looks rather like something Tom Cruise was fleeing in ‘War of the Worlds’, with fascinating and slightly ominous spheres rising above the trees. Veronika shook her head and complained that as far as atoms go, it didn’t appear to have the right structure. I felt a bit nervous standing underneath as it gave the impression the balls were about to drop (as it were). After a walk around the structure, interrupted by a giant party of Japanese tourists appearing in camera shot, we went to catch the tram back to the hostel.

Brussels Tourist Board
Grand PlaceManneken Pis
Royal Palace
2Go4 Hostel
Atomium


2. ANTWERP

And we made it back to the hostel with three minutes to spare. Any later and our luggage would have been locked away for the day, which would have buggered up our travel plans slightly. We got our things, left and caught the train to Antwerp, which I then flooded with cola when I accidentally split a plastic cup. We were frantically wiping up the mess with a tissue when I saw an unsmiling guard hanging over waiting to check the tickets of these British vandals. He handed mine back with an ‘Alstublieft.’ We were moving away from the French area more into the Dutch-speaking parts.

Antwerp is famous for the gem industry, with some 70% of the world’s diamonds being traded there. Now some enterprising spirits have tried to condense the city’s selling points in one – resulting in diamond-shaped chocolates. Hurray!

There wasn’t much time to see Antwerp so we decided to leave our sightseeing until the weekend and perhaps try and find our hostel instead. It took a bit of detecting as there was no sign and the front door was just a huge black monstrosity with the hostel name in faded marker on the intercom. Inside was a large echoing hall leading to a room with cosy, mismatched sofas covered in throws. There was a friendly and pleasant man who told us about the local area and said he’d help us find our way to the venue.

Our room was three floors up and there didn’t appear to be any heating. There were also a few random beds in the middle of the room – which had 12 beds between three of us – so I helped shove them to one side. On the plus side, the bathroom was done out in a nice octopus-style pattern, and the room was big enough that we wouldn’t be in each other’s faces.

We went back downstairs to ask the man how to find our way to the Hof Ter Lo, which according to our map was out in the middle of nowhere, miles from any sort of public transport. Unfortunately he’d disappeared so a smiling lady tried to show us where to go, although she didn’t seem to have any particular knowledge of the area so perhaps tourism wasn’t her best career choice. In fact, in the end the best she could suggest was a taxi number. We waited a minute as she smiled at us, then suggested she be kind enough to ring for one. The taxi itself was half an hour in coming, had to park practically on the tramlines (aaaargh) and then had to take us via Bruges or something as there were roadworks all along the direct route.

At the gig in Antwerp, having also met up with a Dutch chum, I was talking to some new-found Belgian friends who asked what I thought of the country. I said that I’d only really seen Brussels, but thought it was beautiful.

“What? No it’s not. It’s really ugly,” insisted the man. “Well if you like Brussels, I’m sure you’ll like the rest of the country.” They then went off into a slight rant against the Dutch.

“Ah, the Dutch. We hate the Dutch. Apart from your friend over there, she’s nice. It’s like a local rivalry. Like you have with the Irish.”

“And Scottish, and Welsh, and French,” I said.

“Ha ha, the French. And the Germans, and Americans. Yes, the Scottish,” they continued, smiling. I suddenly realised I’d been talking to them for an hour and didn’t know what their names were.

“I’m William Wallace,” deadpanned the man.

The next day, I was woken early by one of our friends creeping out to get an early train. The room was freezing cold and I didn’t want to get up. The cathedral bells were pealing in the distance. When we eventually made it up we walked along the tramlines to the nearest stop to find there were 14 minutes to wait in the rain. We decided it would be quicker to walk into the centre.

Antwerp is considerably quieter than Brussels. At half ten in the morning, pretty much everywhere seemed to be shut, possibly because of the Jewish Sabbath. The streets were typically cobbled and on every corner stood a chocolate shop with the shutters down. Our bags were heavy and rattling on the floor so we stopped for sweet refreshment at a little café called Chaplin’s, where we ordered hot chocolate and chocolate pastries.

When it came to pay, I was slightly confused about what to say as I had assumed Antwerp was more Dutch than French; however the person at the till was chatting happily away en francais with the man behind me. In the end, I just managed a ‘Merci’ and shyly carried the tray to a red plastic table.I sat there daydreaming for a bit. There were posters on the wall reading ‘Soup Is Hot’ which I liked. I idly stared out of the window at passers-by, until one man caught me looking and flashed me a grin and a thumbs up. I blushed and tried to hide behind my plastic cup, with little success.

