Hundredth Post - My Five Favorites

After 99 previous posts, I have a few I particularly like, so I'll just list them here.

I'm not sure if I like them for the merit of the writing, the subject matter or from remembering the experience, but they stick out to me as my favorites. Click on the bold text for the original article.

Paris Throws a Party
This was my first blog post, and I originally wrote it as an assignment for my column and review writing class in college. I had a habit of procrastinating, and that assignment was no different. I wrote it an hour before it was due in The State Hornet newsroom while the fire alarm was going off over my head and my editor was interviewing me for a copy editing position (no joke). It worked out, since I got an A on the assignment, I got the copy editing job and the school didn't burn down.

Bruges: Belgium's Jewel
In the movie In Bruges, the characters hate this canal city that was the financial capital of Europe in the past. I happen to love it, and I plan on returning. It's tied with Rothenburg ob der Tauber for my favorite small town in the world.

Prague at Dawn
I really enjoyed Prague. It had a special appeal as it was my first trip to a former Communist Bloc country. Wandering around the city by myself an hour before dawn and watching it wake up was a unique experience, and one I hope to replicate the next time I'm in Paris.

A visit to Normandy
Having minored in European history in college, and having been interested in World War II before that, Normandy always held a special fascination with me. Growing up, I never thought I would get the chance to visit the battlefield.

The Mad King's Fairy Tale Castle
Schloss Neuschwanstein is the epitome of a fairy tale castle, and it should be at the top of the list for anyone visiting Germany. Disney based a castle on it, and it has graced thousands of postcards, TV shows and movies. The views from the top of the Alps and the nearby lowlands are fantastic, and a walk across the wood-planked bridge nearby isn't for those with a fear of heights.

Manneken Pis

Manneken Pis is the biggest little attraction in Brussels.

As the Dutch name implies, Manneken Pis is a small statue of a naked little boy making water on a street corner.

Many myths, legends and untruths surround the fountain's history and inception. Some say he was a nobleman's kid who urinated on an opposing army in the Middle Ages. Others claim he used his natural means to put out the fire of a fuse set to blow up parts of the city. Another popular tale is that he was the son of a wealthy traveler or merchant who was lost, then found by citizens as he did his business in a garden.

I personally found it odd that no one seems to be able to give an exact reason for the statue's construction, but I knew I couldn't see Brussels without paying homage to the bronze boy.

Throughout the past 200 or so years, visiting dignitaries have sought to clothe the boy. According to some accounts, French King Louis XV's soldiers made off with the little statue. Louis, furious with his soldiers, had a costume made for the boy and returned the statue.

Regardless of how the tradition came about, Manneken Pis now has a few hundred costumes at his disposal.

When I saw the fountain, he was naked as the day he was forged. He was, to my disappointment, eliciting a stream of common water. I'd heard he is sometimes hooked up to a beer keg and that passers-by are offered a drink. I think that would make quite an interesting social experiment, as some people would go for free beer at any cost, others would refuse it out of principal and still more might be on the fence.

Personally...I would have gone for the free beer from a unique tap.

In any case, I looked at him for a few minutes, shrugged and headed to the town square for a visit to the Manneken Pis museum - displaying hundreds of his outfits.

Wandering through display after display of outfits and photos, I realized the little lad has had quite a storied life. He's worn the uniform of multiple armies, including Napoleon's Imperial Guard and an American World War II uniform. Business suits, police uniforms, clown costumes and many, many more were on display as well.

At the time of my visit, I didn't know there are other Mannekens Pis in the country, but Brussels claims to have the oldest, and quite honestly, it's not that impressive, but is definitely worth a stop for the novelty of it.

And speaking of novelty, why not have a pint at the Taverne Manneken Pis, then pick up a Manneken Pis corkscrew/botttle opener combo? The latter has great shock value as a gift.

Manneken Pis is located at the intersection of Rue de l'Etuve and Rue du Chène, a few hundred yards from the Grand Place (town square).

For more information, visit a Web site claiming to be the official one here.

