In another life I'd have warned you against dark alleyways.
Especially at night, in the middle of a city you don't know where no-one knows you.
You wouldn't have cared a monkey's, of course. That was you all over, blithely striding out, oblivious to any danger; the 'there-are-bad-people-out-there' switch stuck in the 'off' position from the moment of your birth. You'd have trusted anyone.
That was always my terror. Your innocence was my joy, and it was the stuff of my nightmares.
Anyhow, I threw caution to the wind last night and, watching where I put my feet and taking care not to inhale too deeply for fear of what my nose might tell me, I stepped into the unknown...
J had found these alleyways - or rather he'd been introduced to them during a Jacques Brel audio trail.
There, all becomes clear, you see.
Old Jacques had a propensity for pondering the seedy side of life and I think alleyways and all their associations of debauchery, sordid pleasures and such like must have appealed to him. Especially what was at the end of them.
For down these dark valleys, sweet Thomas, sweet sustenance. A hostelry, a drinking hole, a pub.
First, down the Impasse St Nicholas 4, off Rue Marche Aux Herbes, the 17th Century Au Bon Vieux Temps. Definitely worth risking a walk on the wild side for.
The initial impression was of having discovered a great secret - and then realising the world knew about it all along.
After a day of visiting churches, it was as if I'd walked into another one - low-lit, oak-panelled, a weak-bulbed chandelier illuminating a huge stained glass window depicting some religious scene or other while, in another seated area, a wooden sculpture of the Madonna and Child looking out over her all-too-human flock.
A shrine to beer. Literally.
The woman behind the counter was grand in gesture, loud of voice, recounting to one local in rapid French the trials of her life; the world-weary glass collector, raising the odd eyebrow, had clearly heard it all before.
It was fascinating to watch her engage with her customers - a quick history lesson to a group of Americans and a brisk telling off to J for mistaking Kriek (a cherry beer) with a Framboise (a raspberry beer).
As we left we found her outside having a cigarette between servings. Jacque Brel would have written a song about this woman, I think.
The second alleyway was signposted by a brass inlay in the pavement (presumably so those in need of a lifting of the spirits didn't need to lift their heads to find
it).
A La Becasse, rue de Tabora 11. Becasse means 'woodcock' (if you've never seen one, one pops up and winks at you on the web home page here http://www.alabecasse.com/ ).
Brightly-lit, noisy and vibrant, locals and tourists mingling nicely. Great jugs of ale swung by one party.
There were a few oddly-dressed young folk outside.
Strange hats, long flowing capes daubed with symbols and writing.
Strange folk populate the dark nooks and crannies of cities the world over.
Then they showed up in the pub.
And they kept running up and down the stairs - and the bar staff weren't batting an eyelid. Perhaps some odd lodgers going to a fancy dress party then.
Then the clapping started.
A young woman, no more than 23 or 24, slow hand clapping as she walked into the pub, wearing the same weird garb of cloak and daft hat.
What followed? Well lots of young people followed.
A whole bunch of them. For clapping girl was their pied piper.
All tied together.
Hands bound.
Blindfolded.
Wearing sacks.
Prisoners, then.
They trudged through the doorway, following the unsmiling slow-hand clapping girl and, one by one, disappeared up the stairs. into the function room. For a function, presumably.
And that was that. Normality returned.
And our French really didn't stretch far enough to even start to discuss the proceedings with the waiter.
'Anderlecht supporters?' queried J-the-wag to the lad behind the bar.
The boy sniggered back.
'Etudiants'
Ah, students. The lad shook his head and we shook ours - a shared moment of understanding.
Enough said.
Suddenly the 'Why', the 'Who?', the 'What the heck was that all about..' didn't matter.
Students. Bonkers the world over.
Bless 'em.
xxxx
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