The lines in the La Grand Place are less geometric than Hamad international airport, in fact the gothic town hall's tower and its archway are a foot off center, resulting in the probable bull-shit legend of the architect throwing himself from the top to his death. If it’s true I wonder what his thoughts were as he fell:
I’m a fuck up - a failure
I’m not all that - i'm ! ?
Around the corner is the statue of the boy pissing, and the statue of Serclaes whos elbow you touch (now a replica) for good luck. Chinese women are rubbing away at the hero whom rescued Brussels in the 13th century, from what I don’t know. Their hands work back and forth back and forth, no wonder they replaced the original. I’m sitting drinking Leffe Blonde with my sister. There are a lot of tourists. The sun is angled through the square and is on us for a moment. There is a oboe being played by a blonde girl. The old buildings (the square wasn’t bombed in the second world war) look down on us like square shouldered giants. Students are chanting and we ask:
“What are they doing?”
“Initiating, practicing.” Says the waiter. Practicing to protest I suppose.
If there were no tourists the square would be near empty. The giants would be lonely but the sun’s passage through them and upon the cobbled space would be the same.
