Brussels, Belgium: The Chocolate Factory Sans Charlie

So I am sitting here eating pan-fried spaghetti—dorms didn’t come with a microwave—from this afternoon’s excursion to Brussels, Belgium. My trip to the Prostitution Information Center (PIC) was postponed to later this week. But I wanted to fill everyone in on my time in Brussels AKA The Chocolate Factory Sans Charlie.

To preface my account of this excursion, I want to first say that I traveled with great anxiety. Many of my family members told me not to go because of the racism relatives had experienced there and the police system’s inattentiveness to complaints of violence and intimidation from skinheads. When I arose at 6:30am on Friday morning, I weighed the costs and benefits. After resolving that I survived organizing in Mississippi, Georgia, Tennessee, Florida and South Carolina more or less unscathed, I shoved some toiletries and clothes in an overnight bag and made my way on the bus.

Three hours later, I arrived at the Jacque Brel Youth Hostel. Now, this guy is literally the John Lennon of Belgium. His name adorns street signs, restaurants, rooms and buildings. For those of us looking to eclipse our mortality, get the songwriting! In any event, I teamed up with three great girls in my Black Europe Studies group, two of which are based in the United States and the other is in London. Together we staked our claim in various tourist and non-tourist spots.

First item on the agenda: Eat a Belgian waffle. We succeeded in that and I had my very first sampling of Canadian syrup while the others feasted on Nutella and whip cream. The Belgian's take on the ego-waffle that was a staple of my childhood is a meeting between a pancake and a sugar cookie. Us in the United States do not take full advantage of our northern neighbor Canada with regards to their complements to this breakfast eatery. Upon return, I will be hastily crossing the border.

Next order of business was purchasing Belgian chocolate for us and loved ones back home. For this we hit up Leonidas Belgian Chocolates. They are literally the Starbucks of Belgian Chocolate. They had milk chocolate samples that were to DIE for. My mother always tells me that Ghanaians don’t eat chocolate, but I think I am about to call her bluff when I return this August.

We then spent some formal time at the European Commission. Sadly, I nodded off through the 70+ slides in the Power Point presentation on the pledge process that are the EU’s guidelines for rejecting and accepting applicant countries. More criticism to follow on that at another time.

Our travels brought us to immigrant community hot spots on streets like Rue Williams Straat (street) and the most dainty Moroccan restaraunt, Saveurs d'ailleurs. This place was so fly (literally) that pastries were weekly flown from Morocco to be served freshly to a diverse community of locals and European and American tourists.

We also toured the Botanical Gardens which is positioned in Brussels like an island of foliage amidst a sea of Corporate Europe. It was bizarre to see Best Westerns, Sheratons, Hiltons and Comfort Inns dominating in a city with architecture that rivaled Spain. At the gardens, my comrades and I took some time to be present and enjoy the gift of studying abroad. We took pictures of statues that strangely outnumbered tourists, parents pushing strollers and lovers.

Towards the end of the tour we caught a glimpse of the famous urinating boy AKA “mannaken-pis.” Look out Carrie Bradshaw, it is said that he has a wardrobe of more than 600 outfits. Today he donned a uniform reminiscent of an '80s US police officer with hat in tow.

I experienced all this without any racist verbal injuries on my person. The experiences and tastes were well worth the trip!

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