Montenegro, and the back of the Walloon bus

The Bay of Kotor

We were up nice 'n' early for our tour; it was neat to walk against the stream of commuters to Dubrovnik's Old Town at that hour. There was a bit of a mix-up with the tour, such that we ended up on a bus with thirty or so French-speaking Belgians. Luckily there were two guides, so the half dozen English speakers were segregated to the back of the bus for translations in the silences. As both Tea and I understand French reasonably well -- particularly the guide's perfectly enunciated Montenegrin-school French -- we got the best of both worlds, with quick questions to our guide where we faltered. (Incidentally, we both agreed that what I'm assuming was Walloon French is very difficult to understand. Before I discovered they were Belgians, I seriously suspected that their native language wasn't French, and that they'd simply booked said tour for its accessibility, etc.)

The Cathedral of Saint Tryphon, in Kotor

Let there be no doubt: the Belgians know how to vacation. After clearing the two border crossings -- Croatia's and Montenegro's -- the agenda called for a quick stop at a petrol station to pick up our local guide; 15 minutes for the toilet, a stretch, etc. I blink, and the station patio bar is full of Belgian couples raising glasses of the local Nik Gold. (Obligatory review: I tried Nikšićko pivo in Budva later that day; unpleasantly metallic at the outset, with no finish -- the latter being a selling point, according to the warped reality of beer advertisers.) And this continued at each of the stops! Živjeli!

Montenegro is, simply, beautiful. Driving around the Bay of Kotor was incredible. Cypress trees darken the awesome Dinarides -- hence the country's name, "black mountains" -- leading down to the mirror-like, deep blue bay; it actually resembles a fjord, blocking all wind from the Adriatic. With towns and villages at the water's edge -- the best defence against the main threat of the time: invading Ottomans from the mountains -- it really reminded me of a lush Lake Como; indeed, the Dinarides (is it just me, or does that word conjure up this epic mix of Easy Rider and dinosaurs?) are properly called the Dinaric Alps.

You can just make out the city wall above

The city of Kotor was our first significant stop. Words fail me. That wall 'round the old port, rising up the mountains in the most imposing fashion, was the highlight of the tour. Unfortunately, given the lushness of the terrain, I feel my pictures too have failed to capture it. (This will probably sound simple and odd, but, staring up at that wall, I felt like the greatest of cities from the Romance of the Three Kingdoms video game were alive before me; ah, a childhood bowed before Nintendo.)

This trip has really illuminated how paths diverged following the dissolution of the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, and on a spectrum of Croatia to Bosnia, a good example of mixed blessings is Montenegro generally, and the route to our other stop, Budva, specifically.

Relaxing in Budva

The division of the South Slavic language known as Serbo-Croatian was largely a political construct, and while Montenegrins understand Croatian, officially they use a Cyrillic alphabet, whereas the latter use a Latin one. (Incidentally, our guide admitted that she struggles with official, largely government-related, correspondence, as the reality of Montenegro's reliance on tourism means that a Latin alphabet carries the day.) I raise this because our guide pointed out that, on said road to Budva, and throughout the town itself, it's the Russian alphabet, not the Serbian one, on the road signs and shop fronts. This, the large mansions (outside UNESCO protected areas, at least), and (abandoned, in many cases) factories blighting the greenery, reflect Russian exploitation of a newly-independent (since 2006), but poor, country. (For example, unable to afford a currency of their own, Montenegro requested, and received, permission to use the euro, even though they aren't part of the Union.)

I've always had difficulty putting news from this region (e.g., Kosovo's declaration of years past) in context, so it was particularly fascinating and rewarding for me to learn about its history in such beautiful surroundings. Tour guides are no different from any of us, of course, burdened with a set of biases; still, for me, it's tough to beat a few hours with a good storyteller.

The small islet and hotel resort of Sveti Stefan (Saint Stephen)

Check out our album for more pictures from the tour.

Belgium: dichotomous Brussels and divine Ghent

As on previous occasions, I've decided to post these notes in the present tense, under the dates when their bulk was penned.

April 19, 2011: Brussels

[I never warmed to Brussels; however, I came to truly appreciate the balance it represents, in Belgium and the rest of Europe.]

Leisure class on the Eurostar from London was very nice; with a full meal, unlimited wine, and only one other group in our whole cabin, it's truly an affordable luxury.

The view from our apt.

While the walk to pick up the keys was a bit far to drag luggage, we found the office, and then our apartment, with little difficulty. Our apartment is amazing: so spacious, and a block from the Grand Place. At night, I simply stare out our corner window on the scene below, sipping gueuze; television can't compete.

There's a nice, big grocery store on the next corner; the only hiccup was milk. They only carry various flavours of UHT. I wonder if this is normal. We picked up some breakfast stuff, meats and cheeses, and some local beer:

• Cuvée René Grand Cru Oude Gueuze: the Good Beer Guide Belgium gives it four stars. My virgin palette -- yes, this is my first lambic -- found it to be like a witbier, with a tang. Like, oh, the best of the limited champagne I've tried.
• Mort Subite Gueuze, which I don't believe is made in the traditional way. (The style isn't protected, unlike the German styles, for example, so corners are often cut to save money.) Either way, I enjoyed it; a bit darker than the Cuvee Rene, with ginger notes.

This city has such life. Like Dublin. Maybe more so. The clusters of kids on the cobblestones of Grand Place; so many different conversations and styles of music drift out on the street and up to our windows.

In the Grand Place, with chocolate shops all around, it's Bruges, through and through. At times, staring down a narrow cobblestone alley, it's like Venice. Seafood on the tables enhances this. Near our apartment, with the Asian grocers, Japanese restaurants, and, at night, the lurid neon, one could be forgiven for replaying Blade Runner. The trash helps with this. As do the homeless, laying out on mattresses under scattered canopies.

I thought we arrived on garbage day, but this veritable army of trucks operates continually, including in the wee hours. This dichotomy, the trash and dirt beside the Grand Place and European politics, reminds me of Athens; extremes of excess and beauty, and then whole blocks forgotten, no doubt populated by those same elements each night. I'm of mixed feelings, it must be said. We've met some fantastic folks, but there are certainly areas where you should keep your map out of sight and your head down.

The restaurant area facing St. Catherine's Church reminded me of La Rambla, particularly when Spanish guitar could be heard from a big top tent further down, earlier on. Barcamoule was where we had supper, and my mussels were excellent. Very friendly staff. So many languages around us. A group that seemed to be winding down from a conference included a woman from Lisbon (now living in Sao Paolo), an Irishman and an Englishman. The city is crawling with suits and purpose.

Who needs sleep? This city surely feasts on them. It's Tuesday night!

My strangest observation, however, and another dichotomy, has to be the amount of pollen you see in the air, against all the concrete. Where does it come from? And yet, strangely, I'm fine; clearly it isn't ragweed. If this turns, I will be miserable.

* * *

April 20, 2011

It's so warm. Unseasonably so -- by ten to fifteen degrees Celsius, according to a gentleman at the train station. We haven't packed for it, but we'll happily make do with the shorts we have.

First, to the Grand Place to witness its transformation to a garden centre; oh, to be here for the flower carpet. Then, to the boot sale/flea market in Vossenplein Square. So many old board games, Tintin books, paintings and records. After a snack on the patio of a bordering cafe, we're off to the Cantillon brewery and museum.

We almost missed the place, it's large, wooden warehouse doors are so unassuming. The front area, for there's no room to speak of, opens to the basement where they clean the barrels, so our first smells are heavily laced with a dampness, and mustiness, just under the expected yeasts. I was immediately a boy, back in the Bussey's basement before they'd finished it. I have good memories of summer explorations there, the coolness welcome after the midday heat. (Little wonder I lose days in secondhand bookshops.)

