BELGIUM: Mussels from Brussels

I googled “famous Belgians”, and true enough, the top search result was none other than the roundhouse-kicking, leg-splitting star of “Maximum Risk”, Jean Claude Van-Damme. When a city’s biggest contribution to the zeitgeist is a street fighter who faced Bolo from Enter the Dragon at Kumite in a cheese-filled 90’s movie, one may second guess their planned trip to Brussels. But before you cancel your airline ticket and your second order of stroopwafel, I can passionately declare that there is more to Brussels than the brawn from “Bloodsport.” This is Belgium, where the beer is allegedly better than in Bavaria. After spending a couple of days in this unassuming city, I realized that Brussels is one of the most underrated cities in Western Europe.

The Eurostar train ride from Frankfurt was a bit of a doozy so we were aching to check into our stellar accommodations which turned out to be no larger than a walk-in closet. My Mapquest printout shows us that the hotel was a 20 minute walk from the train station. Brilliant, Wall Street Dude and I could not wait to roll out of that depressing train station. The place was a steel bastion of gloom littered with vagrants and shady mendicants, where back alleys seem to be ideal meeting spots for your run-off-the-mill coke deals.   

After a one-two combo of a power nap and hot bath, we headed straight to Brussels' central square, the Grand Place, apparently the city’s top tourist trap attraction.  This square, surrounded by baroque guildhalls, museums and hotels is hidden at the core of old town and can only be reached through narrow side alleys. As a result, the Place’s glory is discretely revealed to your human eyes as you enter from one of these streets. This adds much to the charm of this gothic Disneyland. I was impressed. As the adage goes, if it’s baroque, do not fix it.

We tried out the local grub in one of the surrounding cellar restaurants, walked through cobble-stoned side streets and stopped at cafes to devour buckets of mussels. The highlight of the evening was a visit to Delirium, one of the famous bars in Brussels, with over 2000 beers and ales in their liquid arsenal at your fine liver’s disposal. The bar was massive, overflowing with tourists, young-uns, NATO types and clouds of cigarette smoke. In the great debate of Belgian vs. German Beer, this bar holds the fort and raises the flag. As evidenced by this fine establishment, Belgian beer simply has more variety (abbey, trappist) where Germany simply trophies its lager. No doubt, the complexity and multitude of the Belgian strain outclasses the Bavarian. 

The night was generally a low-key affair (Brussels isn’t really a party town and you rarely see Contiki brats roaming its cobble-stoned paths). On the way home from the old square, we paid homage to that famous statue of an e-trade baby taking a leak, had conversations with a chocolatier from a random Godiva store (Belgians are quite a nice lot) and downed a couple more glasses of Belgian brew in a jazzy bar across the hotel, hanging out with the locals. No sighting of the elusive Timecop though.

The Grand Place takes on varying auras depending on the time of day so after breakfast, I found myself back the next morning milling about, simply gazing up and absorbing its overwhelming guilded beauty. Overall, Brussels was a laid back and pleasant experience. So I strongly urge you to open your eyes, spread your legs and be a travel prostitute, and give this unassuming city even a short amount of your time.

GERMANY: Deutschbag in Deutschland

The gods of alcohol often entertain themselves at my expense (e.g. that horrid night I blew chunks in Times Square) but sometimes they throw me a bone. Waking up out of a massive alcoholic stupor usually requires a bucket of ice water but I successfully rise out of bed from all the Oktoberfest mayhem. Still tired and hungry though, I race to the hotel’s substandard buffet table, devour breakfast ala Kristie Alley and pack up for a walking tour of Munich. This city is the heart and soul of Bavaria and I dare not depart without at least checking out some of the sights of this charming beer quaffing and sausage eating epicenter.

We haul our collective asses out of our hotel which was right smack in the Olympic village (across from the BMW headquarters), race to Munich’s Central train station, conveniently drop our bags into station lockers and prepare to do a walking tour around Munich.

The Marienplatz or main square was the usual starting point. The group was aided by a San Diegan guide, who like most of young Yankee tour guides, voluntarily transplanted into Europe to “find himself” and exudes all the makings of a "trust fund douche." These hapless dolts do these tour gigs to earn an extra buck.

Dominating the main square is the neo-Gothic New Town Hall and the Cubao COD-inspired Glockenspiel (amusing moving figurines displayed atop the town hall). The next stop was the imposing landmark church of Frauenkirche, which incidentally was the current Pope’s former spiritual stomping ground. (Yes, that German pope who bears a startling resemblance to Emperor Palpatine).

During the 2 hour tour, we marvel at old and new town halls, visit churches, markets and Hitler’s favorite theatre. If you get past the fact that Munich was the site of Kristallnacht Jewish massacres and a vicious Nazi stronghold, it’s a charming town, really.

After grabbing a late, insipid and expensive lunch at the Kaufingerstrasse shopping street, we head back to Central Station for the afternoon train to Austria where more Euro shenanigans await.

GERMANY: Prost to Bavar-Yeah!

"There must be EU legislation against debauchery of this magnitude."

I had a dream once. I saw a vision of a vast, open field, with massive wooden tents sprawled across the grounds, sprouting like giant smurf housing. Inside these gigantic pavilions, amber liquid flowed without end, served in giant jugs by women with well, giant jugs. There was loud, melodic music and grown men dressed as tanless oompah loompahs danced the afternoon away on a drunken stupor.

I woke up from this dream, sweaty, famished and blighted with a terrible headache. Then, I realized my vision wasn’t any sort reverie.

