Bruxelles–Brussel–Roosendaal

I am now on the train out of Brussels, and not sure when I'll get a free internet connection again. The train, rather more packed than the one I came in, is hurtling across the Waloon–Flemish divide, and on its way to Roosendaal in North Flanders, oops, the Netherlands, where I'll change trains for Nijmegen, and some choice ales therein.

(Dutch train conductors dress like train conductors. Belgian train conductors dress like South American generalissimos. I have no idea what's up with that.)

It was a productive work day on top of being a productive blogging day; worked fairly solidly 10–3, with an hour break in between to eat tarte à citron. As often these days, I spoke with more authority than I actually have, but to my mild astonishment, I got out of it a coherent story for our work collaboration. I also got some incoherent notes that I will have to transform into something legible later on. Dank u wel pour l'hôpitalité, David and Franz.

(We're at Mechelen station already? And clearly north of the linguistic divide now: no bilingual signage.)

Anderlecht was not that bad by the light of day, once I was taxiing out of Chaussée de Mons: there were some stolidly proud buildings left. Things got more chic the closer I got to the European Precinct, where my meeting was. It's actually a shame I wasn't more mobile when I was last in town: the monumental architecture I like was not in Groote Markt, but further south.

(The South American generalissimo has just checked my ticket, and has said something to me in Flemish about my itinerary. I have no earthly idea what. Eek ben portugees alstubleijft?)

After work, I secluded myself for half an hour to do a couple of emails and blogs. As you saw, the building (European Schoolnet headquarters) was across the road from the Greek Embassy. This was pretty fortuitous, given that the cabbie I came in with asked whether I was Portuguese. (The one thing to note about my French accent, apart from that I don't know what I'm doing, is that I nasalise only 20% of what I should; so Portuguese was the wrong Mediterranean swarthiness to pick.) I didn't have the patience or the language skills to launch into how I was Greek-Australian, let alone the cool way my friend George put it: "the guy looks like a Greek greengrocer, but acts like an Englishman." Instead, I just said grec. And the cabbie didn't even notice the embassy he ended up parking at.

(17:50, and the sun is already low enough to be a nuisance in my eyes. Found out Amsterdam is 52°N—about as far north as Terra del Fuego is far south. Better keep that Gulf Stream going, people.)

European Schoolnet is in premises formerly occupied by Reuters. John Cowan, I don't know whether this is in any way a metaphor or not, but this shot's for you:



I decided I'd blogged and emailed enough by 15:40, and bade David point me to the nearest cab rank. Yes, he could have ordered me a taxi, and indeed offered to; but I wanted one last chance to be bamboozled in French, before retreating back to the Anglosphere. (The Anglosphere really does include the Netherlands; it certainly includes the Max Planck Institute, Nijmegen.)

And my chance was offered. If it's a day of the week in Brussels ending in a Y, there's a protest going on. The front cabbie at Schuman station cab rank heard my request of "Brussel. Station. South.", looked at his van, looked at the traffic jam congealing down Law Street—

yes, Law Street. If they're going to say it's both Rue de Loi and Wetstraat, I'm going to say Law Street and Gebotstraße. Remember, German's also an official language of Belgium. And that was Mountain Avenue I was staying at last night, too. But Fred Thompson can stay in French. He Funny.

(Antwerp. Time does go fast. The station lighting makes it look like a Philip Glass opera set.)

—and announced "Sir, there's a protest on. Just look at that. Take the metro, sir, it'll be quicker."

Euh, bien. It was still 15:50, the train wasn't leaving till 17:18, plenty of time to get lost in the subway. So I walk the way he gestured, fail to see a subway entrance, then realise that the cabbie was gesturing in the direction I would end up—not in the direction of the subway entrance that would actually get me there, which was Right Behind Him. As I turned around and walked back, the cabbie behind the "Take the metro, sir" cabbie leapt forward: "I'll take you sir". Work's paying for this (eventually), so that was fine by me too.

ME: It is seeming, every times I am in the Brussel, there is the another one protest.

CABBIE: Capital!

ME: (Well, I guess it is symptomatic of globalisation and its malcontents, as a late manifestation of capitalism... oh, he means Brussels is the capital of Belgium! Right!)

(Le minibar wheeling past was emphatically Flamandic in its linguistic behaviour. No, I'm not in Brussels at all.)

