Belgium!
 

Spoiler: No Brussels or Bruges (been there). Instead, Dinant, Ghent, and Leuven.

The Occasion (not that one is needed to travel…)
DD’s final T&F tournament, co-hosted by the two big international schools in Brussels/Waterloo. DH and I added two days at the front end for sightseeing.

Airlines and Lodging
Brussels Airlines. The flag carrier is among the ranks of those who even charge for water on board. My sickness bag had several pieces of used chewing gum inside. Ewww. That DH had a little more legroom than usual is the only extraordinary note. Our outbound was a quick 1:25. The wait at the baggage carousel was 1:00.

DD flew out a day later. The team’s 0925 flight was canceled (naturally after the team arrived bright and early at VIE). They were rebooked on two puddle jumpers from VIE to FRA to BRU. The team had to wait for their baggage, as well.

Overall we give Brussels Airlines a solid, meh.

Citadines Saint Catherine. What you get when you start planning the trip three days beforehand. A perfectly acceptable one-bedroom in an odd combination of lime green and grey colors. Wonderfully clean, but with a sensitive bathroom switch that required (up to 10) gentle pushes to function.

The story begins…
With a little time before takeoff we sat for breakfast at the Jamie Oliver restaurant at VIE. DH ordered the “Higher Welfare Bacon & Eggs” (whatever that means) and I ordered a dish lacking “higher welfare.” We clinked our Prosecco flutes to one last European getaway.*

Upon arrival into Brussels, DH proceeded to the car rental while I waited and waited, and waited for our bag, the empty conveyor taunting everyone as it went around and around. At one point the conveyor stopped moving altogether, and the gasp of defeat from me and my fellow passengers was audible.

Eventually DH rang to inform me that because the rental was in my name (damn you, Expedia and your autofill), the clerk would neither change the name nor talk to me on the phone to move the reservation along. I finally caught up with DH, explained to the clerk that I would not be the driver, and asked again if could we just change the name on the reservation.

That’s when the situation went flat-out strange.

The clerk (15? 22? Hard to tell beneath the heavy layer of face spackle): “I am not going to rent to you” with her sass-infused French accent.

“Excuse me?”

“You are not going to be the driver, so I can not rent the car to you.”

DH: “Can I be added as the driver?”

Ms. Sass: “No.”

DH: “Is there a manager I can speak to?”

Ms. Sass: “No.”

(Now, it is legend that DH has lost his temper exactly once in his five decades on the planet. Apparently it was witnessed by DH’s brother in the taxi on the day before our wedding, when the two were stuck in a Friday afternoon Chicago traffic jam that caused DH to miss all but the last couple of minutes of our wedding rehearsal.)

Make that twice. DH calmly and firmly (though I could spy little tufts of steam rising from his head) explained to Ms. Sass that she should simply add his name and proceed with the reservation.

Ms. Sass replied, “I am going to cancel your reservation. You are treating me like a dog.”

At this point we both stared at her, dumbfounded and speechless. A full minute or two later she said, “Fine. I will add your name to the reservation.” (At a cost of €10/day, naturally.)

Again, naturally, the class of vehicle we had reserved was not available, so we ended up with some for-the-masses Crossover with way too many sensors. Thirty minutes later at least we had a car. Thanks to friendly Fodorites suggestions, “the plan” was to have lunch and sightsee in Namur, then head to Dinant for the balance of the day. The GPS in the car lacked the ability to detect traffic or construction detours, a “feature” we learned upon arriving in Namur and not being able to access a parking garage of interest.

We also learned that Belgian drivers are impatient. Tres impatient. Routinely we were flashed, and occasionally horned, for driving at the posted tempo in the middle or right lane. Quelle horror. The abuse was worse (think finger and hand gestures) when we drove the reduced tempo in construction zones.

Pronouncing our effort to park in Namur a bust, we routed to the N92 along the River Meuse toward Dinant. Calmer than the Belgian autobahn, but not lacking for impatient drivers. The route is terribly scenic, so numerous photo stops were added. By this time, though, we were nearing the confluence of the Hangries and the Mittagspause. Charming roadside restaurant after charming roadside restaurant was either closed, or soon to be closed.

Then, saved by the Wépion Maxi-Frites! With its cases of various Frikadellen (and Filipino Lumpia?) a little overwhelming for we first-timers, I approached the Order Taker with, “Parlez-vous anglais?” and was met with, in English, “Are you lost?”

After DH and I stopped chuckling, I explained that we were on holiday and heading to Dinant. The OT went on for several minutes about how his father (a petrochemical engineer) often travels to America, and how it was his dream to go to America one day. And, that is was not common to see Americans “in these parts.” Explains the question.

