I knew she wanted the company, and I didn't have much to do in Paris anyway, so on Tuesday night, B booked me a morning ticket to Brussels. As it was a rather last-minute booking, the price of the ticket had risen from 61 euros to 82 euros in a matter of hours. I was having second thoughts, when I saw a special offer at the bottom of the screen: First-class at 63.50 euros. I grabbed it, obviously.
And so the very next morning, I hopped on the Thalys train and sat in the first-class carriage for the 1.5 hour ride to Brussels. Service with a smile, check. Coffee and snacks, check. Leg room, check.
My journey from Gare du Midi to the Marriott Hotel was smooth, for the train station seemed a lot less complex than the one here in Paris. Neither was I extorted by the taxi driver, an honest chap who charged me exactly 8 euros for the cab ride.
My sis and I have had our differences during my growing up years, though it's hard not to when two fiery-tempered women live under the same roof. Still, being alone in Europe to see our partners has laid the basis for a final truce, and if you saw us yakking away at the cafe in Brussels, you never would have guessed that we probably wanted to strangle each other once upon a time.
Over lagsane, pasta and one too many cappucinos, we spent the good part of my first day in Brussels filling each other in on our European adventures, and comparing notes about our partners. Haha. And just before returning to the hotel, we popped by one of the supermarkets the man at the table beside us recommended, and swept the chocolate aisle clean. I'm exaggerating, but we did buy an awful load.
That evening, I finally got to meet Dieter. He was worlds apart from the serious guy I had on the phone a couple of times, but instead the kind of man who tells the funniest jokes with a straight face. I was charmed.
We had dinner at a restaurant across the street, but as the afternoon's lagsane was still swimming about in my belly, Dieter had to eat more than half of my slab of steak, on top of his cod fish dish.
We proceeded for a bit of a walk around the neighborhood, half-searching for an ATM that would show me my bank balance. There are tons of ATMs in Paris and Brussels, but they are only good for cash withdrawals. They don't even show my account balance on the receipts, so I keep taking and taking with absolutely no idea of what's left in the cashpool.
Clockwise from top left: A brightly lit friterie (Belgian chip shop), one of the countless Asian restaurants in the neighborhood, the Irish pub at which we stopped for a night-cap.
For the first time in my 21.5 years, my sister was up and showered before me, and ready by 9:30 the next morning. I was shocked and seriously impressed. Dieter is good for her. Haha.
Peeping out of the window, we gauged it to be a cool day what with the passers-by wrapped in coats and scarves. I was adamant about not wearing my jeans, so I pulled on shorts, a knit top and my trusty scarf, and out we went for breakfast.
My sis satisfied her usual cheese and coffee craving with a huge-ass cheese baguette sandwich, while I satiated my sweet tooth with the croissant breakfast. The owner gave us a huge basket of mini conserves: Nutella, fig jam, marmalade, honey, apricot jam, blueberry jam... which we were too polite to abuse initially. However, when he didn't come around to collect the basket after five minutes, we went crazy and dabbed a little of each conserve on each bite of croissant. Yum.
We roamed the streets semi-aimlessly, trying to locate the Grand Place but getting side-tracked with the many gourmet food shops along the way.
Check out the assortment of beers. I was in a tizzy, and we spent way too long deliberating on a bottle of beer each to take back for the men.
We finally made it to the Grand Place, a square surrounded by gorgeous gold-trimmed architecture. It was grand alright, and way too tall and big to be digitally captured in all its glory.
There were way too many chocolate specialty shops in the area. These are the shots from Neuhaus, taken in secret when the salesperson was on the phone.
Chocolate fountains beckoned and tempted from almost every window, and each shop specialized in their own handmade delights.
There was the Godiva shop, which we didn't go into for we were starting to suffer from chocolate sensory overload. But we did pop into a cosy chocolate shop that had all the different currencies tacked to its wall, and an elfin salesgirl who reminded me of the movie Chocolat. If only wealth was measured in our love for chocolate. I'd be a billionaire.
We found the Museum of Chocolate after receiving some help from a few very helpful waiters, but we told to return in 45 minutes as the demonstrators were on their lunch break. So, we went for ours - coffee and Belgian waffles. If you think Gelare's waffles are good, Belgian waffles are orgasmic.
The Museum of Chocolate was nothing much to rave about, except that I now know the importance behind 31 and 40 degree celsius. The dresses pictured above are all made from chocolate.
Lavender and ginger chocolate. I bought the lavender, which Romain, Marine, B and I shared over drinks last night. All of us gave it the thumbs up, except B. As Romain described, it almost feels like we're eating chocolates and smelling lavender flowers at the same time. What a sensory pleasure. I should have bought a couple more when I was in Belgium, for Marine told me that they cost almost twice here in Paris.
We walked around somemore, and looked longingly at pastries we couldn't stomach with our full bellies. We were walking past an Indonesian-Indian tapestries shop, when I mentioned that I would like my home to look like that: rich colors, dark wood and bronze statues. My crazy sister looked at me and said, "Don't so exotic can. I don't want to visit next time and you serve me wheatgerm bread which you say you baked." I still don't quite see the link, but that line had us dissolving into giggles right outside a bakery selling wheatgerm bread.
We passed by more waffle shops displaying the honey-colored pastry topped with luscious strawberries, sliced bananas and drizzled with warm chocolate sauce. I wished there and then that I had two stomachs and the metabolism of a lion. After walking around in the cold for a couple more hours, we finally sat down to absolutely yummy Belgian fries at the cafe just opposite the hotel. And once again, we were stuffed when it came to dinner time, and Dieter had to content with beer and fries at the hotel lounge, for it was raining too heavily to head out for dinner.
I like my sister's cheeky botak man.
After a pint, it was time to leave rainy Brussels for Paris. I hopped on the first-class carriage again, and was out cold until just before the train arrived at Paris Nord. I hopped off, and the first thing B asked after kissing me hello was "Baby, are you drunk?" Hic. Oops.
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