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Back to my first international flight for
SIA, after two delightful nights in Zürich (remember I was brand-new to
Switzerland), we then launched for Brussels, Belgium, on 27th August 1987. After a short one hour and six-minute flight,
we arrived at Brussels National Airport (Brussel-Zaventem) situated 6.9 miles northeast of the
city.
I found Brussels to be a modern, well laid
out airport with three long runways, each possessing an ILS, able to handle
747s. The taxiways were equally well
planned, allowing us to easily locate our parking gate. In short, from a pilot’s perspective,
Brussels was a pleasant international airport to get in and out of.
Unlike the nightmare of Charles de
Gaulle outside Paris, dear reader, which I’ll fill you in on later.
SIA seemed to be using Brussels as a brief
transit stop.
As for
the following five years, I’d only layover one night every four to five
months. Which prevented me from really
exploring either Brussels or Belgium.
All during the flight here, John kept
rubbing his hands together and mumbling, “Oh boy...I‘m on my way to Brussels
for mussels.“
He was practically drooling, dear reader. As a lad growing up in California, I remember seeing clumps of mussels lining the pilings of the Port of Los Angeles at San Pedro - one of the world’s highly polluted harbors – where city waste and various ships‘ bilges were being dumped.
And of course all of this
pollution washed across, and was filtered by, the mussels. Forgive me for being such a little girl...but
Christ Almighty...there’s no way of telling what type of pollution mussels
contain! Thus I’ve always abhorred
consuming these creatures. John couldn’t
possibly be serious.
John plopped me down at his favorite
restaurant in Brussels, and the first thing he ordered was Moules-frites: mussels cooked or steamed with celery and onions;
served with potato fries.
They
were brought to him steaming in a large iron bucket, dear reader, and were huge
and green-lipped. It was a struggle not
to retch as I watched John wolf them down.
I, on the other hand, ordered the Carbonade flamande: a thick beef stew
similar to the French Beef Bourguignon, except
made with beer instead of red wine. This
came with fat-succulent fries also, and, as I understand it, the French and
Belgians are still contesting who invented the potato fry. In any event the
stew was excellent, and the fries far superior to McDonald‘s.
Both John and I washed our respective
suppers down with a popular local blonde ale called “Duvel“ (Devil).
For desert we both had coffee and a
fabulous Belgian waffle piled high with strawberries and whipped cream. Oh yes, the Belgians are known for their waffles,
as well as different blood sausages, which I kept observing stacked coils of on
display in shop windows.
You
can have the blood sausages, dear reader; another item which retches my
stomach.
Later John led me to the corner of Rue de L’Etuve and Stroofstraat, to a fountain built in 1619 with a statue of a chubby,
naked, lilliputian boy pissing in the fountain.
He’s referred to as the Manneken
Pis; tourists flock to it hoping to get a photo of themselves in front of
it. Even Rowan Atkinson (Mr. Bean) has
been snapped mugging with the chubby, pissing cherub.
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