Going Medieval in Brussels

For one weekend only, from May 30th to June 1st, the monumental Cinquantenaire Park takes everyone back to the medieval times with the Marche Medieval (medieval market). Neo-folk musicians, beer stands, amusement rides, tight rope walkers, HEMA sword fights, tons of food stalls, and more fill up the park. Come to think of it, there’s actually very little historical medieval about it, except the mood and décor, but whatever. Suspend your constant overanalyzing of everything for just a second and have a nice relax.

And even despite the ridiculous amount of inaccuracies, it’s one of my favorite festivals in Brussels. It’s where my son saw his first “knight fight” and stirred his excitement to go to Carcassonne and see the mother of all castles. It’s also another reason to drink outside and kind of ushers in the season.

The tight rope walker in 2024

Usually in May, the weather is okay and for a few hours you might even get some sunshine. But also rain. So, if you’re planning a trip to Brussels in May do bring a raincoat. Especially if you’re going to an outdoor festival, as I’ve been caught in the rain every year that I went.

The festival is free and has got plenty to do for the whole family.

For the adults

There are plenty of beer stands spread throughout the festival, this is Europe after all. But the best is a hut that’s usually placed at the hypotenuse of the fountain and the music stage. They have a two different flavors of beer: the standard Le Coque Sauvage (that’s the Wild Cock for you non-Francophones), and then another infused with smoke or some bullshit like that.

And then there’s the shows on stage, which set some mood music. It seems like every “medieval” performance is a recreation of Heilung’s Viking disco beats these days, but whatever. Still sounds like it could be medieval.

"Medieval" music at the Marche

The food is… there are a lot of choices, but it ain’t cheap. It’s Brussels after all. The last time I ate there I had spent the entire day there drinking with my mates, and we went up to a stall, and in my drunken haze ordered a possibly triple serving—my French had completely abandoned me, and I was speaking a rather mixed jibber-jabber of Russian-Georgian-English so I had no idea what I was getting, but pretended to be fine with that even as I tapped out 30 euros on my phone.

That didn’t seem right.

But then my friend and I were looking at it as we sat back down with our food and beers and indeed, that did seem right. Crazy overpriced, but correctly charged.

For the kids

And I mentioned amusement rides! Which is something most people don’t think of when they think of the medieval times, unless you’re thinking of Tyrion with his hookers. But these things are like modern amusement rides that could have existed way back then (but didn’t).

For one thing, they’re giant wood contraptions and entirely powered by hand. There are a couple of varieties of carousels and a small Ferris wheel.

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Let’s start with this huge spinning carousel. It takes three guys to start rotating the thing, and it winds up and up and up, with a rope winding around a pole like it’s May Day. Then they let it go and it unwinds. Simple, yet works quite well, getting quite some speed and dizziness up.

The small Ferris wheel has about six baskets with four children each. The two keepers just pull down on handles and set it spinning. Easy peasy.

See what I mean? These things could have existed in the medieval times, but they didn’t. Still, they’re fun for kids, and run 3 to 5 euro a ride each. And since it’s medieval times, they don’t take card. So parents, bring your cash.

The little man trying his skill at crossbow

They also have loads of little faire games, like crossbow shooting where you shoot dragons and ghosts, catapult launching where you try to knock down a castle with a miniature catapult, arrow shooting, rope climbing, and so on. Good times for all.

Medieval vs Renaissance Faire

The modern Renaissance/Medieval Faire in Europe has a rather circuitous route and isn’t at all original to Europe. It is, in fact, like most good things in life, an American invention.

Now I’m not saying that there aren’t festivals that have medieval styles. Not at all.

Ommegang here in Brussels has been going for half a millennium, using costumes from the original days. Rather, what I’m saying, a medieval faire for the sake of medieval faires wasn’t really a European thing.

It seems a bit silly. Especially when it’s not linked to a religious feast day, a King’s wedding, a stolen statue of Mary, or any of the other number of reasons to have festivals. It’s just literally a festival to have a festival.

