The overcast sky over Brussels is doing something generous this morning: it is holding its rain, just for a few more hours. I am standing at the window of my borrowed flat in Ixelles, watching the street below. The baker is stacking loaves in the window, and a tram slides past with that gentle, almost apologetic hum. For a city that is half-empty in August, it feels surprisingly alive.
This is my last full day in Brussels before I head south to the Ardennes. The plan is loose: a slow morning, a quiet wander, and one last proper lunch. I have a list of things I still want to see, but I am learning that Brussels rewards the unplanned. So I put on my shoes, grab my jacket, and step out into the soft grey light.
First stop is coffee. I have been meaning to try My Little Cup, a place I have passed three times now. It is the kind of café that looks like it was designed by someone who cares about the angle of the light. I order a flat white and a croissant, and I sit by the window. The coffee costs about three euros, and the croissant maybe two more. It feels like a small luxury, but in Brussels, this is just the price of a quiet morning.
The flat white is good. Not amazing, but good. The croissant is better. I watch a man cycle past with a baguette under his arm, and I think about how much I have learned in a week. Commune registration, bank accounts, the difference between a tram and a metro. It is all paperwork, but it is also the scaffolding of a new life.
After coffee, I decide to walk toward the Cinquantenaire. It is a park I have only seen from a distance, and I have heard the museums there are worth a visit. The walk takes me through the European Quarter, which is eerily quiet in August. The grand buildings of the Commission and Parliament sit empty, their flags hanging limp. It is like walking through a film set after the actors have gone home.
The Cinquantenaire is a strange, wonderful place. The triumphal arch is massive, and the park stretches out behind it in a perfect U. I buy a ticket for the Art & History Museum, which costs around eight euros. The museum is vast and nearly empty. I wander through rooms of Greek vases and Egyptian sarcophagi, and I feel like I have discovered a private collection.
There is a room full of medieval tapestries that stops me in my tracks. The colours are still vivid after five hundred years. I stand there for a long time, just looking. It reminds me why I came to Belgium. Not just for the paperwork, but for the depth of history that sits quietly beneath the surface of everyday life.
I leave the museum and walk through the park. The grass is damp, and the air smells of cut grass and rain. There is a carillon playing somewhere in the distance, and the sound floats over the trees. I sit on a bench and watch a family feed the ducks. It is a simple moment, but it feels like a gift.
Lunch is at my favourite spot in the city so far: Fin de Siècle. It is a busy, unpretentious place near the Grand-Place, and the stoofvlees is exactly what I need on a grey day. The meat is slow-cooked until it falls apart, and the sauce is dark and rich. It costs about fifteen euros, which feels reasonable for a meal that fills you up for the rest of the day.
After lunch, I wander toward the Sablon. The weekend antiques market is winding down, and the stalls are full of silverware and old maps. I stop to look at a set of brass scales, and the vendor tells me they are from the nineteenth century. I do not buy them, but I enjoy the conversation. It is one of those small human moments that make a city feel like home.
The afternoon stretches out in front of me, and I decide to walk along the canal. The towpath is quiet, and the water is grey and still. A barge passes slowly, carrying sand. I walk for an hour, and I do not see another person. It is the kind of solitude that is hard to find in a city, even one as calm as Brussels in August.
In the early evening, I go back to the Foire du Midi. I have been here twice already, but I want to see it one more time before it closes for the season. The fair is on the Boulevard du Midi, and it is a riot of lights and music. I ride the Ferris wheel one last time, and from the top, I can see the whole city spread out below me, from the Atomium to the Grand-Place.
I buy a portion of frites from a stand near the entrance. They cost about three and a half euros, and they are perfect. I eat them sitting on a bench, watching the families and the teenagers and the couples. The fair is a world unto itself, and I am glad I got to know it.
Night falls, and the city lights up. I walk back toward the centre, past the Palais de Justice, which looms over the Marolles like a stone giant. The streets are quiet, and the air is cool. I pass a bar and hear laughter inside. It is the sound of a neighbourhood living its life, and it makes me feel less like a visitor.
I end the day at a café near my flat, drinking a small abbey beer. It costs around four euros, and it is the perfect end to a long day. I think about the week I have had: the paperwork, the discoveries, the quiet moments. Brussels has started to feel like a place I could call home.
Tomorrow, I will take the train south to the Ardennes. But tonight, I am happy just to sit here, listening to the hum of the city, and feeling grateful for this slow, generous day.
And with that, I will say goodnight from Brussels. Dank u wel, and tot ziens.
The train doors open with a soft hiss, and I step off the 12:35 from Zaventem, dragging my suitcase across the platform. The air smells of rain and diesel, and the station concourse is a blur of commuters and weekend travellers. I have been here less than an hour, but already the city feels familiar.
It is the first Saturday of August, and Brussels is doing its best impression of a calm, unhurried place. The streets are emptier than I expected. The shopkeepers are friendly. The trams run on time. I am here to sort out the practical side of a new life: a commune registration, a bank account, and a health insurance fund. The rest can wait.
I check into my hotel, a small place called The Usual, which is anything but. The room is simple and clean, with a high ceiling and a window that looks out over a quiet courtyard. It costs about a hundred and thirty euros a night, which feels reasonable for a city this size. I unpack my bag, and I sit on the bed for a moment, letting the reality sink in.
The first task is the commune registration. In Belgium, you register at the local commune within eight days of arriving, if you are not from the EU. I am from the UK, so I have to do this. The commune office is a low, modern building on the edge of Ixelles, and the queue is short. I fill in the forms, hand over my passport and proof of address, and I am done in under an hour.
The next stop is the bank. I have an appointment at a local branch of BNP Paribas Fortis, which is one of the main banks here. The advisor is patient and efficient. I show my residence permit and my Belgian address, and within twenty minutes, I have a bank account. The card will arrive in the post in a few days. I also get a Bancontact card, which is the local debit system that every shop accepts.
By lunchtime, I am hungry. I walk to a small friterie near the Grande Place and order a portion of frites with Andalouse sauce. They cost about three euros and fifty cents, and they are the best frites I have ever had. The outside is crisp, the inside is fluffy, and the sauce is tangy and a little bit spicy. I eat them standing at the counter, watching the tourists take photos of the square.
In the afternoon, I wander through the Marolles, the old working-class neighbourhood below the Palais de Justice. The flea market at the Place du Jeu de Balle is in full swing, and I browse through piles of old postcards and vintage crockery. I buy a small brass candlestick for four euros, and I already regret the impulse. But it is a piece of the city to keep.
The evening is spent in a café called The Unusual, which is not unusual at all, but the coffee is good and the people-watching is better. I sit by the window with an espresso and watch the neighbourhood go about its evening. The cost of a coffee here is about three euros, which is standard across the city. I feel like I am starting to learn the rhythm of this place.
I end the day with a walk along the canal. The sun is setting, and the water is glowing gold. I pass a group of cyclists and a man walking his dog. The city is quiet, but it is not empty. It is a place that rewards patience, I think, and I have a feeling I am going to need it.
Later, I am back in my room, looking at the paperwork spread out on the bed. There is a lot of it: registration forms, bank documents, insurance papers. But each one is a small step towards something real. This place is no longer just a destination. It is starting to feel like a life.
I close my eyes, and I think about the months ahead. The Ardennes in autumn, the flat I have not found yet, the eID card I will need to collect. It is all ahead of me, and for the first time, I am not in a hurry.