Day 7: How about I buy you a drink today, and you buy me a drink tomorrow?
Had a good night's sleep in the hostel bed. Since I had found a nearby laundromat while scoutingthe area yesterday, I reserved a portionn of today for doing laundry. Matt & Cam got up at abput the same time I did with a mission of sights, chocolae, and beer, and went off to execute on their plans. Meanwhile, Ken and I returned to Le Drink for morning beverages, eventually ordering lunch since we stayed so long. I had Toast Mediterenéen (€6) which was ham, tomato, mozzarella, and oregano on toast.
Like clockwork, every 20 minutes a kid of about 10 would come up to our table and ask for money. Ken was quick to invent new ways of telling them to get stuffed. A local couple at the table next to us explained that they are tasked to do this by their fathers and are all Romanians -- I wonder if he meant to say Rromany (gypsies).
Mid-afternoon rolled around and I took my dirty-clothes-laden pack to thde laundromat. Despite there being no private corner of the laundromat -- the walls at each end had large picture windows -- since nobody else was there initially I got as secluded as I could and dropped trou to exchange my jeans for shorts. When my laundry cycles were finished, though, there were half a dozon people sitting around and I instead walked back out to he street with the unenviable fashion statement of a red polo shirt, blue athletic shorts, and brown shoes.
When I returned, Ken was sitting on a bench outside the hostel, chatting up a tall, slender Canadian named Calais. Ken was about to leave to go off to the Alps, so I offered to fund dinner for the somewhat impoverished traveler Calais, when an appropriate dinner hour aproached. I wished Ken well after he collected his baggage, including a massive backpack containing his paraglider and his clothing.
After a short hydration break, I went on a little tourist's excusrion, not for all the big stuff necessarily, but I walked around the skyscraper blocks to get some pictures ofthem and of the sculptures between them. I then heaed the opposite direction because there was a park on the map called Place de Jeu de Balls, and I was curoius to see if it was a big sand pit where old men gathered to play jeu de boules or pétanque. Walking though miles of ghetto and finding some murals along the way, I was somewhat disappointed that my destination was just a plaza of brickwork with a tiny statue in the center. The statue itself was neat, though.
On my way back, I found a skatepark at the point where the trains go underground, and tried to cross the language barrier enough to give a kid a sticker to mug for the camera. I walked back past the Mannekin Pis (possibly the most inexplicable tourist attraction in Europe) and through Grand Place during the day for different views.
Returning to the hostel, I went to the break room and saw Calais there eating tomato soup. She stated disinterest in beer and implied disinterest in being in my company on the town overall. Not long after, I heard Ken's voice at reception and walked over to find him there when he was supposed to be on a train to Germany. He never got on the train because his bag containing his passport, tickets, laptop, and journal was stolen at the train station when an accomplice of the thief approached him to bum a cigarette. This prompted him to quit smoking effective immediately.
We headed back to Le Drink to have a few beers; through context we figured out that the waitress who has been serving us every time we were here knows more English than she's letting on. As Ken is ranting about theill effects of smoking, we notice a guy sitting alone at another table listening to our conversation. We invite him to our table, and discover that he is not just a local but an interesting person overall. Bilul (his name) is from Brussels but ethnically Moroccan. He speaks Arabic, English, French, Flemish, and I think Spanish but my meory is hazy on the last one. He has a degree in hotel management but is basically a bartender in his current position.
Trying to keep Ken's mind off of nicotine, the three of us went back to Grand Place in search of Calais and her friend. We didn't find her but we got to see the light show again -- Bilul said that he has seen a different show in the past, and this is the first time he's seen this one -- then go get kebabs from one of the kebab places on every block. Bilul explained to us that the prevalence of beggars (and they are everywhere) is because immigration is not strongly enforced in Belgium. Plenty of the people in Brussels are there without papers.
Finally we hit a bar on a nice square full of places with sidewalk tables. I found an open access point and booked my ticket to Paris on Thalys while people with no English skills are asking me about my laptop. Fortunately I met Quentin, a bilingual guy with a guitar stapped to his back, who was able to interpret for me. The bar closed soon thereafter and we all headed off to our respective beds.
Like clockwork, every 20 minutes a kid of about 10 would come up to our table and ask for money. Ken was quick to invent new ways of telling them to get stuffed. A local couple at the table next to us explained that they are tasked to do this by their fathers and are all Romanians -- I wonder if he meant to say Rromany (gypsies).
Mid-afternoon rolled around and I took my dirty-clothes-laden pack to thde laundromat. Despite there being no private corner of the laundromat -- the walls at each end had large picture windows -- since nobody else was there initially I got as secluded as I could and dropped trou to exchange my jeans for shorts. When my laundry cycles were finished, though, there were half a dozon people sitting around and I instead walked back out to he street with the unenviable fashion statement of a red polo shirt, blue athletic shorts, and brown shoes.
When I returned, Ken was sitting on a bench outside the hostel, chatting up a tall, slender Canadian named Calais. Ken was about to leave to go off to the Alps, so I offered to fund dinner for the somewhat impoverished traveler Calais, when an appropriate dinner hour aproached. I wished Ken well after he collected his baggage, including a massive backpack containing his paraglider and his clothing.
After a short hydration break, I went on a little tourist's excusrion, not for all the big stuff necessarily, but I walked around the skyscraper blocks to get some pictures ofthem and of the sculptures between them. I then heaed the opposite direction because there was a park on the map called Place de Jeu de Balls, and I was curoius to see if it was a big sand pit where old men gathered to play jeu de boules or pétanque. Walking though miles of ghetto and finding some murals along the way, I was somewhat disappointed that my destination was just a plaza of brickwork with a tiny statue in the center. The statue itself was neat, though.
On my way back, I found a skatepark at the point where the trains go underground, and tried to cross the language barrier enough to give a kid a sticker to mug for the camera. I walked back past the Mannekin Pis (possibly the most inexplicable tourist attraction in Europe) and through Grand Place during the day for different views.
Returning to the hostel, I went to the break room and saw Calais there eating tomato soup. She stated disinterest in beer and implied disinterest in being in my company on the town overall. Not long after, I heard Ken's voice at reception and walked over to find him there when he was supposed to be on a train to Germany. He never got on the train because his bag containing his passport, tickets, laptop, and journal was stolen at the train station when an accomplice of the thief approached him to bum a cigarette. This prompted him to quit smoking effective immediately.
We headed back to Le Drink to have a few beers; through context we figured out that the waitress who has been serving us every time we were here knows more English than she's letting on. As Ken is ranting about theill effects of smoking, we notice a guy sitting alone at another table listening to our conversation. We invite him to our table, and discover that he is not just a local but an interesting person overall. Bilul (his name) is from Brussels but ethnically Moroccan. He speaks Arabic, English, French, Flemish, and I think Spanish but my meory is hazy on the last one. He has a degree in hotel management but is basically a bartender in his current position.
Trying to keep Ken's mind off of nicotine, the three of us went back to Grand Place in search of Calais and her friend. We didn't find her but we got to see the light show again -- Bilul said that he has seen a different show in the past, and this is the first time he's seen this one -- then go get kebabs from one of the kebab places on every block. Bilul explained to us that the prevalence of beggars (and they are everywhere) is because immigration is not strongly enforced in Belgium. Plenty of the people in Brussels are there without papers.
Finally we hit a bar on a nice square full of places with sidewalk tables. I found an open access point and booked my ticket to Paris on Thalys while people with no English skills are asking me about my laptop. Fortunately I met Quentin, a bilingual guy with a guitar stapped to his back, who was able to interpret for me. The bar closed soon thereafter and we all headed off to our respective beds.