All are free to wander; the only tour is the pamphlet they provide. Once you've finished exploring, it's back to the 'bar' at the front for samples of their gueuze and kriek (flavoured with cherries or raspberries). The spontaneous fermentation that is at the heart of these lambic beers is a hefty subject, but all can appreciate the "holy" cooling tun, where wild yeasts and bacteria living in the Senne river valley are allowed to blow over its open top; pictures of the resulting foaming barrels really do appear miraculous.

I bought a bottle of their Grand Cru, and a bottle of Gueuze Boon at de Bier Tempel shortly thereafter [before I realized that Favourite Beers, in town, stocks the latter; Leigh has a fantastic selection of Belgian beers].

We walked back such that we'd pass the Manneken Pis, to see the little guy, yes, but also because the GBG Belgium recommends the pub next door: Poechenellekelder. We enjoyed a few lambics -- Girardin Gueuze 1882 for me, and some faros for the ladies (sweetened with sugar and caramel vice fruit, normally) -- as the ebb and flow of Pis lovers washed over the patio area. Make sure you go inside, should you have the chance: the puppetry displays are amazing (and a little unsettling, if I'm honest).

A bit tuckered out from the walking, we elected to have a kip before supper and further exploring. Sushi delivered by train was the consensus later that night, followed by another recommendation: Delirium. I don't know how many different bars they have in that place, but be warned: the menus -- books, really -- are different for each. While the ladies sampled various fruity Floris options, I went for a Rulles Estivale, followed by a Grande. The place was hoppin', and we enjoyed checkin' in periodically with the marine, Paul, and his friends as they attempted to meet every person and beer on offer.

* * *

April 21, 2011: Ghent

Leaving Brussels for Flanders, you quickly realize that the guides aren't exaggerating: it's a different country. I'd never considered that I should've felt many reminders of our trip to Bruges by this time. I hadn't -- other than the Grand Place, as stated -- until we went to Ghent. The French of Brussels gives it a familiar feel to anyone who's spent time in the Outaouais region. Both Bruges and Ghent, however, while very welcoming, are clearly foreign when it comes to communicating. And, much like Czech, I found that the limited Dutch in our guides was useless without pronunciation details.

Our pace to date is beginning to show: in between nodding off on the train, I looked over at Tea and noticed a red fleck on her eyelid. Confused, I made many pawing attempts for it before concluding, "It looks like you have cheese wax on your eyelid." This kicked off many waves of overtired hysterics before we reached our destination.

The entrance of Sint-Pieters station is truly beautiful. After a few minutes of gaping and snapping pictures, we eventually found a working vending machine and bought tram tickets to town. Not even half a dozen stops later, we were in the heart of gob-smacking Ghent: the Graslei. Based on yet another recommendation from the GBG Belgium, we made our way straight to the Belga Queen, securing a table on the patio while lunch was still on.

We saw many disappointed groups turned away as we supped on delicious steak and lamb, and, in my case, many glasses of unfiltered Palm. Belga Queen was a footnote in my guide -- with a joke about the communal toilets with translucent doors (prior to locking) -- but I cannot recommend it highly enough: the staff were so friendly and helpful, and the food was the best to date [and of the whole trip, looking back].

Next, we stopped at the tourist information centre in Sint-Baafs, and picked up a recommended walk. Happily, it intersected with another recommendation, Dulle Griet or 'Mad Meg', named after the cannon of the same name in the square known as Friday Market. I witnessed the famous basket being raised to the roof, only later learning that they ransom shoes to ensure tabs are settled. [Correction: Tea has informed me that the shoes are actually collateral for a particular beer that's served in a very expensive glass. Ah, Belgians and their custom glasses.]

A few more stops, for ice cream, and the famous Tierenteyn-Verlent mustard --

"What types of mustard do you have?"
"We have our mustard."
"Ah... I'll take two jars then."

And we were back for sunset on the Graslei, a sight I'll never forget. On the way back to Sint-Pieters, we walked through the beautiful Citadel Park, and the immense Sint-Pietersplein (St. Peter's Square). As it was on the way, and uniquely situated on a moored houseboat, we took in one final recommendation -- De Planck -- and some of their own 'huisbier'.

