Anyways, as I'm sure you're all aware I've tricked enough people into thinking I can handle an internship at the European Parliament to be rewarded with one this summer. This involved the ever-pleasant task of a ten-hour flight across the Atlantic, so I started into that Wednesday night. After the nightmare of my last trans-Atlantic flight (see previous post) there was nowhere to go but up. At least this one had a couple good in-flight movie options, i.e. Contraband. Damn good flick if you haven't seen it. Then again, they could film Marky Mark picking fucking azaleas for two hours and I'd still be on the edge of my seat watching it, so your mileage may vary. This time around I decide to slay the beast that is jet lag by not once closing my eyes until I'm settled in my hotel room. Cue ominous foreshadowing music here. I kill the rest of the air time with The Ides of March (also great) and various bullshit, fight through a couple brutal hours in Heathrow while my flight is delayed and finally make it to Brussels around 8 pm local time. There's maybe five minutes in my hotel room before I pass out, and with the state I'm in I sleep for a full twelve hours and awake feeling like a million bucks.
Just kidding. I wake up at 2 am after maybe five hours of shut-eye and scumbag brain decides that's it for rest. The next few hours are spent bent over my computer in a state that can only be loosely described as 'awake' before the breakfast buffet opens. This is seriously one of the perks of the parentals forcing me to book at the Marriott, as it's just outstanding. The importance of breakfast can hardly be overstated. Miss out on it and you might as well sit your ass down and go back to bed, because you've fucked yourself for the entire day. I am a firm believer that access to quality breakfast twenty-four hours a day is one of the hallmarks of the first world, but as this one's only available for five I make sure to hit it twice.
After this I make my way to the flat I'll be renting for the next two months. Let me take a moment to emphasize what a colossal achievement it is to lock down long-term accommodations in a city eight time zones removed from yours with barely two weeks of notice. My final living arrangements were only secured after fighting through endless Belgian Craiglist scams (no, I won't wire you 900 euros in advance, especially when you having the typing skills of a Nigerian prince) and an all-nighter calling across the pond again and again. So it's to my great relief when I finally show up at this place and the owner is the nice old Belgian lady she had claimed to be. The flat is classy, spacious and offers a panoramic view of Brussels. The woman I'm living with has been almost everywhere I have (and then some) and has an international relations degree. This could work out.
I get shit settled, get a tour of the neighbourhood and, despite the fact I've had five hours of sleep in the last 48 hours, decide to explore a bit. I hop on a train downtown and head in the general direction of the Old Town. I have little idea what I'm doing or where I'm going, but a couple random side streets later I stumble into the middle of Grand Place. I'll admit I'm usually into more exotic landmarks, but this one is nothing short of stunning. The picture really does it little justice. I gawk like a tourist for a few minutes and continue on. Still wandering without any real purpose, my thirst starts to catch up to me and I grab a streetside table at a random pub to explore the most important aspect of Belgium: the beer. The list here includes a number of the legendary Trappists, so obviously I dive right in.
Nothing could have possibly prepared me. My first choice, Orval, hits it out of the park. Light, flavorful and incredibly smooth, this is the kind of beer that makes you forget about your wife, kids and restraining order. Maybe Jesus did turn water into wine, but only because he wasn't able to turn it into Orval. I have a glass of Rochefort 10 next: equally superb, and Westmalle Triple falls only just short. It's now raining, I'm wearing shorts and the two Belgians I'm crammed between are doing their best to give me secondhand lung cancer, but I barely notice. I have entered a plane of Nirvana Gandhi himself could barely wrap his shriveled prune head around. Forget any earlier worries I had about being tempted to slam these like any normal beer: if you could even bring yourself to some sort of Belgian beer deity would kill you where you sat. In each you can taste only the faintest hint of alcohol, which is a damned good thing; it leaves room for a massive range of flavours I never knew beer could have. In the middle of this a guy ambles up and starts playing 'Hava Nagila' on accordion. The definition of happiness is written from ear to ear across my face. I think I am going to like Belgium very, very much.
Today was pretty low-key too. Walked around the European Union institutions a bit to kill some time until it was a more socially acceptable time to start expanding my hops horizons. Dipped back into the Rochefort pool, checked off my fourth amazing Trappist with Chimay Blue and added Duvel and the cherry-flavored Kriek to the tally. I haven't even made any friends yet and I've managed to get half-drunk by myslef in the most enjoyable way possible twice. I could write for years about these beers. I cut my wallet off and head home to start making other people jealous of these phenomenal brews.
PS I wish you could intravenous Belgian beers directly to my brain. Jesus fucking reptile Christ are they ever good.
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