The cabbie was helpful ("This time, it is the sans-papiers persons demonstrating!" That's illegal immigrants, right?). The cabbie was also utterly nuts, which is how we managed to detour around the traffic jams and up several one way streets the other-than-one way ("I know another trick!" "There are always solutions in this life!" "My colleague, he needed only to reflect that there are ways to get around traffic jams!" "In life, one must pause to reflect, non?" "Oops!" *beep*): all in time to get to Bruxelles Midi by 16:20. I was pretty surprised how well we were able to hold a conversation. Well, he held the conversation, and I said "yuss" and "not one problem" a lot. I also tried to explain that where I come from, we don't have a protest every day of the week ending in a Y, and workers embrace the go-slow rather than the overt strike. But I think he thought I was Irish, so I may not have contributed to international understanding there.

(OK, Antwerp sun, that's really low in my eyes. Stop that now.)

The cabbie joyfully deposited me at the station ---

ME: I is to having sufficient time for waffle perhaps!

CABBIE: tulˈtɑ̃! tulˈtɑ̃!

ME: *blink* (Oh! tout le temps! All the time in the world! Yuss!)

--- and I chose to use my tultã not for a waffle, but for gueuze. Mm, gueuze, thou one true lambic and vindication of all quarrels Belgic. Waffles, I can get at Flinders Street Station thank you very much. (What do you mean, but those aren't real Belgian Waffles? Bruxelles Midi was flogging waffles through Häagen-Dazs; how's that any more authentic, when Häagen-Dazs isn't even a real name?)

Mm, gueuze:




And to complete my prandial sampling of Belgium, I thought I'd have a hamburger from le Quick burger joint after all, since I declined them so emphatically last night. Un Pepper Supreme Solo, s'il vous plaît.

(Pretty close to Dutch border if not already over it, and those are some pretty serious trees. Ah, a canal or lake or something. Weelkoomeen een Needeerlaand.)

(And a dude bicycling while SMS'ing. Definitely Neeedeerlaand.)

(Note to self: Wildert Station. Must check if it is actually in Neeedeerlaaand, or Beelgiijë.)

The time I saved with the death-defying cabbie of four-dimensional driving abilities, I lost because le Quick forgot my order. Which was not as unpardonable as responding to my Bad French in Good English, and no, I don't want a coffee in compensation, just my burger before the 17:18 to Amsterdam via Roosendaal leaves.

(Roosendaal pretty soon; I declare this blog posting at an end at 18:24, 2009-03-18 CET.)

(And unlike Neeedeeerlaaand, Roosendaal really is spelled like that.)



PS (at Roosendaal): Wildert Station is not in the Netherlands:




But given the behaviour of the locals, there is a case to be made for annexation...

OK, blog posting now ended for sure.

Study of the Artist as a Middle-Aged Pie-Eater

Courtesy of David Massart, whose office in Brussels I'm visiting today (with a view out my window of the Greek Embassy, of all things), a couple of shots of me getting stuck into a tarte à citron.

The Greek Embassy through mesh:



The Greek flag in closeup, through mesh and artificially enhanced. (Or the Shroud of Turin, for all the clarity of that image.)




And your humble servant. Life-sized, because surely I deserve it. What unwelcome crows' feet those are...

Hot Bruxelloise Babes

OK, one anecdote while I'm still shifting back to my normal, antipodean, boring lifestyle.

Remember gueuze?



I had, as you'll recollect, formed an unhealthy attachment to this most excellent of lambics when I was in Brussels. On the evening of July 9, I was back in Brussels from Athens, in order to fly out the next day. (Work had flown me in to Brussels; Work would take a dim view of flying me out of Athens.)

Btw, we do still need to

HELP BANKRUPT OLYMPIC AIRWAYS

even though I understand their plight marginally better after reading an on-topic newspaper article. Well actually I don't. The uniformed staff plead that Management is deliberately trying to kill them off by cutting down on services, and it's a war of attrition. That it may be. Yet as a poetaster once penned,

Olympic can be explained.
Olympic can be accounted.
Olympic cannot be excused.

I don't care if it's Management, the Italian Mafia, or commandos from the dwarf planet Makemake that are responsible for the flight being cancelled. You wear an Olympic Airways uniform, you apologise on behalf of Olympic Airways. Or you keep whining that both your managers and your customers are the enemy, in which case you deserve your fate. Pfft.

The Olympiaca delenda est digression is not all that called for, I must say, because the flight was a mere half hour later --- i.e. early, by Olympic standards. The locals have certainly adjusted. Overheard in the airport lounge:

What are you worried about? Have you EVER known an Olympic flight to be on time?

I'm surprised the flight wasn't cancelled: it was half empty. Still, we arrived at Zaventem Flemish Airport, more or less in one piece, and more or less within an hour of when we should. Zaventem Flemish Airport sure is complicated to get around; as I was trying to get to baggage collect, I thought I was testing out short-term memory treatments with a tail, pink eyes, and a white furry coat. I did eventually get there, with a whole bunch of Greeks around me chatting blasé about their surroundings; being from the diaspora, it still shocks me that Greece is now in the First World.

Of course, I was in Belgium now --- the torrential downpour in the middle of summer confirmed as much; and I was back to the delightful Belgian Dichotomy:



"Visit Wallonia!" and "Visit Flanders!" at the same tourist booth. Just Visiting Belgium doesn't really seem to be an option on offer. Decisions, decisions: French-speaking Belgium, or Dutch-speaking Belgium? Ah, bugger it, can I get a flight to Eupen instead? German-speaking Belgium, at least, has the advantage of being Neither Of The Above.

So the anecdote. I was overnighting at the Gresham Belson hotel, which advertises itself on wotif.com as an airport hotel. Well, it has an airport shuttle. And a screen with airplane departure times. But I've got a 30 Euro taxi bill that says "not quite Airport". Nice enough hotel, but "not quite City Centre" either. Which is OK, I was there to crash and not much else.

Because I'd already crashed before even getting off the plane, I wasn't in the mood for much cultural exchange. No Arglé Barglé Saucisson for me this time; I was going to use the True National Language of the Low Countries: English. Just Call Me imperialist. Or, more to the point, So Over This Travel Bizzo.

So I'm in the cab, with an affable enough cabbie (though not Jovially Moroccan), and the following exchange ensues. Remember, No Cultural Exchange. All in English. And Unnatural Attachment to Lambic.

ME: So. When did this rain start?

CABBIE [Indeterminately Low Countries accent]: You know... I don't even remember any more.

*restrained laughter*

CABBIE: So, are you here on business?

ME: No, I was a month ago. Now I'm just flying out of here. Basically I'm going to fall asleep at the hotel.

CABBIE: I see.

ME: Although if there's gueuze out there, I may go out after all.

CABBIE: Ah, well of course! Brussels has plenty of <foreign lang="en" accent="clouseau">girls</foreign>! All cities do, of course, but Brussels has... so many different kinds to choose from!

ME: ... Ah. Sure.

CABBIE: But you know, you will have to go into the City Centre. There is not much happening where the hotel is.

ME: Ah.

Hm. ɡøz. ɡɜ^lˠz. ɡøz. Right. Well, my fault, really; the cabbie parsed probabilistically, and figured me for rather more natural types of attachments...

Departing Brussels

Well, I'm not posting this from Brussels but on arriving in London, coz damned if I'm going to pay TWENTY MOTHERLOVING EURO for four hours' internet at Zaventem Flemish Airport, to be consumed in an hour. I don't care if work does pay for it. I'm so disgusted, I think I'll fly across the English channel and pay £3 at Heathrow for my internets instead.

I'm still bodily in Yerevan time: crashed last night at 10, woke up at 3:20 for fear of tractors, to make a 7:30 flight. To explain: every tractor in Belgium is converging on Brussels today to protest fuel I think. (What a wonderful future we have lined up for us.) So I was determined to run far in advance of the Agricultural Vehicles of Doom; the rather fetching barbed wire barricades already set up by the cops alongside the road were a useful reminder of what to run away from.

The hotel was all strange the night before about me ordering a taxi beforehand; something about not accepting responsibility, and could I please make my own arrangements five minutes' walk away from the hotel. The hotel is next to the European commission, so it would be seeing its fair share of Agricultural Vehicles of Doom; but that still made little sense to me --- had they been sued by a Eurocrat? At any rate, I noted a cab rank at Place Jourdan, three minutes walk away from the hotel, and got assurances from a cabbie that there would be people there at 5 am. As it turned out, I need not have bothered even with that much: there was a cab rank I had not noticed --- 10 metres from the hotel (other side of the street, where the posh hotels are). Which came as a surprise to me, and probably the hotel dude too.

