I see that the Thalys train is offering a special price of 30€ on their Paris-Brussels return tickets – but there’s a catch – it’s only for the night owls!

If you’re young enough (sorry, it’s not just at heart either), feel like leaving Paris at 20:25 or 21:55 on a Saturday night and returning at 7 or 8 on the first trains of the morning, then this is the deal for you!

The thing is, why would I want to leave Paris on a Saturday evening? Is the nightlife in Brussels that good? Asking around, I found a few people who answered in the affirmative, but I’m still not sure if they were pulling my leg or not.

Speaking of having my leg pulled… I spent this morning googling to determine whether or not the motorways of Belgium can really be seen from the moon. I know it’s an urban legend about the Great Wall of China being spotted from outer space, but I just heard the one about the Belgian highways from my rideshare driver when I was going to Amsterdam. Apparently, the renowned illumination of Belgium’s highway system makes it the only man-made structure visible from the moon at night.

Not that I would be spending my evening camped out along the highway…

But does anyone out there know if it would be worthwhile having a white night in Brussels? Wave the tag of “sale” or “promo” at me, and it’s usually like waving a red rag at a bull – but what do you think about this one? Anyone?

Before the Renaissance… before Eurovision… there was beer.

I realise that I have devoted a lot of posts recently to drinking culture recently, but ‘tis the season and it is a blog about Europe after all… so please view it as European history made fun, rather than the ramblings of a pisspot!

It was actually an Australian flatmate who turned my attention to the finer points (and higher potency) of Belgian brews, and ever since my round-about-roadtrip to Amsterdam I’ve had my eye on all things Belgian. So I decided to orchestrate a little taste test – all in the name of historic and scientific learning, of course… starting with a couple of blonde beers that are both readily available on tap in France, Leffe and Grimbergen.

Both of these Abbey beers trace their roots to the twelfth century, first brewed by hospitable Norbertine monks, but the product is a contemporary and commercial variation on the theme. Trappist beers, on the other hand, are brewed in Trappist monasteries under the supervision of the monks.

Unfortunately the major shortcoming of the project was that my beer tasting vocabulary was limited to “nice”, “good” and “drinkable”… until I consulted the Leffe website. Not only do I now know the correct service temperature for the entire Leffe range and the individual angle required to pour each of the beers, but I also know what that “mysterious” tip-of-the-tongue flavour is in the Leffe blonde…

Banana. The next sip – ah yes, clearly banana; the following sip – perhaps that was psychological; and a third sip – why the heck banana?

Sadly, the Grimbergen site is only in French and Dutch, so it will take me a little longer to determine if pineapple and guava were their secret ingredients. So I’ll have to leave it at “nice”, “good” and “drinkable.”

The next selection of Chimay Trappist beers had me imagining the monks sitting around in their nineteenth-century boys club, no women to spur them on to more worthwhile pursuits, comparing measurements:

“Huh-huh, eight…”

“Whoah, guys! Check it out, 8.5!”

I’d like to imagine that this was the case, but further reading indicated that it was actually measures from 1919 prohibiting the sale of spirits in pubs that spurred the production of higher strength beer.

Putting the ‘pist’ back into ‘Trappist’ – the ideal Chimay advertisement, this monk looks like he’s already had a few (too many…)

This is not the central “claim to fame” of Bruges. And we can all rest easier of an evening knowing this.

This custom-made mechanical tiger is being taken out for its first prowl by the artist-designer. The lengths some people will go to just to get featured on this blog…

Back during that period of infamy (last week’s French transport strike), I was convinced spur of the moment to go to Amsterdam. There was a pretty strong argument to be had – one Australian friend was there for the weekend before returning to Sydney, and also a Dutch friend was leaving for Papua New Guinea the following Tuesday. It was time to say goodbye, and Amsterdam seemed to be the best place to do it.

I thought I would avoid all that hoo-hah with the trains and arrange a rideshare. For 25€ and five hours of journey, I could be in Amsterdam, no worries. Or at least that’s what I thought.

When we met, the driver announced that we were going via Calais to pick up some other travellers stranded by the strike… No problem, I’d just have to push back my 4pm meeting to become a dinner date with my friends in Amsterdam.

After a scenic coastal detour and late arrival to Belgium, the driver turned to ask me at 8pm if I was in a hurry to get to the Netherlands. “I was…” I conceded through clenched teeth.

“Great!” He beamed obliviously, “that means that we have time to have a look at Bruges! It would be such a shame for us to pass by!”

Now – in retrospect – I agree with him wholeheartedly. Our rag-tag group (as unlikely a formation of travel companions ever assembled) ambled through the streets in awe like a family of dad and three surly (rolling eyes, but secretly impressed) teenagers.

Bruges (also known by the Dutch name of Brugge) is an amazingly magical place, especially on an evening of penetrating cold when it’s virtually empty to stroll around the canals, with the fairytale village lights (and harsh advertising neons and Tintin) beckoning you to partake in a little beer, praline and waffle indulgence. In the main square of quaintly peaked brick facades, the wooden huts for the Christmas markets were boarded up for the evening. In the surrounding alleys, however, the lace pieces were still impressively displayed in the warm and homely glow from the shop windows.

So what if this charming medieval trade centre was extensively re-created in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries? Lijiang in China was re-built “new as old” after the 1996 earthquake to reflect 800 years of history, and it’s still fantastic to see! I’m just a sucker for Disneyland recreations, I’ll admit it!

One of the wonderful things about the European summer is the abundance of music festivals throughout the continent. My favourite types are of course those lasting for several unwashed days, and the word ‘camping’ is guitar-strummed music to my ears.

But a tent isn’t always a necessary part of this equation.

Hearing about the 3-day Rock Werchter festival in Belgium, I convinced two friends (the same two as the previous story, coincidentally) to come from Germany and Spain to meet in Brussels. I hadn’t quite organised everything comprehensively, and when we met we realised that the three of us were without a tent. It was the perfect opportunity to meet and mingle…

Firstly, we met an Australian guy, going to the same festival, but no tent.

That made four.

Then, an Australian girl, but same deal, no tent. Five.

Finally a Canadian guy answered in the affirmative to both questions. Yes, he was going to the festival, and yes, he had a tent. A two-man tent. For the six of us.

We weren’t going to let that bother us, and off we trotted to enjoy the festivities. We pitched our meagre shelter amongst a group of Belgian teenagers who had an ostentatious six tents for their eight people. When it came time for bed, I think we had five bodies across, and the sixth body at the feet. I managed in the tent until the early hours of the morning, and then just slept outside, which meant I was privy to the spectacle of the rest of the tent waking up.

From out of the tent popped our gangly, sleep-befuddled posse, one after the other, after the other. Like circus clowns from an impossibly small car, people seemed to just keep coming from the tent, and seeking spacious solace on the surrounding grass. It was a hilarious sight, and one that caught the Belgian teenagers by total surprise.

The second night, we just stayed up for an all-nighter. It was more diplomatic than trying to allocate tent space!