* * *

April 22, 2011: Brussels again

With the ladies shopping, I find myself with some time at À la Mort Subite, intriguingly referred to as possibly "the best surviving fin de siècle long bar on the planet" by the handy GBG. It means "in sudden death" and is named after a card game, I gather. While reading about all sorts of Belgian beers and breweries -- the outrage at Flemish institution, Hoegaarden, temporarily becoming "a Wallonian lager" is a favourite -- I sampled Lefebvre's Hopus, a beer of the month that was pleasant, with currant notes; the bar's gueuze "sur lie", which was tastier than the stuff I bought in the grocery; and Alken-Maes' Hapkin. (Incidentally, Alken-Maes owns the Mort Subite line, and have been bought out by Heineken.)

After lunch on "kebab street" -- as it's called in Use-It Europe, Tourist Info for Young People, a neat map with commentary that Tea found -- near Grand Place, we spent some time in the comic strip museum before hitting up one last recommendation: Bier Circus. I have another book on beers of the world that includes three tours of beer meccas, one of which happens to be for Brussels; it chooses to end at Bier Circus. I take that to be a (well deserved) compliment. (Although I guess some could say that few would remember it then.)

Oddly enough, it's where my evening ended as well. But before that, with rain threatening, I finally sampled Geuze Boon Mariage Parfait -- and it really was -- with the ladies, wondering whether the nearby film crew would get their shot before the skies opened. When they did, I enjoyed a Rochefort 10 inside.

All was fine 'til, standing, we noted that the rain still had an edge. U2's Rattle and Hum is playing on the television too at this point, and I'm shocked to realize that while I've listened to the album hundreds of times, I've never seen the footage that accompanies the candid interviews between the tracks. It was so obvious that the barman came up behind me, saying, "You don't have to leave."

Another then. And what do I choose? De Dochter van de Korenaar's Embrasse is on special. Oh, so beautiful, but at 9% and 66 cl, not a nightcap. I was fine -- Tea and Kae support... u'm, no, back me up on this -- 'til we hit the stairs of our apartment -- the many, many stairs -- at which point, with the blood a-pumpin' through my veins, I had myself a little sit down. The ladies then went shopping for one of those five-minute hours, returning with pizzas for themselves and a kebab for me. One bite of that wrapped napalm later, I packed it in.

Up next: Amsterdam

If you're interested in more pictures, there are 90 between our Picasa albums of Brussels and Ghent.

Cologne: all in sight of the Dom

Our drive to London was surprisingly painless. We had plenty of time to relax in St. Pancras Station before our train to Brussels, and then comfortably made our connection to Cologne. After a warm welcome at the Excelsior Hotel Ernst, we made our way to the Christmas market in the shadow of the 'Dom' -- Weihnachtsmarkt am Kölner Dom.

What an amazing market! We started with these slab o' ham sandwiches that were so good, quickly followed by glühwein; our first of many that evening. After a once-over of the stalls, we made our way to the famous Früh am Dom, just beyond. We weren't standing at the tables outside for more than a moment, wondering what to do, when a man in a blue vest came by with this caddy of 0.2 L glasses of beautifully clear, Früh Kolsch. Fruity, with a nutty finish -- and served by gravity, out of huge barrels -- in a word, delish!

Back at the market, more glühwein found its way to our mugs, and then there was tasty pomme frites, followed by the best crepes Tea's ever had! (And, as she says, she's had some crepes in her life.) These came with a healthy helping of Nutella, and I could tell she was on cloud nine.

Sunday, December 12

We started the day with a lie-in, safe in the knowledge that we'd still easily make the Excelsior's breakfast, on 'til 11 a.m. and very high calibre. Then it was out for a walk along the Rhine. Walking over the Hohenzollern bridge was a bit moving, if I'm honest: the impressive current under us, so many symbols of commitment locked to the railing beside us, built to a tangible energy in the air.