When I emerged from the hotel at 4:20 or whatever absurd time my body clock favoured, I discovered the previously undisclosed cab rank, flailed in the cabbies' general direction, and was steered towards a black vehicle with no taxi markings.

MEC SYMPA DU TAXI: And where are you going this morning, sir?

ME: Zarvenet?

MEC SYMPA DU TAXI: ...

ME: Airplane?

MEC SYMPA DU TAXI: Zaventem! I'll take that luggage from you, sir.

ME: [to self] Could this be one of those Unofficial Taxis that Zaventem Flemish Airport keeps warning you about? (But in French and Dutch only, the Anglos can sort themselves out --- verdaamt, and/or sacré!)

MEC SYMPA DU TAXI: Wait a second sir, I'll just put on my hat. [Takes taxi lights out of front seat, puts lights on top of car, plugs in lights]

ME: Ah. And such a nice hat it is too!

MEC SYMPA DU TAXI: Arglé Barglé Saucisson!

ME: ... ... Yeah!

NICE TAXI GUY: *Jovial Arabic salutations to the other assembled mecs sympas du taxi*

[Exeunt, stage right, pursued by an Agricultural Vehicle of Doom]

... Like I say, I hear French a lot slower than I speak it; I miss every second sentence, and Arglé Barglé Saucisson! was the one to miss, I guess. The language thing makes me silent in cabs, which is probably overall a good thing. But the cabbie did extract from me that I was d'origin Australien, and I was not going à Londres pour vacances. Pity I couldn't chat, he sounded pretty cool.

MEC SYMPA DU TAXI [on phone, jovially]. H-O-M-A-T 3. Homat 3. Why won't you listen to me? [gesticulates jovially] Homat with an H, followed by a three. That's all. Homat. You're not listening to me. H-O-M-A-T. 3. Homat 3.

Got to Zaventem Flemish Airport ("Good day sir, and happy working!" [jovially]), before the counter even opened. The counter attendant opened the counter rather less jovially, en français. Must have been the Wallon backpackers in front of me: I did hear unmistakable Flemish the other side of the counter. Had breakfast (quite acceptable mozzarella and pesto baguette for €4.2); and will now catch up on transcribing my day before boarding. Once in England-Town, I have to catch up on my homework --- going to a workshop today that I haven't read a thing on, and have downloaded a couple of appropriate documents to make a start with. I may get some shuteye on the 5 minute flight. In fact, that's looking pretty damn certain.

No sign of any tractors yet in Zaventem, btw.

Third Day in Brussels

This is written the following day, so it will be telescoped.

Work today, at the workshop I was signed up to attend. Didn't say much during the workshop, and Nigel (who was speaking) had to prod words out of me in public at the end. I am shy and retiring when I'm in an unfamiliar environment (no, really!); and the Translatatron 2000 room I was in at the Charlemagne Building, European Parliament, was plenty unfamiliar:



I was far from the only person freaked out. Blogged most of the talks on the work blog. As Nigel rightly pointed out, the point of a work blog is to reflect on the meetings, not to transcribe the Powerpoints; I forced myself to do a little "summarise this talk in 50 words or less, or else", but not enough.

The meeting started at 9, with registration at 8:30; we went looking for breakfast outside the hotel, as I'd misparsed the situation and concluded there was no breakfast inside the hotel. Just as well I was wrong: there was nothing open for at least a kilometre radius. Even the Greek Café which offered breakfast didn't open until 8 (which at least makes it civilised). Coffee weak and sweet; three in a row did not do much to wake me. Brought my passport along, out of much fire and brimstone warnings from the workshop organisers; needn't have bothered.

The talks improved as the day got on, and it was nice to see some validation from the Nijmegen folks: they'd come up with similar conclusions to our project more than once.