World War II

A lot of things came to the United States with the GI’s coming home from World Wars, and I’m not just talking Syphilis, crappers, and Irish coffee. Our soldiers got enamored with all the burning German castles and cute French villages with the Norman and Belgian ladies tossing themselves into the arms of our heroes. And with all that, they were like, “Hey Joe, this medieval shit is cool, isn’t it?” “Oy mate, innit?” the other GI replies, trying to sound European himself.

The soldiers brought back this love of medieval stuff, exchanging their cowboy hats for coifs, that the Renaissance picked up. An LA history teacher, Phyllis Patterson, decided to hold one in her backyard, and this soon transformed into the Renaissance Pleasure Faire. Her idea was to stress some level of “authenticity”; everyone would have to wear beltless trousers, speak in British accents, and drink wine with their pinkies up, as they did.

The thing is though, before the age of the Internet, Americans didn’t really have an effing clue what was going on in medieval times in Europe. We basically only knew about knights, princesses, castles, dragons, elves, fairies, and all that other wild, crazy stuff going on in Europe. And so, that’s what our Renaissance faires looked like (most of us didn’t really realize “Renaissance” was well out of “Medieval Times” anyway, but we’d still have a restaurant chain happily blending the eras).

I grew up in love with the medieval world, going to every Renaissance Faire that I could (my favorite was just south of Denver, where they had built a fairly decent-looking and legit castle—I say legit because it’s just as legit as something like Neuschwanstein, which was wholly built to cater to Ludwig II’s gay orgies; I’m not sure what the difference is here, except I guess his parties were more fun).

A quest for identity

And now we come back to the Brussels Medieval Market. This isn’t your old-fashioned feast day faire or flea market (Brussels has plenty of those too). This is all the stereotype and virtuosity and suspense of belief as the medieval Americaine has, full of wizards, elves, and burly Germans showing off their man-tits.

For me though, having grown up in a world pre-Internet, where even the prospect of watching a jousting match in friggin’ Tulsa, Oklahoma was a mind-blowing explosion of awesome, it was interesting to see the European versions of medieval festivals. Even the fighting, HEMA (Historical European Martial Arts), found a rebirth in the US before being re-imported back into Europe. John Clements was an American pioneer in reconstructing medieval and Renaissance fighting techniques.

Before HEMA was reimported, most “traditional” styles revolved around foil fighting in sports clubs. This of course, looks legit, but when it comes down to it, fighting with a foil and a rope tied to your back is a far cry from half-swording and jabbing blades between armor gaps.

Guys anachronistically bashing each other

But it makes sense that these things were American. You have lots of Americans who know they generally come from Europe, might only have a vague idea of which country, certainly not know the language, and are mostly just gravy-fed history about it. And so there are questions. “Where are we from?” “What should my traditions be?” and so on.

The quest for Black identity, which asks those same questions, but for the reason of them being ripped from their roots, is very much mirrored by White identity, since most Whites don’t know where the heck they came from either (and for the last time, you’re not from Ireland, even if you are drinking a Guinness on St. Patty’s).

So with this struggle to find who they are, the thirst to really dig into history and "identity" is much stronger for Americans, I think. Europeans, by and large, know who they are and where they stand. They’ve known that for centuries.

Strolling, drinking, eating...

So is it a real surprise that we’re all excited about Tolkien and elves and knights and that kind of thing? And since that stuff is actually all good fun, is it any surprise that Euros were like, “Well, why not have an elf join us for a beer?”

Cinquantenaire Fun

This weekend will mark the 30th anniversary of the Etterbeek Medieval Marche, which is why, I suppose, they made it a bit later in the month. 30th anniversary on the 30th day, something like that. Or maybe they figured it was less likely to rain, who knows?

But the Cinquantenaire Park was made for festivals like this. And those big, Roman-looking arches really set the atmosphere for medieval fun.

At the end of the day, everyone is looking to find out who they are, where they belong, and what makes them who they are. And this is all just a part of that. So enjoy a Savage Cock and give me a toast.

