Belgium

October 21–22, 2006

Belgium is one of the last Western European countries I’ve never set foot in. I expected it to be sterile — it’s the capital of the EU and all that, which is why I was in no hurry to visit.

Brussels

I’ve never seen a filthier European capital in my whole entire life. Squalor everywhere, graffiti on every surface, blacks, Arabs, and yobs all around. Teenagers swinging on a swingset tied to the columns of the main railway station could be heard screaming their heads off all night long.

Only rarely do you see a normal-looking person in the street.

All of the houses are in ruins, there are piles of rubbish everywhere, plus some fag on a pink sheet in the windows.

Local men:

Local women:

The city’s coat of arms shows St. Michael tickling a pig, which has angel wings and is wearing flippers.

Decorating the sides of buildings is what the locals do best.

There are “Manneken Pis — that way” signs all over the centre. I had thought that the monument’s notoriety would be commensurate with its size. For example, like this:

And what does he actually look like? A bronze baby doll about 40cm high with a water pipe stuck up his bum, standing in a mouldy corner behind some bars. What’s more is, the chocolate shop next door has one just like him in the window, except without the plumbing.

Typical Brussels street corner:

Somewhere high up in the distance you can see white spires — too far for anyone to sully by throwing crap at them:

Rubbish bins are the only place showing any signs of life (shhh!):

The main railway station is a shithole. Even the cartoonish images of the New York subway that did the rounds in Soviet times were less disturbing.

We board a train and head to Bruges. Conductors blowing their own trumpets.

Bruges

If you don’t mind breaking a sweat you can climb up the main clock tower and marvel at the music box as high as a grown man.

You can also look out over the city — town planning passed this place by, resulting in a rare example of holistic medieval construction.

Of course, the place didn’t stay all in one piece without a little outside help, as suggested by the drill and the photo camera on the bas-relief.

The city is lovely and pleasant. Especially the parts where the throngs of tourists thin out.

It turns out that Belgians have a habit of shutting their restaurants between two and seven p.m. (just like the Italians). As in, we’ve done the lunch service, time for a break. After that, we’ll spend a few hours cooking dinner and then it’s off to bed.

Why is there nowhere to get some grub during the day?

Needless to say, there are plenty of vomit-inducing food joints, which advertise themselves as “non-stop kitchens”. Don’t go there.

Hotels store their star ratings under the bed, like bedpans.

Tourists pile onto boats and wave like idiots to the people they spot on the banks. I’ll probably die without ever finding out why they do this.

They disembark and a new shift takes over the waving. The first lot go off to chocolate shops to buy chocolate T&A (the sign drops hints: “a nice present for your father or (male) friend”).

You can dig in Bruges.

But you don’t have to (this shows the urinating boy’s father).

It’s better to wait until seven p.m. rolls around and dine on mussels in a nice restaurant. While they’re firing up the stove, take a stroll along the deserted canals.

Then you can get stuck into the mussels, cooked in 14 different herbs picked from the owner’s garden, as well as cast one last glance at all this beauty.

But no, I stand corrected: the most beautiful bit is outside the centre, on the way to the railway station. Here it is: