I arrived Brussels on a dismal drenching day. I did not know why I left a weatherly emtional city for another. I was on my way to Milano, Italy. "This is a stop before paradise," I whispered to myself apologetically, while the intercity train entered the capital of chocolate land, in dripping rain.
Brussels must have sensed my discontent, and avenged me right away. I thought I heard the broadcasting, "Bruxelles-Central / Brussel-Centraal," but the train sank into underground, a glooming, squalid stop. I was hesitated and imagining central station should have been glowing like a palace. I did not get off until the next stop, "Bruxelles-Midi / Brussel-Zuid." I, with my bag, walked back to where I was supposed to meet with Enrico, in drizzle.
Here I was, treated with the best beer and mussels. I forgave moody Brussels, and merci to Enrico. The restaurant was hidden in the touristic seafood eatery street, right on the T intersection. It was crowdedly packed on both floors, with more locals than visitors.Brussels is a nice place, because of Enrico. I am convinced.
