Allan VS the EU—Day 1: On my own in Brussels

For a while, I really wasn’t sure if I was going to make it. My flight to London went well enough, but once I was there, things decided to be complicated. It took me half an hour just to find the damned subway route that I knew was connected to the airport I’d flown in to.
I made the silly mistake of thinking London’s subways would be straightforward in their organization. Instead, their subway maps reminded me of some of the Celtic knot work I’d seen in Scotland. And this is before taking into account all the subway stops they didn’t bother actually putting on the maps! Do you have any idea how disconcerting it is when you’re even slightly uncertain that you’re on the right train and it makes stops that your train doesn’t make on the maps? Stupid fucking British train systems. It took me over 3 hours to get to London Waterloo station, but at least it all turned out alright in the end. Thank god I’d planned lots of excess time.

The famed “Chunnel” that runs under water between England and France was not as glamorous as advertised. It didn’t seem particularly fast, although I knew it was. The view of an underwater tunnel has little to offer. So it was basically just like a train. That was okay, it gave me time to plan out in more detail what would be going on during my stay, and to get my stuff together. And I would have done just that, if only Robin Hobbs hadn’t written this wonderful book titled Fool’s Errand that sat in my pack and wouldn’t stop begging me to read it.

Robin Hobbs, though not a significantly European aspect of my trip, is without a doubt the best fantasy writer I have ever come across. The books may have strongly adventure-centered plots, but her characters are truly the center of her writing. Their interactions and characterizations feel utterly truthful and real.

But I digress.

When I finally got to Brussels I realized that inexplicably I had somehow managed not to print out the directions to my hostel. Well fuck me.

The closest I had to directions was that I knew the hostel was located 1 kilometer from the station Comete de Flandre. I was able to get that far after some extensive efforts figuring out their subway, but the result still left me wandering the slummish streets of Belgium for an hour and a half with all my luggage. I simply couldn’t find anyone who could direct me to Rue De l’elephant (Elephant Road I imagine). Even from the start of my journey the sun was setting. After Scotland it felt very odd that the sun would set so early.

These streets were not streets that I felt comfortable being caught in after dark. The neighborhood felt at least slightly poverty stricken, though I do not know if it really was. I also hate cities – any place that people put themselves at risk simply by roaming the streets after dark, I just hate it. With all the luggage with me, I pretty much had tourist stamped on my forehead.

In the end I asked over a dozen people, most of whom didn’t speak English. But I’d repeat “Rue de la Elephant?” in a quizzical voice, and they’d start giving me directions in hand gestures or very broken English. I was practically astonished when I finally did reach my hostel. I have the feeling that this trip will be an interesting experience, playing the part of the foreign guy who doesn’t speak the native tongue, but nonetheless will need to communicate with others routinely.

I realize how different it feels travelling alone. I almost skipped dinner, not because I wasn’t hungry, but because it seemed like it would be such a bother to find a place, and eating alone in a restaurant isn’t so appealing. And I really wasn’t excited about wandering the streets after dark again after the last hour and a half. A part of me just wasn’t sure if it was worth the effort. The same goes for planning things to see while I’m here. With only myself to experience it, it suddenly almost doesn’t feel worth the trouble. Funny, since at so many times in Scotland I found myself detaching from my family and striking out on my own to experience the various places.

And now? Now I find myself exhaustedly writing in a youth hostel café, ignoring everyone around me, though it’s probably the highest concentration of English speakers in the city. I feel like I should talk to someone, but have very little energy or drive to actually do so. I do, however, have a desire to sleep. I’m exhausted.

Goodnight.

12:43am 07/04/2004

Brussels Day 2: Exploring

Solitude. It is solitude that I prefer with beautiful sights. People are okay, it is not people that I mind. I think it’s mostly the noise. I like stillness, mostly quiet. I like to hear the gentle running waters of the fountain in front of me, echoing off the walls of the stone square. Somehow, at the moment, I have found some measure of that at least in the town square of Brussels, in the court of the grand palace. With all the beautiful fountains and gardens I don’t understand why no one is here, but I won’t complain.

I think its cities. I hate cities. In cities I am constantly uptight, on guard, paranoid. I was borne in New York city, then moved to a bad part of Washington DC where there were murders I could have witnessed by looking out the window at the wrong time. We once had to leave the house one night for fear that the rioting a few blocks away would reach us. Is it really any wonder I hate cities?