The OT described the ordering process at length to us; we chose to leave the Frikadellen (and Frites sauces) decisions in his capable hand and before long had a plastic tray brimming with deep fried tubes of meat; something flat that looked like a SPAM McRib; five little tubs of sauce (Tartare, mayo, “Andalouse” curry, and “Bicky Hot Sauce,” the latter two being my preferred) and enough Frites to blow our annual carb budget. Oh, and a Hoegaarden for me, Maredsous for DH. Interesting, mostly tasty food (the SPAM McRib must be an acquired taste), and great beers.

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With a carefully-wrapped bundle of leftover Frites, and two cartons of roadside Wèpion strawberries (Belgium’s Best Berries!), it was on to Dinant.

Funny, Fourfortravel. And a pretty accurate description of driving in Belgium, unfortunately.
The chance that you get a speeding ticket is pretty slim, so everyone drives too fast. Then they go over the border to the Netherlands or France and are SHOCKED at the number of traffic violations they manage to collect on a single trip...

Getting hungry looking at these frites and snacks. We try not to eat to much of that stuff.

Autofill is a browser setting, not an Expedia one. The rental agent isn't allowed to rent a car to a driver not named on the reservation.

Hi Fourfortravel, enjoying your TR, keep it coming!

About Belgian traffic: It was not that many years ago - maybe 30 - 35 years ago - that there were no drivers' licences in Belgium, so a certain driving culture developed, and that is typical of the driving experience now - a wild ride! But worse in big cities!

Lavandula

Does the 'higher welfare' perhaps relate to how free-range the eggs and pork are?

Lavandula

Welfare and food standards, as well as sustainability and waste, happy chickens and pigs in clean living conditions. I can't eat most meat in the US, just horrible conditions and all the roundup and chemicals freak me out. I look for pasta from Italy even. Ballymaloe farm made my heart sing.

Thank you, everyone for your comments.

Odin. I think something flubbed in Expedia's system. I listed DH as the driver; the credit card used to pay for the rental was mine, so somehow I became the driver.

Lavandula. There were no drivers licenses in Belgium once upon a time? That explains so, so much.

Macross: I hear you. When we lived in the U.S. we were selective with our meat consumption, as well.

It appears my attempt at snark (re: "higher welfare") fell flat. Apologies. I know to what the phrase refers; I had intended to gripe about the fact that in our current time one must have the "Positionality" to be "Woke" to that "everything" has to be "something:" "Socially Conscious;" "Fair Trade;" "Sustainable;" and so forth to the point of over saturation and perhaps even bordering on propaganda.

>"everything" has to be "something:" "Socially Conscious;" "Fair Trade;" "Sustainable;" and so forth to the point of over saturation and perhaps even bordering on propaganda.

No, you are right, everything has a label, and it's expected for certain items or they don't have cred without it. But interesting that they don't just say, 'free range', if that is what they mean to impute. 'Higher welfare' implies to me that it may be one rung off cage eggs but not as good as 20,000 chickens per hectare. Worth paying for?

Lavandula

Well, dipping in here to confess to more confusion --

What in the world is a "for the masses" crossover? I mean, I know what a crossover auto is, but the "for the masses" is a blank.

s

swandav, haha. "For the masses" is my term for myriad of vehicles (in this case, Crossovers) that are indistinguishable to me by make and model. Certain vehicles catch my attention; for example, the parent at DD's school who drives a Bentley SUV. For the most part, though, all the rest of the vehicles I drive amongst, my own included, are "for the masses."

Exactly. The word salad surrounding "conscious" consumption is mind boggling. "Higher Welfare" slips right into the boggling.

Dinant

A charmer. After a cloudy start to the afternoon, the sunshine made the town sparkle. We easily secured a parking space, grabbed two cones (chocolate and raspberry), and wandered about. Obnoxious selfie-takers had commandeered much of the Charles de Gaulle bridge, though I was able to slide in between for photos. We did not take the gondola to the Citadel; bird's-eye views are not really our thing.

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The “Dinant Footprints” along the streets in theory honor music legends and lead to the giant saxophone of Adolph Sax, the inventor of...I’m sure you can guess. All well and good; except some of the footprints were the size of a small child. Something to ponder.

Leaving Dinant we followed the same route in return to our lodging, the late afternoon light making me and my camera quite happy. Crossing into the Brussels city limits we had our first experience with urban driving maniacs. By comparison Viennese drivers are equally as impatient; however, when they determine that you have stopped traffic flow for a reason (for example, DH stopping at the lodging for me to alight, as the street was narrow and there was no place to turn in) they wait. With patience. Not so the Belgians. Not only were we horned and flashed, but someone a couple of cars behind actually rolled down his window and shouted something not-very-nice at me in French!

