Brussels: Grand-Place (Manneken-Pis)

(Continued from Brussels: Grand-Place (Entrée))

Featured Photo: “Hôtel de Ville Spire, Rue du Marché aux Fromages”  Brussels, Belgium—2007

As I ventured out from the Grand-Place in search of the little boy’s statue—that legendary hero of Brussels—I passed by more guild houses and captured this photo of an elegant swan, wings outstretched, above the doorway to No. 9.

The guild house Le Cygne, named for the swan sculpture, had been rebuilt in 1698 as a private residence but became home to the butchers’ guild in 1720. Later it became a café where Karl Marx held meetings of the German Workers’ Party while co-writing the Communist Manifesto with Fridrich Engels in 1848. I glanced across the square, remembering that Victor Hugo—author of Les Misérables and The Hunchback of Notre-Dame—had once lived in one of the guild houses near the Maison du Roi, having fled France after he had criticized Napoleon. Although I wasn’t sure which was Hugo’s particular place of residence, I still marveled at the literary, political, and architectural history surrounding me.

I exited the Grand-Place via a narrow street—the Rue Charles Buls—passing a covered arcade with pillars on my left…

…the recesses of which held another statue, a controversial memorial to the long-ago leader of the guilds, who led a rebellion against Flemish rule in the 14th-century. I would return later to photograph this monument, but for now I continued my quest for a smaller-scaled statue, following the cobblestoned path toward the crowds.

I stopped when I saw an unexpected life-sized statue of Vincent Van Gogh right along the street; this had not been listed in the travel books I’d read.

I stood studying the figure more closely when, much to my surprise, Vincent stepped down from his pedestal—wooden shoes clomping on the pavement—to grab his water bottle for a drink. Startled by the living statue performer, I moved quickly toward the next street corner where a gathering of gawking tourists was standing. I took my place among them, following their gaze, and there it was, the little statue I’d been seeking: the Manneken-Pis, standing on an ornate arched plinth, safely tucked behind a tall wrought iron railing.

As my Cadogan Guide to Brussels put it: “Manneken is bruxellois for little man. Pis speaks for itself. This bronze statue of a little naked boy peeing with happy abandon has long been held in great affection by the people of Brussels and has become a symbol of their city.” Located just three short blocks from the Grand-Place, the Manneken-Pis once served as a fountain to provide drinking water for the neighborhood. The original statue was cast in 1619; the current version was likely created two centuries later. Amazingly, the Manneken-Pis is so renowned that royalty, diplomats, and statesmen from around the world have donated seven or eight hundred elaborate costumes to adorn the small figure—there are cases full of them on display in the City Museum back at the Grand-Place—and on special occasions, you might find him dressed in one of these clever outfits.

Rick Steves, in another travel guidebook, provides some perspective: “Even with low expectations, this statue is smaller than you’d think—the little squirt’s under two feet tall.” He then proceeds irreverently, listing several of the different legends about the Manneken: “He was a naughty boy who peed inside a witch’s house, so she froze him. A rich man lost his son and declared, ‘Find my son and we’ll make a statue of him doing what he did when found.’ Or—the locals’ favorite version—the little tyke loved his beer, which came in handy when a fire threatened the wooden city. He bravely put it out.” Steves then says the likely truth is, “The city commissioned it to show the joie de vivre of living in Brussels—where happy people eat, drink…and drink…and then pee.”

I took my leave of the pee-ogling merrymakers and wandered a few blocks away, stumbling upon a pleasant gem of a church that stood on an isolated corner—a somewhat smudged but welcome refuge from the hectic spectacle of the nearby Manneken-Pis.

Built in 1664 in the Flemish Baroque style, the church of Notre-Dame de Bon Secours—Our Lady of Good Help—boasts the coat of arms of Charles of Lorraine just over the door, and standing above that, a serene statue of the Madonna and Child.

The interior revealed a church more spacious than I’d expected, built around an octagonal design, which soared to a domed ceiling. The shallow, narrow chancel was aglow with light that streamed in through the windows above.

Recorded sacred music was softly playing, revealing the church’s remarkable acoustics. I left the peace and quiet of the church to return to the noisy streets and wandered, somewhat disoriented, for a few blocks. Here and there were a few squalid areas, with crumbling columns, litter-strewn sidewalks, and walls plastered with posters and decorated with graffiti.

One colorful poster showed the smiling face of Yvan Mayeur, but it was the appended advert for an upcoming concert headlined by Elton John and John Fogerty that prompted me to take a picture. I later learned that Yvan Mayeur was a City Councilor at the time of my visit to Brussels; he would go on to become Brussels’ Mayor. Get it? Mayor Mayeur? Anyway, it seems he was forced to resign as mayor after it became apparent that he had stolen from a municipal humanitarian emergency service for the homeless in Brussels. Perhaps the sordid location for his beaming face had been prescient after all.

The neighborhood contained some stylish residences as well; one grayish structure was brightened by red window frames and a colorful bouquet set in flower boxes on the balcony.

There were banks, hotels, and stores nearby. I noticed a casual window shopper next to an Art Nouveau storefront with sinuous, dark-brown woodwork that cried out for a photo.

Winding my way back toward the Grand-Place, I passed the Hotel Mozart (I just liked the name)…

…and beyond that, I found a street filled with restaurants offering delectable ethnic foods, which reminded me that I was still hungry.

It seemed I was in a good location to satisfy my appetite, but before I settled on where to eat, I spotted the spire of the Hôtel de Ville on the Grand-Place, jutting gracefully above the restaurants along the Rue du Marché aux Fromages—the Cheese Market Street. The street is now known also by its nickname: the Rue des Pitas, so named for the many Greek and Middle-Eastern cafés, each claiming to serve the best pitas.

I snapped a picture—today’s Featured Photo—and continued along, checking out menus as I walked. If you look closely, near the bottom left corner of the Featured Photo, you’ll see a pale-yellow, four- or five-story building at the far end of the street, with an arched doorway and hexagonal, dark-brown tiled roof. That would be my lunch destination: Au Brasseur Taverne.

(To be continued…)