It was last evening’s Oktoberfest festivities.

Let’s set the scene to last evening’s shenanigans. It was a half an hour wait outside the massive Schottenhamel tent. Getting in the famous beer tents on the last Saturday evening of the festival was akin to typical, infuriating wait outside the pretentious clubs of Chelsea – the velvet rope human guard dogs where just as annoying, and if you didn’t have cleavage, you will be out of the mix. And I left NYC for this? Fortunately, Wall Street dude and I banded with a group of yanks who were traveling from Spain. As there was strength in numbers, and a table befitting our number opened up, the Bavarian Cerberus let us in. We troop to the tent and order our respective liters.

Here in Oktoberfest, everyone from anywhere are friends. Let me introduce you to some of the cast of characters we had the distinct pleasure of toasting to some Bavarian brew.

Colonel Greybeard: A 50-year old military hardware specialist from Tulsa. He was escaping from an insufferable marriage with a fat Midwestern wife, and was in Munich doing a bit of business with a German ammunitions conglomerate. Surprisingly, there’s a lot like him in these hallowed Oktoberfest tents – middle-aged Americans escaping the drudgery of middle-class living and from their loud, obese wives. Here in Oktoberfest, you can drink beer, meet a bevy of Bavarian beauties and just hang loose.

Franz the Tortured: He’s a young professional from Frankfurt. The problem with Oktoberfest is after about 3 liters of beers, your innermost demons rear their heads. Franz was no exception. Teary-eyed, he spilled the sad fact that during his formative years, he was assaulted by his Uncle, a certified butt pirate. We all give him a hug and tell him that with beer and some friends, everything’s going to be alright.

The Brazilian Predatress: The tents close at 11 pm. On the subway back home, we met Leila, a Brazilian post-grad working lass based in Munich. She doesn’t look like your typical Brazilian bombshell Girl from Ipanema, but she was wildly appealing with her curly hair, dark eyes and tan skin. It was probably the Bavarian ale affecting our discernment that easily convinced us to end up at her little adorable pad in the middle of Munich. After almost an hour of “hanging out”, drinking beers and downing some shots, I fiddled with her living room CD player, and turned on some electic-sounding German house music. After a quick trip to the bathroom, Leila comes out and stared at our tired eyes and undressed, leaving her FM boots on. She grabbed my gel-laden hair and led me to the queen-sized bed, the centerpiece of her studio apartment. Wall street dude followed along and what happened was seemingly one of the more interesting encounters of this Europe trip.

It's 2:40 a.m. We were all sweaty and Leila suggested "Let’s go to a club”. We whizzed to the street and as she stopped in a corner to smoke, tired, we quickly hail a cab and sped out of there, escaping from the vile clutches of the Predatress.

3 am. We head back to our hotel and lo and behold the hotel bar was open. We ended up downing beers and cocktails with the hotel’s lovely German receptionists. Set by reasonable standards, it seemed like it was a good first day in Europe.

There’s a wonderful solace when one is unhurriedly drinking golden Paulaner at 10 am in a Sunday morning surrounded by smiling locals dressed in their finest lederhosen. This to me, is what Oktoberfest is all about – immersing with locals, drinking Bavarian golden amber while listening to the soothing horns of an ace German umpah band (the ones made popular by Jimmy Kimmel’s “Man Show”). This was the refreshing, non-douchified experience at the traditional Paulaner tent.

The Lowenbrau tent, is another story.

The entrance to the Lowenbrau temple of beer was decorated by a massive 4.5 meter wooden lion that would make Panthro and the rest of the Thundercats meow with pride. The energy at the lion’s tent was uncontrollable and fever-pitched. The Lowenbrau was a massive alcohol haven filled with drunkards from all over the globe (well, mostly Australia). It was an afternoon of dancing on tables, vomiting on garbage bins, and rocking to umpahfied Abba tunes. In this exuberant tent, I met them all: the illegal immigrant George Lopez look-alike from Peru who annoyingly badgered strangers for free brew; the noisy, sex-crazed, inebriated Australian couple who was craving for a threesome in the urine-soaked restroom; the sweet, loving, World War 2 Adrennes Offensive - surviving, geriatric German sweethearts drinking from a singular stein, and an inebriated mother who was escorted out of the tent for being way too smashed.

The sun over Bavaria was setting and we decided to complete the Oktoberfest experience with the infamous Munich Beer Challenge. This so-called Bavarian Beer Challenge was a 4-hour pub crawl experience where one visits famous beer halls around Munich, free from open container laws, with stops that include the most prominent beer chamber in the world, the grandiose Hofbrauhaus.

Our final stop was naturally, a triumphant return to the hallowed Oktoberfest grounds.

Sometime between the late night bratwurst and a liter of Hefeweizen, the hilarious Beer Challenge pub crawlers strangely got separated and I ended up in the Hofbrau tent with the lovely blonde Canadian beer guzzler Gina. We danced. We drank. We sang to the resident band’s rendition of the classic closer Hey Jude, and kissed while holding up a lighter with one hand and a stein on the other.

The Munich Oktoberfest is a 16-day festival that ends all festivals. There must be EU legislation against debauchery of this magnitude. For eons, I’ve always wanted to do this and I pity those who didn’t go through this drunken rite of passage - before getting hitched, before raising exasperating children and before realizing that one is much too old to down liters of beer, hang loose, sing, dance and get royally destroyed in the fields of Bavaria.