Brussels was my second Belgian city, and I was excited to check it out. This time, though, I was alone and didn't have long there. So, I dropped my pack at the hostel and went to see the only thing on my list I could fit in. Something I'd heard tales about. A basement establishment with an inconceivable amount of beer on offer. And not just any beer, good beer, strong beer, Belgian beer.
I stopped and saw an arrow pointing down. To the right was the upstairs sign: Delirium Absinthe Bar. "Wallace!" sang out in my mind. I shuddered, then headed down the stairs to taste some beer.
It wasn't very busy, being just after midday. Not nearly busy enough to justify the speed at which the bartender was moving anyway, or so I thought. But eventually, I would understand his pace.
I was greeted in passing, "Welcome to Delirium. What can I get you?" I called after the sprinting barman, asking for a menu. His reply was also in passing, "On the table behind you. The book."
I was blown away at the size of the thing. Calling it a book was an understatement. This was an encyclopedia. I dropped the five-kilo menu on the bar with a thud and began flicking through the pages, confused as if trying to decipher some sort of ancient scroll.
"It's your first time here?" The barman was back. He seemed to have a break in the play, so he was happy to help me, which was great because I had no idea where to start.
"How many beers do you have?" My question came out slowly, like an awestruck pirate distracted over a newly found treasure.
"We lost count at two thousand and four. Not the year, the amount." I looked up wide-eyed as if I'd just seen a ghost.
"That's only in bottles." My stunned look seemed to amuse him. "We also have seventysix on tap."
It was cool but overwhelming. I didn't want to read over two thousand descriptions trying to decide; I just wanted a bloody beer. I told him what I liked and asked for a recommendation. He grabbed the towering Bible of froth and, in a split second, found the page he was looking for, and the beer.
"This one," he pointed to something with the word "Devil" in the name. Start with this one. It's really good." I nodded and gave him a thumbs-up, and off he went—but not to the large walk-in cooler. Instead, he raced in the opposite direction to serve more people gathering around the bar.
I watched in amazement as this guy took four orders in four languages before disappearing into the cold Brew Temple to my right.
Plenty of time passed. It felt like forever. Just when I thought he wasn't coming back, the door burst open, and the barman returned with an arsenal of beers gripped in his fingers and squeezed between his arms and ribcage.
My amazement continued as he lined the bottles up, placing the corresponding glass in front of each. He then opened each one, poured the contents one at a time into their respective vessels using the appropriate technique for each drop, and attached the matching paper skirts to the stems of the glasses.
He handed out the beers - how he remembered who ordered what, I don't know - and collected payment in various currencies. My Devil beer was accompanied by a warning, "Take your time with this, especially if you're going to try a few. These beers are strong."
Drinking slowly was never my forte, nor was taking advice. The beer was outstanding, but tiny compared to a pint. I didn't think such a small amount of beer would affect me much after my Amsterdam lifestyle, so I drained it quickly.
The next recommendation was devil-free but came with the same assurance of quality.
I recently learned that there's a vast grey area between introverts and extroverts. I fit into one of the so-called subclasses in said grey area: an introvert with extrovert qualities. Standing up in front of a large crowd or speaking to a stranger one-on-one is all the same for me as long as I get plenty of time to recharge my battery between social interactions. I'd say it would be an eighty-twenty split favouring the recharge time. Being social really takes it out of me.
The exception to this rule has always been after a few drinks. When I walked into Delirium, I felt shy and wanted to sit quietly and sip a few brews. However, one glass of that sweet Belgian nectar was the spark I needed to unleash my chatty side. I started with the barman.
"You're a ninja back there, Man! How do you remember all the beers, never mind the glasses, languages and currency exchange? That's insane!"
The barman stopped, looked me dead in the eye, leaned in, and told me something I don't think he told many other customers, "I hate... my fucking job." And off he ran to help more guests.
By the time beer number three arrived, I was chatting with a father and son from Arizona, in the US. They were both tall, bulky guys with ginger beards, glasses and baseball caps. They were friendly but quiet, reminding me of most farmers I knew. And they could very well have been farmers, but those little cups of Belgian rocket fuel were getting to me by then, so I have no recollection of the conversation.
Not long after, I'd venture from the bar to a standing table, where I got into a conversation with two very large Frenchmen. They were pretty serious, and I tried to keep it together, but it was no use. I could feel the wheels starting to come off.
"What do you guys do?" My words may have come out a bit slurred.
The white guy was the taller of the two and didn't say much. He was more of a nodder than a talker. Perhaps he didn't speak English, or maybe he had no interest in a drunken pub crawl rat. The black guy was friendlier and did the talking: "We play rugby … for France."
Pro rugby players. That explained the biceps on them.
