It's 29 January 2020, the year has hardly got airborne and yet I'm on my second foreign trip, this time a quick one-nighter in the European capital of Brussels, and the UK is on the verge of leaving the EU, much to my dismay and, indeed, horror.
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| Dress it up as much as you like, it's a cheese & ham toastie |
I had an angst-ridden lunch in Le Pain Quotidien (see pic above) just across from where travellers board the Eurostar at St Pancras International. It's not my favourite restaurant and the reason is simple: they take their time and I always get the feeling that they've forgotten my order, especially when the waiter I've already given my drinks order to comes back and asks me what I'd like to drink. It doesn't bode well for catching the train. And to think that I arrived well ahead of time, a good hour before departure, but slowly time runs out. One minute I'm looking at around an hour to eat a cheese and ham toasty - alright, it was dressed up with some fancy name, but it was basically a cheese and ham toasted sandwich with a small salad and some tomato ketchup on the side. It was nothing special, but it did the job and I hurriedly asked for the bill before rushing off to go through the fafferama of security, although it's nowhere near as bad as the airport.
The train departed from Platform 10 and the journey - all two hours of it - passed by pretty smoothly thanks to
Serotonin by Michel Houellebecq. And when I jumped off at the other end I got my bearings and headed off for what my iphone was telling me was a 9-minute walk to the hotel, the Mercure. For a brief moment I thought I would get lost as it was dark and I'm never 100% sure that I'm walking in the right direction when I'm using the phone's GPS system. However, as I trudged along I suddenly saw the hotel, separated by a few road works and now here I am in room 209 on the second floor after what can only be described as a speedy, efficient and friendly check-in.
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| Suddenly, there was the Mercure Hotel... |
It's a great room. Alright, it's pretty standard, although instead of the usual twin beds pushed together there's a real double bed with cushions, loads of them, well, six in total including two little purple ones. Unusually, there's a separate bathroom and toilet, which I rather like, there's a flatscreen television on the wall opposite the bed, a shower room observation window, frosted in the middle to spare embarassment and, of course, there's a desk, a table and a chair.
The WiFi was simplicity itself and, well, I'm thinking about going out and finding somewhere to eat as the hotel offers a few snacks like pizza, baguettes, chips and two mains (chicken tikka masala and spaghetti bolognaise and I'm guessing they're not homemade, although I suppose the pasta dish might be). I could stay in and order room service, but where's the fun in that? And besides, if I get back early, I can continue reading Houellbecq, which was my Christmas present.
I feel at home in this room for some reason. Sometimes hotels have it, other times they don't and it's not down to how posh they are either, it's hard to explain, but this place has it. It's not a hotel to be impressed by because it's a standard, average-priced establishment that does what it says on the tin. For me the acid test is always the breakfast. There's no restaurant, but there is a small bar by the front desk where all the items on the room service menu are going to be available, but it's not a very comfortable-looking place and I'm not keen on being downstairs close to the bustling lobby, not that it's bustling.
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| Room 209, Mercure Hotel, Brussels... |
Out on the streets in the dark, I'm aware that the district through which I tread isn't looking too good. Outside of the extensive roadworks that have ripped up a lot of the streets, there's a menacing air about the place, brought about largely by the groups of bearded young men who seem to be peppered around as I walk in search of somewhere to eat. There are plenty of dodgy-looking cafes with Formica-topped tables and dull lighting, packed with, yes, you've guessed it, bearded men who haven't bothered taking off their coats. There are hardly any women on these streets and when I do spot one she is wearing a headscarf.
I am pretty close to an area called Molenbeek where, according to
an article by a GQ journalist, all nine 'known perpetrators of the November 2015 Paris attacks had a connection with the neighbourhood'. And it gets worse: The March 2016 Brussels airport bombing was planned here by associates of Salah Abdeslam who grew up here; the guns used in the Charlie Hebdo attack were sourced from the area... need I go on? Terrorist attacks are always linked to Molenbeek, but fortunately that's not quite where I am, although, judging by those I meet on the streets, the scenario is kind of similar, although I hope I'm not sounding too xenophobic, perhaps more concerned for my own welfare.
Being somebody who unwittingly walked through LA gangland back in 2013, I figured the mean streets of Brussels were fine, even after dark, and while I passed many a bearded gentleman, three of whom approached me for money (but didn't accept Mastercard) I continued to mooch around. I thought it was kind of okay. It was only when I started to read about the district that I began to feel a little uneasy. I walked some distance down one street hoping the neighbourhood would improve or that I might stumble upon a decent restaurant, but the hotel had already recommended La Ruche, a French place offering a lot of meat in the shape of mainly beef and ribs and burgers. After walking away, I decided to bite the bullet and go inside. I was shown to a table for one, squeezed between a couple on my right and a young family on my left. I went against the beefy grain of the place and ordered a chicken burger with sweet potato fries and a bottle of Pellegrino and then sat down and noticed that I was the only person without a beard and a Mediterranean complexion. If this was an Isis stronghold, then I was easy meat. As I awaited my meal I looked around to see if there were any other westerners in the restaurant. I couldn't see anybody, but the place was civilised, the food was good and the service excellent and soon I forgot about the potential danger I might have been in; in fact I began to wonder if it was all a load of hot air. Everybody seemed perfectly respectable, it was just me letting the media brainwash me, albeit temporarily. I'll always remember my dad telling me never to be 'mesmerised by the media'.
