Bringing Back Brussels
Let childlike wonder invade
Nearly a year ago today, I was getting on a plane to Paris.
My daughter was already there with her senior high school class. We’d briefly intersect with the students and then take her with us on a train to Brussels. The “we” is me, my husband, and my 13-year-old son.
Reunited as a family of four, we arrive in Brussels. My husband had procured an apartment above a restaurant, centrally located in the city’s Grand-Place. It was truly grand, and the four of us loved traipsing the square and all side streets emanating from it, especially after nightfall.
One day we walked further afield and enjoyed the Musical Instruments Museum (MIM). On the way back, we encountered some twirling giants.
The Parade
I turn clockwise for about ten seconds and then counter-clockwise for ten more. My parents say that they’re too old now to twirl in the Meyboom giants costumes, and so now it’s me and my younger cousins who reside within each one. It’s taken a lot of practice to walk and spin in a costume that is twice as tall as I am. My eyes peek out of a slit at the giant’s waist, and I can see well enough straight ahead although not in my peripheral vision.
Today is stifling, and I’ve been maneuvering as a giant for nearly an hour. I lift up a corner of the garment and poke my head out just a bit, exhaling a deep breath. I make accidental eye contact with a blonde woman with a bewildered look on her face.
The Parade?
As we turn the corner and see what appear to be huge twirling puppets, my mind cannot make sense of what it is seeing. This is a small street, and the puppets are taking up almost all of it. Bystanders press themselves into what spaces they can — watching, filming, joining in. As I try to decide whether to keep walking and navigate a path through all this or stay and watch, my daughter exclaims next to me.
“Aaaak!”
“What, Honey?” I turn and ask her, with concern in my voice. I wonder whether she’s hurt. She was excited for this trip, but her cancer treatment is causing neuropathy in her feet as well as digestive issues. Is she OK?
“I’m wet,” she sputters.
“What?” I ask. Her comment makes no sense to me.
“Wet!” she repeats.
We both glance around and see, directly to our right, a copy of the famous Mannekin Pis statue in Brussels. The actual statue is nearby, but this one is plastic. A steady stream of water is spraying from him; more accurately, a man with a white handlebar mustache is directing the spray.
Taking a Breath
The woman and her daughter are talking. They must have gotten sprayed and are trying to figure out where the water came from.
I smile. This happens every year. Tourists from around the world stumble onto our parade. They’re serious. They have lists of places to visit and food to try, and this parade disrupts their plans. Americans in particular aren’t used to the frivolity of this event. What is the purpose, they seem to wonder.
Yet, each year, I see small smiles start to appear on faces, and some — not all — decide to stay and watch. They realize they don’t have to rush to another place after all. That stopping and experiencing our parade may possibly be the best part of their trip, even if they don’t understand the folklore behind our spectacle.
My grandfather is the one doing the spraying. He looks my way and shoots a spurt of water toward me. I feel the spray dust my hair, so I flash him a quick smile and duck back into the costume. Let the twirling commence.
Getting into the spirit
We don’t understand what it all means, but the handlebar mustache guy reminds us of the Wizard of Oz, and so we realize that we’re in some kind of a story, maybe some piece of folklore. I know nothing about Belgium aside from cuisine, World War II, and Agatha Christie’s famous detective.
We’re a musical family and we quickly become aware of the brass band that is also mixed in through the crowd. I don’t know the song, but I start clapping along to it. Strangely, it kind of sounds like “When the Saints Go Marching In,” but we’re definitely not in New Orleans.
I glance at my daughter’s face. She’s laughing, the momentary surprise of being sprayed forgotten. Her feet and stomach pains are forgotten in the absurd drama we see before us. Peeing statues? Twirling giants? Someone appears to be dressed as a medieval-era witch in a full mask and head of dark, curly hair. The jaunty music continues.
My son wants to know what caused the spray of water, and we point out the man with the handlebar mustache. My son’s eyes widen at the sight. He, too, can’t fully make sense of what he is seeing. This is like no parade we’ve experienced in the States.
My husband and I nod to each other. We’ll stay here a little while, keeping an eye on how our daughter is doing. We have room in our itinerary to stop, enjoy, and experience. We may not understand it, but we appreciate the childlike joy and wonder that is all around us. I’m certain that we will never forget this experience.
Wrapping Up
The new song cues me that it’s time to move on and wrap things up. As we turn the corner to the next street, I glance through my peephole. The blonde woman and her family are heading in the opposite direction. They’re grabbling onto one another, and each one is talking excitedly, pointing all around.
I don’t know if their lives are hard or easy, if theirs is a routine trip for wealthy travelers or a once-in-a-lifetime experience or something in-between. But I know that I helped to bring joy, if for this moment. Let the worries of life be put aside for a moment, and the joy of childlike wonder invade.
This story is submitted to a writing contest:
I’m hosting a $230 writing contest! | Story Saturday (medium.com)
