I entered the Shiva Naipaul Memorial Prize in the Spectator which is a travel writing competition. The requirements were that 'you need not have gone anywhere highly exotic or far away, the prize is for the most acute and profound observation of a culture alien to the writer.' I didn't win or get placed, but I enjoyed writing this. You can see the winner here.
She is in the East, you are in the West. Before you know it, you’re both criss-crossing the countryside on the weekends. The excitement of it all beats the grind of the M62; which is the highest motorway in England and the most beautiful of journeys, but akin to the depths of hell on Friday nights and Monday mornings.
Married, and bored of England within 6 months. You’re not bored of the favourite places. You’re not bored of Manchester, the Royal Exchange and the lemonade from the glass bottle in the Jolly Angler behind Piccadilly. You’re not bored of Northumberland, of the deserted beaches from Seahouses to Bambrugh and the open solitude of one of last wildernesses left in England. You are, however, bored of being safe.
You were rattled by a passing snide comment from a strained friendship, about how dull and settled married life is sure to be. It shouldn’t be, it isn’t yet, but it could be. You laughed with another friend who married a spirit rather more free than himself. She was jealous of the house he had bought while she was off traveling and collecting stories to tell the children. You might have taken a shit behind more rocks in the world than I have love, he said, but I made sure we had somewhere to live.
To Brussels in Belgium. The city of compromise, the birthplace of bureaucracy, the centre of Europe. There is a job for you and a job for her, and a can of cold Jupiler each in the spring sunshine of Parc Cinquantinaire to toast the next years.
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| A can of cold Jupiler each in the spring sunshine of Parc Cinquantinaire |
Belgium is still safe, but it is a new country. This is cosmopolitan Northern Europe, but it definitely isn’t England. It isn’t an adventure in sub-Saharan Africa, but then it isn’t a terraced house up north either. This is another chapter, another culture, another set of people. It is also twenty minutes closer to London on the train than Leeds ever was.
The Belgian shrug of disdain is something you quickly become accustomed to and you like it. The Little Englanders don’t, because we don’t do it like this in England and that’s part of the whole problem don’t you know. You wind your neck in when you register at the ‘Office for Foreigners’ with everyone else. You memorise your set speech in French, then flounder, and you’re floundering still. I live in Belgium and I speak French, she says, you live in Belgium and you will speak French. This isn’t the time to raise a tentative hand to ask what the Flemish speakers think of this.
You practise counting and the alphabet whilst reading the number plates of cars as you pound the streets. You want the high ceilings and the light and the parquet partout and so does everyone else. There is enough to go around, and as you walk boulevards of architectural abomination you find oases of art nouveau. Beautiful brick built three storey houses sandwiched between concrete monstrosities. That’s Brussels.
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You want the high ceilings and the light and the
parquet partout and so does everyone else |
You’re an Englishman Abroad. You talk louder when you’re misunderstood, which compounds the image. Over-exaggerated gesticulations complete the assignment. We’re all Europeans now, but some are more European than others. You hope that in some small way you can change that, but then the British are part of Europe, just not on the same page as everyone else.
Everybody is on the same page when it comes to the Grand Place though. It is the centre of town, and there is similar splendour in any other Belgian town worth a visit - be that Leuven, Ghent or Bruges. The Gothic spire of the Town Hall spikes up as you survey the haphazard skyline from the lookout at the end of Avenue Louise, and those of whom live in the 1000 postcode get married there just because they can. The gold strikes you and makes you stand a while, and even the new Hard Rock Café with its subdued façade knows when it is beaten. It is a honey-pot, which is to be expected, and the tourists run the gauntlet of the set menus of moules frites and steak americain and won’t–you-come-to-my-restaurant-tonight-for-the-best-price? At the end is Chez Léon, with its green and white signature colours beckoning the visitors inside. If they don’t manage this time they can also nip into the sister branch in Charing Cross. Similar spot, closer to home.
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| The gold strikes you and makes you stand awhile |
The little man peeing, the Mannekin Pis, alerts you to his presence before you have even arrived. He is reformulated in chocolate, as a desk lamp, a water feature and on t-shirts, mugs and tea towels. Then there he is, surrounded by a gaggle of onlookers, jostling and filming and snapping because everyone else seems to be. He is in national dress, in a Scout uniform, as Father Christmas. He is surrounded by rotund men in matching outfits with record-breaking facial hair, whiskers coiffured with wax. There aren’t many who understand what this is all about, but why pass on an opportunity for a parade of men on stilts and a marching band?
You stroll through Les Galeries Royale Saint-Hubert, and the two long expanses of glass bring to mind the best of any arcade in the world, with the shops to match. The window of hats: the deerstalker, the beret, the bonnets. They’re followed by the dainty disembodied hands in the window further on. Gloved, scores of them waving, both beckoning you in and shooing you away. Then to Mokafé, you segue quickly to the recently empty table past the mountainous desert trolley on the way in. She is there again at the back, the refined old lady; alone and glamorous as ever, eating the meal of the day with a glass of house red.
