Dour Diaries Part 5: Brussels

(Dour Diaries Part 4 on Playlouder)

Day 5

9:05
Made it back to Brussels about six hours early. Whoops. There was no hot water in the showers this morning and they willingly accepted my €2 drinks token without telling me. Bastards. Got no sleep again. Packed up but left the tent and its magic circle of broken coloured pencils. Had it been a horse I’d have shot it.

Against my will I’ve been forced to visit Brussels. It’s Belgium’s national day and I’m told there are “many activities” going on in the capital today. They are celebrating by staying asleep, or so it seems at the moment. It’s about 10 a.m. (my phone’s not working anymore) and I’m in a low, leafy, startlingly white square. There are little fluffy brown birds all over the place, otherwise it’s clean. But for a youngish chap inspecting his fingernails and two blonde females in hushed conversation the square is empty. Where are the many activities the woman at the bus company promised? I’ve not even seen a cash point yet and I’m sure I’m pretty near the heart of the city. I want steak. I haven’t eaten anything proper for days. Days I tell you! The architecture is etc. It’s called Martyr’s square and there is a central monument with statues of angels who look like they’re saying things like “oh” and “lame”. Then there’s pictures of soldiers and/or dead people, and a sort of empty swimming pool around it. I am confused. I will leave now to search for food.

10:30
I’ve found what I assume to be the middle of Belgium. Brussels, sorry! It’s a pedestrianised square with restaurant-only seating and plenty of photographers, and an incredibly noisy cleaning vehicle. The buildings are quite beautiful – almost needlessly so, in the way only European capital cities can get away with. (As opposed to all those non-European capital cities I’ve visited, of course.) Still, they are little, and by far the most impressive buildings here (in the true sense of the word) are the banks to the north from where I’ve just come. Still not seen a cash point. Bought a traditional Belgian can of coke with my remaining ,€s. The price was average. Brussels is a mess. I mean, they are cleaning it, and bits, like this bit, are rather polished, but it seems to be a losing battle in the grand scheme of the city. There are very dilapidated streets just off these postcard-friendly squares, riddled with graffiti and draped in blankets. Yet here these squares remain, dignified, vigorously scrubbed and bedecked (today, at least) with plenty of Belgian flags, some amusingly small. If the city were personified it would no doubt be a respectable pensioner – perhaps an ex-serviceman dressed in his best suit for every morning, a lover of routine and order, but a gentle and inquisitive fellow. What the hell am I on about? I want steak. A gypsy just asked me for money in dreary French. Should have got her to show me where the cash points are. Some Japanese tourists are subverting their national stereotypes by taking turns to be photographed in exactly the same spot on whatever this building I’m sitting on is. Well, onward…

I’ve found an avant-garde bench opposite Éditions Jacques Brel, so I simply had to sit upon it. That building there may be the Croatian embassy, judging by the flag, but I couldn’t say for sure. Or care less now that I come to think about it. It means nothing to me, Zagreb. Some shops (mainly Turkish and kebab-related) are beginning to open. Curiously they communicate across the street to each other in English. Perhaps Moroccans and Greeks or somesuch mix? It’s still pretty quiet though and I’m concerned by the lack of activities. Falling asleep on a bench may yet be the best bet for me.

A new bench. A few points; the reason French is not the first language of Europe, contrary to any other better-researched theories you may have, is simple. When non-French speakers endeavour to speak the language they are met with ridicule, feigned confusion, aggravation or worse. The French, or the Belgians, do not, contrary to what I have been told, appreciate the effort. Hence when a French or French-speaking person broaches conversation with me I reply with a curt “Je parle seulement Anglais”, and if it’s rude it’s only my return for their persistent refusal to acknowledge the effort that has gone into my excellent French accent. It is, I presume, a classical French that their bastardised tongues and ears will be unfamiliar with. The next point; black and white photographs of sexy nude women may be considered art, technically, but be that as it may (or is), the proportion of them within the art world is such that they are effectively flooding the market and are unrealistically representing themselves and their kind to the point of rendering themselves if not valueless, at least ubiquitous, and as a result, very unlikely to impress me any more than, for example, a regular non-arty picture (mono or polychromatic) of a sexy nude woman. I have become difficult to impress in this way. I discover from the latest map of Brussels I’ve… erm… discovered that I have now walked across a significant proportion of central Brussels and so I can now conclude upon my original presumption (I’m clever me, I can conclude upon a presumption – can you do that? Try!) that this is an average city: nice in parts, but by no means a ‘must see’ city. I will continue to explore, nevertheless, with a view to finding a cash point, a steak and a ctivities. In that order.