Workshop finished at 5, and because Nigel was a speaker, he got treated to lunch by the workshop organiser; I got to tag along (so long as I paid my own way). [EDIT: I meant dinner. With nightfall at 10 pm, it's hard to distinguish them this far north.] The workshop organiser took a wrong turn at Albequerque, so we had a late start to dinner (6 instead of 5:30). Very pleasant outdoor piazza setup, reminded me of Athens. Italian restaurant, so no mussels and frites on offer; I got frites anyway, with my escallope à morsala. The waitress saw through my Grenoble gambit, and started answering me in English; the following initial exchange might possibly have had something to do with it:

WAITRESS: [EN] Whatte woulde yue like to drinque, sir?

ME: [FR-BROQUEN] Could I have a Gueuze?

WAITRESS: [FR] I'm sorry sir, we only have on offer the drinks listed in the menu: we have Jupiter Weißbier, Stella Artois, and Heineken.

ME: [FR-BROQUEN] ... I can has Kriek?

WAITRESS: [FR] I'm sorry sir, Jupiter, Stella, Heineken.

ME: [FR-BROQUEN] *blink* ... ... euh ... White?

WAITRESS: [FR] Thank you sir. [to self] Right, he's not fooling me: he's not from Grenoble at all.

ME: [EN] [Two minutes later] ... Oh! So <foreign lang="fr">Blanche<foreign> is <foreign lang="de">Weißbier<foreign>! Cool!

(And no, I don't think my French actually sounds like Lolcat. Then again, I haven't had the courage to ask a Bruxelloise. Particularly after they see through my Grenoble gambit.)

Nigel had the good grace to introduce me as a linguist to the Nijmegen chap (himself a programmer at a linguistics institute). After that exchange, I felt compelled to make it clear that my subject matter was not in fact French linguistics.

Geekery and all-round merriment ensued for the next three hours; then to the hotel and a quick chat in the foyer with Nigel, and then I crashed without blogging (for fear of Agricultural Vehicles of Doom: see following day's entry). Which is why the day got telescoped as it has been. Which is probably a good thing.

Second day in Brussels

Euh, one of the results of growing old is that one gets bored of doing tourism fairly quickly; I ran out of steam soon after Grand Place. The highlights of the peremptory tour of Brussels were:

• The Lonely Planet guide got ignored fairly soon, as I got disoriented.
• Brussels is tatty and pleasant.
• A disordinate number of comics shops, and art books in bookstores.
• It's still a French town (though nice to note the occasional Flemish, verdammt, bookstore next to all the French bookstores).
• I think I heard more Arabic than Flemish in the street.
• I lose my bearings easier than I'd have liked, but the mediaeval maze of the city centre does not help.

Because I lost interest after say three hours, I spent another two wandering west of the city centre, until I negotiated a rather confused retreat through the Moroccan quarter back onto the pre-metro. The pre-metro confused me. Yes, I know it's an underground tram that takes me back to my underground metro station; but I couldn't work out whether it counted as a separate journey or not, so I just walked back from Anneessens (E) to De Brouckère (G), after losing a 1.5€ ticket at Anneessens. It went something like this:

(And Google Maps, will you STOP BEING SO FLEMISH: I can't find anything in French.)

View Larger Map

The foregoing is not what actually happened; it's just as close to piecing it together as I can remember.

So, I started from my non-descript Euroflat hotel:

heading out to some boring EU building or hotel or whatnot, next to Schuman metro station:

On the way, halfway down Charlemagne Boulevard, an Only In Brussels juxtaposition: Greek cafe, Sushi place, Irish pub. (And the Greek place didn't look that Greek to me --- it was serving breakfast.)

Heading out of Central Station (A), I *think* I'm heading towards Grand Place (D), and instead stumble on Sts Michael & Gudula Cathedral (B), peeking around the corner from some building site. The Cathedral wasn't even on my Lonely Planet guide map (though it got a page of its own in the guide itself); so I gave up on the map.

Being now lost, I come across the Royal Galleries of St Hubert shopping arcade (C):

In said arcade, I get some emergency chocolate truffles, and then end up at Mokafe coffee joint, which Amanda had recommended to me. Not that I had any intention of finding it, but there I was. So I got some of the highly recommended coffee --- and the au lait I got (lait russe, according to my receipt) was utterly unimpressive. But the gueuze was life-changing stuff. A lambic, but not sickly sweet like kriek; yet its taste was transcendental.

I decided to stick around for lunch (surrendering my chair to a group of old German tourists, who were too close to home to look that confused), and got stoemp sausice. Or as the English call it, banger and mash. I at least got my banger down...