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| The window of hats: the deerstalker, the beret, the bonnets |
To the end, breathing in the atmosphere of Brussels today, or 30 years ago, or even 80 years ago, you could take your pick. The neon sign of A La Mort Subite flashes periodically, like it could be faulty, like it caught a fly. It caught you as soon as you arrived, and everyone else too escaping the rain. The rain which comes on in a flash and the men appear from doorways with an armful of umbrellas. Inside, the rows and rows of tables urge you to sit awhile, and rows and rows of the cast iron radiators mirroring the tables don’t dissuade you otherwise. The patrons sit and steam.
Not for long though, look sharp. The brusque waiter has arrived with the beer menu. This is a career here you know; this isn’t a job for students, these are professionals. The half-rim spectacles on the end of his nose, don’t you dare mispronounce that beer. There’s his pocket watch, tucked into his black waistcoat - he’s watching. It arrives, beautifully presented in a different glass for every different beer and there are plenty of them. If you shut your eyes and soak in the clatter and the din you can picture the old boys playing cards on a lunchtime in the 20’s when it didn’t look any different. Let’s have a final game a La Mort Subite, at the Sudden Death, before we go back to work.
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| If you shut your eyes and soak in the clatter and the din |
The work for many people is in the Brussels Political Bubble. The 28 blue flags with gold stars flutter outside the Berlaymont, the 28th for Croatia freshly pressed. The huge orange building on Rue de la Loi, imposing in stature, is where it all begins, housing the nerve centre which is the European Commission. 28 departments, 28 Commissioners, 28 Member States – they like it ordered that way. Across the street is the Council of Ministers, shadowed by the ubiquitous building cranes and political sensibility. The plate glass shimmers in whatever light the day is throwing at it. Reflection, deflection, re-election? That all depends on the circumstances.
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| The 28 blue flags with gold stars flutter outside the Berlaymont |
You’re having a rest stop at Kitty O’Shea’s, the Irish pub where all the business really takes place. In the thick of it, ‘Kitty’s’ is a few doors away from the house where the TV cameras borrow the bedroom for what must be big money, shooting the latest news with the flags in the background. When the politicians are in for a ‘3-shirter’ all night meeting and take a break, Kitty’s is a favourite watering hole. When the pressure is on, the lights are low and a decision is needed, Guinness provides the oil for the machine.
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| Guinness provides the oil for the machine |
You’re at the European Parliament then, the voice of the people. Stand in Place du Luxembourg and experience it in all its glory. The walkways connecting the different buildings are plastered with interchangeable stories of Europe. Pictures of peace in Europe over time, the push for economic and political unity. It makes sense when you see it like this, when you know that the suits at the table back then had raw memories. They remembered the first time they fought each other, they remembered the second time and finally then the never again.
Two of the more recent building blocks of this grand plan are nearby. A short hop round the back of the parliament is an overgrown garden with a piece of the Berlin wall and a small commemorative plaque. The fall of the wall opened up the East and changed Europe for ever. Another piece is in Place du Luxembourg itself. It seems abandoned, as if bought from a charity shop and now they don’t know what to do with it either. A homeless man stores his bag of newspapers and his blankets against it.
Into the metro. Choose your colour, choose your direction and watch your wallet because you learnt the hard way. The small red light moves slowly on the retro sign to signal the progress of your train, and reminds you of the places you have been and the places still to go. Arts-Loi: change for Gare du Midi. Botanique: must go and see a band. Parc: Give a nod to the Palais Royal de Bruxelles and drop in for art at Musée Magritte. Underground the Belgian penchant for proper paperwork seemingly doesn’t follow through into health and safety. You dodge protruding metal and have near misses with unguarded holes. It will be done one day, probably, but you get the feeling that this is a feature of the network itself rather than a sign of better things to come. The artwork on the metro makes up for this, with stations worth a visit for that reason alone.
Out of the metro. You give money to the accordion player, he smiles and even though he plays one song on a loop it is better than you could ever do. The beggars have less to offer in the way of musical entertainment, and they are a feature of the city. The smiling man at Maelbeek with the woollen hat and the Pringle tin. The old lady at Merode with the long ripped coat and the cracked heels. How did this happen? What is their story? You remember in Carrefour when the lady was taken away by the police as she stole the bread and the bottle of cheap wine. In the queue they looked at the floor, checked the time, then paid for their shopping with the ‘lunch vouchers’ – the government tax break food coupons for those in employment. It leaves a nasty taste in the mouth and raises questions to which you don’t know the answer.
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| You ride through it too on the 44 tram, the best tram ride in Brussels |
In the changing of the seasons, you kick the leaves in Forêt de Soignes and look at the trees from the different continents – planted together as examples of the species. You ride through it too on the 44 tram, the best tram ride in Brussels. The bone-shaker carriages take you to Tervuren, the end of the line. It is the home of the Africa Museum. Too many countries have their grisly story to tell, to repent and to apologise for. Belgium is no exception and for them it is The Congo. Tintin himself knew about all that as well.
And down by the ponds at Place Eugène Flagey, ‘Flagey’ to the locals, you sit in Café Belga on the best kind of Saturday where there are no plans. Your arm rests on the pile of second-hand books from the cavernous Pele-Mele in Ixelles. You’re lost in contentment and reflection. This is away from home, but it is home. You’re still an Englishman abroad, but a happy one at that. You often think like this, but this time snap out of it quickly. ‘Un autre café , monsieur?’ Ah, yes please. We have the rest of the day, after all.