The Taste of Travel: Belgian Waffles and French Fries

I've always loved waffles, and Belgian waffles in particular. On the day I was in Brussels, the thing at the top of my list to do was eating waffles. Second on that list was eating French fries.

I realize the two foods don't really go together (except on a list of foods that might not be very healthy), but I'd read somewhere that the Belgians invented French fries, and that they fried them twice, making them extra crispy.

After a bus tour through the city, my family and I stopped for French fries. Little stands selling them and waffles are all over the place, so it only took a few minutes to find one. Waiting in line, I eagerly anticipated sinking my teeth into the authentic version of one of my favorite foods. I watched the oil in the fryer bubble as a fresh batch of already-fried fries was dunked, and salivated when I saw them pulled out and stuffed into a conical paper wrapping for the couple in front of me.

Then I was horrified when a giant glob of mayonnaise landed on top of them, and two miniature forks were thrust into the top of that.

I was sure the couple would loudly protest and order a new batch, but instead, they dug into their fatty feast with relish, blobs of mayo sliding down the sides of greased fries as they stuffed them into their mouths as fast as they could.

With trepidation, I approached the smiling stall owner and ordered my fries sans mayonnaise. The cheerful, plump man nodded knowingly and respected my New-World tastes. He handed me a little trough of ketchup to go with them, and a pair of those tiny forks.

Not wanting to look like a barbarian, I used the fork and ate my fries.

They were delicious.

I don't know the calorie count, nor do I care. Double-frying the fries is an excellent idea, and one that we should adopt in the States. They still tasted like good French fries I could find at any number of places in America, but the twice-fried texture put them over the top.

After digesting the fries for about 10 minutes, I had to stop at a waffle stand. I saw two locals heading away, waffles in hand, and caught a glimpse of a creamy white substance smeared on top. I really, really hoped it wasn't more mayonnaise.

Fortunately, it was whipped cream. I applaud the addition of whipped cream to nearly every food, but for my waffle, I went with a traditional topping of powdered sugar and vanilla bean ice cream. My sister went the healthy route and added strawberries to hers, then topped it with whipped cream.

As with the French fries, the Belgians handed out an innovative tool with which to better consume the waffles. It looked like a fork, but one of the outer tines was serrated, so the thin plastic could easily cut the waffle into manageable bites. (yes, I know that's a spoon in the photo. I was holding the fork).

I thought it was an excellent idea until I sliced the side of my mouth when I pulled the fork out. I swore and numbed the sudden pain with some of the ice cream, and advised my sister to be careful.

Far from accepting the advice of an older sibling in the spirit I gave it, she looked at me with a "well, duh" expression.

In spite of my minor injury (which was nothing ice cream and a few beers couldn't cure), I loved the whole eating experience in Brussels. The waffles tasted the same as they do over here, but I figured being able to say I'd had them in Belgium would be a good point in any future game of one-upmanship (which I inherently loathe but sometimes feel compelled to participate in).

Bruges: Belgium's Jewel

Coasting down the gentle canal waters, surrounded by brick buildings and the medieval walls, it didn’t seem like a place that should actually exist outside a fairy tale or a movie set. Once the economic hub of the Low Countries, the town of Bruges, Belgium, is today one of the most appealing small cities in Europe.

Just a one-hour train ride from Brussels, the capital of the European Union, Bruges stands seemingly forgotten by time. The Europeans haven’t forgotten it, though, naming it the European Capital of Culture in 2002.

When I was there, it was after a visit to Brussels, where the old market square and Mannekin Pis were worthwhile, but I didn't have a chance to fully explore the city. With only two days before I had to fly home, I hoped Bruges wouldn’t disappoint.

It didn’t.

My first night there was a blur of train station, taxi ride through dark streets and check-in at the Hotel Adornes, located in the old town.

In the morning, I awoke to the splendor that is Bruges. An overcast sky threatened rain, but the canal outside my window gently lapped at the piers of a centuries-old bridge and ran past brick buildings as it met up with the other small waterways that add to the ambiance of the city.

