Belgian scribblings
Dec. 5th, 2005 09:25 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cybermuleA travellodge on the M4 is not the most auspicious start to a holiday, but at £20 a night, who cares? Especially when you're going to have to get up criminally early to get your 7 o'clock flight out from Heathrow. If you can find your way through the cryptic (read, wrong) instructions to the long stay carpark. I hate heathrow. I hate its busyness, the greyness of its people, the way I'm locked in a hermetically sealed area to be able to smoke.
What a refreshing contrast in Belgium! After the short flight, and the purchase of a cheap ticket, I descend to the train platform to find several Belgians cheerfully ignoring the no-smoking signs, in a corner. Now don't get me wrong - smoking is not a nice habit, and I would never smoke in close proximity to other people, but it's my habit, and I don't want to be persecuted for enjoying myself. I should have the same freedoms as people who wish to wave around sizzling slabs of charred flesh.
Talking of which, veggy food is elusive in Belgium, although Bruges seemed better than Brussels. Everything is tainted by a few casual morsels of dead pig, but when you actually do find some veggy food, it's rather good. Everything in Belgium is rather good - the beer, the food, the people. They're a nation devoted to quietly enjoying themselves. Brussels is a city where the air is laden with the smell of warm sugar.
Brussels is a confused and multilingual city, with a dark and surreal sense of humour, and a light and vivacious sense of Christmas. They're gret at lights. Their galleries are full of paintings of curvy redheads with wide foreheads. There are waffle vans everywhere. Really, they could only do better in my books if their national dish was yorkshire pudding stuffed with chocolate.
My bed is indecently comfortable, and I sleep ten straight hours. Among the sparkling Christmas jollities, there's an in sane genetically mutated roundabout, and a dinosaur that you can walk into. It breathes and snores. Other than that, it often reminds me of Montreal.
The trains are insanely cheap - about three quid return to Bruges at the weekend.
Catching the train from Brussels to Bruges, I noticed that Belgium is in fact Bogeyland. It's countryside accustomed to spending 60% of it's life under water; green, vegetative, low, full of miserable looking cows. Pretty, but with an air of damp persistance. The train announcer makes silly noises over the loudspeaker.
Inevitably, when people say that somewhere is a place of ever-changing light, they mean it rains a lot, and Bruges is no exception. It's a watery, beautiful city, with canals tucked into every corner. I got some great photos of Bruges at night, and ate a wonderful salad at the Tolkien Tavern, washed down with excellent beer.
Slept lots again, and wandered around in a merry daze taking photos. This a a quiet and restorative holiday, and I really feel the benefit. I definitely need more peace and contemplation in my life - scheduling has a purpose in times of need, but I think I need to take more time out.
Flemish is very similar to Old English. A lady on the train back from Bruges has an envelope full of ephmeral stuff - skeleton leaves, dried flowers and feathery angel wings. Everyone assumes I'm FLemish, and talks to me in a strange gargling tongue. I'm always flattered not to be immediately pegged out as l'Anglais.
On the flight back, we fly up the Thames, with all the sights in lit up miniature below.
What a refreshing contrast in Belgium! After the short flight, and the purchase of a cheap ticket, I descend to the train platform to find several Belgians cheerfully ignoring the no-smoking signs, in a corner. Now don't get me wrong - smoking is not a nice habit, and I would never smoke in close proximity to other people, but it's my habit, and I don't want to be persecuted for enjoying myself. I should have the same freedoms as people who wish to wave around sizzling slabs of charred flesh.
Talking of which, veggy food is elusive in Belgium, although Bruges seemed better than Brussels. Everything is tainted by a few casual morsels of dead pig, but when you actually do find some veggy food, it's rather good. Everything in Belgium is rather good - the beer, the food, the people. They're a nation devoted to quietly enjoying themselves. Brussels is a city where the air is laden with the smell of warm sugar.
Brussels is a confused and multilingual city, with a dark and surreal sense of humour, and a light and vivacious sense of Christmas. They're gret at lights. Their galleries are full of paintings of curvy redheads with wide foreheads. There are waffle vans everywhere. Really, they could only do better in my books if their national dish was yorkshire pudding stuffed with chocolate.
My bed is indecently comfortable, and I sleep ten straight hours. Among the sparkling Christmas jollities, there's an in sane genetically mutated roundabout, and a dinosaur that you can walk into. It breathes and snores. Other than that, it often reminds me of Montreal.
The trains are insanely cheap - about three quid return to Bruges at the weekend.
Catching the train from Brussels to Bruges, I noticed that Belgium is in fact Bogeyland. It's countryside accustomed to spending 60% of it's life under water; green, vegetative, low, full of miserable looking cows. Pretty, but with an air of damp persistance. The train announcer makes silly noises over the loudspeaker.
Inevitably, when people say that somewhere is a place of ever-changing light, they mean it rains a lot, and Bruges is no exception. It's a watery, beautiful city, with canals tucked into every corner. I got some great photos of Bruges at night, and ate a wonderful salad at the Tolkien Tavern, washed down with excellent beer.
Slept lots again, and wandered around in a merry daze taking photos. This a a quiet and restorative holiday, and I really feel the benefit. I definitely need more peace and contemplation in my life - scheduling has a purpose in times of need, but I think I need to take more time out.
Flemish is very similar to Old English. A lady on the train back from Bruges has an envelope full of ephmeral stuff - skeleton leaves, dried flowers and feathery angel wings. Everyone assumes I'm FLemish, and talks to me in a strange gargling tongue. I'm always flattered not to be immediately pegged out as l'Anglais.
On the flight back, we fly up the Thames, with all the sights in lit up miniature below.
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no subject
Date: 2005-12-05 05:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-12-05 07:26 pm (UTC)LOL, I always get mistaken for German when I'm abroad!
no subject
Date: 2005-12-06 08:50 am (UTC)lmfao