Further adventures in Surreality

My body is idle, but my brain is humming – however, not in a constructive way. I brought my notebook out to the hammock to work on my novel, but I’ve written one and a half sentences, and they just duplicate what I’ve done before, I was only trying to get back into the story.
My mind is running on strange tracks, well, maybe not so strange, they are the same as always, recently.
I WAS going to write – honestly I was – but there is something terribly seductive about a hammock in the sunshine...

http://www.authspot.com/Poetry/Summer-Idyll.152185

The rain has eased. We are meeting at the hotel at 4:20, work session tonight, we need to prepare our presentation for tomorrow. But I still have an hour or so to myself. How to spend it?
I head back towards the engravings shop I passed this morning – there was one particular print in the window (of a cat, naturally), and I’d like to have a rummage through those old maps. But, when I get there, it’s still closed. Maybe Tuesday morning, if I get time between the end of the meeting and the train.
There is a picture in the window of the gallery next door that takes my fancy – is it too cheeky to take a photo?

[Ed's note: a terrible photo, I know, but I rather like the reflection of my umbrella - took me a few seconds to work out what it was!]

Now I’m looking for a creperie – must check out those crepes Mikado. There has to be one round here somewhere, I wander round the back streets, still enjoying my solitude. Past Planet Chocolat, past the hotel– maybe I should just go back and chill for half an hour? - no, I’m on a crepes mission.
There on a rather shabby corner – ‘Maison des Crepes’ – sounds about right. I peer through the misty windows – looks perfect.

Inside, a table by the window, ‘Le menu madame?’ ‘Merci.’
Crepes Mikado – vanilla ice cream, cream, hot chocolate sauce – mmm. Rather a lot of hot chocolate lately. What else is on the menu?
Crepes Marie Galante – bananas, rum, raisins, nuts. Sounds good.
‘... avec chantilly, s’il vous plait. Et un cappuccino.’
Two little girls, aged about 8 or 9, on the next table. One gestures to the spare chair on the other side of my table, says something, I smile, nod, and she moves it across. They perch on the edges of their chairs, kicking their legs and chattering while the waitress brings their hot chocolate and my coffee.
Here comes Papa, to occupy my spare chair – oh la la! Blond, bespectacled, looks Flemish but definitely Francophone – there again, the Crazy Frog is red-blond with those deep blue eyes and lop-sided grin and that throaty laugh... for god’s sake woman, get a grip.
I stir the froth on my coffee, and watch the drizzle through the window.
After this, it will be work and friendship and arguing and laughter and hugs and debate and drinking beer and no more sitting on my own in cafes scribbling in notebooks.
And here are my crepes – what could be more orgasmic?

Fin

My Eastern European friends have gone back to the hotel to rest, and I set off to find the botanic gardens. The way doesn’t seem so grim today, but the nineteenth and twentieth century parts of the city don’t have the charm of the mediaeval town.

I cross the grim flyovers. Behind the 19th century glass house of Le Botanique loom the sleek glass towers of the business district. The parterres and the statuary remain, but the collection has been moved elsewhere.

The Bruxellois do seem to love their statues –well, if not love them exactly, at least they respect them more than they deserve.

I buy a coffee from the bar inside the old Orangerie, take a seat on the terrace, and check my phone again. Two messages from Ilze. Somehow, even though it is in my trouser pocket, I never notice the vibrations.
“Where are you? I’m at the Arcadi with Hanne and Daniel.”
Reply: “I was there an hour ago with Marika and Gabriella. I’m at the botanic gardens.”
“We’re having lunch. Arto has just arrived.”
Reply: “See you soon.”
I finish my coffee, and head back towards the old town. But when I reach the Arcadi, they’ve already left. I check for messages – they have gone to the hotel ‘for a rest’.
And it starts to rain.
So, lunch – on my own, it seems. No problem. But what? Where?
The first time I ever came to Brussels, the first night here, we had dinner at the Roy D’Espagne, and I had stoempf (bubble and squeak) with ham and sausages. We’ve never been back, but I liked it. I should have gone there for dinner last night – we’re bound to go to the Thai place tonight.
So, lunch.
Through the Galeries Hubert, through the huddles of people sheltering from the torrents. I fish my brolly from my bag, open it up, ‘mad dogs and Englishwomen...' and strike out, smiling, down the alley and across the Place.

I made this video of the cathedral bells, but I can't find any way of rotating it