I can’t say for certain that all cities are alike. I can only say for certain that all cities put the same sense of dread into me. This may not be good tidings for me, as my next 4 stops are Amsterdam, Berlin, Munich and Geneva. Maybe I’ll adjust.

But this square, right here, gets an “A” for atmosphere.

Here, in the center of Brussels, it could not be more obvious what Brussels is known for. Belgium chocolate, Belgian ale, Belgian waffles… there is food everywhere! There are more cafes and eateries than crappy tourist shops. Actually I’ve been quite shocked at the lack of tourist trap shops. I mean, they’re around, but not half as numerous as the chocolate shops, or even stores selling exclusively lace. Apparently Belgium is known for its lace too.

Parliment

As it turns out, just outside of the grandeur of Grand Palace Square, the world of Brussels transforms into a very long string of shops, composed exclusively of cheap Greek restaurants. The lengthy block is nothing but a narrow alley of Greek restaurants, side by side and all outdoor dining. The result is that the sidewalks on both sides are really buffet tables with tiny gaps in between restaurants. It’s really kind if bizarre.

So if you’re a Greek restaurant on a long block of Greek restaurants, how to you beat the competition? Be aggressive. I’ve never before had waiters yell to me to ask if I would like a table when I am clearly just trying to walk down the street. Then again, I’ve never been to Brussels before. Finally, a calling from one waiter was actually successful in attracting my business. I knew I had to eat somewhere on this odd block. If the atmosphere was not particularly pleasant, it was certainly unique, and I enjoyed the man who walked the streets playing accordion.

As I write this, I just finished a tour of what I thought to be an art gallery when I began the tour, but what turned out to be the Belgium Parliament building. Their government chambers alone was pretty amazing. The floor used 12 different types of wood, the paintings were all 300 years or older in the main chamber, and the entire building was of 14^th century design (though most of it was destroyed and rebuilt in the 1600’s). The 60 year old man who designed it in the 14^th century agreed in his contract to live at the site where it was being built. In case anything went wrong, they wanted him to be on hand. He also agreed that if the royal family did not find the building to their liking, he would reimburse the city for the entirety of its cost. Pretty hefty contract, no? Lucky for him, the royalty approved.

I had not realized previous to my visit that Belgium has not really been a country for long. To hear them tell a history of their rulers, they’ve been of Spain, Italy, France, and Holland alternating every decade it seems. These European superpowers never could rightly settle whose property it was of. For most of their history, the Belgium people had no more say over who was king than the American people had over Bush. Coincidentally, they liked their foreign rulers almost as much as I like Bush.

It’s odd to have a country display their lineage of rulers with no pride or attachment. Until 1830, when they revolted, they had boasted only one ruler of Belgian decent. What attachment could I have expected?

But back to exploring Brussels. It just gets more peculiar. From the street of Greek Buffet and walking forward, if one were to turn either left or right at the end of the block, one is in for a pretty decent shock. This is because those who take a left or a right on that block find themselves stepping onto a block that is actually inside a building. Sounds odd, doesn’t it? It is. Because you’re not just in a building, you’re in a place with the fanciful looks of a Grand Museum of some sort.

Though it looks that way, it’s not actually a museum; it’s the fanciest fucking mall I have ever been inside. A mall for the most crispy of upper crust elite. Honestly, mall isn’t even an apt description, but simply the closest word that I know of to what it was. It was a hybrid, some cross between an insanely grand mall and a strip mall that just happens to have a roof over it. A beautiful artsy glass roof, infrequently interrupted with graceful archways adorned by statues of either angels or beautiful women.

As enclosed as the building felt, four way intersections with other roads open up at various points. Later, contemplating with my guidebook over a delectable Belgian waffle, I would learn that this was the Galeries Royales St. Hubert I had stumbled across. I don’t think I can fully describe the oddity of changing scenery from the most aggressive food strip I’ve ever seen in my life to the most pristine shopping center within a matter of footsteps.

This shopping center was also the first I’ve seen that seemed as if the intent was to dissuade lowly shoppers from dirtying the shops with their peasant-esque presence. Shop doors were all closed and uninviting. Inside them, there was rarely any staff in sight to assist customers, and though the halls were crowded, it was just as rare to see an actual customer inside a store. For the most part, people seemed to be exclusively window shopping, and not without reason. The shop windows were, for the most part, as decorated and museum-like as I could imagine them. The prices, of course, were outrageous. Then again, in a mall where the shoppers don’t shop, I guess that’s as understandable as anything else there.

