The game was beginning in less than twenty four hours. I sat waiting obediently for what was proving to be a most disagreeable means of transport. I’m comfortable enough sitting in a plane. I don’t mind flying. What really bothers me is sitting in a plane and not flying. Or, even worse, neither sitting in a plane nor flying, but lounging in a departure lounge from where no one departs. It seems to be the biggest part of flying. Not flying.
I suppose some unexpected delays are to be expected. We eventually took off and after our host, Pierre, worked his camp continental charm, I sat back, relaxed and enjoyed the flight.
I quietly contemplated that which awaited. I had arranged to stay with the parents of an old work mate, now friend. (Thank you so much Emily Roche.) It seemed fitting to be staying with people I did not know in a country I knew nothing about. I must confess that all I heard of Belgium was that it was terribly boring, but had very good beer. Incongruous though the two notions seem.
I had come to Belgium to watch their team play Tunisia. It was not supposed to be much of a match, with Belgium so strong and the press describing Tunisia as, well, boring. Feeling desperate for distraction from imagined boredom ahead, I buzzed for Pierre, just to watch the man mince.
Touch down in Brussels. I could feel that the challenge was truly set to begin. Bumbling my way onto the coach to Midi Station had seemed hard enough, but was nothing compared with the challenges that awaited.
I had greatly underestimated barriers de linguistic. I had arranged to call my hosts from the station to come pick me up. Making a phone call. It is something so fundamental, I would have never thought it a hurdle. But in Belgium, it was. For about an hour or more, I fed coins into phones. While they sat chirping in French, I punched numbers and groaned. I fought so hard to master them, those bastardised versions Bell’s great invention. I felt beaten by nothing. Slumped in frustration, I felt so very small, begging and cursing that damned box on the wall. Then, an elderly gent staggered over and adopted my pose. He eyed up a phone and loosening his trousers gave it a well aimed splashing and me a satisfied smile. I felt so tempted to join him, but no.
Instead, I queued for information and, feeling the full schmuck that I was, sought detailed instructions on how to make one measly call. They took pity on me and finally the ordeal was over and I was in my new temporary home. I was spectacularly wined and dined by my fine hosts, retiring late and feeling almost too full of hospitality to face the game that lay ahead.
I awoke early the next morning and headed to central Brussels. ‘The Grand Place’ was said to be where the action was. The area was crawling was tourists. I’d been told to expect little passion from the Belgians and I felt I might need the visitors to give me a show.
As I weaved through the narrow streets, my nervousness grew. Did I have the schedule wrong, or was I the only one for whom the game mattered? I had been led to expect ‘boring’, but did not expect ‘nothing’ and yet nothing presented. I picked up my stride, now in my usual pre-match jog. I tightened my gaze, searching for some love of the game. Then, I saw them. Viking horns in black, red and gold! They cared! They really did care! Perhaps I would find a game after all.
I followed the Viking past the enticingly named ‘Drug Opera’. It was a gruesome venue which looked like a tripped over Trump had spilt glitz through the room. ‘Christian’s Bar’ gave the same presentation, though without all the patrons. I was moving away, when suddenly a flag caught my eye. ‘Tavern Jupiter’ said the sign. I ducked through the flag that hung from the door and was greeted by about a dozen locals all grinning and crammed with backs to the wall. A necessity, as the tavern was no bigger than a caravan with a bar barely six feet in length. We eyed each other with mutual amusement. The laughs rose up as I ambled into the room. I smiled with deep satisfaction, dropped my bag, ordered a pint and took my place against the wall.
The television was perched atop an old wood finished pinball machine. Faded photos competed with stapled butterflies for space on the wall which also displayed a picture of Belgium’s national team. From 1992.
I felt a little conspicuous scribbling at the back of the room (mere metres from the front), but the Belgians cared not. The game was soon to start.
Kick off and all was quiet. They watched the game in silent appreciation. As did I them.
The game made me nervous. I had not worked out which team was which and did not want to risk the faux par of supporting Tunisia. The room was good-natured, but its low profile and size made it feel the sort of place that could in an instant disappear with me along with it. This was possibly the fate of more than a few lost butterflies who merely stopped for directions only to find themselves stuck up to the wall.
At this juncture, I was offered a snack from a plate of sausage which I was sadly forced to decline by my dietary dictations. The kind gentleman merely sighed and stared up at the wall, looking straight at a butterfly which I could have sworn gave a twitch. Perhaps vegetarianism is a policy I may have to reconsider.
The silence was broken by an early Belgian goal! The room burst into a cheer and all tried to stand, restricted by tiny tables and no space in the room. There was shared joy in the moment. There was not the rapturous hysteria of a room of unknowns, but the warmth of good friends sharing in a success. All smiled and joked and though I understood naught, the mood was infectious and I coyly giggled and laughed.
Sadly, shortly thereafter, Tunisia scored causing the room a deep pain. It slowly subsided and when another foreigner walked into the room only to immediately turn back out, we all shared a laugh and a butterfly twitched.
The mood was subdued and casual, but surely not boring. Rather, it was warm and relaxed. The tavern had nothing but time. Nothing could move these folks away from their pews or rush them through their half-pints of Belgian’s best brews.
Sadly, the clock stood not still. As the half drew to a close and a Tunisian was stretchered off to not even a cheer, the barmaid took orders for more food and more beer. I drained my pint knowing that I would soon move on, much as it pained me to do so. I had to see how other Belgians were enjoying the match, but I knew that none could be so, so perfect.
I jogged lightly to ‘Lop Lop’, an international pub, with a mixed crowd to match. There were finely groomed ‘suits’ whom looked like they could have owned all of London. There were face painted fanatics, with drinks by the jug. I saw a number of students and I think a few foreigners. We all gathered together to wait for the match to resume.
An air horn announced the start of the half. The multi-accented waitresses toted great trays of beers negotiating the bodies strewn on the staircase – my own included. The place provided some action and with some close Belgian goals, the locals released their crossed arms to give a good cheer.
Indeed, Belgium dominated the half. The room was aroused, though only semi so it seemed. There was a certain flaccidity. A flatness. A droop. I mean, these boys knew how to drink and tie a half-windsor, but the ruckus was restrained and the cheers intermittent. There was never a chant, yet so much that deserved it. I really wanted a goal, just to see what they could do.
It was never to be. The game petered out and ended in a flat draw. I missed out on the opportunity of seeing the Belgians at their best. As they downed their drinks and all filed out, ‘I Will Survive’ blasted from the stereo and indeed Belgium would. The locals were nonplussed, but their team had made it through. Their campaign would continue. I might be in Belgium again and I knew where I would drink. ‘Tavern Jupiter’. It is probably one of a hundred, but still one of a kind and that’s exactly where I headed to while away the day until it was time to move on. On to Slovenia.