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 |    Not for the faint of art. |
| Even on the TGV, it takes a while to get from Lyon to Brussels. Worst, Brussels wasn't my actual destination; I had to hop on an intercity train to Bruges. Those trains are open seating and run frequently; they're more like NYC subways than what I'd expect from intercity (IC) trains, only without the piss, buskers, and giant Saks sacks. Well, I guess technically, they're more like NJT trains, but more people know the subway. Anyway, I was concerned about time, because I had to be at a certain statue at 6:30 pm or I'd miss a beer tour (and of course I couldn't let that happen under any circumstances). So I ran to catch an earlier IC train, which I barely did because the TGV was late getting to Brussels. Then, once in Bruges, I had to get to the hotel even though the meeting place was kind of between the station and the hotel, because who schleps travel bags on a beer tour? You'd think I'd have learned my lesson back in Tours, but, apparently, we ugly Americans just won't take a hint. Once again, the hotel was 1600 meters from the train station. Once again, the terrain between was mostly flat. And once again, I cursed every single goddamn cobblestone in Europe. I got to the hotel at 6, exhausted. My left knee is still wonky, and so is my right ankle. Of course it can't be one leg; it's gotta be both so I can limp with every step instead of just half of them. Now, the hotel is older than European colonization of America (unless you count the Norse incursion, which I don't because they didn't make a lasting colony), so it has a few... interesting features. One of them is an abundance of stairs. Another is that, in order to get to my room, I had to take an elevator up one floor (or carry bags up a spiral staircase, which, well, no) then walk down a hallway, up a ramp, bounce up two steps, take a few twists and turns, and then get on a separate elevator to take me up half a floor. At least the hotel has been retrofitted with electricity. I barely had time to throw the bags in my room before I had to turn around and make my way to the statue. One of the streets on the way was called Steenstraat. Now, I don't know very much Dutch, I'm afraid, but "steen" and "straat" are two words that I am familiar with: Stone Street. Even without bags, cobblestones are a pain in the ass. When I got there, the guide was waiting impatiently, tapping his foot. Apparently, he'd messaged me to meet at 6 instead of 6:30. I'd never gotten any such message. Fortunately, his English was excellent, and I showed him that no, I'd received nothing. Unfortunately, the reason he'd wanted to meet earlier was that the best beer places closed at 7, and now we wouldn't have enough time. All that running and stumbling on cobblestones... all of that... for nothing. Well, not completely nothing. We agreed to try again for Sunday at 2:30. And the guide pointed me at a nearby restaurant which he said was good. Now, I'm pretty sure it's the law in Belgium for every restaurant to be good, but in this case, he was definitely right. I managed to hit the entire Belgian flag  in one dinner: Beer, chocolate, and waffles. And meatballs for the main course, but meatballs aren't on the flag. All, incidentally, delivered to the table by a Japanese nekorobot . No, seriously. This thing had cat ears and a screen with an animated cat face. I felt like I was in a Black Mirror episode. Or at least Doctor Who. I should write a book: Cobblestones and Advanced Robotics: A Study In Contrasts.Oddly enough, even though the beer I had was very local to Bruges, I'd had it before; somehow, a keg had made its way to my hometown in 2021, and, as I keep meticulous beer-drinking records (okay, it's an app), I was able to determine that I'd sampled it back then. Of course, I didn't mind drinking it again, and there are plenty of other beers here that never make it out of the EU, so it's not like I wasted the trip. I could have done without all the quaint fucking cobblestones, though.  |
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