The funny thing is that the museum shopping center that is an indoor street ends by opening abruptly into the streets, where their regular flea market is held. A real flea market, gathering of tents around a small portion of land, not like American flea markets. The goods were good and the prices reasonable there. Tons of dragon stuff. Tons. If I had had an easy way to transport them, I would have happily purchased several items I found. Unfortunately, everything I wanted was either extremely fragile or too bulky to take along on my backpacking trip. Oh well.

Next I decided that it was time to take on the legendary Brussels waffle. My guidebook did not describe this as an optional experience. It read “If you have not tried a Brussels waffle, you have not lived a fulfilled life.” Given this, I was eager. Indeed, the place I ate at specialized in Belgian waffles, and had a large menu of different options. I had mine served aflambe, lit by Grand Mariner, with Nutella spread lightly upon it. Or at least it was supposed to be serves aflambe. My waiter lit it on fire in the chalice of Grand Mariner, but the first sizzled out as it was poured onto the waffle. Oh well. It was definitely tasty, but I’d be inclined to try a different combination of things next time. The Nutella is just so good it masks the gentle taste of the waffle. It also happened to cost more than my lunch did, when I include the price of the hot chocolate I had with it.

Following my waffle expedition I decided that I had had a sufficiently exhausting day, and embarked on a long a very confused trail home.

As I write this, I have yet to figure out the Belgian metro system. They use tickets. I bought a 10-ride pass for 10 Euros when I got here. But leaving the airport and getting on the metro, I wasn’t required to put it into any machine, nor show it to anyone so far as I could tell. I switched trains twice, yet when I finally got off, still no need for a ticket.

This morning, to get onto the train, I was required to insert my ticket the same way the DC metro makes you do it, with electronic ticket-scanning barriers. But I did not need to do it a second time when I came back. Not getting on the train, not getting off. I think I’ll regret buying my 10-ride pass. I’m not sure what’s going on, but whatever.

I think it’s odd that every shop in the Grand Palace closed about an hour before the shops seemed to even start opening here by my hostel. It was like a human beehive walking home, I couldn’t even walk on the sidewalks most of the time, because such large crowds of people had turned up to look at outdoor shop displays. It became easier to dodge the cars in the road than to try and move through the brick wall of people.

The other odd quirk I’ve noticed about Brussels is that, though the area around here seems as dangerous as DC, children walk the streets alone all over the place. The whole area seems to be their playground. A bunch of them tried talking to me (I’ll never know why) and had a grand old time laughing and chiding me when they discovered I didn’t speak any French. They chased after me, and I think they were trying to insult me by piecing together broken English they thought they knew.

Yeah, sometimes children are fuckheads. Not that I’m angry. Not that I want to bang their heads into the pavement until the pavement is covered in the pink goo that was once a sentient life form’s brain mass. Just kidding, folks. It wasn’t funny to you, but to me your awkward concerns are funny. But even so, the kids were kind of jerks. Kids in the age range of five to eight just seem to be wandering the streets alone all over the place. I can only guess that either kidnapping isn’t a worry in this area or there is a strict unspoken rule that the gangs and suspicious people of the area will leave them alone.

On an unrelated note, I think that I will skip dinner tonight. I don’t feel particularly hungry, and dinner would involve both spending money and a good deal of hassle. It’s odd the way you can whimsically change your lifestyle when you’re on your own.

Now for you, the dear reader, I have a surprise ending to the tale of this day: A relevant set of words by someone for whom I have great respect.

“The more I studied the accounts of others, both written and told, the more it seemed to me that we attempt such histories not to preserve knowledge, but to fix the past in a settled way.” ~Fitz Chivalry Farseer, Fool’s Errand by Robin Hobbs.

You may be right, Fitz, you may be right.

Breakfast in Brussels

I’ve come to the conclusion that one can tell, merely by looking, a French speaker from an English speaker. I think that we hold our respective mouths differently, as if prepared to speak from different parts of the mouth. I’ve noticed that I can guess pretty well by looking a person in the face what language they most likely speak. Given time, I think I could do it with even better accuracy.

