This morning I went to see John Betjeman again. On the concourse at St Pancras International.
Not because it’s Poetry Day (yes, it’s today!), but because I had a special train to catch: the Eurostar to Brussels.
As I sat down at my seat, I noticed that only a window was separating me from the champagne bar where I helped my friends Brian and Douglas celebrate their marriage last October. Fond memories of the ceremony and the party at Dr Johnson’s House emerged, and I flicked through the photos on my iPhone to smile at the happy event again.
So why did I leave? Not because I’m tired of London, but because I’m not tired of life! Or, more prosaically, because of a Eurostar offer I caught a few months ago. I’d never been in Belgium, so I thought I’d go and see where the infamous sprouts come from (even as a raw vegan I can’t find a way to like them…). Instead I found chocolate everywhere, and lots and lots of art. Unfortunately (or luckily?) I can’t enjoy the former, but I made damn sure to enjoy the latter.
I decided to avoid soulless hotels and try something different: staying with a local through an organisation called airbnb, which hooks you up with people who have a spare room in their home, or even a whole flat, to rent for short stays.
And here I am, in Brussels near the Gare du Midi where my Eurostar arrived at midday. My host is an editor for the local newspaper, and the flat is new and comfy. I spent the afternoon visiting some of the cultural attractions, and tomorrow I’ll ride the train to Bruges for more art and history. I really think I should stay here a month at least, but five days were all I could spare between work and Toastmasters.
My impression of Brussels as a city is not fulgent: aside from the fact that the area around the Gare du Midi is just as dingy and dodgy (“multicultural”, they call it in brochures) as any other area surrounding a main station in the rest of the world (generally speaking), the city in itself is not as arresting and picturesque as I had imagined: many insipid “modern” buildings and a few traditional ones which remind me of paintings by Brueghel, Memling and Vermeer.
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The Magritte Museum is vast and provides a comprehensive insight into the creativity, philosophy and art of that genius. I marvelled at the chimerical absurdity of his paintings and drawings, at the playfulness of his photos, at his determination in the search of a reality beyond the real. I could easily have spent a few days in it, lost in its dreamy atmosphere.
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Then I stepped into the adjacent Museum of Ancient Art, where the Flemish masters are housed, and chanced upon several tablets by Brueghel and Bosch – and I understood Magritte. I mean, if you grow up seeing the figures those two conjured up, your imagination is probably scarred…
I was on the lookout for my beloved Jakob Van Ruysdael, but didn’t find him, so I will have to go back again.
The museum staff had to kick me out to close for the night, so I braved the icy wind and went for a long walk in the old town. I met a tiny putto peeing into a fountain, apparently commemorating a fearless (or brainless) soldier who stopped to relieve himself in the middle of a battle.
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Every year, my guidebook says, they dress him up, and he’s the boy with the largest wardrobe: he has more than 800 outfits to choose from, many donated by ambassadors and representing their countries. He surely can’t say “Oh no, I have nothing to wear!”.
Walking through very narrow lanes flanked by ancient houses all occupied by cheap restaurants, I lit upon the City Hall, with its glorious turret (again, paintings by Memling sprang to mind) and surrounded by gilded façades. I fancied myself as a lady from the gentry, rich velvet gown floating in the wind, on my way to see Rubens for a portrait
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Now that I’m in my warm bed, I’ll sleep like a log and dream of the golden age of Flemish painting and all those interiors with mirrors and magnificent textiles. Good night, Brussels!
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Image may be NSFW.Clik here to view.
