There's a peculiar pleasure in walking around a city you've moved to literally hours ago and getting annoyed at all the tourists. "What are they doing here? Where do they come from? Why are they wandering around aimlessly taking photos?" I fumed as I wandered around aimlessly taking photos.
Our hotel is in the European Quarter, home of the parliament, where the business happens, the real Brussels. But ten minutes walk away is the Brussels of the postcards, of the ancient buildings, of the smelly crowds of visitors. I headed straight to the World Heritage site of the Grand Place to see if there was more to it than a boy having a wee.
I will admit, it's all very picturesque. After thirteen years in the States I consider anything built before the 1980s to be venerable and timeworn (like me) so the 15th Century townhall was nice to look at, as was the 12th Century church of St Nicholas beside it. The tiny, twisting cobbled streets are a welcome change from Houston's downtown freeways, although they are filled with tacky shops and bars catering to the tourist hoards. Ugh.
But after the unwashed masses have left, Brussels is having its own son et lumiere every night, where various artists have filled local landmarks with dazzling displays. We went tonight, and watched artificial fireflies dance while we stood underneath 20ft-high glowing flowers. Or maybe that was just a side effect of all the Belgian beer I've been drinking.