The Trinity of Mtskheta

Some millennium-and-a-half ago, the mountain peak where the Jvari Monastery of Mtskheta now stands was bald. Until a woman, St. Nino, stuck a cross at its highest point, drawing in questioning pagans en masse for conversions via her ministry. Today, the monastery stands resilient, still serving the same function, but swap pagans for tourists—bus loads of mostly Russians and Chinese these days, curious at the ancient Orthodox monument.

Light shines through the window openings inside, illuminating the drifting dust particles; one monk-priest chants while another sits quietly, observing people dropping coins into a small box and taking candles for their own prayers. It’s the standard gentle chaos of a Georgian church, and in a place where the age itself makes for the mysticism, as the murals have long faded and the outer walls long crumbled.

Down below, you can see the holy city of Mtskheta parked between the tight confluence of the Aragvi and Mtvari rivers. The Aragvi coming from the highlands, something pure and unblemished, crystalline waters that are perfect for the breweries further up north. The Mtkvari, muddy, polluted with the rubbish of dozens of towns and villages across Georgia and Türkiye, and with the runoff from the manganese mines of Chiatura and its black Kvirila River.

The confluence of the Aragvi and Mtkvari

The hills here are carved in steep trenches, with narrow ridges making the upper reliefs. I looked across the valley and saw a small wedding on one such ridge, daring the wind not to make off with a hat or veil. The wedding arch made an Insta-perfect view of Svetitskhoveli Cathedral far down below.

A wedding on the ridge

Jvari is part of the holy trinity of tourist destinations that every Tbiliseli Georgian will take a foreign guest on if given the chance. The other two places are Svetitskhoveli in the center of Mtskheta and Salobie, just outside of town. All three holy places in their own right.

As such, let’s take a quick tour of Mtskheta and the cathedral too. Though last weekend I only managed to squeeze in Jvari and Salobie, but c’est la vie, mes amis.

Mtskheta

It was one of the first capitals of Kartli and one of the oldest, continuously occupied cities in the world, with a founding date of sometime in the 2nd millennium BC. So old that the pagans (you know, the ones that were gathering around in interest at that strange lady on the hill propping up a cross) attributed its founding to the legendary founder of their people, Kartlos.

That’s, of course, the Netflix version, while historians generally just attribute the city to the Meskhian Georgians, since their name sounds like the city. And if that were the case, the city would be much younger, having been founded with their migration at around 500 BC. Either way, it’s pretty friggin’ old.

There’s not much to do in town other than the trinity of tourism that I mentioned (there is also the Samtavro Convent and part of an old bridge they say was built by a time traveling Pompeius Magnus, since the bridge is likely only 200 years or so old). Much of the center has been redone in “Georgian old town style”, with some newly cobbled streets lined with arts, crafts, and cheap plastic Chinese toys, making a kind of pilgrims’ walk to the cathedral.

Given the nice Georgian Old Town Style reconstruction, it also rivals Sighnaghi, City of Love, for wedding destinations, where a wedding signing building was constructed just for that purpose on the square outside Svetitskhoveli.

Svetitskhoveli Cathedral

Svetitskhoveli (Svet-its-throatclearing-o-vell-ee) is the big thing in Mtskheta. Literally. It towers over the entire town and is visible from all around, even the highway where the cars whizz by up the hill across the river.

The story goes that back in the time of Jesus, there was a Georgian in the crowd of His admirers. This man, named Elias, ended up with Jesus’s robe after the crucifixion (not His shroud, mind you, that’s an entirely different thing). He brought it back home to his sister Sidonia, who was so overwhelmed by its holiness that she naturally drops dead while clutching it. As nobody could pry it from her dead hands, she was buried with it.

And like with so many good religious stories, a tree grew at that place.

A few centuries later, St. Nino, who I mentioned above, came around, and decided that this tree marked the spot to build a church to Our Lord. They chopped it down and, from the wood, built six pillars, while the seventh they had meant to place hung in the air. It soon came down, with myrrh oozing out, and became known as the “Life-Giving Pillar” (which is what the name of the church translates to).

The current construction

The wood church was short-lived though and was soon replaced in the 5th century with a stone structure and then was greatly expanded in the 11th century in a story you can read about by Konstantin Gamsakhurdia, called The Right Hand of the Master.

Konstantin was out pondering why there was a big right hand carved into a stone block near the top of the church. And whether he gathered local legend or came up with it himself, it follows the tragic story of most famous architects of the past.

See the hand on the left under the arch?

The legend goes like this: After Arsukidze, the Grandmaster mason, finished his masterpiece, King Giorgi I was so impressed he had Arsukidze’s hand chopped off so he couldn’t build anything so magnificent.

Konstantin’s version, which is a little more believable, is that King Giorgi was so impressed about Arsukidze’s boldness in sleeping with the local hottie, that the king had his main man’s hand chopped off.

And to add an additional layer of meaning, both the Life-Giving Pillar and the church it was named for, represents a single, united Georgia, and as such is one of the holiest places in the country. Giorgi I didn’t have much left to unite, since his father King Bagrat III did most of the heavy lifting on that by 1008. But at least he was able to build the primary symbol of the nation’s unity. And just as he built upon a pre-existing foundation with the church, so did he with the nation in solidifying the dynastic rule.

The architecture

The cathedral is a classic Georgian cross-dome and has through history been plagued by fires, invaders, earthquakes, and more. Little of Arsukidze’s creation still exists, as much has been repaired over the years, hence the spotty carvings and mismatched bricks (the same violent and tragic story told on many churches across Georgia).

The gatehouse

The interior

The ground is paved with the graves of fallen kings and heroes of Georgian history, and this was the place most were crowned during their lives long before. On the rare occasion that the place is empty of tourists (good luck with that), you can almost feel the mysticism dripping form the ghost of the bleeding pillar.

The Life-Giving Pillar on the right

And that place is marked too: there’s another mini-chapel, house right, that stands over the place where they cut down the tree in St. Nino’s time, and thus also marks the spot of Christ’s garment.

The walls are somewhat of a patchwork.

Throughout the ages, the interiors of Georgian churches were covered in beautiful and colorful frescoes from floor to ceiling. But this was not in the Russian fashion, and all people whom the Russians love must of course follow their fashion. So, when Tsar Nicolas I decided to visit the holiest place of Georgia in the 1830s, they decided to spruce the place up to not offend his holiness and painted everything white.

Unfortunately, the Holy Tsar never showed up and they painted it all for nothing. But in later restorations, they managed to uncover some fragments.

You can see various Biblical scenes up to 400 years old, towards the dome you can see Christ Pantokrator (i.e., the Almighty), and to the back right, a 13th century “Beast of the Apocalypse” which features zodiac signs.

Christ Pantokrator, Christ Almighty

Jvari Monastery of Mtskheta

Another legend has it that from the royal palace, they had dug a tunnel under the river and up the hill, so that the royal family could escape in case of invaders. That tunnel exited at Jvari Monastery, a place nearly as holy as Svetitskhoveli. There is no evidence of the tunnel though, and no cool climb downs (I did climb through a tunnel nearly as crazy as that sounds at a Crusader castle in Israel).

Jvari is where we started the trip last weekend, with that grand view down.

The story goes that St. Nino (the one who had the original Svetitskhoveli built), had become good friends with King Mirian III, whom she was teaching about Christianity. And after his conversion, she set up a big wooden cross at the top of this hill declaring the victory of Christ over paganism.

A small church was built around the cross in the 6th century, and then the larger church of today in the 7th century. Jvari is a “four-apsed church with four-niches” and resembles something more like a Byzantine Church than other churches you might see in Georgia today. But for some time, Georgian churches did copy Jvari, and you see the style pop up in a few other places (e.g., Dzveli Shuamta and Manglisi Sioni).

Jvari Monastery

The strangest thing about the architecture of Jvari is the interior, where you can find a large, earthen mound filling the center. This marks the exact spot where St. Nino placed her cross and is still adorned with a wooden cross (a fancy new one, not the original).

