A City of Dirty Pissing Bastards and Thieves
5:30am. Coach 16, Seat 11. Dosed up on mocha and the Kronos Quartet. After a couple of minutes of tunnel turning the window into an unflattering mirror, I am gifted an A13 dawn.
The blades of a giant industrial windmill carve the air, there is a concrete road in the sky funnelling unrelenting traffic and I am on a train that travels under the sea. For a moment, this feels like the sci-fi future I dreamed of in 1976. I am moving through a landscape where UNIT trucks are sodium hour ghosts and Luke Haines’ ESP kids lie in wait for the perfect psychic ambush.
We move under the Thames and reverie stops. Kent is resistant to imagination. Its acres of sky dead to any possibility beyond the Monday morning commute. A landscape so bland, the black of the chunnel is actually a relief.
The milk chocolate brown of ploughed fields and verdant pasture that greet me on the other side are constant to the first ring of the Belgian rustbelt. When the last warehouses, container mountains and failed chemical plants eventually splutter out, Brussels’ ugly suburban sprawl begins. A choking catalogue of grey, narrow houses lined up on streets like a grubby second-hand paperback collection.
This morning every stairway and corner of Gare du Midi reeks of urine. I survive one pickpocketing attempt before I even descend to the Metro. A second happens somewhere between Troon and Kunts-Wet. I catch the would-be thief breaking the zip of my bag. Instinctually I stamp down on his hand. There is an awful, sickening crunch of bone. He screams out and drops my passport. Curses, pushes out of the Metro carriage before I can do anything else. As I struggle to pick up my stuff, I miss my station. Later, when it begins to rain, I discover the only thing I lost in the scuffle was my beloved monkey hat.
It is entirely irrational, unreasonable and ridiculous, but when I am let down by Brussels, I take it personally. I feel like shouting: “Both my grandfathers helped liberate you from fascism. Is it beyond you to be something other than a city of dirty pissing bastards and thieves?” Of course, I do not actually shout at anyone, just adopt a sullen face and stomp along till I get to Treurenberg hill. I can forgive a lot when I hear the 49-bell carillon of Cathédrale St Michel & Gudule.
The blades of a giant industrial windmill carve the air, there is a concrete road in the sky funnelling unrelenting traffic and I am on a train that travels under the sea. For a moment, this feels like the sci-fi future I dreamed of in 1976. I am moving through a landscape where UNIT trucks are sodium hour ghosts and Luke Haines’ ESP kids lie in wait for the perfect psychic ambush.
We move under the Thames and reverie stops. Kent is resistant to imagination. Its acres of sky dead to any possibility beyond the Monday morning commute. A landscape so bland, the black of the chunnel is actually a relief.
The milk chocolate brown of ploughed fields and verdant pasture that greet me on the other side are constant to the first ring of the Belgian rustbelt. When the last warehouses, container mountains and failed chemical plants eventually splutter out, Brussels’ ugly suburban sprawl begins. A choking catalogue of grey, narrow houses lined up on streets like a grubby second-hand paperback collection.
This morning every stairway and corner of Gare du Midi reeks of urine. I survive one pickpocketing attempt before I even descend to the Metro. A second happens somewhere between Troon and Kunts-Wet. I catch the would-be thief breaking the zip of my bag. Instinctually I stamp down on his hand. There is an awful, sickening crunch of bone. He screams out and drops my passport. Curses, pushes out of the Metro carriage before I can do anything else. As I struggle to pick up my stuff, I miss my station. Later, when it begins to rain, I discover the only thing I lost in the scuffle was my beloved monkey hat.
It is entirely irrational, unreasonable and ridiculous, but when I am let down by Brussels, I take it personally. I feel like shouting: “Both my grandfathers helped liberate you from fascism. Is it beyond you to be something other than a city of dirty pissing bastards and thieves?” Of course, I do not actually shout at anyone, just adopt a sullen face and stomp along till I get to Treurenberg hill. I can forgive a lot when I hear the 49-bell carillon of Cathédrale St Michel & Gudule.
Labels: A13, Brussels, Eurostar, Luke Haines, UNIT
posted by David at
10:01 PM
8 Comments:
Ah, to make me want to visit Belgium takes some creative writing!! You even make that place sound fun. ANd I know it's not! I've driven that strip of war-scarred flat empty wasteland on my way to Germany many times.
Sorry about the monkey hat!!
Like some clouds, your Brussels has a silver lining.
Chandira - À la Mort Subite is usually fun and so are the street frites, but yesterday, Brussels was determined to show me its bad side.
GM - I am a sucker for a good peel of church bells.
Oh Geez David. This post makes me very happy to be a small town girl in a small town world.
Ah, Europe is sooo civilized, allowing scum like pickpockets to proliferate and to thieve unopposed, simply because it is not socially acceptable to kill them on the spot. Thank you for striking a blow for pickpocket victims everywhere. ;-)
Sure sounds like you had a great time abroad!
That chunnel has put a big hole through the hill that used to be on my school's cross-country run when I lived down there!
Cycle touring and racing showed me some good parts of Kent although I prefer the more rugged Yorkshire countryside. My parents live on Romney Marsh these days, now THAT'S a place where imagination is required :)
I broke the finger of a pickpocket at the Gare de Midi last spring. Bastard had the nerve to say I had assaulted him...loudly, and to anybody who would listen. My knowing smile and nods made sure he would not be taken seriously.
Funny....never worried for an instant in Naples or Rome, yet Brussels seems to breed petty theivery. Fortunately, the rest of the city merely rips you off with 2 Euro bottles of water, 4 Euro waffles, and horsemeat burgers masquerading as beef.
Ypres was friendlier, but even more expensive. A tourist town that rivals Bruges for rip off prices. Fortunately for my mood, Geneiever was available. In quantity.
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