Some Belle Gens Visit Brussles

In accordance with my most fervent wish, to set my feet on as many parts of Europe as possible, without having to travel very long or for very much money, I journeyed with the dear squire Henderson, and his journeyman Elan Bechor, to Brussels, capital of Europe, seat of the world.

We rode together on the same fire-tempered steed the dear squire Henderson once rode from Amsterdam: Eurolines - "THE BEST ride in Europe FOR UNDER 40 euro." We thought to arrive early to the bus station, perhaps to manger a croissant and cafe as we looked out upon the bounty of Gare D'Est. But it was for not, as the once glorious Gare D'Est has become banlieu-ized [a word which figuratively means ghettoized, but literally means suburbanized). The only thing we could find was a strange peasant bakery that served several varieties of a pauper pastry which they call "Paul." We tried to order several of these "Pauls," but alas, it was for not. Their peasant dialect was too unsophisticated to understand our simple request, "Je voudrais un Paul, s'il vous plait."

The aphetamated turk who drove the our bus struggled mightily against Friday traffic, but it was for not. Our arrival in Brussles was much delayed, and it was nearly nightfall when we arrived. The turk, possibly in violation of our ticket agreement, deposited us in a deserted parking lot with no train station in sight. Alone, cold, and confused in a city we knew not; we wandered aimlessly; Flemish street signs with words like "Velcome!" and "Main Straat" meaning nothing to us. By sheer luck we managed to find our hotel, Hotel De France, positioned appropriately next to a gay strip joint called "The 3000 Club."

Our logging was ample, as is fitting for men of our stature. We drop our bags and set off for the heart of the city. As we walk to the center of the city it slowly dawns on us that the flowing script on all the businesses could not be either Flemish, or Dutch, and that the burka was not known to us to be a traditionally Belgian garb. Henderson's journeyman remarks, "Hey guys, I think our hotel is in the Arab quarter."

Just then we hear a deafening crack from the next street over, as if a thousand sticks had just hit flesh in unison. The air is soon filled with the disparate cries of a thousand men suffering together through religious ecstacy. And then a still silence, as if a great horde had just together swallowed its collective breath. And then the thousand "whack" fills the air again.

Henderson asks, "What the hell is that?"
"I'm not sure" I said, ". . . the only thing it reminds me of is this video I saw of Shi'ite's celebrating a religious holiday when they hit themselves."
"Jesus . . . you think this is Ashura!" - Yes, Ashura, the day of remembrance of the great fallen martyr Ali, grandson of Muhammad, and a well-known excuse for Shi'ites zealots to act completely fucking insane.
Henderson asks, "It sounds like it's just over there," there in this case being the street just over. After some debate, we decide to go and check out what's happening. But just as we set out, suddenly the sound disappears. Without the sound, we have no way to track down the source, so we give up the chase. But I think we all know what happened: the thousand crazed Arabs saw a plucky cadre of three Gaulic crusaders, and knew it had met its match.

After this endeavor, we wandered around downtown a bit and grabbed dinner. Considering the various gastronomic alternatives, we finally settled on Thai food. Henderson's journeyman, always adventerous, tried something called "Pad Sieuw with Chicken," while Henderson got "Pad Thai." For my part, I ordered a spicy fish dish, which it turned out was actually an entire fish, complete with bones, skin, and cold dead eye staring out at me. The fish was excellent, although after a good long stare at the fish's eye I became sufficiently disgusted so as to decide to take a hiatus from fish of indeterminate length.

After dinner we wander around, hoping to find a meager watering hole in which we could perhaps find some beer, if they have it in this country. Not five minutes later we find something called "Cafe Kafka" and venture into it. The air is so thick with smoke that I cough for the first five minutes I'm there. The beer is extremely cheap, the people in the cafe jaded 40 somethings, teeth gnarled and warped by years of engaging in lavish spectacles of Belgian debauchery. We drink pint after pint of Hazelnutpastaverkenbeer, by we I refer to myself and squire Henderson, of course, for he did not wish to expose the dear boy to such extravagances too early.

We left the cafe, stumbling over the world-worn Belgian streets. Off in the distance we hear a pulsating sound, and as we approach our hostel we realize that also we are approaching the sound as well. We think to ourselves, what could it be, Flemish Grunge? Belgian Grindhouse? Technopolka? But no, something was wrong, the texture, the flavor of the song, somehow familiar. It was as if someone had already called on our behalf so that it could be made juicy for us. Henderson's jounreyman asks, "Are they playing lollipop?" Indeed, they were.

We have to climb over an embankment to get to the source of the sound. Just as we mount the rise, we hear the sound change to the familiar "Denh, denh, den, dun, denh" of Temperature by Sean Paul. Now with a clear view we survey the scene. Underneath the train tracks of the central train station in Brussles, were six cars taken directly from the Fast in the Furious Series. All six cars were playing the music in unisoon, while around the cars were the gyrating forms of a thousand incensed Brazilians. The people who owned the cars were clearly scary motherfuckers, enormous men, with entourages. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and urine. Cops, nowhere in sight. Apparently they'd learned whose town this was.

After soaking in a bit of the debauchery we went to bed. We woke up bright and early, saw the Atomium, and a bunch of other shit too I'm guessing, but now I have no time to finish the tale.