Bruegels and Luxe

Oct. 8-11

Tuesday we went to see the Royal Museums of Art. We also discovered the secret of the mystery street that’s closed to traffic.

Monday, on our way back from the Grote Markt, a police car was parked at the foot of that street, and the sight of two policemen with rifles convinced us that they didn’t want us to go that way. So we detoured around the block instead.

The way to the museum begins with the same route that we took to get to the Manneken Pis. The only difference is you don’t turn at the church, but keep going straight.

There were no armed guards on the mystery street Tuesday morning, so we decided to take a look. At the foot of the hill, just before the intersection, a modest wooden door has an even more modest brass plaque identifying the building as as an Israeli government office. 

Around the corner is a landmark synagogue. Both buildings are protected by bollards at the curb to keep vehicles crashing over the sidewalk.

The armed cops and soldiers could be standard operating procedure. The Islamic State claimed responsibility for several bombings in Brussels in 2016.

The Royal Museums of Fine Arts are a complex of museums, including one devoted to Magritte and another to Fin de Siecle and modern art. We focused on the Old Masters. 

There was a special emphasis on the Bruegels, particularly Pieter the Elder.

We watched a few short films about paintings on display. They analyzed Bruegel’s crowd scenes and focused on details that we might have missed otherwise.

Bruegel fills his peasant scenes with people, and as in the real world, they are intent on the business of living and pay little mind, if any at all, to what’s going on around them. The paintings are comments, often humorous, on human nature.

“The Census at Bethlehem,” for instance, has people crowding the inn to be counted and pay their taxes. Other people elsewhere are coming and going about their daily chores.

None of them seems to notice the central figures—the Virgin Mary on a donkey led by a man whom you see only from the back. He carries a saw on his shoulder to identify him as Joseph the carpenter. 

There is a figure in the middle of the village that I couldn’t make out, but the film narrator said it is a leper with a clapper. Behind his house you see someone stealing vegetables from his garden.

It’s a snowy time in Bethlehem, reflecting the cold winters in Western Europe at the time. The frozen river is gray-blue.

The room with the Bruegel paintings had two versions of “The Census,” painted almost 50 years apart. The later one is almost identical with the earlier. The chief difference is that the river has an almost warm gold tint. It was made by Pieter the Younger, who often painted copies of his father’s works.

Even wilder is one painting of a celebration in a town. A chain dance swirling through the street has become so energetic that the last lady in line can’t keep her dress down over her bare buttocks. Or maybe doesn’t want to. 

Not far away there is a man with his back to the crowd. He is preoccupied with pissing against a wall.

It was a lovely afternoon, perhaps our best in Brussels. We strolled through several galleries of Renaissance and Medieval work. 

It was colorful. Many of the faces looking back at us were striking.

One of them, a Madonna and Child by a painter named Quinten Metsys, dates back to the late 15th or early 16th century. We were both struck by how lifelike Mary’s face is.

We got thrown out at five.

It was raining again on Wednesday morning. We made our coffee and groceries run all right, but stayed in for the rest of the morning.

When the weather cleared in the afternoon we went for a walk in a new direction. 

Not far from the hotel we came across a line of restaurants, including one called Le Trappiste. 

It was too early for dinner, so we stopped for a glass of wine and a cup of hot chocolate. They served a couple of chocolate truffles that were perfect with the house red. 

When we went out for dinner, it was rush hour. Almost comically so. The streets in every direction looked like the approach to the Lincoln Tunnel. Drivers here, too, express their road rage by pointlessly leaning on the horn. 

There was an ambulance with its siren blasting but stuck in traffic. The cars in front of it couldn’t get out of the way because the pedestrians wouldn’t stop for them.

I thought the only place where crossing the street is more important than saving a life was New York. Guess not.

I’m glad we went back to enjoy the Art Nouveau atmosphere of Le Trappiste because it gave me the chance to eat some of the best lamb chops ever. There were four little ribs that came with green beans and a starch I couldn’t identify.

The brown gravy was savory and perfect with everything on the plate. I’m not a big fan of haricots verts, but with that gravy even they were terrific.

The starch was a bit doughy. It may have been a kind of potato pancake. It had a thin layer of cheese melted on top.

Thursday was moving day. We had yogurt and grapes in the refrigerator. We made coffee in the machine in the closet, and were out of the hotel before 11.

A man from the lobby got a cab for us and it was a short run to Brussels Midi station instead of Brussels Centraal. Not all trains from Brussels run direct to Schiphol, and we wanted to avoid changing trains with our bags.

The train we took out of Schiphol for Delft on the 16th was headed for Midi. So we knew we could get a direct train back the other way from Midi station.

It was about a two-hour ride on the TGV.

We were joking about the food in Amsterdam. A guy across the aisle from us asked if we were joking. He hoped so. He was on his way there as a food tourist.

Food’s a big thing for him. He grew up in Italy near Naples and then went to school in Florence. He remembers huge meals with the extended family.

Judging by his description of things, his mother spent most of her life cooking.

He lives in Connecticut now, where he is a school teacher.

I tried to tell him about a couple of places that are fun in Amsterdam. The Indonesian food is good. So are a couple of the restaurants in Chinatown. 

I couldn’t remember exactly where it is, but I told him about the pancake house overlooking the canal. 

The beer in Amsterdam is generally terrific, especially at the Arendsnest. 

The cannabis can help the food taste better too. 

He wasn’t actually on his own. He had hired on to a food tour with a guide. I hope that works out for him.

We got to the Sheraton hotel at Schiphol around two, I guess. It’s a very swanky place, maybe a bit more deluxe than is good for me. Certainly more luxe than I’m used to.

Maybe to help keep our feet on the ground, we skipped the hotel restaurant. 

We wound up having a couple of good hamburgers at a place called Cafe Rembrandt in the rail station. We had them with a few glasses of Palm on draft. 

Joanna loved the ale. Drank at least half a glass on her own. You know what I say: the lady doesn’t drink; she just hangs out with me because I’m a bad influence.

We had a five o’clock wake-up call Friday morning, so we shut down early.

The flight was able to leave a few minutes early. It was scheduled for 9:15, but everybody was on board and ready to go. 

We touched down at Newark a little before 11 a.m. local time.

Right now I’m taking it easy at a Ramada Inn in Parsippany, N.J.

Be well, all.

Harry