Tuesday morning, and the city is doing its best impression of a library. The usual hum of Avenue Louise is down to a murmur, and the tram I take towards the centre is half empty. August in Brussels is the quiet month, the villeggiatura season, when a fair share of locals abandon the city for the coast or the countryside, and the streets open up for those of us still here. It is, I'm learning, the ideal time to get things done.
My day starts with a slow coffee at My Little Cup, a small place near the Sablon that has become a quick favourite. I order a cappuccino, about three euros, and take a seat by the window. The street outside is slick with last night's rain, but the sky is a pale, promising blue. I'm here to run a few errands, but first, I want to check on the Flower Carpet.
The Grand-Place is fenced off, as it was a few days ago, but now the preparations are in full swing. Volunteers, many in what look like traditional Japanese outfits, are laying out the beginnings of a giant, colourful pattern. It's the biennial Flower Carpet, apparently a massive dahlia and begonia creation that covers the entire square. The event itself runs from the thirteenth to the sixteenth of August, but seeing it come together piece by piece is a story in itself. I drift to the edge of the barriers, watching the quiet choreography of people and petals.
From the Grand-Place, I walk down towards the Marolles. The flea market at Place du Jeu de Balle is already in full swing, a chaotic jumble of old furniture, vintage clothes, and the occasional treasure. I'm not looking for anything in particular, just the pleasure of browsing. The vendors are a mix of old-timers and young hipsters, and the atmosphere is friendly, unhurried. I pause at a stall selling old postcards, and for a moment, I imagine the lives they once carried.
But I'm not here just for the flea market. I've been in Brussels for five days now, and I still haven't signed up for a mutualité, the health insurance fund. It's one of those bureaucratic must-dos, and today seems as good a day as any. I've been told the process is straightforward, but the paperwork can be a bit of a maze. My plan is to visit the Ixelles commune office, where my temporary address is registered, and figure out the next steps.
I take the metro to Flagey, the heart of Ixelles, and find the commune office without much trouble. The building is a mix of old and new, with a modern glass extension grafted onto a classic facade. Inside, the line is short, and I'm seen by a friendly woman who speaks to me in French first, then, when I fumble, switches to English. I explain I'm here to register with a mutualité, and she hands me a stack of forms, along with a list of the different funds. The choice, she says, is mine, but most people go with one of the big ones: Solidaris, Partenamut, or the Christian Mutual. I nod, take the paperwork, and promise to bring it back, filled out.
After the mutualité, I'm in the mood for something substantial. I've heard about a place called Fin de Siècle, a brasserie near the Grand-Place that's famous for its hearty Belgian fare. I've already been there once, for a lunch, and it was excellent. Today, I decide to go again, hoping to try something different. I order the stoofvlees, a beef stew cooked in beer, served with frites. It's about fifteen euros, and it is exactly the kind of meal that makes you want to linger. The beer is an abbey beer, dark and rich, and it pairs perfectly with the slow-cooked meat.
I spend the rest of the afternoon wandering through the Sablon, the chic antiques district. The weekend market is over, but the shops are open, and the window displays are a museum of fine things: silver, porcelain, old books. I stop for a quick espresso at a café, the kind of place with marble tables and a zinc bar, and I watch the world go by. The Sablon is quiet, almost sleepy in the summer heat, and I find myself thinking about the rhythm of this city.
In the late afternoon, I take a walk to the Parc du Cinquantenaire, the grand U-shaped park with its triumphal arch. It's a ten-minute walk from the European Quarter, and the park is a popular spot for joggers and families. The arch is imposing, and I can see the city stretching out beyond it. I sit on a bench for a while, watching a group of children chase each other around the fountain. The weather is warm, maybe twenty-five degrees, and the light is golden. I'm beginning to understand why August is such a good time to be here.
The evening brings a plan. I've been meaning to visit the Foire du Midi, the big summer funfair that runs along the Boulevard du Midi. It's been on my list since I arrived, and tonight, I decide to go. I take the tram to the Porte de Hal, and the moment I step out, I hear it: the distant thump of music, the squeal of rides, the buzz of a crowd. The funfair is a glorious assault on the senses. There are dozens of rides, from the classic carousel to the terrifying drop tower, and food stalls selling everything from cotton candy to giant fries.
I wander through the fair, taking it all in. The crowd is a mix of families, teenagers, and couples, all enjoying the warm evening. I stop at a friterie and order a portion of Belgian frites, about three and a half euros, with a generous dollop of Andalouse sauce. The frites are crispy on the outside, fluffy on the inside, and I'm told they're some of the best in the city. I eat them while watching a group of people try to win a giant teddy bear at a shooting gallery. The smell of sugar and fried food hangs in the air, and I feel a simple kind of joy.
The fair runs until late, and I stay for a few hours, riding a couple of the gentler rides and soaking up the atmosphere. The lights are bright, the music is loud, and I'm glad I came on a weekday; the crowds are manageable, and there's a relaxed, festive mood. As I walk back towards the tram, I think about the cost of a day like this: the coffee, the lunch, the metro, the frites, the funfair. It's not cheap, but it's not extravagant either. I'm learning that a day in Brussels, if you're careful, can be a reasonable affair.
Back in my borrowed flat in Ixelles, I spread the mutualité forms on the kitchen table. I read through the small print, which is mostly in French and Dutch, a reminder of the bilingual patchwork of this city. I make a note to ask a friend to help me fill them out, if I get stuck. The deadline, I'm told, is important, but I have a few weeks to sort it out. I close the window, letting the sounds of the city drift in: a tram in the distance, a dog barking, the murmur of a conversation on the street below.
Tomorrow, I plan to visit the Ixelles Ponds, then maybe the Horta Museum. The Art Nouveau houses in this part of town are something else, and I've read that Victor Horta designed the museum building himself. It's a short walk from my flat, and the entrance fee is, I think, around ten euros. It's worth checking the opening hours, though; August is a strange month for museums. But for now, the day has been good: mutualité forms, frites at the fair, the city slowly revealing itself. The quiet month of August is turning out to be exactly what I needed.
There's a plan brewing for the weekend: the Flower Carpet on the Grand-Place, and maybe the XRDS festival, if I'm feeling brave. And then, in the longer term, the Ardennes, when the summer cools into golden autumn. The idea of that trip is already in my mind, a green escape from the city. But for now, the task at hand is simple: fill in these forms, get the stamp, and find a flat. And maybe, just maybe, enjoy a quiet August evening in Brussels.
I turn off the light, and the room falls into a deep, quiet darkness. Outside, the city hums its low, contented hum. Tomorrow, there will be more paperwork, more exploring, more frites. But tonight, all I need is the sound of the street, the weight of the day, and the promise of what's to come. It's a good time to be in Brussels.
The last thing I see before I close my eyes is the stack of forms on the table, a small symbol of the life I'm building here. It's not glamorous, this bureaucratic dance, but it's the necessary step before the real adventure begins. I dream of the Ardennes, of green forests and rushing rivers, and I wake up with a sense of purpose. The quiet month is my time, and I'm making the most of it.