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Location: Blogs Simon and Melody's Blog |
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| Posted by: supersi |
Sunday, December 30, 2007 |
Where do you go when you’ve just eaten your tenth Toberlone or Terry’s Chocolate Orange from your stocking? Why, Belgium of course. For more chocolate. Not that we didn’t get more than enough for Christmas, but there’s no chocolate like Belgian chocolate. Actually we just wanted Mel’s mum to see some nice European Christmas markets. We took the Eurostar early Friday morning and returned the next evening.
Our hotel turned out to be perfectly located – right across from the train station. We got Arwyn changed and fed (mushy peas, decidedly un-Belgian) and went to the Grand Place. The square of medieval, gothic buildings was as beautiful as ever. When I told my co-worker we were going to Brussels after Christmas he gave me a look as if to say, “Oh you poor thing.” Personally, I love Belgium! The food is amazing. Sidewalk cafés are open year-round. Waffles on every street-corner. What’s not to love?
European Christmas markets consist of rows of wooden huts, each one selling different decorations, crafts and food stuffs. We had some delicious sausages, frites, coffees, and checked out all the items on sale. There was also a skating rink in the middle where a crowd of European kids and adults were pretending to skate. Shouldn’t they all be sticking to something they understand? Like eating truffles, for example?
There were three (count ‘em, three!) huts in the Christmas markets flying the Canadian flag. But only one could be counted worthy. The first hut basically sold fleecies with a sign saying “Polaires du Canada”. I guess we do know a thing or two about being cold, but laying out a bunch of winter clothes and slapping a Canadian flag on the side is a bit lame. The next one was manned by a girl bundled up as though she had just raided the fleecy hut. C’mon, it’s +10C and sunny out! Definitely a fraudster. The third hut sold maple syrup, maple butter, the whole nine yards. We let him keep his flag.
That night we had a yummy dinner of mussels and frites. We then wandered back to the Grand Place. There was an absolutely incredible light snow choreographed to opera and classical music. Seeing the beautiful town hall lit up like that and hearing the music was an experience I’ll never forget.
On the Saturday we took a one hour train ride to Bruges and spent a half day walking around. Bruges is a beautiful medieval town that is so well preserved that it can make you feel like you’re stepping back in time.
We headed back to Brussels mid-afternoon to catch the Eurostar to London. I had reserved two sets of seats that were facing each other, and one of them was taken up by this young French lady. I felt a bit sorry for her actually. Sitting down to enjoy a quiet journey to find that you're stuck with a family who start unpacking a whole bunch of stuff. Soon the table was covered with baby paraphernalia. Do you be polite and sit where you are and attempt to enjoy the journey? Or do you risk being rude and just move seats?
She politely sat where she was, but she probably ended up regretting it. Arwyn had been a good and patient little traveller over the course of the past few days, but somewhere between Brussels and Lille she decided that she’d had enough. Enough of trains. Enough of chocolate. Enough of frites. Enough of canals, cobblestone streets and clock towers. Enough of the pretty French girl. Enough of everything.
Our cute little smiling girl transformed into Evil Baby. She shrieked and hollered, she squirmed, she rubbed her eyes and cried at the top of her lungs for about half an hour. As a dad, what do I do in this situation? Do I try to help Melody and make us look like two parents without a clue who are afraid of being hated by everyone around them? Instead I tried to be all calm and collected and kept reading my magazine while Melody tried in vain to console her. What else could I do? Read Tintin to her?
Not exactly a relaxing journey, but we did make it home without being cast out the window at 300km/h by our fellow passengers, which is never a good way to end a European vacation.
(Photos are here). |
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