Loch Ness Blog

From Truly

Always fans of cheap entertainment, especially during the past four years when we were in hard-core saving mode for Scotland (a hilarious, yet surprisingly possible thing to do while earning not-for profit assistant wages), Shaun and I have spent many evenings on the couch with a deliciously dorky French language learning series called Rush Hour French.

The Berlitz company gets an A for effort on Rush Hour French. Instead of boring repetitions, the language is set to a spunky sing-along. Better yet, the music is irresistibly geeky; it is so thoroughly full of cheese that you can’t help but imitate it. And before you know it, there you are, belting out your inquires as to the location of the toothbrush: “où est la brosse a dents?!?!”

The only problem with Rush Hour French is, well, you don’t actually learn much French. Not unless, during your vacation, you have some urgent need to ask someone where the red pants are (où est mon pantalon rouge?). Also, since the whole thing is set to song, it’s really hard to speak French. All you want to do is sing it to people. With jazz hands.

Lucky for us, the fair people of Brussels, Belgium are tri-lingual. During our four-day stay there this week, everyone from our concierge to the metro beggars flipped between Flemish, French, and English with spellbinding grace. From the moment we stepped off the plane, I was in awe of this place where three languages co-exist seamlessly: it was impressive, welcoming, something to aspire to. For students of French looking for a safe, friendly, unrushed place to take their language skills for a test drive, Brussels–capital of Europe and home of the EU–is fantastic. It is an insanely expensive city, but with care (eating your big meal at lunch, frequenting cheap sandwich shops when the prices skyrocket at dinner, going at off-times of the week, and waiting for hotels to run discounts), it is do-able and worth it.

After checking into the hotel Tuesday night, we went for a chilly nighttime stroll to the Grand-Place, a famous square of Gothic buildings where angels and gargoyles drip from every nook and cranny.

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To our lucky surprise, the city had a special holiday extravaganza happening in the Grand-Place during our stay. Every night, magical, sweeping music would waft through the air as a sparkling lightshow projected snowflakes, reindeer, and pretty wintertime patterns on the surrounding buildings. A huge Christmas tree, decorated blue and silver, graced the center of the square.

Glowing with Christmas lights and warmed by the sugary smell of Belgian chocolates, the narrow cobblestone streets off the Grand-Place were made for wandering arm-in-arm.

Street musicians serenade passersby with classical favorites, touristy restaurants flaunt sea creatures in gaudy displays, and beautiful buildings tower above, draped in stone flowers and dangling cherubs.

On a street corner, we ate fresh Belgian waffles, complete with a pillow of whipped cream and generous piles of strawberries and bananas. Delicious.

Soon, we stumbled upon Manneken-Pis, the mascot of Brussels. The Manneken-Pis is a chubby peeing fountain statue that’s been stolen and replaced by various soldiers over time. There is something inherently funny about him–I think it has more to do with the concerted look of effort forming in his frown than the actual pissing–that has made Manneken Pis loved by all. Sometimes the city arranges for him to piss wine, other times they dress him up in little costumes. On Wednesday we saw his full wardrobe, including an Elvis get-up to represent the USA, on display at Musee de la Bruxelles.

The next day, Shaun and I found la boulangerie simply called Coffee Shop that we were to breakfast at for the rest of our time in Brussels. What you hear about Belgian beer is true: it is gorgeous and fruity and delicious, even if you think you don’t like beer. But warm Belgian coffee down the gullet feels like coming home. Sugared and creamy with a perfectly brewed creme atop; there is a reason there are no Starbucks in Brussels. A glorious cuppa with a sunny, almond croissant is absolute heaven. My mouth is watering just to think of it.

With blissful bellies, we made our way to Museum des Sciences Naturelles, near the EU headquarters, to see the perfectly preserved remains of a baby mammoth. Along the way, we stopped at the famous Pierre Marcolini Chocolatier for truffles to munch in The Garden of Statues. As with most chocolates, the first bite is always the best, but we ate the whole box anyway.

The Garden of Statues

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A dino at Museum des Sciences Naturelles

Baby Mammoth!

Yikes.

Yikes!

For lunch, we ate at a great place called L’Entree des Artistes, where the “large” beer was really, really large.

After, we took a trip to the Musee de la Bruxelles to use a desperately needed toilet. We also looked at the exhibits, which were nice but not as nice as the toilet.

In the evening, we found ourselves in Le Petit Tonne Illustre, a puppet theatre that has been run by the same family for over a century.

While watching a puppet show in French got stale by intermission time, the theatre was delightfully creepy. There was even had a scary, white haired, growling man who sat in the back row! He spoke French, so who knows what kind of spell he was weaving, but he kept talking through the show and everything he said came out in a low, fierce growl. I need to make this clear: he was not a part of the show. He was just a creepy dude in the audience. But I think he was the most entertaining thing of all, even if he devoured the souls of puppet show watching children.

Thursday was spent at Centre Belge de la Bande Dessinee, a museum of Belgian comics. Did you know that The Smurfs were born in Belguim? It’s true!

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We ate our meal at a resto called Chou de Bruxelles (that’s cabbage of Brussels, otherwise known as Brussel Sprout), where we drank Belgian beer, and ate moules, pommes frites and traditional sausage stew before meandering though the bits of the city taking pictures.

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The Palace!

Friday morning, we slurped our last sip of Belgian coffee before it was back home, to Glasgow. Au revoir, Brussels! Merci! And if those pantalon rouge turn up, let me know.

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In other news: Happy New Year! May 2007 be a barrel of monkeys.