It’s not race. People here seem about as diverse as DC or New York in that sense. The predominant skin tone is that of either native Spanish or Italian, but there are also plenty crackers, darkies, and middle easterners. Asians here appear almost to be almost exclusively tourists. Either Asians don’t visit Belgium much or they have the good sense to learn French before doing so, because those I’ve seen have been much more apt to speak English or French than any Asian language.

At any rate, the theory that one could tell with a glance to your face the language you speak would explain how everyone knows to talk to me in English here. I prefer that explanation to the notion that I stick out like a sore thumb that someone wrote “TOURIST” on.

So these are the ramblings of a man waiting for his train from Brussels to Brugges. Well actually, I’m on the train now. Went to bed earlier last night than I have for months, and slept in today anyway. Oh well, I feel better rested than last night at least.

Church of Our Lady

Church of Our Lady, located in Brugges, Brussels is the most overwhelming and atmospheric structure I have ever set foot in. Few places even compare. I sit her, in chairs laid out so that people may come and sit and feel properly overwhelmed. I sit here and I write of my travels.

The sign at the door reads “please be silent” and though there are many people here, they make very little sound. The most significant sound here flows from behind the alter, melodic chanting latin tunes.

But this is the most of the atmosphere I think I possibly express. Madonna and the Child, a Michelangelo sculpture, lies here. I consider it one of the lesser grandiose wonders in this church. Paintings and sculptures larger than myself but no less detailed pepper the church in every pose. There is a wooden alter that spirals upwards to at least six times my own height, and ingrained in the wood are countless cherubs and other tiny detailed figures. This piece is my favorite, and after taking six pictures of it, I have resigned to the realization that I can never fully capture it.

Another portrayal of Madonna and the Child is wooden sculpture carved from the trunk of a tree, but only partially so. Thus it was clearly both a tree and a mother holding her child. Elsewhere, outside an isolated prayer room, a plaque reads “You, citizen of th town or pilgrim from far away looking for tranquility. Here you may become silent at the well of all beauty and life. No one is a stranger in this church, where God as loving father is waiting only for you.” I paid 50 pence to light a thin white candle amongst the many others. I have always loved symbolic gestures, such as that. I tried to re-light a burnt out candle, though I could not.

To be here is not serene nor is it tranquil, but powerful and immense. It overwhelms me in a dizzying manner, something that up until now I have felt only from powerful dreams.

To say that I have never been a religious man would be as heinous a lie as I could tell of myself. But that I have never followed a religion makes being here an odd experience for me. I wish only that I could hold onto this.

“The more I studied accounts both written and told, the more it seemed to me that we attempt such histories not to preserve knowledge, but to fix the past in a settled way. Like a flower pressed and dried, we try to hold it still and say ‘this is exactly as it was the first day I saw it.’ But like a flower, the past cannot be trapped that way. It loses it’s fragrance and vitality, it’s fragility becomes brittleness, and it’s colors fade. And when you next look at the flower, you know that it is not what you sought to capture, that that moment has fled forever”.

Dinner in Brugges

After I wrote that entry, I spent the better part of the day stumbling around in an odd stupor. What Brugges offers most is a relaxing atmospheric environment, and plenty of it. I witnessed a great many swans along the canal and unknowingly stood at the perfect spot along the Lake of Love as I was in the midst of searching for it.

Now, in the waning sun, I have decided to come back here tomorrow, rather than my planned revisiting of the Grand Palace. This day, though not filled with any particular amazing things aside from the Church of Our Lady, had been very good to my soul. And I write this while drinking a tasty brown Laffe at the canal to the sinking sun, and feeling reluctant to leave this place and head back to my hostel, though it’s getting late.

Earlier, before the Church, I lunched at a café where I paid as much as a large dinner for my meal. It was well worth the money. I ate not the best chicken curry and sampled a Trappist beer St. Bernadus. The best beer in the world is made by Trappist monks, or so I’ve been led to believe, so naturally I had to try this one. Indeed it was dark, strong, and very tasty. It was definitely the best beer I’ve had since coming here.

I finished the meal off with a waffle and a latte. The waffle was a different beast than what I ate yesterday. It was delicate, but also hard and flaky. Cutting it was like cutting a french baguette. It was not at all what I had expected, crispy and waffle-thin with no softness to it, but it was very good and left me feeling overall more content than I have felt in a long while.

Somehow, while this place is quite touristy, it still manages to maintain a tranquility to it that extends all along its many streets and parks. This is not something that I am capable of explaining, but merely basking in.

