The joys of travelling

# Brussels is not overall fast or fashionable. If you can find yourself belonging to the crowd sitting around in countless cafes you’ll find the place really relaxing. Perhaps the atmosphere feels different to the employees of high rank European Institutions (though cafes are populated with them mainly, so i doubt it) but to me Brussels was very forgiving - nothing was expected of me and indeed I didn’t deliver much, which makes for great holidays. Also, most of the time I got away with my shabby, long-since-forgotten 3rd grade French, which means Belgians are very forgiving indeed.

# Kriek is a very peculiar fruity type of beer, which might be (in function, not taste) compared to cider. Watch out for the bottles, especially corked ones. Also be careful with Oude Kriek. Unless you’re a fun of over-fermented cheap cherry wine gone wrong (yes, that can still go wrong) you won’t enjoy it.

# A la Mort Subite is a centre-located locale that dates back to 1920s and indeed some part of the interior look like they haven’t been changed (nor exaggeratedly cleaned) since then. Apparently it used to be a meeting point for French-style opium drinking boheme, all sorts of undesirables and rebellious higher-class ladies. These days it’s more of a student hang out, but it serves espresso that makes you feel like you actually had an espresso as opposed to a cup of piss poor cup of highly diluted black watercolour paint. (See the Brussels area in travel-log for details)

# One of the things I learnt to drink in France (I learnt quite a substantial amount about drinking while I was there) was Kir. It’s a cocktail made of Creme de casis (blackcurrant liquor) and white wine (Kir) or Champagne (Kir Royale). It’s an aperitif, i.e. it’s drunk before meals or with snacks and since it’s served almost everywhere in Brussels i was utilising it as such constantly. Best Kir I found was in Cafe Nouvo, situated opposite the Jacques Brel Foundation (see the travel-log for details), where you can go for a film and see the genius man in action. It’s fairly dull exercise to regret not having seen live musicians who died, but in Brel’s case I have to admit to it.

# Charleroi is like a mini version of Stansted airport minus the Madleine McCain posters. In other words there is absolutely nothing to do. There’s no shop with Belgian chocolates, however there is an Irish (sic!) pub, called Kitty O’Sheas. What did Kitty do to deserve such permanent and spread honours I don’t know*. The pub at Charleroi is filled with clientèle of all nationalities drinking piss of a pseudo-Guinness. I didn’t dare trying it. Rule no 1: do not order Guinness anywhere in the world that is further from Ireland than Channel Islands (with the exception of NYC, but be careful even there). Rule no 2: when at an airport do not order anything that doesn’t come in a bottle. Unfortunately there’s not bottled coffee, which is why a cup of coffee will give you a good example of the extent to which airport exploit traveller’s desperation and lack of choice. Since I watched the final of Euro Cup 2008 in an Irish pub in Brussels (named, unsurprisingly, Kitty O’Sheas) I acquired a rule no 3: do not, unless in a presence of a gun, order a Guinness in Brussels. I don’t think they do it on purpose - a nation with over 300 types of bears really needn’t have an inferiority complex towards any one in that matter, even the Irish. Poor barman in Kitty O’Sheas poured the pint for me with more attention and care than I’ve ever seen in any alcohol selling establishment in London. But there was no escaping the fact that the dark, fermented water I was given in a Guinness glass was undrinkable. I bought it as a joke, for my Guinness-loving polish friend and I learnt the hard way: no joking. Beer is serious stuff in Belgium. So I had a bottle of Duvel at the airport and waved good-bye to the international city where everything seems really local.

# Getting home doesn’t take me long these days. Most often I fly for about 2 hours with added time for getting to and from the airports, checking in and so on. It’s the figuring out where my home is that takes time. So far it has taken me over 2 years with not much success. Depending which home I’m getting to it’s either my parents waiting for me at the airport or my friends waiting for me in our local pub. From both places I need to be away often. Being on the move cleans your brain cells, that’s my theory.

# The plain was just taking off when the guy on the other side of the isle form mr made a descreet sign of a cross by where I guess his heart is. The weather was beutiful and the clouds looked like ice cream.

*Actually Kitty didn’t do anything. It was some peculiar version of Irish imperialism.