Belgium

I don't know if it was the near-constant rain, the sensory overload of the past three weeks, the transition from "familiar France" into "not-so-familiar Flanders" or some combination of the three.  But we haven't been all that thrilled with Belgium on this trip.  (We loved it six years ago, when we here last time.  Though it was a Belgian pharmacist that nearly killed C by giving her the wrong medicine... but that's a story for another time.)  I'd heard wonderful things for years: "Brugges is magnificent," "Ghent is a delight," "Don't miss out on the chocolate, or the fries with mayonnaise, in Brussels," and so on. So it wasn't for lack of wanting to like Belgium.

It certainly started auspiciously when we headed to the very north of France and stopped in the town of Arras.  (See pic of city hall above.  Oh, is it another magnificent Gothic structure on a plaza?  Zzzzzz.)  Rating above average on the Quaint Scale--I'd give it a 6.5--but hardly inspiring gasps of awe, it was nevertheless a nice change to see some Flemish-style architecture creeping in.

And what's not to like about giant gaudy statues of Flemish peasants in the lobby of City Hall?  Reminds me a bit of the Paul Bunyan statues in every little town in Minnesota. 

I used to ask my students where in Europe it was that the Flemish culture prospered, until one of them replied "Flemland?"  It was then that I knew the cause was lost, and that trying to teach Western European art to culturally-bereft young Americans was nigh on impossible.  But, just in case you dear readers do know anything about Flemish culture (and where it is situated), here is a typical Flemish town square in Arras.

A few times on this trip we've come across a lovely old Citroen.  Here's one a fetching two-tone red and black, somewhere in the north of France.

Our first full day in Belgium we spent in the medieval city of Brugges.  Sure, it looked quaint and all, but there was something unnervingly Disney-ish about the whole thing.  I do realize that Disney is fake and Brugges is real, but I'm beginning to wonder whether Brugges is actually real at all.  The vistas are breath-taking, just like Disneyland.  The shops are all either for food or souvenirs, just like Disneyland.  Lots of people are there during the day but nobody seems to actually live there--they're either tourists or workers, just like Disneyland.  And the rides cost money (ditto).  If there really were such a place as "Flemland" in that totally artificial concoction of a theme park in Anaheim, it would look exactly like this.

This guy was probably fake, too.  But he looked authentic, sang folk songs in what I presume was Flemish, and the old organ itself was magical!  He ground it expertly, and you could see the punched cards for each song going through the player on top.  We put a few coins in the basket, and he invited Elinor to turn the grinder -- wish we'd been able to snap a pic of it.

Love the clogs.  "Are they comfortable?" we mused to ourselves.  (Peter, our Dutch bus driver says no, but a million Dutchmen still wear them because you can make them for free.)

The weather cleared a little.  And, somewhat resigned to the fact that we were playing the tourist game, we took a canal ride.  Turned out to be the best thing I did in Brugges because, during the course of the guided tour, I found out that...

...there is a famous Michelangelo sculpture in one of the churches in Brugges.  Had no idea!  I talk about this statue in my Civ I class, and it was a thrill to see it in person.  Smaller than I had expected, but I got goosebumps standing in front of a genuine Michelangelo masterpiece.

On the drive back to the hotel after our day in Brugges, Peter played The Sound of Music on the bus DVD player.  We sang along in big, loud voices.  Of course.

The next day it was Ghent.  Can you discern the level of Elinor's excitement at breakfast?  "Do we really have to go to another picturesque medieval European town?  Whyyyyyy?"

Now just maybe it's because we actually live in the USA and not in Ghent, but if you're trying to pass yourself off as the place to get good ribs, I'm not sure calling your restaurant "Amadeus" is the way to do it.  Then again, the sign doesn't actually say that the ribs there are good.  (Maybe, as the sign possibly implies, it's the only place in Ghent for ribs.) 

This is what happens when you try to rebuild part of a Gothic cathedral only to discover that the subcontractor is 7 years old and had planned to finish your building with Legos.

I admit, I'm getting cynical.  But views like this are starting to leave me cold.  We're actually longing for London now, where people speak in a way we can (usually) understand, and where the architecture is safely and predictably dull.  We need a respite from the perpetually-embellished Continent. But somewhere hidden in this scene (like "Where's Waldo?) is a chocolaterie with a charismatic proprietor who told us a great story about why Ghent-ians are proud of the noose, and he was very sweet to our girls (which always scores brownie points with the parents!)

Bridge, lovely flowers, canal.  Next, please.

Aha!  Here, finally, as we prepared to board the bus and head to The Netherlands, a stunning development occurred.  We saw our first pissoir.  I was somewhat surprised we hadn't seen one in France, where the extraordinary idea was first developed that men can just "drop trou" behind a screen in the middle of the sidewalk to relieve themselves.  But no, it was in Ghent that we first stumbled across this bizarre cultural phenomenon.

Did the sign mean "No eating soft-serve ice-cream while emptying your bladder in a public space," as I suspected at first.  No! Turns out I was mistaken.  They actually did need to put up a sign that says "Don't poop in the pissoir."  I mean, come on folks!  Do you really need a sticker to tell you that doing a No. 2 while in the middle of the sidewalk in downtown Ghent is poor form?  Apparently so, because someone had indeed done what they shouldn't have in the receptacle.  Someone in Ghent actually, literally, defecated in a urinal in the very public town square.

I know there are many things about American culture that the rest of the world finds curious and incomprehensible.  But the (toilet) door swings both ways, mes amis europeens!

I know you all wanted to see the pissoir in its full public glory.  Just as we were standing there, wondering if ordinary people (and not just incontinent homeless bums) use them, along came a relatively normal-looking man who put down his shopping bags, sat his dog down, went behind the "privacy screen" and availed himself of the facility, right there and then.  Then a city worker stopped by with two buckets of water and tried--in vain--to restore some modicum of sanitation to the scene.  All the while we asked ourselves why, oh why, hadn't the bus picked us up five minutes earlier and spared us this nauseating experience with the local rituals of human excreta.

Perhaps our increasing melancolia in Belgium was partly due to the fact that it was our last day with Peter, the Best Bus Driver in the World.  He loved our girls, and they loved him.

We'll keep in touch, Peter.