Fuck Bush – USA Criminel

The above chapter title is spray painted on a wall near the hostel, obviously not by someone who speaks English very well, or writes it well at any rate. I agree with the sentiment either way.

I judged the surrounding city too harshly I think. Up until 5 blocks or so from my hostel it is fairly well kept city territory. After that, it is indeed the slums, but better slums than I first took them for. Ironically, I was walking down the street toward my hostel as I was I in the midst of making this judgement, and right as I was having this thought I happened to notice a wallet lying on the street, contents vacant. Still, I think that was just bad timing for the streets case.

Perhaps some of my paranoia has simply been me seeing what I fear most to see. I arrived back at the hostel tonight past when I went to bed last night. I bought what I had hoped but doubted was the top rated beer listed on beeradvocate.com in a shop today. As it turned out my instincts were not far off, as it turned out to be the wrong beer, but #11 on the list anyway. Poor Allan. I’m drinking it as I write in fact, but will hold judgement for the end.

But I swear, Belgium does beer every bit as good as it has a reputation for. Five beers I have tried here, and the worst I could call any of them is average, and even the one “average” beer I had might have deserved a better rating. If not the best beers (though debatably they may have those too) Belgium beer has been of a consistently high quality. The only bad beer I’ve ever had from Belgium was Hoegaarden, the disgusting ginger-tasting beer I described tasting in Scotland. It’s quite popular here somehow, though I don’t understand why.

I discovered in Scotland that I enjoy the taste strong ales carry, only to find Belgium happens to be packed to the brim with strong ales. Chimay, a lovely dark and strong brew was 18 proof. The St. Bernadus abt 12 that I’m drinking is 20 proof, and Trappists Rochefort 10 is 23 proof. In Scotland I joked with my brother that a pint of Skullsplitter, the Orkney Brewery’s 16 proofer, would knock you down a peg. Clearly I’d never been to Belgium. But we all live and learn.

As for the St. Bernadus abt 12, I think I am prepared to judge. Dark and chewy, full of flavor. It is almost more than the tongue can handle. Yum.

Brussels Day 4: Graph Paper time!

Well son of a bitch! I’ve been searching every day since I’ve gotten to Belgium, looked in every store that seemed even remotely likely for a new notebook or journal to write in. Finally, I think I’ve found one and what does it turn out to be? A thin book of graph paper, of course! What does it speak for Belgium’s literacy rate that I can’t find a pad of blank lined paper? Aren’t there any aspiring writers in Belgium?

At any rate, I’m back at Brussels Midi, the big train station, awaiting yet another train to Bruges. My feet were killing me by the end of yesterday, walking all over the place has taken its toll, and if they were killing me yesterday, today they went a step further by planting swollen nukes on the balls of my feet. Sadly, their protests will have to go ignored, though not unheard. I can’t very well tell people that I missed Brussels (or indeed Europe) on account of my sore feet.

I have now smelled at least 3 instances of people smoking marijuana in public areas. Once at a bus station and twice by some guy standing in the street. I suppose it must be easy to acquire, so close to the Netherlands, or else the police simply don’t care. They sell a type of beer here, Juliper, in vending machines. For some reason that appears to be the only beer sold in this fashion, and I can’t help but wonder why.

Every night I’ve been here I have had weird, restless sort of dreams. I think it’s because with 8 people in the room, someone is always coming, going, taking a shower, turning on a light, or making some sort of disturbance. On some level that activity keeps my body somewhat alert.

The dream I had last night was rather Freudian. Not in the sense that there was lots of symbolism (although perhaps there was and it just went over my head) but in the everlasting argument between the id and the superego.

It started out with a semi-attractive woman roaming a place where I had slept, strongly resembling the bunk-bed complex I was actually sleeping in, and other boys were on all sides of me in their own bunk beds. Our bunk beds are all lined up in rows, much like soldiers barracks often are organized.

In a way that you sometimes know things in dreams without explanation, I knew that the woman was lonely and doing what she did every night – choosing a sexual partner from the beds. I think she used a random method to choose, because when she finally fixed her gaze on me, she sighed deeply, as if let down, and said “You’ll do I guess”, more to herself than to me.

