Brussels in December: The Grand Place

In my photographs, Brussels is rain on cobbles, and one long walk through it.

That is not a complaint. December in Brussels means the light goes early, the cobbles never quite dry, and half the city is walking around under an umbrella at two in the afternoon. It also means that when the city decides to switch itself on, and in December Brussels switches itself on properly, the wet stone doubles every light it is given. The rain turned out to be the texture of the whole trip, and by the evening I was grateful for it.

A late dinner behind pink curtains

I landed in the evening and did what you do when you arrive somewhere in December after dark: found dinner close to the hotel and stopped looking at the time. The room was wrapped in a curved, backlit curtain the color of dusty rose, with a round booth inside it and the silhouettes of the staff drifting across the linen like a shadow play. It was twenty to ten at night and nobody was hurrying us out, which told me something about how this city treats dinner.

A restaurant lounge enclosed by a backlit pink linen curtain, a round booth with a small table and glasses in front, silhouettes of staff visible through the fabric — Arrival night, twenty to ten. The curtain did most of the lighting, the Chianti did the rest.

A bottle of Poggiotondo Chianti 2023 on a small round table in a dim restaurant, a curved sofa and pink curtain glowing behind it — Arrival night, twenty to ten. The curtain did most of the lighting, the Chianti did the rest.

The wine was a Chianti from Poggiotondo, 2023, and the food was the kind of cooking that looks quiet and is not. A piece of braised beef so dark it was nearly black, sitting in a ring of squash purée with fried sage on top, and a steak sliced into strips with two little bowls beside it, one orange and smooth, one green and sharp with chopped herbs. I photographed both plates before touching them, which is how I know exactly when the evening happened.

A glossy piece of braised beef in dark jus on a swirl of orange squash puree, topped with fried sage leaves, on a ceramic plate — The arrival dinner, ten to ten. Braised beef on squash, and a steak with its two sauces.

A sliced steak fanned on a cream plate with two small bowls of sauce, one orange and one green with chopped herbs, a plated dish of layered potato behind — The arrival dinner, ten to ten. Braised beef on squash, and a steak with its two sauces.

The hotel room was high up, somewhere around the towers north of the old town, and just after eleven I stood at the window for a while. Brussels at night from above is a low, wide city with a few glass towers in the foreground and an ocean of rooftops behind them, and far off on the horizon a single floodlit dome glowing like a lamp left on in another room. Directly below, a fenced sports court sat in its own pool of yellow light, empty, waiting for better weather.

A night panorama of Brussels from a high hotel window, lit boulevards and low rooftops stretching to the horizon where a floodlit dome glows, an empty floodlit sports court in the foreground below — Four minutes past eleven, from the hotel window. The dome on the horizon was still glowing when I gave up and went to bed.

The working stretch that followed gave me exactly one photograph, taken from the same window at twenty past ten in the morning. Gray sky, glass towers, a 1970s slab of balconies doing its best next to them, red cycle lanes running along a boulevard of bare trees, and the old town's rooftops packed in red beyond, with a green FlixBus sliding along the edge of the frame. A quiet day, and the picture is quietly accurate about it.

A daytime view from a high window over Brussels, a glass office tower and a tall balconied apartment block above a boulevard with red cycle lanes and bare trees, old red rooftops in the distance under a gray sky — Twenty past ten in the morning. The quiet part of Brussels, in one frame.

It begins with a billboard

Then came the walk that turned out to be the whole trip.

It started at three minutes past eleven, in the rain, under a billboard the size of a house advertising Stranger Things, with silhouetted kids on bicycles riding along its top edge as if they were about to launch off the end of it. Directly underneath stood a Christmas market hut with snowy fake firs and a crane hanging over everything. Brussels in December is exactly this collision: an American streaming giant, a wooden chalet selling hot food, and civic scaffolding, all in one glance.

A giant dark Stranger Things billboard with silhouetted kids on bicycles along its top edge, a Christmas market hut and snowy artificial fir trees below, a construction crane above — Three minutes past eleven. The day starts under a billboard and a crane.

Breakfast, at half past eleven because the rules were suspended, was a stack of pancakes with poached pear halves glazed amber, a dark fruit compote, cream and crumble, plus a toasted sandwich that needed both hands: thick white bread browned in the pan, something crisp and savory inside with melted cheese and slices of something orange and sweet that I decided not to interrogate. The café was warm, the windows were steamed, and outside the umbrellas kept going past.

A stack of pancakes topped with glazed poached pear halves, dark fruit compote, whipped cream and crumble, with a small jug of syrup on the plate — Half past eleven, breakfast at the hour of champions.

A thick toasted white bread sandwich on a speckled white plate, browned filling with melted cheese and orange slices of a sweet vegetable visible at the cut — Half past eleven, breakfast at the hour of champions.

The Grand Place, first pass

You approach the Grand Place through streets that give you no warning, and then the square opens and every wall of it is competing. On the north side the King's House goes straight up in gray neo-gothic, arcades stacked on arcades with green bronze statues standing guard on the balustrades. In the middle of the square, fenced in by a low wooden barrier, the Christmas tree stood fully loaded with red and white striped baubles the size of beach balls, and next to it a museum-piece motor car was parked on the wet cobbles as if someone had just stepped away from it: brass lamps, wooden mudguards, a round disc reading 25, and a Brussels plate, BXL-111.

The King's House on the Grand Place, a gray neo-gothic building with stacked arcades, a central tower and green bronze statues along its balustrades, under a gray December sky — Ten past twelve on the Grand Place. The King's House, and one of its crowned bronze residents.

Detail of a gothic facade on the Grand Place with a green bronze statue of a crowned figure in armor holding an orb and scepter between carved pinnacles — Ten past twelve on the Grand Place. The King's House, and one of its crowned bronze residents.

The tall Christmas tree on the Grand Place in daylight, decorated with red and white striped baubles and wrapped gift boxes at its base, gilded guild houses behind — The tree in daylight, thirteen past twelve, saving its best act for the evening.

An early twentieth century style motor car with brass lamps and wooden mudguards parked on wet cobbles on the Grand Place, its number plate reading BXL-111, the Christmas tree and guild houses behind — Twenty past twelve. BXL-111, parked on the cobbles like it never left.

A very small statue in a very good outfit

From the square it is a five minute walk down to the most famous fifty-something centimeters of bronze in Europe, and on the way the city slips in one more of its jokes: a rainbow crosswalk painted across the wet street, glowing against the gray like somebody had argued with December and won.

A rainbow painted crosswalk on a wet Brussels street, a person with a folded umbrella walking away across it between old buildings — Twenty five past twelve. The one patch of the city that refused to be gray.

Manneken Pis was dressed. Not metaphorically: he wore an actual tailored costume, a white long-sleeved shirt with Jaycee written across the chest in script, a royal blue waistcoat with a shield patch reading JCI, white trousers, and a little crowned pin, the whole outfit fitted around him mid-stream in his rococo niche, which for December had been wreathed in evergreen and red baubles. A crowd of umbrellas took turns at the railing. I have seen bigger fountains with less confidence.

The Manneken Pis fountain in its carved stone niche decorated with an evergreen garland and red baubles, the small statue dressed in a blue and white costume — Half past twelve. Dressed, wreathed, and entirely unbothered by the rain.

Close view of Manneken Pis wearing a white shirt with Jaycee script lettering and a royal blue waistcoat with a JCI shield patch, water arcing from the fountain — Half past twelve. Dressed, wreathed, and entirely unbothered by the rain.

Opposite the statue stands a crooked brick house with an entire flock of old bicycles bolted up its facade, painted in faded blues and yellows, under the sign of the Poechenellekelder, the puppet-cellar bar that has been staring at the little statue for longer than most of its visitors have been alive. A bar with a puppet cellar and a bicycle collection is exactly the sort of place Brussels keeps on a corner and never mentions.

A narrow brick house opposite Manneken Pis with several old painted bicycles mounted on its facade, the sign of the Poechenellekelder bar above the ground floor windows — The Poechenellekelder, wearing its bicycles the way the statue wears its costumes.

The cathedral on its hill

At a quarter past one I walked into the cathedral of Saint Michael and Saint Gudula, and the city went quiet for the first time all day.

It is a wide, pale gothic hall, twin-towered outside and full of white light inside even on a rainy afternoon. The nave rises past a carved wooden organ case that clings to the pillars like a ship's stern castle, apostles stand on brackets halfway up each column, and at the far end the choir windows stack their colors above the altar. The glass is the real event: whole walls of it, nineteenth century panels in blue and red and gold, one of them signed at the bottom with its date, 1861, in dense gothic lettering along dedication panels of deep red.

The nave of the cathedral of Saint Michael and Saint Gudula, white gothic vaults above stone pillars with apostle statues, a carved wooden organ case mounted high on the left, the lit choir and altar at the far end — Quarter past one in Saint Michael and Saint Gudula. The 1861 window still doing its job on a dark day.

A large stained glass window in the cathedral with figures around a deathbed scene flanked by saints, red dedication panels with gothic lettering and the date 1861 along the bottom — Quarter past one in Saint Michael and Saint Gudula. The 1861 window still doing its job on a dark day.

Glass roof, gold baubles, one flute of champagne

Brussels built the Galeries Royales Saint-Hubert in the 1840s, a glass-roofed arcade before most of Europe had thought of them, and in December it becomes the most elegant Christmas decoration in the city. The roof is a long barrel of glass and iron, and hanging beneath it are baubles the size of armchairs: one enormous gold one at the crossing with red and gold clusters and gold stars marching down the arcade behind it, and above the clock at the central crossing, a matching set floating over the Belgian flag.

The glass barrel roof of the Galeries Royales Saint-Hubert with a giant gold bauble and clusters of red and gold ornaments and stars hanging along the arcade, shoppers blurred below — Twenty to two, under the glass roof. The bauble in front is roughly the size of an armchair.

The long view down the Galeries Royales Saint-Hubert, glass roof above, gold ornaments receding into the distance over shoppers and lit shopfronts — Ten to two. The arcade insists on gold, and it is right to.

I sat down at one of the little marble tables at an arcade café and ordered a glass of champagne, because it was raining outside and not inside, and because the glass had Taittinger printed on it and sometimes the correct thing to do at two in the afternoon is exactly this.

A flute of champagne with Taittinger printed on the glass, standing on a marble bistro table in the arcade, the cafe crowd and lit shopfronts blurred behind — Twelve past two. The rain stayed outside, the Taittinger did not last long.

An unexpected afternoon inside Europe

Here is where the day took its strange and best turn. Late afternoon, umbrella up again, I walked east out of the old town and into the EU quarter, where the streets suddenly grow glass towers and every second building has a flag on it, and I ended up in the European Parliament's visitor center with an hour of daylight left.

I did not plan it, and it turned out to be one of the most quietly moving museums I have walked through. It starts in the dark, literally: a black corridor where a huge luminous 1950 hangs in the void, the year the whole European experiment begins its story, and then the timeline pulls you forward decade by decade through treaties, crises and enlargements.

A dark museum corridor with the year 1950 in giant luminous white numerals on a black wall, their glow reflecting on the polished floor — Twenty to four. The room where the story starts, with the lights off on purpose.

The room I stayed longest in was the silliest and the most serious at once. A model hemicycle filled with little painted figurines, each one wearing a member state's flag, ranked around an actual printed sheet titled Seating Plan of the European Parliament 2024-2029, with the political groups keyed along the edge. Somebody sat down and decided where seven hundred and twenty people from twenty-seven countries would sit, and then somebody else turned that spreadsheet into a toy, and honestly both of them did democracy a service.

A printed sheet titled Seating Plan of the European Parliament 2024-2029 with a color keyed hemicycle diagram, surrounded by small figurines painted in the flags of EU member states arranged in curved rows — Four o'clock. The seating plan of the European Parliament, rendered in figurines. I stood here far too long.

Further in, a ceiling of hanging LEDs swarmed in blues and greens over a survey ticker crawling along the wall: in the last twelve months I have visited another EU country, and under it the percentages by country, Belgium at 61 percent, Sweden at 61, the UK's line sitting there as well like an old classmate in the group photo. And in a glass vitrine, lit gold, hung a machine that stopped me completely: tiers of gilded discs, looping cables, copper braids, the whole thing suspended like a chandelier. To my eyes it looked like the innards of a quantum computer, the kind of hardware that usually lives in a physics lab, here presented like a reliquary of whatever Europe builds next.

A dark museum room with a ceiling of hanging LED lights swarming in blue and green, above a glowing text ticker showing survey percentages for EU countries, visitors silhouetted below — Between four and half past. A ceiling that behaves like a flock of starlings, and a gilded machine in a glass case.

A gold plated machine of tiered discs, coiled cables and copper braids suspended in a glass display case in a museum, lit warmly from above — Between four and half past. A ceiling that behaves like a flock of starlings, and a gilded machine in a glass case.

I came out at a quarter to five into the blue hour, and the EU quarter did its version of dusk: a curving paved path between planted banks, glass towers with their lights coming on, one building sheathed in scaffolding, rain ticking on the umbrella. I took one frame from under its edge, the canopy cutting across the top of the picture, because by that point the umbrella had earned a place in the composition.

A curving paved path through a small park in the EU quarter at dusk, bare shrubs and ivy banks beside it, glass office towers and a building under scaffolding against the deep blue sky — Quarter to five in the EU quarter. By now the umbrella is part of the picture.

Glass towers of the EU quarter at blue hour seen from under the edge of a patterned umbrella that cuts across the top of the frame, wet paving reflecting the lights below — Quarter to five in the EU quarter. By now the umbrella is part of the picture.

Walking back into the light

The walk back into the old town at a quarter past five was when the city finished switching on. The shopping streets had strung themselves with garlands of warm white, and hanging from them, enormous chandeliers drawn in light, blue crystal shapes with glowing gold skirts, one after another down the street, with an inflatable Santa clinging to a pole for scale. Under all of it, a river of umbrellas moving in both directions, market tents, and the signposts pointing to Cathédrale and Mont des Arts in case anyone had stopped caring where they were going. I had not, but only just.

A chandelier of lights hanging from a garland over a crowded shopping street at night, market tents and a crowd of umbrellas below, an inflatable Santa further down — Quarter past five. Chandeliers for a street with no ceiling.

The square turns every color it owns

And then the Grand Place again, after dark, which is a different building from the Grand Place at lunchtime.

I came in past the Town Hall's flank at nineteen past five and the guild houses on the far side were bathed in green, their gilded gable statues glowing like ornaments, the wet cobbles throwing the color back up. The square was full but not packed: umbrellas, prams, phones out, everyone tilted slightly upward.

Guild houses on the Grand Place washed in green light at night, a gilded equestrian statue glowing on the central gable, people with umbrellas on the wet cobbles below — Nineteen past five. Arriving as the square went green.

The colors kept moving. Blue took the north range and turned the stone silver-cold while the shop windows underneath stayed stubbornly golden, which is the whole square in one image: civic theater upstairs, commerce keeping warm downstairs. One house wore pink on its domed corner turret with a gilded figure dancing on top. People photographed each other photographing the buildings. The rain kept falling and nobody cared even slightly.

A row of baroque guild houses on the Grand Place lit deep blue at night, a gilded equestrian statue on the central gable, people and umbrellas on the wet reflective cobbles — Five twenty to five thirty five. Blue, then pink. The shopfronts stayed gold throughout, on principle.

A guild house on the Grand Place washed in pink and magenta light, its domed corner turret topped by a gilded statue, a white umbrella in the crowd below — Five twenty to five thirty five. Blue, then pink. The shopfronts stayed gold throughout, on principle.

The tree was the crescendo. Up close it is a wall of light, thousands of points in green and white and red climbing to the spire of the Town Hall behind it, striped baubles as big as drums, wrapped gift boxes heaped around the base, and a gold plaque in front whose text I never managed to read because the tree kept being more interesting. From across the square it stands in front of the green-washed facades like the one guest at the party who did not need the lighting rig.

The Grand Place Christmas tree at night covered in multicoloured lights and striped baubles, the Town Hall spire rising dark behind it, facades washed orange and green on either side — Five twenty two to five twenty eight. The tree, the plaque I never read, and the presents nobody touched.

The Christmas tree on the Grand Place at night with wrapped gift boxes heaped around its base, a white marquee and warmly lit gabled houses in the background — Five twenty two to five twenty eight. The tree, the plaque I never read, and the presents nobody touched.

Then the Town Hall took its turn. The tower that had spent the day being gray gothic stone was suddenly a screen: an aurora of green and violet rolled up its lacework at half past five, the Belgian and European flags hanging in the middle of it, and a few minutes later the whole facade went pink and magenta to its very top, the crowd below reduced to a field of shining umbrellas. On the way out I passed the teal-washed houses on the corner, where a chocolate shop glowed underneath like an ember that would not go out.

The gothic tower of the Brussels Town Hall at night under a projection of green and violet light like an aurora, Belgian and EU flags hanging from the facade, umbrellas silhouetted below — Half past five to five thirty five. The Town Hall trying on colors, and the corner shopfront refusing to join in.

The Town Hall of Brussels and its tower washed in pink and magenta light at night, the Christmas tree to the right and a crowd with umbrellas on the wet square — Half past five to five thirty five. The Town Hall trying on colors, and the corner shopfront refusing to join in.

I want to note, for the record, that all of this is free. The best show in Brussels in December is the square itself, every evening, for the price of wet shoes.

One Leffe, and the last corner

Dinner was ten past six, somewhere warm off the square, and it was the most Belgian table of the trip: a Leffe in its proper chalice, the stained-glass abbey logo and Anno 1240 printed on the glass, and behind it a thin-crusted tart buried under rocket and ham with shaved cheese. Nobody at that table was in a hurry either. The rain had made philosophers of everyone.

Ten past six. Anno 1240 on the glass, dinner behind it.

The last photograph of the trip is from ten past seven, on a corner of wet cobbles: a green-painted shopfront with its windows full of warm light and people at tables inside, fairy lights dripping from the floor above, a lantern, a blue chandelier decoration glowing down the side street, and every single cobblestone doing its December duty of reflecting all of it. I stood there for a minute with the umbrella down, because the rain had finally eased and it felt right to let the city have the last word.

A green painted corner shopfront at night with warmly lit windows and diners inside, fairy lights above, wet cobblestones in the foreground reflecting the light, a blue chandelier decoration glowing down the side street — Ten past seven. The last frame, cobbles doing what December cobbles do.

That walk ran from a billboard at eleven in the morning to a green shopfront at seven in the evening, and it took in a dressed statue, a cathedral, a glass arcade, the machinery of a continent and a square that changes color, all inside a circle you can walk in fifteen minutes. That is the thing about Brussels that the rain made obvious: it is a capital city folded very small. You do not cover ground here. You stand still, mostly, and an unreasonable amount of city happens around you.

I would go back in December, and I would not even check the forecast.