Brussels

On Sunday, I worry that I’ve made a terrible mistake.

After a late night, we sleep in until almost 11:30 — something very unusual for us. After a noon breakfast, we find ourselves debating whether or not to press on to Brussels, as planned, or whether we should, due to our late start, switch to tomorrow’s itinerary, go to Haarlem today, and save Brussels for Monday.

We choose Haarlem. On the tram, though, because I read in the guidebook that Mondays in Brussels are pretty much dead, we make a last minute change in plans, head for Centraal Station, and set out to Brussels (a three-hour train trip) at one o’clock.

The weather is cold, rainy, and grey. The train’s windows, polarized and coated with a layer of dark grime, make the landscape look even more forbidding. By the time we cross the border into Belgium, where the towns look darker and chiller than ever, I begin to fear I’ve taken us on a six-hour round-trip wild goose chase.

In Brussels, the skies are dark by 4:30 p.m. We walk from the train station, through the arch at the Le Meridian Hotel, and down the bustling streets to the Great Market. On the way — having been starved on the only European train I’ve ever ridden with snack cart service — we pause on restaurant row for a quick dinner at La Terrasse, where fifteen euro apiece gets us soup, fried rolls filled with shrimp and cheese, a steak for Clyde, salmon for me, and a scoop of rich vanilla ice cream smothered in caramel sauce each.

Outside the Terrace Restaurant, Brussels

The dinner brightens our spirits, despite the early dark and drizzling rain. Refreshed, we follow the crowds to one of the most memorable holiday sights I’ve ever encountered: Brussels’ Great Square, all dressed up for Christmas.

The ancient town square is studded with clear, inflatable spheres, each containing a miniature Christmas tree decorated with strobe lights. A towering fir writhes with flickering blue and green bulbs. And, soaring about it all, the entire facade of the town hall — a building perhaps a football field long and ten stories tall — has become a screen for an animated slide show. Snow falls, Santa rides his sleigh along the length of the building, winter scenes come and go, and speakers belt out Beatles tunes (?!?) while the crowd sings along.

Grande Square, Brussels

The square is packed, but the spirit of the place is contagiously festive. We press our way through to the line of chocolate shops, skipping Godiva (I can get Godiva at home, after all) and hitting the local spots. After pralines at one stop and filled chocolates at the other, we spy a “chocolate bar” at one end of the square, where a handsome young man is serving up tiny cups of steaming hot chocolate.

Especially for my readers in the U.S., let me be clear what I mean, exactly, by “hot chocolate.” What we call “hot chocolate” back home is what folks in Brussels call “warm chocolate milk.” Hot chocolate, here, means hot melted chocolate, whipped into a thick-but-frothy drink composed of nothing but liquid chocolate.

Oh. My. God.

Clyde, who’s not big into chocolate, hates the stuff, but I’m in hot liquid dark chocolate heaven. (Later, Clyde does discover he likes warm chocolate milk.) After one cup, I’m racing around in circles and squealing like a little girl … but even in my choco-frenzy, I manage to pause long enough for a real Belgian waffle: a sweet, sticky, hand-sized square of waffle mixture (with syrup baked into the batter), coated with melted chocolate and whipped cream.

I confess that the rest of the night is pretty much a blur: color, light, sound … and more chocolate, of course.

What began as a mistake becomes a cherished memory. The entire evening is sheer magic; for me, our visit to Brussels becomes the high point of our entire trip.