Then she asked me if I wanted to go somewhere, the implication being obvious. We were already in a giant bedroom, so what place more fitting she wanted to go, I’m not sure. I remember her face – white, skinny. She was tall and quite pretty despite a few zits. I reluctantly (very reluctantly) told her no. I don’t recall the rest of the conversation, but my desire for her was made clear. And abruptly the dream changed, as dreams sometimes do, to become a dream of romance. It wasn’t a dream of the perfect love (which I’ve had once before), more of a comfortable romance than an ideal one. But it was nice, very nice.

Somewhere in the wee hours of the morn, the dream changed so that I was no longer the boyfriend, but a third party to this romance. There was quite a bizarre story line that formed from this, but I don’t remember much in the way of specifics.

Then as people began to rise in the morning and my body became roused to half-consciousness, I dreamt as I have every morning of various scenarios involving my parents and my brother (mostly my brother). I suspect this has the most to do with the fact that I' have spent the last two weeks rooming with my brother, and I am still adjusting to not being with close family.

Brussels Day 4 pt 2: Good bad beer

I realized today, just now, right where I am sitting, just what’s wrong with so much American beer. I realize this as I drink a Mort Subite, a beer colorfully flavored with something I cannot put my finger on. I don’t like this beer. In fact, I suspect I will have to drink it in gulps to even finish it. Yet how can I call this bad beer? It had great depth of character and strong flavor. This is a beer that someone has put a good deal of work into crafting. This is a beer with pride. So it was, as I recall, with Hoegaarden, the ginger beer I so dislike. It did not lack a depth of flavor nor sense of character, I simply did not care for its taste.

I believe that was creates bad beer is a lack of these traits. There are so many beers, especially American beers, that have no flavor and less pride. Oh it has a taste usually, but no flavor. I’m not entirely confident that I could explain the difference, but I think there is one. It seems to me that Belgians put more work into crafting their beers than is given to wine anywhere. I may not have appreciated the taste of More Subite, but at least it tried.

Funny things, rants on paper. When I am interrupted in writing it, for instance when I am writing at a restaurant and someone brings out my meal, I simply pause and get back to it when I get the chance, sometimes many hours later. Thus it is that I have now left the restaurant (it was expensive and their lasagna made me feel sick. Oh well) and am now on my train ride home.

And appropriate to the ranting I started this entry with, I have now acquired three (3) bottles of what is alleged to be the best beer in the world by the numerous esteemed beer critics on beeradvocate.com.

It was not an easy beer to find. You see, this beer is brewed by Trappist monks of Belgium. Trappist monks are famous for their brewing skills , but the sect that makes this particular beer refuses to sell the beer to stores, bars, or corporations. They sell it only directly to their customer and only with the solemn vow that they will sell it to no one else. I wanted very much to make a pilgrimage to the abbey, but when I looked into it, no rail went anywhere near the town it is in. Bereft of a car, I had not the means to travel there.

To find the beers, I casually asked the shop keeper of a rather elaborate beer shop if they happened to have any in stock. It took me a while to recall and then attempt to pronounce the foreign beer name, but she knew what I meant well before I managed to say it. In hushed tones, she led me to the beers closest to being behind the counter, and every bottle in the batch she reached into was a clear, completely unlabeled brown bottle. She then looked me straight in the eyes and said “If you have heard of this beer, then of course you know, shops are not allowed to sell these.”

The price tags had been deliberately placed as completely over the bottle cap as possible, covering the only distinguishing feature of the bottles of the worlds finest beer. I left that shop 12 euros poorer, but perhaps with the least regret I’ve ever had leaving a shop. I also happened to pick up two bottles of Trappiste Rochefort 10, made by a different sect of Trappist monks and alleged to be the 12^th best in the world.

I am most excited for tonight’s tasting. Sadly this was the most excitement the day really brought me. I fear my toes defeated me more soundly than I had hoped. But the swans had become no less pretty and the environment no less serene. I also got to revisit the Church of our Lady, and tried Belgian chocolate for the first time in Belgium. They were both delicate and tasty, but definitely not the best I’ve ever had. I accidentally bought a cherry cordial without realizing what I had purchased, and I cannot describe my surprise nor the mess that confusion cost me.

Brussels Day 4 – pt 3: The Beer

Am I ready? It is ready for me: Trappist Westvleteran Abt 12, Yellow Cap. Dark brown, deep brown, ready it sits before me. Will I be disappointed? Will the three lies told to three monks be all for naught? Perhaps I will hate the first sip and grow to love it by the last, or will I love it first and quickly find my affection crumbling to hate? So many possibilities. Here we go.

