Brexit dream #3: Sea Slug Soup in Brussels

[Written on July 9th, 2016]

I dreamt about Clive again, along with two other friends. We’ve been on a trip to Brussels (as I did with school friends in ’58): the headquarters of the European Union. Now it’s time to go back. Our Metro train has just arrived at Brussels Midi, the terminus for the Eurostar train to London. You can get off the train either side. Clive is about to get out on the Eurostar side, but I stop him in time. I tell him we’ve got two hours to spare, we can have some fun first. Clive correctly guesses I’m thinking of a bar. The others pretend they’ll indulge me in this, as if they aren’t thirsty themselves. Fair enough, I’m the eldest, I’ll show them how this is done.

So we get off the other side, leave the station and look for a place to get some half-liters of white Belgian beer from the tap, such as Hoegaarden. I don’t exactly like the stuff, but it’s fascinatingly weird. To my dismay, we arrive in a boring cheap diner with white laminate tables and bright lighting. Before we even sit down a waitress waylays us to take our orders. I find myself herded into a corner, deprived of an escape route. I want to tell my companions that surely we can find a better place than this, not an English pub obviously, but a friendly bar, the cheap kind not for tourists, where men come in their dusty workclothes, glad to see their pals, say what they like and feel completely at ease. But it’s too late, Clive and the others have succumbed to pressure from the waitress, and accepted her suggestions.

The first dish arrives for sharing, a big tureen of what looks like cold soup, with fresh leaves in it, or perhaps waterweed. As I gaze into the depths I see movement near the bottom. Before long I can see a dozen caterpillar-like creatures with protuberances. They must be live sea-slugs. am I supposed to spear them with a fork? Oh well, when in Brussels . . .

I’m glad at this point to wake up.