We ditched Paris from our original itinerary due to the unrest over pension reform, and subbed-in Brussels and Geneva - strategic choices to reconnect with the original plan at Annecy. Most of what I knew about Belgium was that it was home to good beer, chocolate, Hercule Poirot and Tintin, but I was happy to be educated.
An obvious starting point was the much-heralded Grand Place, a vast cobbled market square surrounded on four sides by magnificent baroque guildhalls and neo-gothic edifices, such as the town hall and the Museum of Brussels.
We checked out the museum, which had a useful interpretive model of the town, and had a lot of old stuff and fine words that, while interesting at the time I have completely forgotten five days later. What I do remember though, is another example of my uncanny ability to spot time travellers in ancient paintings. This time it was in the large artwork The Ommengang by Denijs van Alsloot, 1615. While his comrades are all battle-ready, guns aloft, one of their number appears to be checking his cellphone (there’s always one).
The value of merely wandering was underlined on the second morning when we came across an unprepossessing-looking building (it was covered in graffiti, after all) with a sign saying the World of Banksy. It hadn’t shown up in any of my Brussells googling, but it turned out to be a revelation. Set across two floors of generous footprint, it presents the full sweep of the world’s most famous street artist on reproductions of the original surface (e.g., various brick walls, the Bataclan door, the Jerusalem wall and so on). What resonates most is not the just the artistry, but the brilliance of the satire and social commentary. Two that struck a chord were the depiction on a Kiev brick wall of a child in judo uniform slamming a giant opponent to the floor. No labels, no symbols, but a clear statement on the Russian Invasion of Ukraine. Another was the depiction during the worst of Covid, when Britain’s NHS was in crisis, of a child playing with his super-hero figurines. Cast aside in a bucket are Spiderman and Batman, while the child plays with his new favourite superhero, a nurse wearing a flying cape.
That night Brussels had more to give. After a fine pot of garlic mussels with fries at a restaurant tucked into a corner of the Grand Place we took a different route back to the apartment and came upon a resplendent shrine to the brewer’s art. In front was a placard proclaiming its 366 beers (33 on tap), and they were all displayed within like a brightly lit beer library of the gods.
Wondrous enough, but the true attraction of this place was that seven of the beers were gluten free. Maureen used to enjoy the occasional beer before being diagnosed coeliac, but these days in NZ the choice of gluten free beers tends to be (a) nothing (their favoured offering), (b) Scott’s (flat weasel’s piss), or (c) this beer over here that hasn’t got much gluten (so will only poison you slightly).
Pictured is the one she chose. I had a sip. It was better than the pilsner I was drinking.
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