How can a beer be so much at once? It is a mixing bowl of flavor. The taste is not entirely constant, it shifts like a rainbow in a waterfall. So strong, but somehow smooth. Nutty, fruity, dark and chewy.

This is an experience, not a beer. This cannot go directly to the back of your throat, your mouth does not allow it. It lust be held, rolled on the tongue. This is not a drinking beer, it is a sipping beer. This is its only fault, if indeed this is a fault. Dark Island could be savored by itself or along with dinner. This beer is more of a dessert.

I have enjoyed beer more. I think. But this is the most intense a beer I have ever drunk. It tastes intense. Every sip tastes different. I thought only Willy Wonka could create something like this. Brewed and bottled 4 days ago. 3 days ago, did someone lie to a monk for me? Thank you, Westvleteran Trappist monks, thank you. I hope you will forgive my offense.

I have one sip left, maybe two. This is the best beer I have ever tasted. I concede, it beats Dark Island. I admit, I had not expected to concede tonight. I have two more bottles. I am so glad I bought 3. One is for my family, for their love allowed me to taste this. The second bottle I am still considering plans for. I’m not sure what I will do with it, but it will make it home, of that much I’m sure.

Leaving Belgium

You know, when I first got here, I didn’t expect to get any sort of a feel of Brussels . It’s probably true that, to a degree at least, I have not. But after being thoroughly confused by Brussels transportation the first day, yesterday I had 3 people ask me for guidance in what train they should take (only one spoke English) but I was able to help all 3 without issue.

I recall the first time I was able to figure out the DC metro system. It seems really simple to me now, second nature, but I remember that first time I was confused as all hell. Same thing, I guess. It’s just a matter of figuring how to interpret the maps and signs.

An English speaking roommate of mine in the hostel talked with me today, small talk. Normally I loathe small talk, absolutely hate it, but I think I talked his ear off. He had arrived only the night before, so I convinced him to see Bruges. Funny, I thought I wasn’t feeling the loneliness or isolation much anymore, but as is evident from my reaction, perhaps I’m still adjusting. I suspect the isolation might be harder on some people. I’ve always enjoy isolation to a certain extent.

My father warned me long before the trip that depression is very commonly manifested in people in my position, and I suspect this must be why. I m not unhappy, but I suspect I might be mildly depressed. At least, I’ve had little appetite since coming here, and this is a land in which food, drink, and dessert are the speciality. I’ve skipped dinner every night (unless you can call beer ‘dinner’) until last night when I forced a fast food hamburger down my throat , hoping that the protein would help my aching foot.

But depression, like isolation, I enjoy on some level, so long as it is mild. I tend to be both more honest and introspective that way. Sometimes it allows me to be more meditative, and sink into the serenity of the environment.

On another note, I’ve discovered that the Digger’s song is not about anything I had thought. I had believed them to be a bloody rebellious group. In fact, the Diggers were a bunch of poor people in England that tried to establish a sort of communism in England. ‘They got permission to farm the public land for the public good and allowed anyone who needed food they grew to take it. ‘If it’s public land, why not generate public food’ was their thinking.

They were met with great resistance from the government and the people alike. In the end, of course, they lost.

Apparently, in the 1960’s a new society popped up in the New York slums calling themselves the “Diggers”. I think they pooled money for the land, farmed that land, and gave it away to the general public. Some others put together a seemingly contradictory ‘free store’ dealing mostly in clothing. I’m not sure what became of them in the end, but the police toppled their shacks and someone set the free store on fire.

I find the whole thing kind of romantic, because I’m a communist at heart. I mean only that I want very much a world where every person has food, clothing, and shelter. Years back my forefathers wrote the bill of rights, stating that there are certain things each individual ought to have with little exception. The notion that there are certain things every person is entitled to be given was a very dangerous communistic ideal, I’ve always thought, even if we don’t interpret the ‘right to life’ as entitling a person to a means of maintain theirs ie healthcare. Nor does the right to a pursuit of happiness entitle one to shelter, a necessary thing for success or so I suspect. But whether or not these things are implied, in my perfect word these things (food, shelter, water, healthcare) belong to every person, and thus I long for a world where these things are considered rights.

I get this notion of rights from the authors of the constitution. Does haggling over the details make me a communist?