Our first pub of the day was Brauhaus zur Malzmühle, a brewpub in the style of the Hofbrauhaus (is the way I think of them, it being my first) and beautifully decorated for the season. Warmed by some fantastic goulash and their Kolsch, we made our way to the old town market, Alter Markt/Altstadt. "Hyper German" is the phrase that popped from my mouth, surrounded by those familiar stalls, but also under the gaze of gnomes, a bonneted matron's music box filling my ears, quickly followed by the squeals of delighted children as the tune reached its crescendo.

At times I was aware that I had the biggest grin just plastered on. The celebration was so infectious. Every stall held fresh memories from Tea's childhood. Afternoon became evening, and we made our way to another pub on the list, Pfaffen brewpub. Our beer guide commented on the beautiful stained glass above its doorway; combined with the extraordinary wood carvings along much of its interior, it was a lovely, if cosy, spot to spend a few hours.

When our waiter found out we were from Canada, his face lit up, "Ah, I've been there! Toronto! Beautiful city! I was on a very famous street..." His brow knit as he struggled to draw out the name. By this time, another waiter, the self-proclaimed "Psycho" -- little wonder why we aren't supposed to pick our own nicknames; you get a room of Mr. Blacks -- has joined in the conversation, proclaiming that more Macedonians live in Toronto than do at 'home'. "Danforth!" saved us from committing either way to this proclamation.

We'd been noticing how wet and bedraggled many of the newcomers appeared; luckily the next pub on our list was just a few doors down. The party was in full swing in the Brauhaus Sünner im Walfisch, with an L-shaped table across from us sharing what we soon found out was a five-litre tower of Sünner Kolsch. On the dubious logic that you can wait some time for refills of those tiny 0.2 L glasses, we quickly found ourselves in the shadow of our very own three-litre tower of Cologne's nectar.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, this is where the evening begins to take on a sort of glowing haze. Full of delicious pork, potatoes and Kolsch -- although, not the whole three litres, I hasten to add: no, we shared some with the others at our table, and received many thanks and shots of some sort in return -- we made our way, first, to the so-called medieval market, where we enjoyed more glühwein from heavily cowled folk in the light of open flames, and then to the Christmas market on a boat moored in the Rhine, not far from the Hohenzollern bridge. We had our portraits done there, Tea undoubtedly drumming up more business for the artist, such was her enthusiasm for the enterprise.

Monday

Thankfully, the day started very peacefully, the hotel now well below capacity. After breakfast, we made our way to the first of the two remaining Christmas markets -- if you haven't been counting, that's six in walking distance of our hotel and the Dom! -- Cologne's oldest, in Neumarkt. The weather had been steadily improving over the weekend, and we enjoyed the sunny breaks sipping glühwein and munching on kartoffelplätzchen (fried potato cakes).

Then it was off to the Christmas market on Rudolfplatz, in the shadow of the Hahnentorburg, one of the original twelve gates in the medieval city walls of Cologne. Our first stop was for more mulled wine, of course. Something I've failed to mention is that you're typically drinking out of mugs that are unique to that market; you pay a deposit and can then go from stall to stall, refilling as required. However, most markets won't accept mugs from other markets, which was fine with us: we had quite a collection by this point. The Rudolfplatz market's mugs were especially neat because two of them, side by side, formed a miniature replica of the Hahnentorburg.

After a bit of shopping -- Tea added to her Christmas village, and we picked up biscuits for the work crowd -- we stopped at another brewpub on the list, Päffgen Brauhaus, for an early supper. Again, I just love the feel of these places: the smell of the... unfinished pine, I suppose, of the tables, and then the deep, rich wood of the booths and panelling; this brauhaus had some fabulous stained glass as well; and it's rare that you aren't sitting near a group of older men, swapping stories or debating as they've done many times before, over a good many Kolsch. Oh, and to give you an idea of how easy that is, the waiter just keeps coming with those 0.2 L glasses, marking a stroke for each new arrival on your beermat; put your beermat on top of your glass when you're done, and he or she will tally it up. Easy-peasy!