That’s where the name comes from too, “Jvari”, which means “cross” in Georgian.

Salobie

Depending on who you’re with, it’s hard to tell which of the trinity is most beloved on the trip. Where Jvari and Svetitskhoveli are 80 percent packed with foreign tourists and 20 percent packed with Georgian ones, the former are largely disseminated by the various overpriced fares placed around town while the Georgians all split to hit Salobie.

“Salobie” (sa-lobe-ee-eh) in Georgian means, “place of beans”, or perhaps, “Bean House”. As such, beans must be ordered. And its fitting, because beans are a holy meal, becoming the main staple during the long haul that is the Great Fast before Easter. But at Salobie, they don’t only serve beans, as they also serve all the classic Georgian peasant food, at prices that can hardly be beat anywhere in the country.

Back to the translation. It’s specifically the “place of lobio”, and lobio can be described, as one American I was with put it, “like something almost like Mexican refried beans”. It’s long stewed beans, served here in the traditional clay pot. Properly you should order it with the mchadi on top of it like a cap. As hungry as I was, I failed to take a picture of it, so here I’ll post an after pic where you can see empty clay pots. And also to be honest, usually I'm out with friends and not so concerned about the blog. And then when I finally think about, shemogvichame (or something that I think means "we accidentally ate it all").

Empty clay pots that were once full of lobio

The place has been around for ages, perhaps even predating the Soviet era. Who knows. The place is huge, has tons of outdoor seating, and the indoor seating is very “ethnic chic”.

So, if you’re in Mtskheta making the pilgrimage to St. Nino’s cross, or paying your respects to Georgian heritage—whatever be your wiles—and you get hungry, then ditch the tourist fare and go where the locals go: the Bean House.

https://youtu.be/OroC8tI_Mcs

Coming to Tbilisi (Again)

Returning to Tbilisi has not been without its thrills. When coming to a developing country—especially with a child—you’ve got to expect some ups and downs. As our furniture wasn’t due to arrive in another three weeks since it had set sail from Antwerp rather than fly along with us, it meant we would be living in a basically empty apartment. And with a child and wife, after so long, it leads to a mild form of depression, mild in the same way as that fungus they found in the milk here this week.

Don’t get me wrong. Living without furniture isn’t that bad. It’s the wait that’s bad. It’s the fact that we don’t have anything we can do about it. It’s not something I can fix. No matter what we occupy ourselves with—painting walls, getting rid of old crap, fixing toilets/sinks/closets—we’re still unable to make ourselves more comfortable.

Then we get the notice that it will be a week late. Aaaand then again.

And it's double something I can’t set about fixing. At least if we simply had no furniture, we could run down to Saba Furniture Bazar and undo that for cheap. But here we have furniture coming.

Just not yet.

I hate that.

Making upgrades with the kid

We decided then it’s the best time to upgrade some of our house “features”. Namely, there was a hole in the paint in the ceiling due to past water damage, some damaged floorboards from when we installed the radiators years ago, a doorway we wanted to make between the kitchen and living room, and some paint to freshen up the place.

Naturally, while the place was empty and we were waiting for furniture, this was the best time.

For the work we couldn’t do, like sanding the floors, fixing the ceiling, and some various holes that required a hammer drill, we’d have to get professional help. Which isn’t always available/easy to find in Tbilisi.

It’s like Future USA in this regard.

That is to say, there are a lot of people without jobs who buy a drill or wrench thinking handyman work is easy enough.

And then they do wretched jobs, like the abomination that was done to my floorboards that covered the pipes connecting the radiators in the living room and the bathroom.

Like, man, I could have done that shoddy-ass job myself, that’s why I called you!

So how do you know the pros from the not-so-pros?

Luckily, Uber has inspired a whole generation of service apps. Here in Tbilisi, there’s Mister Master and Profy. Mister Master was the old go-to service, but I find Profy has a much better UI and the ability to rate the work of the handyman is great. It sucks for those starting out, but for guys who are doing regular and good work—power to them.