Across the street from our lodging a large festival was taking place in the square; we spied trucks and smelled the grill goodness. Dinner! Um, No. The clerk informed us that the festival was a celebration of vegan foods. Thank goodness we had picked up a Poulet Roti on the way into Brussels. With a bottle of wine from the nearby Carrefour and the Frites, we enjoyed a simple supper before calling it a night.

:lol:

s

We had heard about the infamous Belgian drivers before our trip a few years back. We must have been lucky as we didn't find them out of the ordinary, maybe driving in NYC for years made us immune, ha! But the rule of drivers from the right have the right of way in towns was hard, and nervewracking, to get used to.

We had planned to spend our final day visiting Namur and Dinant but a full day of rain made us change our plans. I wish we could have gone.

The Belgian driving license was introduced in 1968 (51 yrs ago). In the beginning - I have my license since 1973 - driving lessons and a theory test was all there was to do. The road test came into force in 1978.

Thank you for the correction!

Lavandula

Enjoying your TR! Thanks!

Ghent

Even more charming! Over supper on the previous evening we decided on the Flanders city rather than attempting a combo of perhaps Tournai and Mons, or Tournai and Lille. Driving in Belgium was not quite the Fahrvergnügen it is in Austria, so if we could park the Crossover and be done with it for the day, so much the better.

The Ghent tourism page spoke of a Sunday Flea Market. I am always up for a wander through household leftovers in search of something whimsical that I did not know I needed. The flea market was a little oversold, though and I came away with nothing. Our next destination, the Castle of the Counts, however, was the opposite. We absolutely loved touring the castle and taking in the views.


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Continuing, we picked up a small package of “Ghent Noses,” or Cuberdon for DD on our way to lunch. We found Brasserie Bridge and a table outside on this warm but breezy day, the Ghent Belfry and St. Bavo’s our scenery. DH ordered a Steak Bearnaise, much to his liking; and I, the Flemish Beef Stew, equally as tasty and with a lovely presentation. The breeze on this day was quite something—several of the lighter salad pieces on our plates blew away!

Following our lunch, St. Bavo’s. WOW! The church’s interior is eye-candy for the conventional tourist and an architectural splendor for others, though the interior space was surprisingly empty of visitors. And as is our luck, the famed, “Lamb of God” altarpiece was not available for viewing. DH and I laughed: it is not a holiday for us if something important is not either under scaffolding or otherwise unavailable for viewing.

We departed Ghent in the late afternoon in search of a nearby American cemetery in “Flanders Fields.” A “Family Bike Ride” event in our town of choice had blocked access to the cemetery road, alas. Though we did see plenty of cows (and a few poppies), we were unable to reach the cemetery proper. Admitting defeat, we slogged through a miserable drive back to our lodging, and foraged amongst the offerings at the nearby Carrefour for something we could name as, “supper.”

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Tournament Time, Leuven, and the Terrifying Drive Home

With 575 student athletes from 12 schools competing, though co-hosted by ISB and St. John’s, the T&F events were held outside of Brussels at an athletic club. Driving out to the club on Monday morning we stared at the Moscow-style traffic heading into Brussels—easily 15km in length. A number of police escorts for the EC MPs and other self-appointed important people added to the jumble, and we both decided we would hate to live in Brussels.

Day 1 of the tournament was spectacular. The sun shone; the temperatures were mild; and the athletic club canteen allowed parents to run a tab. How awesome is that? Not knowing what to expect, we packed a picnic; as it turned out, the two schools had several grills in operation, though with the number of hungry students there was always a lengthy queue. DD placed 1st in her two field events, Triple Jump and High Jump, and setting a new school record with the former!

Mother Nature was not so kind on Day 2, dropping the morning temperature by 10 degrees and periodically dispensing sheets of rain, sunshine, and everything but locusts. Needless to write, no records were broken. With a gap of time between DD’s running events, and on the suggestion of a local parent, we went to Leuven for a little sightseeing and some lunch.

Leuven was a delight! The Gothic town hall is nothing short of impressive with its 236 statues! Equally worth the time was St. Peter’s Church; though the corresponding museum is closed for renovation works, their Flemish Primitive “Last Supper” was on display. We are not up on Flemish Primitive art, so we took it as gospel (pun intended) that the painting was a masterpiece.

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One downside to our visit was the lack of open restaurants for lunch; for a university town we found this surprising. The upside was that the restaurant we did discover had Moule et Frites on offer! Yay! We settled in with an order and a couple of drafts, happy to be out of the current dampness.