We strolled across the Groenplatz towards the grand Onze Lieve Vrouwekathedraal (Cathedral of Our Lady), staring fixedly at our map to find the best way to go. Walking through a small passageway we found ourselves in the Grote Markt. There were a few people walking around the outside with cameras, while a man and boy on their bikes paused to look at the buildings. The cafes were open and doing a busy trade. European squares are always so attractive and Antwerp is no exception, with pretty mismatched houses from the 16th Century standing proudly by the decorated Town Hall. The Hall was built during the city’s rich boom in the mid-1500s to replace a smaller and less impressive one and was completed in 1576. Sadly it was burned to a crisp when the Spanish soldiers came to town and near destroyed the place in an angry rebellion against their lack of pay and violent opponents. The hall was renovated a couple of years later, but much of the current structure is 19th Century.

Walking round a corner, we found ourselves heading for the river. When in the centre of town it’s easy to forget that Antwerp’s wealth had for centuries been coming in from the port on the river Scheldt, with the region coming to a near economic standstill when the waterway was closed to trade. The Allies and the German troops battled for control of the area during the Second World War as Antwerp was perfectly situated to deliver supplies to troops.

Further along the river there was a statue which checked us in our tracks. It appeared to be of a giant man in posing pants thrusting his crotch forward. A bit of research tells me it’s called Lange Wapper (snigger) and was a mythical figure used to frighten children (no kidding). Even better, Lange Wapper did indeed used to have an appendage which matched his name, but it was lopped off by conservative powers. As the Manneken Pis would say again, size isn’t everything, but it must still be embarrassing for the poor man.

Mr Wapper stands outside Het Steen, the small castle which used to guard the city and which was used as a prison in the past. ‘Steen’ means ‘stone’ which is indeed what it’s made from; it got the name because at the time of construction (around the 13th Century) most buildings were made from wood.

Then it was back to the train station to return to Brussels. Antwerp has quite possibly the poshest looking train station (from certain angles). When you arrive, you look up at a giant guilded sign, all swirls and gold lettering and marble acting as a fanfare for your arrival. Look behind you though, and you’ll see some grey steps, a couple of vending machines and a bored backpacker picking their nose or something.

Antwerp
Hof Ter Lo
Onze Lieve Vrouwekathedraal


3. BRUSSELS (AGAIN)

Veronika and I got off the train at Brussels Central, ran across the road and began the business of trying to souvenir shop while carrying coats and large bags. We’re on the lookout for a particular chocolate shop (it’s called Devina. A bit like that presenter off the telly) because I have a discount voucher. Not only that, we don’t have much time before we’re back on the Eurostar. We’re distracted by a small market selling black statues of cats and small china houses, while the smell of incense sweetly wafts between the stalls. Veronika bought a pair of gloves while I listened idly to the French chatter around us.

The streets are getting narrower and there are more tourists with luggage and cameras in our way (I say in our way, but we’re doing exactly the same thing). We find our chocolate shop and step inside. It’s an even room temperature and there are neatly wrapped boxes on the shelves around the sides. Four girls are smiling behind the counter and calling on customers to try a chocolate for free. I choose a white chocolate fruity crème, which is soft and not cloyingly sweet. In front of me is the glass with hundreds of neatly laid out chocolates. Some are in coloured foil wrappers; there are milk ones with green pistachio shavings on the top, marzipan fruits, small logs, round ones… I pick up a few small mystery boxes as Christmas gifts (hassle-free, but let’s hope no-one has nut allergies as I’ve no idea what’s in these potential Boxes of Death) while Veronika umms and ahhs over a selection for her family.

The girls behind the counter are very friendly and careful in their handling of the chocolate. There are some we have to be very careful of, a few kirsch ones for Veronika’s mother which are delicately laid on the top layer.

“Don’t shake the box,” warns the assistant. “This chocolate has liquor contained in a sugar cube. If it is shaken, the alcohol will come out and spoil the chocolate. It will be ruined.”

We look at it seriously, like it’s a newborn child. I pick up the carrier bag with some trepidation. If anyone’s going to fall face-down and get confectionary squished up their nostrils, drop it in front of a car or accidentally leave it on a platform to get blown up by the army, it’s me.

We rush along the road to the station, with me holding the bag at arm’s length to stop myself kicking the boxes. We stand in the doorway of the train with plenty of room, leap off and rush to the check-in desk. The chocolates have to go in a box through the x-ray machine, so we carefully place them in and run to the other side. We grab them before a suitcase slams into the back. After finding our seats on the train, we place the boxes on the floor between our feet. They stay there the whole journey without me accidentally wedging my trainers into the top. The Eurostar is shaking a little, but we can’t do a lot about that. The bag of delicious chocs is then carried lovingly around Ashford International until it’s time to get the next connection.

We jump on the train happily – then the automatic doors randomly close on me and another girl, slamming hard into our arms. Aaargh, the chocolates!

Devina
Eurostar
Belgium Tourist Board