The weather finally gave us a break; Brussels for once was sunny and warm. Even better, the little Vieille Laterne, our favorite hotel in the world, had a vacant room. Since we'd been resigned from the start of the trip to having to slog around Brussels in a pouring rain looking for a place to stay, we went around for the rest of the day in a daze of half-believing joy.
The old town was packed with people out enjoying themselves and/or trying to make a buck. I've heard people say Brussels is boring, but I wonder if we're talking about the same town. Brussels on a fine spring Sunday is just about the liveliest place I've ever been; the only possible rival would be Paris and Brussels is friendlier.
I already had plenty of photos of Brussels, though. So I only took the one picture, of a group of energetic and talented musicians - the guy on sax was really good - up by the Place d'Espagne, and then left the damn camera in the room for the rest of the time.
Monday night while Phyllis was showering I sat at the window of our hotel room, playing mouth harp and watching the people going by on the narrow street below. The mobs around the Manneken-Pis had finally gone away for the night, leaving the little bastard peeing away on his own, but there were still plenty of passers-by. Mostly they took no interest in my musical efforts, but now and then somebody looked up and grinned or waved or just stared. For some reason it was mostly the women who noticed, which was pretty funny because what they couldn't see was that I was nude as a noodle from the waist down. (Hey, it was a warm night.)
Finally the street was empty, and I was finishing up the last chorus of "Georgia On My Mind" and getting ready to quit, when from somewhere across the street a huge black cat appeared. He started across the street and then stopped and tilted his head back, and gave me what I can only describe as a Look; and then he went on his way.
And, next morning, so did we.