“If a parking space seems too good to be true…” We returned to the vehicle to discover a parking violation notice on the windscreen; in fact, the very first parking ticket we have ever received. Over our two decades of travel we have navigated ZTLs like a local; at self-parks we always buy more time than we need; and I have walked the length of a street to check the parking regs. On this day I walked around the little green space where we had parked (alongside a row of Belgian-tagged vehicles) looking for the rules and saw nothing. No self-park machines. Nothing. A quick Internet search identified certain “Shop & Go” spaces (45 minutes) and longer, blue-colored spaces. This street had neither.

A Google translation of the card informed us that we had exceeded our parking time in the space; and that we would be sent the fine in the mail. Whatever. The rental company will just charge our card.

We arrived back at the athletic club to see a Ticket Officer slapping fines on nearly every car in the lot! What in the heck is going on?, we wondered. Apparently the lot has a four-hour parking limit; in our information packet we (and all the other parents) had been told the parking was free. That information was only partially true: half of the lot was free parking. Now, still steaming off our own parking ticket, our thinking was thus: judging by 1) the hundreds of athletes sporting jerseys reading “Munich,” “Paris,” “London,” “Vienna,” “Hague” and so forth; and 2) the number of out-of-country license plates in the parking lot, would not a kinder approach have been for the Ticket Officer to 1) realize the situation was not “ordinary;” and 2) perhaps ask the manager of the club to make an announcement? Even one of the Belgian coaches received a ticket!

Back in the stadium I asked if one of the persons in the canteen could translate the ticket; the kind staffer even went so far as to call the police for us but was not able to determine what the fine might be. We’ll just have to be kept in suspense until the next Visa statement.

In the waning hours of the final tournament day we cheered on our team in the last relays. DD’s 4x100 eeked out 3rd by 0.09 seconds! The closing ceremony followed, and then, after settling our tab (four coffees and two teas), to the airport we went. I must write that Brussels airport does not impress with its dining options, so we were left buying two “Tapas” boxes on the flight and calling it dinner.

In retrospect it was good that we had not eaten a full meal. We arrived into Vienna in the dark and with rain; and for some reason our usual car service was overbooked (on a Tuesday evening, and even though we had a reservation); so instead of a dapper driver with a clean Benz we got a dude in jeans whose ding-ed up ride smelled like cheap Patchouli (or is that an oxymoron?) He terrified us. He drove 100 in the narrow 60 construction zone on the Autobahn from the airport. DH, in the front seat asked him repeatedly to drive at the proper tempo. DD and I were in the back, silently staring at one another in fear. Once within the city limits, the jerk continued to dangerously exceed the tempo (doing 80 in the 30 and 50 zones) and even missed a major exit into our neighborhood, adding a few extra minutes of terror while he backtracked. At one point I literally shouted at him to “DRIVE THE TEMPO, PLEASE!” and he actually responded with, “SHUT UP.” That was it. We were close enough to home that DH demanded he drop us off immediately. The following day I contacted our service and explained everything; they were hugely apologetic and assured me that appropriate action would be taken. It was quite the wild ride!

And speaking of wild rides…about that asterisked sentence in the intro: We clinked our Prosecco flutes to one last European getaway.*

After 7 incredible years, the powers that be have called us back to Washington, D.C., though it was suggested that we secure a short term lease. (Do I smell another adventure?) The flights are booked. DDog’s crate has been spiffy-ed up. The movers arrive in two weeks. CBP has approved our small wine collection, to be taxed upon entry. Should be fun to see which fee arrives first, the parking ticket or the duty tax. :lol:

Thank you for reading.

We were amazed by the police escorts in Brussels. My husband has several long distance bikes and had a great convo with some of the motorbike escorts for some guy they said was from the US. He was checking into his hotel with helicopters hoving above. They googled and said it was Pompeo.

I wish you could have seen the Essex Farm Cemetery. Yum to Flemish stew.

What an excellent report. So much fun reading! I had to chuckle at the Moscow-style traffic. :lol: But then, such a waste of time to have to stand there day after day to get to/from work. It's about the same on the Antwerp ring. Our roads are so congested.
Glad you made it to Gent and Leuven but sorry for the fine.

Fun report! And I am sorry that you are being transferred back to the States. The recommendation to get a short term lease does sound like there may be a new assignment in the near future. Good luck!

I am staggered at the driver in Vienna. Wow! How rude!

So sorry to hear you are returning home, but next destination might be even better. Hopefully you will return to Europe often!

Lavandula