R is for Rue des Bouchers

“This song is catchy,” I said tapping my foot on the wooden floor of a Brussels café.

“It’s In de Rue des Bouchers,” my Belgian friend said as the accordion music poured from the speakers.

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“The song or the street?”

“Either.”

“That’s going to change. Now!”

When living in a foreign country early on you learn that some things are difficult to translate from the host language and culture into your own language and culture. Cases in point: 1) The democratic Netherlands chose to become a monarchy; 2) A statue of a peeing boy became a Belgian national monument; and 3) The ever popular Eurovision Song Festival. On the flip side of the coin you also learn that somethings in this world are definitely universal, for example: 1) Delicious meals; 2) Good friends; 3) Great accordion music.

Not a fan of accordion music? Then you haven’t heard In de Rue des Bouchers by Belgian singer/songwriter Johan Verminnen. This song has an infectious beat, which is just like catching the flu in kindergarten: everyone gets it. You hear it, and you get it, whether you like it or not.

Feeling the need to introduce me to Belgian culture, my friend Astrid grabbed me by the hand and marched me across Brussels to the oldest part of the city. On the way she explained how back in the Middle Ages merchants of a certain business would all set up shop on the same street. To this day you can still see the Rue des Brasseurs/Brouwersstraat (Beer Brewers Street), the Rue des Eperonniers/Spoormakersstraat (Spur Makers’ Street) and Rue des Marchés aux Frommages/Kaasmarkt (Cheese Market Street). And of course the famous Rue des Bouchers/Beenhouwerstraat—the Street for the Butchers.

Astrid sang the first verse of the song in Flemish: Luckily she gave me a translation:

If you want to see Brussels live it up As ge Brussel wilt zeen leive

You don't have to spend a lot of money moede nie vuil geld oeitgeive

There's a place where you can go all out dô es ne côtei wô da g'a nie moe geneire

Where you can pass the evening goit er nen ôvend passeire

In the Rue des Bouchers (x4)         in de rue des Bouchers (4x)

“So the song, In de Rue des Bouchers, is about butchers?” I said as we crossed the Grand Place and entered an elegant shopping gallery.

“Oh, there aren’t any butchers there now,” Astrid said as we walked side by side along the flagstones. Passing through the Galeries Royales de St. Hubert we saw exquisite chocolate shops and expensive clothing stores. Then halfway through the Gallery we turned left and stopped at a narrow pedestrian street brimming with outdoor tables laden with colorful bushels of shrimp, crabs and lobsters on ice. 

“This is it!” Astrid said sweeping her arm toward the bustling street below.

“They should call it the Rue des Pȇcheurs,” I said looking at all the luscious seafood. Snuggled next to the displays of fish and shellfish were restaurant tables and chairs filled with happy people eating and drinking under the festive lights and heat lamps in the Rue des Bouchers.

Astrid sang another verse:

You can find anything there Ge kunt dô vanalles vinne

Russian mackerel and sardines Russe macreaux en sardinne

French fries and raw mussels         fritten en moules parquées

The Brussels people love to eat         slôge dei Brusseleirs in uile gilei

In the Rue des Bouchers (x4)         in de rue des Bouchers (4x)

The moment we stepped into the Rue des Bouchers, the voices of restaurant waiters lobbed at us.  

“Belles Mademoiselles! Vous vouler manger?”, “Pretty Lady one and two, eat here!” and “Please, I have table for yous!” Astrid and I exchanged laughs at their comments but the smells of cooked seafood, the bright colors and the cozy atmosphere of eating outside here was too much to pass up. We strolled the street until we found a good restaurant with a free table and an attentive waiter. Then we sat down beside each other so we two friends could eat and watch the world go by. The waiter was efficient and full of compliments for two women out on the town together. For entertainment we made him guess where we came from. He said Astrid came from Belgium (correct) and thought I came from Germany (no), then France (non), then Denmark (huh-uh), then Russia (niet). When he guessed “Modova” I put him out of his misery and revealed I was American. Needless to say, I blew his mind. 

“Vous ȇtes Americaine? Non! Pas vous!” Which just made Astrid and I laugh even harder. Then we ordered crépes Suzettes for dessert and more drinks in the Rue des Bouchers.