And so we took advantage of the empty apartment, made a hole int he wall, and started to paint.

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Moving pains

As I write this, we’re still waiting for the furniture. We have a small desk, a small patio-furniture table, and two mattresses for our abundance of comfort.

Then in Tbilisi buildings, they often have this weird elevator system.

See that thing?

That is a coin box, I kid you not. It’s not uncommon for Tbilisi elevators to have them, especially when you’re not living in some posh hood, but with the real people, fam

Where in most countries, the residents of the building might cooperate in some sort of Homeowners Association, Syndic, or Commune structure with common fees that pay for this much taken-for-granted kind of thing, not Georgia.

In Georgia, it’s everyone for themselves.

It’s yell at each other in the stairwell and make cardboard fortress structures in the hallway like we’re kids at war (I-kid-you-not).

As it’s an extreme rarity for any neighbor to agree with any other neighbor here, getting money for collective causes like elevators, paint jobs, or parking lot updates is well-nigh impossible. The only time an upgrade to the building area might come your way is if elections are coming up and the local government is trying to win some incumbent votes by way of last-minute projects.

Four more years, and maybe we can get a tag-operated lift…

Childcare in Tbilisi

Add on top of all that, the little rugrat is getting restless. He needs his toys, his running around, some peers. 

Back in Brussels, childcare is magical. They provide it for free, and the daycare is actually pretty quality. At least ours was (Adolphe Max for those who are looking, never mind the aggressive German-sounding name). Not only did it help him make friends in an environment he wouldn’t naturally, since neither one of us were from Brussels, it helped him learn French. So that was cool.

In Tbilisi, they do offer public kindergarten, but it gets out at 13:00. Which doesn’t help a working-full-time family.

That leaves private kindergarten, which comes with a price tag.

Our little one doesn’t yet know Georgian (though he should). And frankly, after seeing his astronomical progress with French, I’m quite convinced the best way for him to learn Georgian is just to chuck him into a room full of other Georgian kids and have at it.

There are some English language (Georgian-American School) and French language (Ecole Francaise) options (which are all, of course, in the same neighborhood of Vake), and those are probably at a higher standard than the Georgian private kindergartens, but that’d also mean he’d be at a loss for Georgian. Luckily, the one we found seems phenomenal (pm me for deets). It’s got a Lego room, a “soft” gym, a “hard” gym, and an outdoor playground in all of their branches.

Not to mention five meals that our little one refuses to eat.

Adjusting to kindergarten

We expected it to take about a week for him to adapt. He still misses his friends and there is naturally a huge language pressure. It’s nice that with voip apps these days, it’s easy to have a quick call with his old mates and discuss snakes, ball sizes, and whatever else is super important in the minds of toddlers.

The first day at kindergarten/maternelle/whateveritscalled they came home soon after leaving. He was already crying after every moment that my wife tried to tear away. But each day after, and with much bribing with doudous (stuffed animals), he finally began to adjust.

I couldn’t help but feel some sympathy for the wifey (as perhaps husbands should feel). That was my job back in Brussels when our roles were swapped. I still remember the little two-year-old running down the stairs and trying to escape the creche (daycare), shrieking in tears.

That was a real struggle, man. And I knew right then that some sacrifices would have to be made. That I would never be able to do my job at full capacity (though as it was remote, I didn’t really have to tell them cough, which is probably why I ended up unemployed).  

But as Georgia, like any small country, has so many connections to other countries, it was just a matter of time before he discovered a few other English-speaking kids.

Though that makes his time at school easier, I just hope it doesn’t prevent him from picking up Georgian language. Else we’ll have to send him back to the farm with his grandparents.

Want to learn some travel with kids hacks and read more about my own failures? Of course you do! Check out my latest book on Amazon, A Facetious Guide to Traveling with a Kid. Get it today! Support a man, feed a family, make your preggo gypsy friend have a laugh.

And for a slightly different version of this:

https://youtu.be/II3LT3GtKos