One of my reasons for having a fascination with the Old World, is that I grew up in a nation without much record. The history of my country begins with Columbus; weather or not one obscure Viking or Chinese merchant fell upon its shores at some earlier date. Archaeology can lend to the mystery somewhat, but not with the concrete grasp that an eyewitness is able to lend. America, the Americas, are fascinating lands, but I love history; that America lacks.
This city traces its foundation to one of the men in the family-line of Charlemagne. Since the tenth century, Brussels has been a place of countless, grand undertakings and investments of time, and other resources, thought and other intangibles. Princes fought over this city since before there were formal European states. Nations have fought over this city since the ebb of that Time.
And so, walking the streets of Brussels is like reading one of the works by Machiavelli; the richness is undigestible. Standing in the Grote Markt, or Grand Place as its also called, is like dwelling within a chapter from a Harry Potter novel. Thousands of points of beauty in stone, metals, concrete, and glass form the square. From the cobbles under foot to the highest, glittering, cap-perched facades; walking within is like swimming inside a boiling rainbow. I have only been one time, but I would wager that different times of day offer this venue the complexity of a warmed, oak-barrel aged scotch.
You have to come to Europe. You owe it to your children to come.
albaniacalling 