The hotel offered free bicycles, and my family and I wanted to make use of them before any rain came. We went down to what I thought of as a stable, and selected four of the 20-odd two-wheelers there. Childishly delighted with the bells attached to the handlebars, we rumbled over cobblestones toward a series of windmills knowing that all cars yield the right-of-way to bicycles in Bruges.

Along the outer canal of the old town, several old windmills stand as examples of one of Belgium’s quintessential sights. None were open at the time, though it looked like they were sometimes available for tours. I would have liked to see the wooden wheels and pegs that made up the older windmill gears, but I had to settle for the views of the exteriors and, inexplicably, only manage to take one (poor) photograph.

Leaving the windmills, we rode over a dirt path that circles the old town. In the canal to the left, low-slung barges passed each other under stone-and-brick bridges. Several of the larger roads spanning the canal had fortified gatehouses erected when Bruges was entering its golden age, between the 12^th and 15^th centuries.

The curved sides and stout construction of one of them indicated its being designed for mortal struggle, but with the host of swans lazing in the canal beneath it and the occasional car passing through its permanently open gate and portcullis, it’s hard to imagine a time when enemy armies might have threatened the town, even though its port was used by German U-boats as recently as the First World War.

Looking back to the town, building after idyllic building passed by, separated from us by the street and fields of flowers. The citizens of Bruges are surrounded by a rare beauty, and they maintain it well.

Further on, we came to Lovers’ Lake, one of the more pristine areas I have ever seen in any city. The natural beauty is no more impressive than Hyde Park in London or some of the islands in Paris, but when the distinctive architecture and a few swans are thrown in, it’s hard to rival.

As the capital of Flanders, Bruges embodied many of the fine arts during and just after the Renaissance. Many canvases from the Dutch Old Masters are on display in the city’s various museums, but with limited time, we opted to see one of the original fine arts still practiced today.

Following directions in our guide book, we weaved through several small streets before coming to a lace museum. We wandered through it rather quickly, stopping to view some of the most ornate garments and tablecloths I have ever seen, then walked into the meeting room.

A low hum of click-clicking greeted my ears as I stepped through the door to see about 30 elderly women tossing wooden spools of thread over each other to weave intricate designs. The less-complicated patterns required the workers to juggle between 10 and 30 spools, while some of the more complex designs necessitated far more.

I’m usually one of the first to roll my eyes at the obvious tourist-trap “crafts” that any 12-year-old can make in art class, and this was nothing of the sort. It was abundantly clear that the women, chatting to each other in Flemish, French and English as they worked, had spent years honing their skills. Without a burning need for a doily, I couldn’t rationalize spending the money that the pieces are definitely worth to buy one, but just watched them work.

After an excellent lunch at The Flemish Pot (a future post), we grabbed a ride on one of the canal boats with a group of Mexicans proudly supporting their team in the World Cup, which was being played in Germany at the time.

Floating through the city’s waterways as the guide explained what we were seeing in no less than four languages, we passed under low bridges and got a better understanding of some of the historic buildings dotting the city, including the belfry that stands on the south side of the market square and has 47 bells still played by a full-time employee.

After the boat ride, we got back on our bikes and sped toward the town square for some chocolates from Dumon before the shop closed, and a stop at the town square, which has the belfry and the city hall. It was fairly crowded with a mix of tourists, buses, horse-drawn carriages and people out walking their dogs.

We had dinner at a local pub with delicious food and beer that seemed to evidence the Belgians’ assertion that their beer is better than Germany’s, and then it was time for a nighttime walk through the town, which had become surprisingly quiet. The water reflected the subtle lights and our footsteps echoed in the narrow alleys as we whiled away the last hours of our trip.

Taking the taxi to the train station that would take us to Brussels and a flight home the next morning, we passed through the city as it was waking up. The sun rose higher above canals and buildings that can only be described as quaint. At that moment, I felt like Bruges was begging me to stay. I had to settle for promising myself a return trip at some point.