Astrid sang another verse:

Beer is poured and drunk there Dô we'd getapt en gezaupe

cafés are open until sunrise da blaift dô tot 's merges aupe

And when the door closes en as ze de dui todroeie

You can hear a rooster crow den es den ôn al on't kroeie

And this time I sang the refrain with her all four times:

In the Rue des Bouchers

In the Rue des Bouchers

In the Rue des Bouchers

In the Ruuuuue deeeees Bouchers

Astrid didn’t have to explain the song to me anymore since I was now living it. What a special night in the Butchers’ Street with: 1) A delicious meal; 2) A good friend; and 3) Great accordion music!

M is for Manneken Pis

“Have fun in Belgium,” the AAA Travel Agent said handing me tickets and my itinerary. 

“Thank you,” I said smiling.

“When you're there you have to eat chocolate.”

“Yes.”

“Drink beer.”

“Yes.” 

“And visit Manneken Pis!”

Right.

Before departing for a travel destination people always have tips on where to go and what to do. Going to California? You must see Yosemite, DisneyLand and the actor footprints at the Chinese Theater. Going to Belgium? You must eat chocolate, drink beer and see the statue of Manneken Pis.

In case your knowledge of European statues is limited to the sweeping statuary of Ugolino and his Sons in New York, Rodin’s Burghers of Calais in Paris or Michelangelo’s heart-breaking Pietà in Rome, think less grand in Brussels. In fact think small in size and action.

Manneken Pis is a bronze statue measuring just two feet tall. Not only does he have a petite stature but the Manneken Pis is depicted doing the most mundane of things—urinating. There is some debate about why Brussels has glorified a tiny statue of a naked boy peeing into a fountain. One says that back in the day—around 1300 or so—the city was on fire and a little boy extinguished the fire by urinating on it. Either the fire was not large or the boy had an enormous bladder. In any case this statue commemorates that action. Another legend claims that a man lost his son in the city and after searching high and low, found the little boy peeing in a garden, because that is what children do when they are lost: they strip naked and urinate on the petunias. Or at least they do in Brussels.

In case your familiarity with favored treasures is limited to those you can see from miles around like New York City’s Empire State Building, Paris’ Eiffel Tower or Rome’s Colosseum, disavow yourself of a grand entrance in Brussels. In fact think out of the way.

Manneken Pis is found in a narrow pedestrian street in Brussels between tourist shops and a waffle stand. If you didn’t know what you were looking for you would walk right by his statue. More correctly, you never would have walked down that street in the first place. Today little Manneken Pis is perched on a corner of two cobblestone streets and if you are not standing directly in front of the peeing boy, you just won’t see him. Subtle and not-in-your face, that’s how they do things in Brussels.

In case your idea of grand art means showing the human form it its pure, naked state, like Klimt’s Hope II in New York City, Ingres’ Odalisque in Paris or Michelangelo’s mighty David in Rome, forget naked in Brussels. Think clothes.

The statue of Manneken Pis depicts a naked boy peeing but it’s rare to see the statue naked because he is usually dressed in one of his 700 outfits. Popular costumes include an Elvis Presley white jumpsuit, a deep-sea diver’s wetsuit, a Santa Claus suit and on July 21—the Belgian National holiday—an outfit in the colors of the Belgian flag—red, yellow, black. 

Speaking from personal experience, the mere thought of dressing Michelangelo’s David in anything is ludicrous and conversely seeing Manneken Pis dressed in any of his countless outfits is hilarious. 

When I arrived in Belgium I did what everyone told me to do: I went to Brussels to see the statue of Mannekin Pis. On that day he was dressed in the soccer uniform of Belgium’s national team, the Red Devils. On a busy pedestrian street I saw a small statue; I smelled the fresh waffles being made at the waffle stand; and I witnessed the hordes of people who had come to see Manneken Pis. I heard them laughing at his costume, at the small size of this silly statue and I was impressed at its ability to make complete strangers laugh together. I was won over by the charm, the power of Manneken Pis. Dressing well, not taking themselves too seriously and rolling out the red carpet for tourists, that’s how they do it in Brussels.