Wednesday, December 17
I woke up around 6:30 AM. I didn’t sleep well, of course. I finished packing and went downstairs to write in my journal in French. There were a couple of people in the café space, including a receptionist. I realized that I could finish writing within 30 minutes. Before, it used to take me about an hour, which means I’ve made progress in learning French.
I went back to my room to get my luggage, checked out at the reception, and headed to the station to take a train to the bus station where the FlixBus departs. It was still dark outside. On the street and the train, most people seemed to be commuting to work, and they gave me—an obvious tourist—strange looks, but I didn’t care.
After arriving at the station, I couldn’t find the bus stop, so I asked a woman who worked at a kiosk. She kindly gave me directions. The bus stop turned out to be a small one in the middle of the road. About six passengers were waiting for the FlixBus. When the bus arrived, the driver got off and checked our tickets. I loaded my luggage myself and got on the bus. The seat numbers were printed on the armrests, which I had never seen before. I settled into my seat, and the bus departed.
The bus wasn’t crowded. I noticed that there were many Asian passengers (I assumed they were from China). I spent the time alternating between reading and sleeping. I’ve been reading a long book—over 600 pages—Travels in the Land of Hunger by Domenico Italo Composto-Hart. He originally lived in Japan for a few years before traveling for six months. The chapter I was reading described his travels in Hong Kong, where he wrote that people there are louder and more aggressive compared to people in Japan. While reading, I noticed a Chinese girl lying across two seats, sleeping.
At some point, I realized I had forgotten to bring water and was very thirsty. I asked a staff member who had earlier offered drinks if I could buy some water, but he only accepted cash, so I gave up. About 30 seconds later, the man sitting across the aisle bought a bottle of water for me. I thanked him, and we talked briefly. He looked to be in his 30s and told me he was from Guatemala, traveling alone in Europe. I wondered how he was managing the travel expenses, but I didn’t ask. He was such a kind person that I considered suggesting lunch together in Brussels, but Brussels wasn’t his destination. When I got off the bus, I said goodbye to him.
I took my luggage and headed to the apartment I had booked through Airbnb. On the train, I looked up the languages spoken in Belgium, which is something I always do when entering a new country. Belgium has three official languages: Dutch (spoken in Flanders), French (spoken in Wallonia and Brussels), and German (spoken by a small community in eastern Wallonia). Since the area where I was staying was near Brussels, French was the main language. Hearing French outside of France gave me a sense of comfort, especially since I hadn’t understood much in the Netherlands or Germany.
I hadn’t eaten since the previous night, so I looked for a place to eat lunch. I found a small, busy-looking restaurant near the apartment and ordered a sandwich. It turned out to be Turkish, and I was slightly nervous about whether I could pay by card, since I’d had trouble with that in Germany. Fortunately, the sandwich was good, and I could pay by card. The small restaurant stayed busy the entire time.
Since I still had time before check-in, I looked for a coffee shop to relax, but surprisingly, it was very difficult to find one. While walking around, I unknowingly ended up in Brussels’ main red-light district, Rue d’Aerschot—I found out later through Google. Women who appeared to be in their 20s or 30s stood in windows wearing only underwear, trying to attract pedestrians. The travel book I’ve been reading discusses the dark side of prostitution in Southeast Asia, so seeing this made me uncomfortable.
I continued searching for a café, and it took about 30 minutes to finally find one. By then, I was sweating. The café smelled strongly of cigarettes, even though there was a “no smoking” sign at the entrance. It wasn’t pleasant, but I had no choice but to stay until check-in time.
After checking in using the instructions sent by the host, I noticed several issues with the apartment. First, the Wi-Fi was too weak to connect in my room. Second, the TV screen was broken, even though the listing advertised access to TV, Netflix, and YouTube. Third, the building was right next to the station, so I could hear trains and people constantly. I was annoyed, but I accepted it—it was cheap, and I was the first renter.
For dinner, I went to Carrefour, a supermarket chain common throughout Europe, and bought rice, broccoli, eggs, meat, and soy sauce. The kitchen was well equipped. I cooked the meat and broccoli with minimal seasoning and ate them with rice. After showering, I went to bed.
Thursday, December 18
I woke up late. I finished my blog entry about Amsterdam and talked on the phone with an American guy I met in Angoulême. We stayed in the same apartment there and were the only tourists, so we became friends. I mentioned him in my Angoulême journal entry if you’re interested.
