I have a big crush on Bruxelles.
I arrived at 10H47, left at 22H13. I had no idea what to expect. Picked up a free map from the information desk and went out into the day.
Walked through a market. Looked, but nothing grabbed me. Lots of clothing, some produce and plants and plastic junk stuff. Funny how markets are always the same. Dodgy clothes and jewellery. Cheap but uninteresting. Puffy jackets, racks of tracksuit pants, synthetic hats and scarves...
I keep walking. Searching for a café as I need to piss. There are no free toilets. I spot a rainbow flag down a side-street. It's a bar called Homo Erectus. Amusing. Then I spot more and more rainbow flags. Bars mostly, but nothing is open yet. And a queer bookshop that I will return to once open.
It's Sunday, so most shops are closed. Though there doesn't seem to be a lot of shops. Or there are, but they seem more discreet. Maybe there are mega-malls in the suburbs. Lots of winding paved streets. The buildings seem more gothic than Paris. More varied.
I get some frites from the friterie, but sans mayonaise. I can't go there.
I buy chocolates. I walk. I happen upon the Palais de Justice. It's incredibly huge. Someone has written 'rage pour l'etat (rage for the state) on it. And further on there's more graffiti. I'm walking around it, taking photos, there seems to be no-one else around. Just me and this monolithic building sprouting weeds and stained with words of revolution.
I keep walking, find a garden, sit and eat chocolate truffles. A few kids are kicking a soccer ball, a woman lets her dog run around, the occasional map-toting tourist couple walk through. One of the boys kicks the ball over the high fence. Etched onto the seat where I sit is "M, let me love you".
More walking, more photos of street art, some eating.
There seems to be more street art here than in Paris. Definately more tags, scrawl, stickers and postering. It gives the place a more gritty feel. No one is scrubbing these walls. The graffiti stays, the posters are in various states of disintegration. I like trying to make out these words. As with street/shop signs, some are French, some Dutch, some English. Mostly French though.
I find a nice bookshop and browse for about an hour. Books in various languages, not just French or Dutch. It's attached to a gallery, so there's a lot of art/design coffee table books. Lots of kids books - I mostly look at these.
The queer bookshop doesn't have a lot. Though it does have gay maps of Bruxelles, and most other European cities.
Honey and goat's cheese sandwich for dinner, with a beer blanche. Dessert at another café: coffee and a slice of nutty flan (hazelnuts, walnuts, pecans... very yum). I read the paper. Sarkozy organised a big do for November 11 (tomorrow) but the Germans pulled out at the last minute. It has been a year in the making. It'll go ahead without the (seemingly ungrateful) Germans. At least, that's what I understood of the article.
I buy some beer to take home. The guy in the shop (and his customer friend) tell me that Lindemans is where it's at for Kriek (cherry beer). I mention that you can get Bellevue in Australia, but customer man scoffs and says it's the worse one. He says it's like the Cote d'or of chocolate - the one marketed to the non-Belgian world. I buy some Lindemans kriek, and one of their raspberry beers also.
Time for a drink at a bar. I walk past several queer ones, and some non-queer ones. Many are getting noisy with crowd and music. I want something a bit quiet. I brace myself and enter Homo Erectus. It's fairly quiet. Full of regulars. Men, but a couple of women. Most people are smoking. I ask for a Hoegaarden, but the guy behind the bar doesn't work there and points out the guy who does. A petit, young, dark-skinned boy. He is all smiles and loveliness. He asks where I'm from, welcomes me, shakes my hand. He spends more of his time among patrons, kissing cheeks, taking orders, delivering beers, taking coins; his arms resting on shoulders, his slender body gracefully weaving through people. He brushes his hand down my face, asks if I'm okay, says to ask him if I need anything. I want to marry him.
I don't talk to anyone else. I make eyes with a couple of boys, and exchange smiles, but not ready to attempt a French conversation. And not wanting to speak English.
The bar man leaves, says goodbye. Gives kisses (real or blown) to everyone in the bar as his friends drag him away. When i finish my second beer, I leave too.
Strolling the dark streets, keeping track of time. I walk past the pissing boy fountain. I'd only seen it as statues and chocolates until this point. It's not that exciting. But lots of people take photos.
More graffiti, more walking, and time to head back to the station.
I buy a blackcurrant beer for the walk. I ask the boy in the shop if he can open it, and he does. I can't tell if it's forbidden to do so, but it was a sly gesture on his part, so I guess maybe it is. I don't know if it's illegal to drink on the streets, and don't see others doing so. But it's Sunday, and there's few people around.
I feel slightly uneasy due to this. I always feel safe in Paris because I'm never alone on the streets. But here I'm heading to the station. Quieter and darker. But it's fine, and the journey is quicker than I imagined.
Time to kill. I succumb to vending machine beer (Juliper - I hadn't tried that one yet) and some paprika crisps. I send a text to my beloved. I'm interrupted by a man with outstretched hand. I give him a few coins. I finish my text, my beer, my crisps. I board the train, make a soundtrack for the journey, close my eyes.
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