Banger not quite digested, I avoided Rue de Bouchers per the guide book's instructions --- it looked the part of a tourist trap;

And I finally made it to Grand Place (D). Town Hall from Baroque Outer Space

and similarly riotous guildhouses

including the uh, very postmodern *simulacra* of guildhouses currently under repair

Then I wandered west of Grand Place for an hour or so

... until I got bored, and went home. The End.

My colleague Nigel is also Derailed by Bush, and won't be here until 9 or something. I should now stop compiling my travel diary, and do some homework...

First night in Brussels

Of course, the flight was delayed a further 1.5 hrs --- by the time I got to the hotel, it was 10 pm. Crashed at 11, woke up at 3, crashed at 6 again, woke up at 9. Hope that's not a promise of things to come.

Massive noise outside my room around 11 pm; presumably related to the soccer. Turns out it was Switzerland–Turkey. Reasonable guess that wasn't the vocal Swiss contingent of Brussels whooping it up.

EDIT: Czech Republic–Turkey, rather. Like I care... :-)

What little I've seen of Brussels on the drive from the airport (Zaventem) looked cute enough; I will be getting in what little tourism I can this late morning.

I've already worked out a conversational gambit for les Bruxellois:

• Start speaking in bad French
• Apologise in French for not speaking in Flemish
• Hope for an opening to switch to English

I don't know if this is the best thought through of plans; it probably offends the French and the Flemish equally. Then again, I probably got away with the Flamandic Apology with the cab driver (3o€—there's no way I was going to try and tame the Brussels metro at 9:30 pm of a Sunday). I hear French even slower than I speak it, so I missed every second sentence, but it was something like:

Oh, that's alright sir, as long as I get you to your destination, I don't care if you speak to me in French, Flemish, or even English.

Ahah. I think my Grenoble gambit is working for me again. Last time I was in a Francophone country, I was across the border from Italy, and didn't nasalise anything. So everyone I spoke French to assumed I was Italian. Which is probably better than assuming I was English.

I'm trying to pick up hints of linguistic affiliation from the locals. 

• GPS Navigator has street names in French; check. 
• Hotelier responds to fluent French query without flinching; possible check. 
• Hotelier chats to other hotelier in French; check. 
• Sign outside airport welcomes you to *VLANDERS*, verdaamt, *VLANDERS*; check. (Please tell that's not why Brussels has two airports, Zaventem in Flanders and Charleroi in Wallonia. That would be so... predictable.) 
• The phone sex ads on Flemish TV pinpoint the sample Hot Babes Waiting for Your Call in Northern Belgium; check. 
• The Crazy Wacky Kids from French-language TV do a Reality TV tour of Wallonia, just Wallonia, sacré; check.
  
• French language channels on TV come before Spanish TV, which comes before Flemish language channels; check.
• Blogger welcomes me and invites me to aanmelden in Dutch; check.
• Google has the streetnames in Dutch not French; check. (You say Karel de Grootelaan, I say boulevard Charlemagne, let's call the whole thing post-Carolingian Europe.)

OK. I'll vaguely wander in the direction of Grand Place; should not be a big deal:

View Larger Map

Derailed by Dubya

Derailed by Dubya

The flight over from Hong Kong was the usual zombie-generating hell, like any transoceanic flight really. There were bouts of sleep, wakefulness, and sojourns of drinking blood (there was a nice documentary on The Doors' first album, which helped with the latter.) In between, I managed to catch up with some Australian TV comedy, including the Chasers' War on Everything --- starting with the notorious APEC episode. This should have been an omen for what followed.

(For those of you not blessed enough to live in Godzone: the Chasers are an Australian comedy show on government TV, and a cross between Candid Camera and Salvador Dali. Their most notorious stunt was when the Asia-Pacific Economic Cooperation summit was held in Sydney, with George Bush as honoured guest, resulting in the Sydney CDB being shut down for three days. The Chasers got through two rings of force-field barricades by posing as Canadian VIPs. They did get arrested after one of them emerged dressed as Osama bin Laden --- complaining that he never got his invite; but the charge seems to have been silently dropped.)

