Outtakes: Pastries in Brussels

Alas, I had to cut this from the book. When we were in Brussels, Lee wrote a guest post about my pastry problem. I'm not sure if he was feeling guilty (not that he should have) or just being the all-around good guy he is, but here's what happened the next morning:

Most mornings, I was the first to arise, but I move so slowly before breakfast that by the time I showered and got dressed and got my satchel ready for the day's explorations, Lee had already done the same, plus completed his daily reps of push-ups and stretches, and written a page or two of his work-in-progress, a space pirate opera.

This time, he hadn't waited around. Probably a wise move, I realized, given that my brain was starting up more slowly than usual. There turned out to be a second light show a half-hour or so after the first one, and shortly after that was done, a jazz band somewhere down the street struck up “The Girl From Impanema,” the horn section trying its best to drown out the rhythmically-challenged drummer in an epic battle of beats and noise. The clear losers were our ears and desire for sleep. So I had called in reinforcements as soon as the second show began, downing a couple of Tylenol PM pills and shoving some earplugs in until they practically tickled my tonsils. This appeared to have done the trick, perhaps too well. I stumbled to the bathroom, shooed the pigeons from the open window and slammed it shut, then stepped into the shower, letting the initial blast of ice water hit me full in the face.

When I emerged from the bathroom, Lee was sitting on his bed, writing. There was a yellow bakery bag on the desk a few feet away; the smell of fresh croissant perfumed the air. “Mornin',” he grinned. “I got something for you.”

“Feeding my addiction?”

“Might as well. Fighting it is clearly a lost cause.”

I have to confess to finding this very touching, but also a bit worrisome: Did I trust him—anyone—to select a pastry for me? It's a serious question. I have standards. Breaking bread together may be one of the most deeply-rooted symbols of friendship, but what if the bread turns out to be crap? A kind gesture turns into a deal-breaker, and then what do you do?

Still, when someone offers me a croissant, I will not turn it down, even if I will immediately start thinking of potential diversions, should I need to spit it out.

I needn't have worried. I should have known, by this point, to trust Lee. The croissant was hot and flaky and gooey and delicious. We planned our day as we ate, spilling crumbs all over the map.

Friday flicks: a UNESCO World Heritage Site, a light show, and/or the apocalypse

Here's what Frommer has to say about the Grand Place in Brussels:

It's a spectacular sight: I know of none other in Europe to equal it. ... This is a square whose only buildings are the ancient and untouched Guild Halls of the Middle Ages. Each is festooned with a brilliantly-colored flag, and the cornices of the buildings are covered in pure gold leaf. Stand in this square, and you will be thrillingly transported to the world of Breughel and Van Eyck, of Rubens and Rembrandt. 

He's right: the Grand Place is indeed spectacular, if mildly overwhelming in its Gothic grandeur. I half-expected a fanfare of trumpets to fill the air as Lee and I stepped into the sprawling square, or to catch a glimpse of a ghostly regiment of medieval soldiers on white steeds lining up in formation in front of City Hall. The whole space seems to echo with history and import and opulence in such a powerful, hypnotic way that you can't help but feel majestic and important yourself. You might be sitting on a curb, eating a Belgian waffle, but that is one epic waffle. Your paper plate suddenly looks like silver. The busker a ways down the sidewalk? He's your personal musician, a member of your High Court, retained purely to entertain you as you feast. It's good to be Tourist King.

This is, in short, an impressive place. No wonder it's a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

So why, I ask you, do they feel the need to liven it up with LOUD, SCARY LIGHT SHOWS?

Lee and I were staying in a hostel mere steps off the Grand Place. We were settling in for an early bedtime (okay, Lee was doing that; I was compiling my notes) at about 10 p.m. our first night in Brussels, when we heard an earth-shattering blast of Wagner-or-something--the sort of ominous and over-the-top opera music played during the opening frames of Hollywood battle scenes, as the army of bad guys appears on the horizon. The music seemed to be on an endless crescendo, the intensity and volume rising with each passing minute. It was terrifying. We looked out the window for the Four Horseman of the Apocalypse but saw nothing. Arming ourselves with, um, pens--we're writers, after all--we went outside to investigate. This is what we found on the Grand Place (for the full effect, turn your speaker to 11, then put a megaphone in front of it and put your ear in front of the megaphone):



(Just watch ten or twenty seconds to get a feel for it; the spectacle doesn't translate to video very well, and my hand was less than perfectly steady, so there's really no reason to watch the entire video.)

Manneken-Pis and the meaning of celebrity

As mentioned previously, Brussels has a famous statue called Manneken-Pis. It's basically the national icon; they're very proud of it.

So what is it, exactly? Why, a statue of a nude toddler urinating in public. Hence the "Pis" part of the name--he's a fountain, you see. As one tourist brochure I saw put it, "a small and absurd symbol for a small and absurd country."

At the City Museum of Brussels, they have a large section on Manneken-Pis, which includes a selection of some of the 700-plus outfits that he's had. That's right: they dress him up. You know, for holidays . . . or just for the hell of it. There's an outfit for pretty much every country in the world--Tunisia, Malaysia, Tahiti: congrats, you're in the club. Also, naturally, an Elvis outfit. And bear in mind that all of these outfits have to be specially-made to fit his proportions and account for the fact that his left arm is forever clutching his, er, Pis-ing unit.

There's also the requisite video, which explains his history and symbolism, none of which I remember right off hand because all of this new knowledge was washed from my mind by the footage that follows, which features a large crowd singing and toasting the wee whizzer. They look so proud of him. It's kind of jaw-dropping.

Lee: Manneken-Pis doesn't interest me. What I do find fascinating is that so many other people find him so interesting.

Doug: He's a celebrity. Famous for being famous.

Lee: Right. The original tabloid star. He achieves notoriety through a scandalous act, and then everyone talks about him. Forever. He's like Paris Hilton, but with less artificial bronzer.

He needs help, people!

I know that a few of you are aware of Doug's problem, but to the rest of you I know this will come as something of a shock. Doug is completely addicted to pastries. Croissants, danishes, strudels, waffles, tarts, crullers, anything. Did you notice how many he'd eaten in his recent by the numbers post? That's over a span of less than six days, mind you.

Just yesterday as we strolled towards the Grand Place here in Brussels I noticed I'd lost Doug. Realizing we had just pasted a bakery, I returned to find Doug in line.

"You just ate a sandwich and a croissant not twenty minutes ago," I said.

Doug smiled and ignored me and proceeded to rattle off the name of his desired pastry in what sounded to me like perfect French. Nevermind that he can't translate graffiti for me when I want him to, when it comes to ordering pastries, the man might as well be a local.

It's become sadly clear to me that something must be done. I would call on all of you to aid me in planning an intervention, but I think we all know that the dangers of pastry withdraw make this impossible. What begins with the shakes often ends in bloodshed.

So I've decided that the best and safest option is simply to get together and fully fund his craving until we can medically treat the issue. Donations in all currencies will be accepted by the E5BD office. Your donation will also go to assure that I have a chance to eat another two or three of the chocolate covered waffles sold here in Brussels, which I have it on good authority are known by the locals as "tourist crack."

If it's Tuesday . . .

. . . this must be Belgium.

And so it is. We have (collectively) become a cliché.

Um . . . yay?

Not-So-Flattering Views of Famous Places: Manneken Pis

Brussels, Belgium