"This is your first time to Delirium?" I nodded in affirmation. "How many have you had?"
I swayed side to side in a drunken waltz, my left hand holding the table as if it were my dance partner.
"Um..." I counted quickly. “This is five." Their faces twisted with surprise and disgust. "I think I'd better get going. I've got an early flight tomorrow." I downed my beer and shook their hands. "Nice to meet you guys. Take care."
I dropped the glass off at the bar, thanked the barman, wished him luck, and then hobbled up the stairs.
When I reached the footpath, it really hit me. It was late afternoon and still bright outside, so the contrast from the dark beer hall was pretty intense.
On the first corner, I found a kebab shop and figured that would help me sober up a bit. I was in and out in a flash, devouring my food even faster than it was made. It was delicious, but I needed another.
When I walked back in, the guy behind the counter started laughing, "Delirium? "Something told me I wasn't unique with my back-to-back shawarma orders.
By the time I was ready for bed, the lights in the dorm room were off. Still inebriated, albeit slightly less, I was looking forward to falling asleep.
The top bunk was always my first choice, and my oversized pack secured my spot for the night. I pulled it down, got my things out and brushed my teeth.
As I was about to climb up, I noticed something was missing. “Who provides bunk beds without ladders?” I grabbed the frame of the top bunk with both hands and stepped onto the lower bunk frame. I pushed off with my right foot, planning on bringing my left knee up to the mattress. No such luck. My motor skills were severely impaired, so my left foot ended up on the lower bed somehow.
This time, I pushed up with my left foot, trying to bring my right leg up to the top mattress. It didn't work. As I was about to try again, I realised the bunk below mine wasn't empty.
Peering through the darkness, I saw a female's head lying on her pillow, with my foot pressing down on it as if it were a gas pedal. Horrified, I froze, but she was sleeping soundly, towing the line between breathing and snoring.
Unsure of what to do next and lacking in judgement, I decided to just go for it and get into bed as soon as possible. I moved quickly, pushing one last time on her head, using it to propel myself onto my bed. She didn't stir.
I felt awful but convinced myself that she didn't feel a thing. To drown the seed of guilt, I told myself that she probably went to Delirium earlier, too, and would most likely have understood that my use of her head as a step stool wasn't intentional.
It was a short sleep due to a very early flight. In those days, cheap was the priority, even over health.
Ryan Air is a low-budget cattle truck of aviation. It provides dirt-cheap flights around Europe, encouraging gluttonous travel and excessive air pollution. To save on overheads, Ryan Air tends to fly from smaller, more remote airports as much as possible, which are a pain to get to.
I could have flown from Amsterdam to Toronto for three hundred Euros. Instead, I took a thirty-euro bus to Brussels, spent forty Euros on beer and shawarma, twenty-five Euros on a hostel, thirty-five Euros on a taxi to the remote airport, and forty Euros on a flight to Dublin. After a few days with friends, I'd fly to Glasgow to visit more friends before flying to Toronto. Flying from Amsterdam would have been cheaper and easier. But it wouldn't have been as fun.
The taxi dropped me off at the airport at half past three in the morning. In those days, before smartphones and self-check-in, getting to the airport three hours early was mandatory, even for domestic flights.
I checked in, passed through security and approached the Customs counter.
"Passporrrrr." The unfriendly little man behind the counter was easy enough to understand despite his thick French accent.
"You arrr not suppoze to be ere zis long."
My fatigue and indifference shielded me from his eye daggers. But he was right. A Canadian passport only allows a ninety-day maximum stay within the Schenghen Zone. Once the ninety days are up, the passport holder must leave the Schengen for ninety days before being allowed to return. I'd been in Amsterdam for nearly six months at that stage and hoped nobody would notice. It was only a matter of time, though.
I mumbled some nonsense, trying to talk my way out of it, but he wasn't impressed. I didn't care, though. I just wanted to get on the plane and sleep. I told him I was returning to Canada and would, therefore, be leaving the Schengen anyway.
"Don't everrrr come back to zis airporrr. Don't come back to Brrrussel."
Without breaking eye contact, he hammered his point home with an authoritative stamp marking my leaving date from the Schengen Zone. The next customs official to look at my passport would know I'd overstayed and wouldn't allow me to return until the ninety days were up. That was going to be tricky since I only planned to be in Canada for a month. Also, it would be problematic for my under-the-table job and business planning with Nir, but I figured I'd be okay.
I nodded at the angry little Belgian and headed to my gate. With a smile, I stuffed my passport into my pocket. My passport was a month away from expiring, and a new one meant no stamps to prove I'd overstayed. Nowadays, it's all digital, but back then, stamps were everything, and by the time I renewed my passport and returned, I wouldn't have any. So much for my banishment.