Small Belgian flags on white plastic sticks are being handed out by I know not whom and from I know not where. I also know not where this middle-aged couple to my starboard is from, but the woman carries in her bag a jar of water in which to extinguish and store her used cigarettes. I am now in one of Brussels’ well-kept parks. The main street is to my right (south – but I am sitting on a bench sideways so don’t get too confused) and runs alongside the usually traffic-friendly square I just exited. There is a cathedral (I presume) not unlike Winchester’s, but smaller I think. There are people on stilts, on horses, onboard miniature trains that run on wheels, carrying balloons… it’s all very tiresome. There is a crane zip-lining people down into the square (for fun, I think) where there are firemen standing beside their trucks selling soft toys and paraphernalia. The water feature in this park boasts a large statue which appears to be an historic tribute to gay pride. I’d like to photograph it but I cannot. It is two gentlemen in Elizabethan attire embracing quite eagerly. They definitely look homosexual. Or perhaps they’re a Walloon and a Flem? Perhaps they’re both. There are coins in this fountain, but so few as to indicate they were probably thrown exclusively by British tourists. The Belgians offer no sacrifices to their gods in this way. They are not a Celtic people. I will surreptitiously deposit one so as not to draw attention to my otherness, and I will wish for a cash point to be revealed to me.

I am now by a tube/train station called ‘Louise’. I sit. My bag has broken for a third time and, for dramatic effect, I feel sure I must soon perish. I repair it with an abundance of safety-pins. This square seems to mark the end of historic (pleasing-to-the-eye) Brussels and it comprises very expensive designer-type shops and a more mixed and modern (unpleasant) style of architecture.

I just passed a cavalcade of dark vehicles, which is fortunate because I’ve been awaiting a legitimate circumstance for the usage of that word for some time. I watched with interest until my current favourite flag – the uninspiring islamotastic plain green of Libya – went past, then I went on. Some of the cars are lost. I just saw a hammer and sickle on red and black horizontal fields. What terrible place is that? Anyway, I presume foreign dignitaries are visiting to humour (I mean honour) the Belgians by paying homage and/or fromage to them on this, their special day. How lovely.

I found a cashy p. Finally! I about turned and headed for the west so I could curve back around and complete my triangulation. This was tam-heavy and with streets long and unpleasant, like tapeworm or Ramadan. I went north and saw a grizzled old man collecting rubbish and returning with it to his quite grand looking apartment building. I saw cracked 60s concrete blocks of flats made beautiful by the wreaths of ivy that were devouring them. The rain fell for a while, awakening a curious but not unpleasant smell quite distinct from London’s summer rain scent, but far too complex for me to describe. It was both green and orange. Another square, and here’s a market with old clothes, painting, ice cream cartons full of old keys, eye glasses, crockery, drums, statuettes, toy cars, furniture, a knackered stuffed drake… I’d love to stay but I really must eat.

I saw an old leather-coated chap with a dangly earring puffing a slackly-rolled cigarette. He was selling rusty knives and crudely-drawn pictures of nude women (one squatting over a chamber pot). When a younger man approached him to ask for a light he curtly refused him. This is Jeu De Balle, or Vossen. An attractive dusky lady seen between half-drawn curtains is making beds in the Hotel Galia. Of three stars on its sign, one has vacated, leaving a shadow behind. One of the two shops beneath has also been vacated, the other is shut. The square is beautiful, not just because of the tat and the broken glass between the cobbles, but because of the many, many milling people and the low verdant trees half obscuring low redbrick buildings. It’s a subdued market atmosphere but an intriguing one; there’s no shouting or tattling, it’s more of a car boot sale atmosphere, and certainly seems like a regular fixture. Still, I must eat and I must go and, snob that I am, the green plastic chairs and half pints of Stella Artois below the grubby broken windows of the cafés here won’t do for me. I want somewhere more secluded. Somewhere, perhaps, less authentic.

