Waterloo and Brussels: Visiting the Past and the Present

In the weeks before the solstice, I found myself in Brussels—capital of Europe, city of hills and quiet poetry. It is not grand like Paris, and it doesn’t pretend to be. That helps. There’s something endearing about a city that shows its bruises—a capital with scuffed elbows and peeling lintels. I felt oddly at home.

Cities draw me in ways that fjords and forests can’t. I’ve tried. But while the world dreams of Alpine cabins and jungle silence, I find myself happier in places with worn-out pavements, cafés on corners, and café waiters who might or might not like me. The great outdoors bore me; in city streets, I loiter all day.

Brussels wears its past and present like layers of unmatching clothes. Some façades are regal, others ravaged. Whole blocks look like they could use a season of repairs—and in many places, repairs were already under way. And yet, the people are helpful, courteous, warm even. I never felt unwelcome in this city where I’d arrived half-expecting bad treatment—this capital of a nation once notorious for colonial cruelty.

It’s not a city that conceals its cracks. Now and then, you catch a whiff of something you’d rather not. It’s an experience I had in Paris as well, with its “wild pee” problem, but these moments pass, absorbed by the city’s honest rhythms.

I settled into them easily. Coffee at Bar Magritte, tucked into my hotel, was always reliable. Across the city, I sampled its café culture with the diligence of a pilgrim: À La Mort Subite, a heritage café glowing in its age; Le Grand Café, where I often lingered over sparkling water and time; and Made in Catherine, a fine contemporary café where coffee came with free fine Viennoiserie.

Not all experiences sparkled. Café Capitale, with its messy ambience and experimental Americano, left me cold. So did a Lebanese lunch near the Bourse—vegan mezze that was cold and tasteless, abandoned almost entirely by the couple seated beside me as well.

But the meals were mostly good. At Le Pêcheur Hsim, a vegan paella surprised me with its juiciness—and a satisfying crunch from fried onions. And Bocconi, though not strictly vegan, accommodated me warmly on more than one occasion. At Le Roy d’Espagne in the Grand Place, I had pasta in a curry-spiced sauce, studded with chickpea-sized tofu. I left a modest tip—€2.50—and felt the air shift at the next table. Two old women, friendly until then, turned to ice. Was it the tip? A misstep in a culture I haven’t yet grasped?

Between meals and musings, I wandered. The Royal Military Museum was free of crowds. Its slogan—“The aim of war is peace”—echoed something I’d once heard in the Indian army of another decade. For me, the battles are the draw, not the weapons. The Magritte Museum was a dream: Magritte’s altered visions hung in a space that was busy, but not too much. The Human Condition and The Empire of Light made me linger. His surrealism felt so at home here.

And then there was Waterloo.

The battlefield lies only a short train ride and a taxi away. I stood on the Lion’s Mound, walked through Hougoumont Farm, and stared long into the great panoramic painting of the battle. The silence struck me most—the same eerie quiet I’d once felt at Tuol Sleng in Phnom Penh. As if the land itself remembered.

I’m kicking myself for having skipped the farm La Haye Sainte, which Napoleon took and believed he'd won the battle. Where also valiant Picton fell. Just before the Prussians arrived, and Grouchy stayed lost somewhere.

In the Wellington Museum, I found what I’d come looking for: the maps, the letters, the coarse rendering of a man who, having lost 15,000 soldiers, sat down that evening to write his report. The museum taught me not only the movements of armies, but also the weight of composure.

Back in Brussels, I found myself wondering why this modest city had become the seat of European power. Perhaps it was compromise, geography, chance. But maybe Brussels is what Europe needs to see in itself: a little weathered, slightly chaotic, deeply humane in these modern times, and in need of repair.

On my last day, I wandered again without purpose, grabbing one final Belgian coffee at Made in Catherine. I was welcomed at the door, but my cool, hostile waitress thawed only at the till—perhaps for fear of TripAdvisor. Back on the streets, I passed men smoking, women laughing, buildings older than belief. I didn’t rush, even if the unforgiving European train waited—for Paris.