A kip at the hotel was then in order, and as we got ready to head out again that evening, a beautiful, light snow started to fall. I don't think it could've felt more Christmas-y, as we again walked the Alter Markt and the am Kölner Dom. The crowds had hardly dipped from the weekend, and no one seemed to mind the snow -- for my Canadian readers, that may sound strange, but trust me, there are certain folks (not naming names or... nationalities) that just seem to carry on as always, shivering and muttering in their trainers and light coats, hoping this strange white stuff will simply go away.

In addition to sampling many of the old standbys, Tea also tried some käsespätzle, which looked amazing and put the biggest smile on her face.

Tuesday

Since our hotel was right beside the train station, and the train to Brussels didn't leave 'til 3 p.m., we still had lots of time to wander Cologne, even after our lie-in. We decided to forego the hotel breakfast for slab o' ham sandwiches, pomme frites and crepes (marmalade in mine) -- ah, there's a start to your day!

We toured the Dom and its crypt -- all free! -- and then relaxed in the Gaffel am Dom brewhouse with a few Kolsch before grabbing our bags and heading to the station. We had talked about leaving earlier and spending some time in Brussels, but decided to leave that for another trip.

Check out our Picasa album for more pictures from the trip.

Bruges: Beyond Belief

De Wijngaard monastery

We recently spent a four-day weekend away in Bruges. We got the train to London after work, and stayed the night in a nice, cheap hotel near Paddington Station. Then it was off to Brussels on the Eurostar – our first time! – followed by the slowest train ever to Bruges... Just kidding, but it seemed like that after the Eurostar; twenty minutes to travel under the English Channel!

The Burg Square

The first two days we spent walking around the city; first on what they call the tourist walk, and then, on the second day, on the residential walk, which takes you past some retired windmills too. The whole city really is breathtaking. You've heard it many times now, thanks to that movie – which they have for sale in the tourist information centre next to the train station, incidentally – but it really can't be overstated. The first time I walked into the Markt and saw that belfry, my legs just sort of stopped moving forward, and I'm sure my jaw went stupidly slack. All I could think was, "I'm here. This is Europe."

And if the architecture wasn't enough, you've got the history – we enjoyed a pint of the local Brugse Zot in Café Vlissinghe, a pub that's been in operation since 1515, for example – and, best of all, the food. You know you've landed in a little slice of heaven when, stuffed full of delicious moules frites, you round a cobblestoned corner to smell the most heartwrenchingly-wonderful waffles on the evening air. We had to buy one. I'm pretty sure it's illegal to pass without buying something, actually. And have I mentioned the orange slices, half dipped in heavenly Belgian chocolate? So perfectly sweet and tart? At some point, it does get ridiculous, trust me. As long as you accept that you'll have your Homer-in-the-land-of-chocolate moment – no, I didn't bite any dogs, before you ask – you'll be fine.

In Café Vlissinghe

What else to say... The beer is very strong – even by our standards – and designing the glasses for each brew really does seem to be as important as you've probably heard. It's funny: the tour guide at De Halve Maan brewery said that Belgium has done away with champagne and wine at even their fanciest official dos; only local beer is served now, so they had to make glasses that the ladies could hold with grace. But, yeah, the 'tripel' – usually around 9% – will knock you on your arse pretty darn quick if you aren't careful. That said, the stuff is really tasty. And while, yes, I am a fan of the stronger Unibroue stuff that many won't go near, I have to acknowledge that brews like Brugge Tripel really are in a league of their own.

One final point: we'd heard that Bruges has a different sort of market on Saturday mornings – their version of a boot sale, I guess we'd say now – and decided to check it out. Well, just when we thought the city could hold no more culinary surprises: there we are, in the middle of a freak, ten-minute white-out of snow, in a square full of motorhome-size trucks dedicated to the god of cooked meat. Seriously, these trucks were on fire! Whole sides open, and more ribs, wings, and legs of tasty beasts than I'd ever seen. It was like Ottawa's chicken and ribs festival on speed. Awesome! And then they had the trucks dedicated to cheese, pastries, sweets... As I've said many times, had I grown up there, I would be a very round Belgian man; no question. And, on that note, from one of the best meals of the trip, in Den Gouden Karpel: