Battle Dress

Yesterday morning we tried to understand how the European Union worked.  Then we had a gourmet lunch that was low on everything that was supposed to be bad for our bodies. It was in a restaurant that was part of swank health club. 

Just exiting the building I felt I was brimming with health.  That didn’t mean I was walking any faster, but it encouraged me to follow Ella into a large park dominated by enormous museums that looked like they were airlifted from classical Greece, the type of museums where you get vertigo looking at the vaulted ceilings and every time you comment on what you’re looking at your voice echoes down the faux marble hallways so that people two exhibits away can hear your thoughts.  

These monstrosities were built around the turn of the last century about the time of Leopold II was adding to his African big game trophies and Joseph Conrad was freaking out on his river journey into the Belgian Congo. I could only imagine the amount of taxidermy inside those thick stone walls. (“The horror, the horror!”) Somewhere we read that to tour the entire museum collection would, at the minimum, take two-and-a-half hours.

It would be like going on an urban safari where the only danger is information overload causing momentary delirium resulting in frightening misinterpretations. Like the diorama featuring the elephant inhaling army ants that will end up devouring its brain. You’d end up hoping that image would disappear due to the overload weakening your retention only to have it invade your sleep with the added distress of a nightmarish distortion.

In other words, a trip to the museum was out. Instead we opted for buying tickets for the military museum which allowed us to go to the top of the triumphant arch and look over Brussels like we were some ruler scoping out the kingdom, Caesar on his way to the British Isles, or Charlemagne wondering what portion he would give his sons, or Napoleon enjoying a brief fantasy of where he could quaff some Trappist beer after facing off with Wellington at Waterloo.

From what we could see of the military museum it featured the formal attire commanders were expected to wear if they were going to into battle and possibly meet their maker. 

War as a costume drama with dastardly crafted weaponry meant to hack that finery to shreds. Essentially it was a pre-production showcase looking for actors to fill out the clothing and armorers to demonstrate how to wield a pickaxe without fatally injuring the stunt man.

The enormity of the soldierly wardrobe made sense considering how many wars have been fought on Belgian soil over the centuries. The post-production litter! Just the headgear alone is enough to boggle the mind. The helmets, first with just nose guards then visors, the tricorne hats (put on sideways!), those marvelously absurd mini-smoke stack shakos, the whole marvelous parading plumage begging for a closeup.