I really am running out of paper now. I finished the chip wrapper and am writing on top of other writing in my diary. There is so much furniture strewn across the streets here. Amusingly, I passed by a furniture shop which was selling the exact same standard of stuff that was dumped by the wall opposite. I am beside the railway now, between Midi and Central. This looks like skater territory and, yes, the walls are waxed at the corners. Only once in my life have I seen anyone applying wax to a wall. It was in Cardiff in 1998. The walls are riddled with graffiti – some of it great, some of it terrible. There’s a lot of the paper-pasted stuff, most notably a couple of large cut-outs of people with maniacal grins holding fish. I think I am now literally on the wrong side of the tracks, but it’s all so interesting.

Rue D’accolay. Grim. Rain again. The skate park proper, which I’ve found now, is almost a traffic island with a vast plastic screen backing it, through which is a near-panoramic view of the city’s skyline from one of the one of the less flattering angles. Wonderful. After returning to a central square I visited earlier I duck down a side street and peruse (and refuse) a number of cafés before accidentally ending up back at the skate park. Harrumph.

Have found an eatery of sorts but have no idea of its name. It’s a “brasserie” on the way back to Gare du Nord. I’ve ordered stoemp or wurst or some such and a ‘mystic’ beer. It’s raining a fair bit now and there are military policemen all over the place in preparation for some major aspect of the celebrations, for which they are closing a lot of roads. Brussels is more interesting than I thought. This beer is red and very fruity. It has cherries in, apparently. The staff know no English and so I am spared conversation for which I’m too tired and perhaps have actually entirely forgotten how to do. I think this place is named after a king – Keizer Karel or Charles Quint. Toilets all tend to cost money here – no wonder everyone loves pissing in the street!

3:15

Jesus. I have never been so close to being stuck in Belgium. I am exhausted and soaked in sweat. Thank the lord. More later.

Later. You can probably guess what happened there. I’d run out of ways to tell the time and after I emerged from the restaurant I realised I had absolutely no idea where I was and a clock indicated that it was forty minutes to check-in time. At this point I had come full circle and decided Brussels could bite me, and so it seemed to be doing. I was in Troon when the horror struck me, and Troon is my least favourite part of Brussels. I was completely sensorarily screwed and I got lost in a number of stupid parades before ending up, half an hour later, a mile or so southwest of Troon, when I had been convinced I was going northwest, toward my destination. At this point I was livid. My bag was growing heavier and the hearty lunch of sausages, mash and thick, fatty bacon had tired me no end. Brussels is not that big but for some reason I lost the breadcrumb trail I convinced myself I was leaving as I wandered so aimlessly for hours before. Washed away by the rain perhaps, leaving just the neat parks, the cobbles, the slow-moving tourists and families with prams, the parades, the tram tracks, the taxis… The taxis! They would be my salvation, I decided, and I turned out to be right, because they were far too expensive for me to afford, and the second driver told me to take the metro, which I did. My last two euros paid for a much-needed hydrating and nourishing bottle of orange juice from the machine on the platform. It’s just a shame that when dropped, it got jammed between the glass and the spring, and refused to come out, even when beaten and shaken. My thirst remained unquenched.

In a service station near the French border. The toilets took my last coppers and were unmaintained and disgusting, despite there being a member of staff employed to sit there collecting cash. I gulped down tap water and after the last hour-or-so’s dehydration – the worst non-alcoholic in recent memory – I barely felt the liquid. I vow never to pass up the opportunity to drink clean water again.

It is easy to navigate when there is no destination, and easy to forget the time when you are not wearing a watch. This is perhaps why I am wary of destinations and watches. They are both important ingredients of reality as we have made it though. This is a shame. I just want to do whatever I want, whenever I want. Is that so much to ask?

I wonder if I will ever return to Brussels.