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| La Ruche restaurant - nice burgers! |
This is not, however, a pleasant part of Brussels, Molenbeek or not, and nothing like the area surrounding the famous Grand Place which, I was told by the woman on the front desk of my hotel, was only 15 minutes away. But it was getting late and I couldn't be bothered to go hiking around in the dark and then find it was too late to eat. La Ruche was fine and very reasonable: the bill hovered around 15 Euros, which was good by any standard, and the food was top notch. The restaurant was very French with its marble-topped bar and waiting staff sporting black aprons tied around their waists. There was a huge wooden-framed mirror behind the bar and elegant lighting, high ceilings and a pleasant hubbub and nobody appeared to be giving me strange looks of an Isis nature.
In all honesty, I could easily have been mugged outside on the dark and edgy streets. I was wandering around, alone, in a foreign country, in a considerably downbeat district, I was accosted on three occasions by bearded men of Mediterranean origin asking me for money, there were saunas and sex shops, men standing around in groups smoking, hardly any women about and those I did see sported a headscarf; this wasn't exactly Knightsbridge, although, these days, perhaps there's not much difference.
Just as I was about to get up and pay my bill, a man looking distinctly western was led to a table. For a moment I thought he might be English and that we could exchange knowing glances at one another. He had that Bill Bryson look about him, but without the weight, and it was only when I noticed he was wearing thick, patterned trousers (which were slightly lairy) that I figured he couldn't be English, he didn't look drab enough. Either way he appeared a little concerned about something, probably the idea of dining alone, and seemed to be looking at me for reassurance, which I don't think I provided. He and I were the only westerners in the restaurant, not that it mattered.
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| Inside La Ruche |
I paid up and left after what I can only describe as a very pleasant dinner, and while I'm going on about being the only westerner in the restaurant, apart from that bloke I just mentioned, there was nothing wrong with the place or its clientele, everyone seemed to be getting on. It was only a short distance to the hotel, but before I got there I was approached by the last of three men who had accosted me to ask for money and for each one I had the same excuse, "I haven't got any money, just a credit card I'm afraid," spoken assertively, slightly impatiently and in a very clear and English manner, and it confused him enough for me to carry on without further conversation. The weird thing was the way the last guy came out of nowhere.
So I got back 'home', which is what a hotel becomes when I'm away on business and now I sit here writing in the room, in my little oasis of calm and safety, happy that next on my agenda is to hit the bathroom and then hit the sack. Next stop: breakfast!
It's now morning, 0618 to be precise, time for a shower and a shave and then breakfast. I won't go for a walk because it's all pretty unsavoury out there, nothing worth looking at other than a sex shop and there's nothing very appealing about it, not that I know, I just passed it by, as you do, whilst on the hunt for a restaurant. There was an old man peering through the window at the various appliances on display and I pitied his sorry soul.
The more I read about the district in which I am currently residing, the more I'm thinking twice about my nocturnal mooching last night. My local metro station is Lemonnier and there are bad things being said about the place and its surroundings online, mainly that it's dangerous and 'a Mediterranean district' of town peopled largely by North Africans. Knife attacks and theft are not unheard of round here and there appears to be some kind of argument going on about identifying certain districts of Brussels as 'Mediterranean'. The liberal David Weytsman has spoken about the unacceptability of dividing the city into districts by ethnicity in
an article in
Le Soir, which is roughly a year old. I'm rather glad that I'm travelling light and not hauling a massive suitcase behind me. I'm guessing you need to be nimble on your feet around here.
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| Chicken burger and sweet potato fries... |
Breakfast was good, but I didn't over indulge. I could have enjoyed frankfurters and mustard, vegetables, baked beans, mushrooms and scrambled egg, but I opted for a bowl of granola, a glass of real orange juice (they have a machine that squashes oranges so it's fresh and real and not concentrated) and a cinnamon tea, plus a tiny bread roll.
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| View from room 209, Mercure, Brussels |
A busy day lay ahead of me; instead of taking the metro from Lemonnier I was advised by the hotel receptionist to walk to Brussels Midi and get the train from there to Schuman. The walk back to Midi was very short, under five minutes, which made me wonder why it took me around double that on the way in. It's not a problem. Schuman, I think that's how you spell it, was further away than I thought but it was only a short walk from there to my destination. Soon the work was done and I headed back to Brussels Midi to catch the Eurostar, the 1252. But I missed it by around eight minutes. I knew I would because the seminar I attended ran over by 30 minutes thanks to a keen Chinese journalist asking too many questions, and then there was a problem on the trains, but I was rescheduled on the next train out and now I'm sitting in a restaurant across from the terminal. I've got to be back there by 1420hrs at the very latest - not a problem. Although that said, it's 1339hrs and I'm still sitting here typing this blogpost and editing it as I go along.
I've ordered home-made lasagne and a half litre bottle of Chaudfontaine mineral water and the restaurant is busy. The bill was 21 Euros, not bad. I'll be back in London by 4pm.
