Jamiewrites: Brussels 1 and 2

Had a very relaxed time getting to the train station, since (as I mentioned in my Cologne post) my hotel was an easy walk to the train station. I simply got to my platform and waited. I can't even remember what the journey was like.

My apartment in Brussels was sadly not within walking distance of the train station, so I had to catch a metro seven stops to get to it. Brussels also has the kind of gates that you need to scan your metro ticket to get both on and off - at least at the stations I went through - so no fare evading here.

Got to my apartment easily enough (I'd been given instructions) but struggled a bit with getting the key out of the lock until I messaged the guy who said it had to be horizontal to come out; something I've never seen before and which didn't occur to me to try.

I also messaged him about the washing machine, since according to my booking information, there should have been one. Turns out there isn't one in the apartment itself, but there were some in the shared laundry downstairs. So, I wandered down there to take a look and found there were two washing machines (one not working, with a sign on it) and two dryers - all of which were pay-to-play. There also wasn't any sign of a detergent dispenser. So, if I wanted to do my laundry - and I needed to do laundry - I had to make these things work, find enough money in the right form (it looked like I need 6 x 1€ coins - a precious resource), put aside the time to do it in two batches (washing and drying) and also get hold of a single serve of detergent.

This was annoying because it was one of the reasons why I'd opted for an apartment rather than a hotel - and this place had washer and dryer listed without the specification that they'd a) be elsewhere in the complex and b) require payment. It's something I comb through the descriptions to be as sure about as possible, because it's essential that I can do my laundry as conveniently as possible.

But there wasn't a lot I could do about it now, though I did check out other options: there was a proper laundromat not far from me, but it didn't seem any easier to use plus would (based on my calculations) cost more and include lugging everything an extra 10 minutes walk each way. I found a laundry service but it was in an upscale shopping district so they charged obnoxious prices for things; that wasn't an option either. So, I'd just have to find coins and detergent and wander back and forth from my room on the fourth floor to the laundry on the ground floor, all the while wondering if what I'm doing is somehow contravening the building rules in some way, or if another resident is going to interfere with my stuff.

Getting the coins for the laundry is a story in itself. I needed more coins (at least 6, not including however many required for detergent) than I expected I'd get hold of through the usual course of a day (i.e. in change) so I browsed the internet for advice and found that the National Bank of Belgium happily exchanges coins for notes at its city branch - a branch that was not all that far from my apartment.

So, after successfully obtaining a new SIM card (the one I'd bought online in Australia before I left was only for 30 days, which is about what I was up to now) from an Orange (easy to do, though I still had to show them my passport) store and determining it wasn't worth going to a service laundry (who wanted 3.80€ per item; a ridiculous amount) I went to the bank.

I found what I believed to be the main door and looked inside. Didn't look like any bank I'd ever been in - there didn't seem to be any people for starters, though in the far corner I could see people gathering their stuff to go through a metal detector. "That can't possibly be for the tellers", I thought, "I'll keep looking."

I walked up and down a bit and didn't anything else, so I thought I might as well head to where I saw the high security section and see where that led me. The man in charge of the machine confirmed that, yes, if I wanted to see a teller, I needed to go through the machine. So, after unloading myself of everything - I'll point out that my backpack was currently full of laundry - and depositing it into the plastic containers, I went though. My belt set it off, so I removed it. No more beeps. I load everything back up and go to the machine that gives you a ticket - much like the kind you find in most government agencies in Australia.

Because it wasn't all that busy, I didn't have to wait very long - though it did appear that each person in front of me was taking a long time to do whatever the heck it was they were doing. And then my number got called.

Now, here's where it gets really weird: in order to get my ten 1€ coins, I had to show my passport (the details got taken down) and sign a form. To get change. I shudder to think what would be involved if I wanted to open an account.

Anyway, after this Kafkaesque experience, I had my ten coins and would be free to do my washing. Well, as soon as I got hold of some detergent. But I did that at the second laundromat I found (the first appeared to have a locked door, despite looking quite open) and - after fighting with the machine over actually giving me a packet; I was getting very frustrated and contemplating how much of a kick I could give it) - took my laundry back home and set out to visit some museums: the Magritte (in the centre of town) and the Hergé (fifty or so effing miles away).

After that I was able to do my washing with very little hassle, other than having to trudge from my apartment to the laundry and back three times. But I now had enough clean clothes to take me to the end of my trip.

The apartment.

The view.

On the way into the town square for a walking tour.

So, the town square is stunning.

We encounter Maneken Pis.

An odd sight: an Australian ice cream place.

For dinner I went traditional and was glad to find this included bread - probably the best bread I'd had on this trip.

And beer, of course.

Meatballs. With fries, (also of course).

And a waffle, with chocolate.

Next day, out wandering.

The Magritte museum.

The pig-man seems...unimpressed.

Man liked his pipes.

And now, the Hergé museum - as someone who a) loved reading the Tintin stories and b) was nicknamed Tintin, a nickname that stuck so much that there are people in the world who only know me as that and never knew my real name - an obvious choice, even though it's actually in a town about an hour's train ride from the centre of Brussels.