So we land in Heathrow a quarter hour late, and wait, as is not atypical for the zombie-generating hell that is any transoceanic flight really. The difference is why we wait the extra half hour or so before taxi'ing: it seems Air Force One has decided to pay Heathrow a visit. One would have thought that Air Force One could have had a nearby air force base (Norfolk, my neighbour helpfully suggested), or Channel Island, or flotilla standing by; but it seems Air Force One is too ginormous for mere mortal air force bases to accommodate it. So Heathrow it was. Which prevented everyone in its path from departing for the next hour; hence the holdup, as noone was budging. With the added holdup that the runway was declared antiseptic or sterile or something, so it was cleared for snipers or whatever it is they do with the marquee and dignitaries.

"Oh well", I mused. "If one is going to be inconvenienced by the American Presidency, this is one of the more benign ways it could happen." How soon I spoke.

The first challenge, once I emerged bleary and confused (if not a little zombie-like) from the plane, was to find my flight transfer. Heathrow has a new Terminal 5 for European flights. I think it's in Manchester or something: it was an 18 minute bus ride.

The next challenge was Dubya's revenge on my rash words. When I got to Manchester Or Something (Stanstead Airport, I think?), it turned out my flight to Brussels was cancelled. The one hour shutdown at Heathrow (Heathrow ausgezeichnet), coupled with the half-hour freeze on bookings beforehand (!) meant that the entire airport was turned upside down. To deal with this, flights were being cancelled all over; the queue to rebook was well over 30 minutes worth, and there were dark mutterings about not leaving till 9 pm. (I was scheduled for 4, it was already 3.)

The wait in the queue was as entertaining as one would expect after the zombie-generating hell that is any transoceanic flight really. The unbelievably hot babe one line over had a Romanian itinerary printout (which figures); lots of Belgians looked confused; some guy was reading a Polish newspaper. It was almost like the UK was in the European Union or something.

At any rate, things looked up once I got to the end of the queue. The English stiff upper lip came in handy: the beleagured British Airways staff was much nicer than they had any business doing. (After I mused about the comparison with APEC, the guy even asked what Rudd was like so far, which was a pleasant surprise.) I got rebooked onto a flight a mere two hours later, and got a £5 voucher for refreshments --- promptly spent on a lovely chicken curry soup from Pret, fine practicioners of airport fast food, and an unclaimed macchiato.

First ripples of culture shock: seeing £ actually used on price tags; and English accents on the stewards on a Qantas flight. Incredulity that anyone actually speaks that variant as their day job. But bless the British Airways chappie; he wasn't getting many thanks today, but he got mine.

Non-descript airport, really, and I'm not in a mood for exploring. Exorbitant wireless prices, nothing under 3 quid (and four providers in the same place!) Oh well. looking forward to dezombyifying tomorrow. For now, on to Brussels!

Opoudjis in acts of public diplomacy

Boarding the flight to London in Melbourne, I overhear the couple with baby in front of me discussing with airport staff their transit to Brussels. The following conversation ensues:

ME: Oh, so you're going on to Brussels too.

GUY: Yah.

ME: My commiserations.

*blink*

GUY: ˈæktʊəliː, ai hiːr ɪt ɪz ə ˈwʊndəɹfuːl destɪˈneːʃən.

ME: Oh. Uh, yeah, it's great. Looking forward to it.

VERY MUCH FLEMISH GUY: *talks to wife in very much Flemish*

Just call me Bridge Between Nations.

Posting this from Hong Kong Airport Sauna. Which is coextensive with Hong Kong Airport, really. Have already lost my boarding pass once so far. It's going to be a looooong trip.

I've purchased one of them newfangled digital camera thingies --- for those who care, and that's not me, it's a Canon IXUS 80 IS or something. I spent my insomniac hours in the plane grappling with the user manual. My memory is shot enough as is; there's no way I'm going to remember any more than Point, Click, Drool.

Alors, On to Heathrow.

My itinerary

In re:
Link

My European trip, it is verily Teh Insane. Google Map linked above:


View Larger Map

The Madness starts Brussels 2008-06-15, ends Brussels 2008-07-10, and hardly lets up in between. Especially with the distressing news that my home town of Sitia, Crete, population 10,000, has had city-wide wireless for the past couple of years. 

So no time off the internet until my day in the ancestral village Zakros (that's Upper Zakros, the village of 700 people, not Lower Zakros, the Minoan Palace and tourist spot, which probably has just as much wireless).