We talked mainly about recent life updates. Since leaving Angoulême, we’ve traveled in opposite directions—he went west, and I went east. His cost of living has gone down, while mine has increased. He traveled through Spain and Portugal and is now in Morocco. I was shocked by how cheap everything is there. We talked for about 30 minutes before hanging up. I promised to call him when I’m in Paris before flying out to Japan. I wished him luck.
In the afternoon, I went to central Brussels for lunch and some sightseeing. I was determined to eat beef stew and found a restaurant called Fin de Siècle with good Google reviews. When I entered, a young server guided me to a seat in the middle of the crowded restaurant—it was already past lunchtime, around 2:30 PM, but still full.
An older couple sitting to my left gave me a strange look, so I greeted them quickly. To my right was a group of young Asian girls, probably not Japanese. The older couple—especially the man—seemed drunk but friendly. We eventually started talking. He was Italian, and his wife (or possibly fiancée) was Venezuelan. They live in Spain and travel around Europe. They mainly spoke Spanish, though the man said he also speaks German and Italian. Their English was limited, and communication was difficult. I tried using my broken Spanish from studying in the U.S., but French words kept coming out instead.
The man shared a glass of Italian red wine with me. Before they left, the server came to take my order, and I ordered the beef stew without even looking at the menu. I didn’t need to order a drink because of the wine. Despite the language barrier, I enjoyed talking with them. After they left, I ate alone and truly enjoyed the meal. The beef stew was excellent—one of the best I’ve had. I paid 19 euros and felt it was worth it, especially since I was slightly drunk from the wine.
Afterward, I walked around the city. There were so many tourists that most shops catered to them, which meant higher prices. I tried Belgian fries, but I felt they were overrated. Although French fries originated in Belgium, Americans called them “French fries” because the locals spoke French. I realized again that I don’t enjoy large tourist cities very much, mainly because of overcrowding.
After about an hour, I headed back to the apartment. While waiting for the train, I saw many police cars with sirens and heavy traffic. The train was significantly delayed, so I knew something was happening. Later, I learned there was a large farmers’ protest against a free trade agreement with South America. Since I wasn’t hungry after my late lunch, I skipped dinner and went to bed early, worried about how the protest might affect my plans.
Friday, December 19
In the morning, I checked the news and found the protest’s outcome was worse than I expected, which made me hesitate to go outside. I stayed in the apartment, finishing this journal entry and reading my book.
In the afternoon, I decided to visit Bruges. I’d heard it was beautiful but knew little else. I bought a train ticket, assuming no one would check it. I struggled to find the correct train and eventually boarded one I thought was right. After about 30 minutes, I realized I had arrived in Kortrijk, near the French border. Unsure whether the train would continue to Bruges, I got off and explored the city briefly.
I quickly noticed that people spoke Dutch instead of French. It was fascinating how the language changed within the same country after just 30 minutes on a train. Other than that, there wasn’t much to explore, so I took another train to Bruges. This time, a ticket inspector checked my ticket, which surprised me but relieved me.
Bruges was beautifully illuminated for Christmas and full of tourists drinking beer, eating waffles, and riding horse-drawn carriages. However, to me, it felt like a second Brussels. I tried a waffle but skipped the beer—I didn’t want to drink alone in a crowded tourist city. I stayed for less than an hour before heading back. On the train home, the ticket was not checked regardless of the number of the passengers
On the way home, I passed through the red-light district again and felt unsafe, so I walked quickly. I saw someone being arrested by a police officer and smelled weed for the first time since leaving the U.S. Back at the apartment, I cooked dinner using the remaining food—rice, eggs, and broccoli—packed my things, and went to bed.
In Belgium, I didn’t attend any Judo training. I couldn’t find a place to practice, and my big toe was bruised and more painful than I expected. For the first time on this trip, I didn’t practice Judo. I realized how much Judo has helped me connect with people, and without it, I felt lonely for the first time.
I have one week left on this trip. My final destination is Paris, where this journey began. It feels strange to return there. I’m not sure whether I’ll join Judo practices in Paris, and honestly, I’m not excited about going back. I’m also unsure whether I enjoyed Belgium. I don’t think I’d return for sightseeing. The area where I stayed in north Brussels felt unsafe, and I was surprised by the amount of garbage on the streets. If you visit Brussels, I wouldn’t recommend staying in that area.
The Photos
