Life in Brussels

I wanted to bring you all up to date how my search for an apartment is going. So far, it is not going well. It has reached the point where I am considering the possibility of seducing someone, moving in with them, and then breaking up with them in January when it's time for me to go home. And when that's a possibility, you know you are pretty far gone.

While waiting, I am in transit. Very much so. It's a very nice transit lounge (extremely nice transit lounge), because my parents' friends are living it up in Brussels, and they are 10 minutes walk away from the Faculty, and there are four servants. But still, it's not a place I can call my own. And the bathroom is so space age and complicated I'm afraid to enter there.

When one is in transit, you can't really enjoy yourself. I feel like I'm in a sort of dream that I can't wake up from. I go through the motions, go to classes, try to find an apartment day after day, but any spare time (and there is a lot when you are waiting) is taken up reading, or watching TV. I'm still reading Jane Jacobs, though I picked up Nabokov's Lolita as well, and I'm about halfway through that. I'm also reading Belgium for Beginners, a small tome that kind of makes me thankful that Canadian constitutional theory, for all its many, many shortcomings, isn't quite as messed up as the Belgian constitution.

This Sunday, after spending several hours on the house computer trying to find housing and just generally surfing around, I was feeling more numb and out of it than usual. Since Brussels had decreed it a no-car day, I decided to take advantage of this fact and go for a walk.

Figures, a no-car day and I almost get run over by a bicycle. Because I crossed the street without looking both ways. Because it is a no-car day.

I decided to go walking to the place Flagey, the hip, trendy, avant-garde neighbourhood of Brussels. Apparently, no one told the construction crew that this was an extremely hip, trendy, avant-garde area, because the entire square which is the centrepiece of the area had been dug up and pulverised by construction crews. So, between the dirt, the dust in the air and the unattractive road crews in their orange blazers and hard hats, the atmosphere was enough to make anyone's latte go sour.

So, I went on a tangent (this message aside). Two blocks away from Flagey, I was in the heart of the Portuguese district. There were barbecues out in front of the cafes and the brasseries. Pretty soon, I heard the sounds of a protest. Never being someone to give up a chance to gawk at people being sprayed with tear gas, I went. I was vaguely disappointed to discover that it was not a protest, but a celebration. Sure, there was one guy with a fair trade T-shirt on, but I think that was more of a coincidence than anything else.

The paraders were celebrating the day of the dead. The centrepiece of the celebration was a 20-foot tall skeleton with bulging eyes, flanked by several people on stilts. One of the men on stilts, who seemed to be the ringmaster, sported a Dali mustache and was dressed as Death. Another was a juggler, judging by the three pins she held, but she alternated actual juggling with glasses of port as she teetered unsteadily on her stilts.

The parade also comprised several revellers dressed in trashbags colourfully spray-painted, a woman wearing a tutu and a man in a suit walking a fish. The parade was closed by a little man driving a go-cart gleefully who seemed to take a perverse pleasure in colliding with the ankles of the person in front of him. All around, there were children, on the bicycles, accompanying the group and there number swelled as the parade swept down the street.

Most of the revellers seemed to have some sort of musical instrument. In many cases it was trash lids banged together, although one of the revellers had two cowbells to a length of pipe and periodically hit them with a stick. There were a couple of tambourines, and the woman with a tutu (who seemed related to the man with the Dali mustache) was playing an oboe.

The procession wound its way down Flagey place, and ended up at the Abbey at one end of the square. The Abbey seemed the only building untouched by the renovations that were taking place along the main part of the square. The procession stopped at a man. I was unsure whether the man had been accompanying the procession or whether he had been there all along waiting for them to arrive. At any rate, he was a stocky man, with dark skin. I revised my assesment of the neighbourhood and decided that it could be Brazilian rather than Portuguese.

I couldn't see the man's face. It was covered by a large wicker mask. The mask had a grotesque face painted on it, with a mouth slit cut into the wicker. The woman in the tutu walked up to the grotesque, gesturing for quiet. Rather gradually, silence spread through the crowd, which was remarkable in itself, as the crowd, by this time, consisted mostly of children between the ages of 10 and 14, as well as some curious onlookers. The woman in the tutu reached inside the mask's mouth, and pulled out the beginning of a roll of paper. She then handed it to the person next to her, and he pulled on the paper. The paper stretched out and rolled and extended, as it passed from hand to hand, until, by my reckoning, it had reached the end of the procession about a block away. The other end remained in the grotesque's mouth. The whole effect of the experience was entirely surreal, and given my earlier feeling of lack of substantivity, I felt even more as if I were in a dream-like world.

The paper had small, neat cursive writing on it. It was in French, but the paper passed by so quickly I was unable to decipher most of it. It was something about invoking something, and the portions that were intelligible alternated with bits that were onatomatopaiaic sounds. There was also something about silence.
At this point, I tore myself away from the spectacle. It was almost dinner and it would never do to be late. I quickly took the path back to my apartment. The day had ended, and cars once again took over the streets. I kept to the sidewalks. The last thing I needed was a message about silence. I get that enough already.
Well, I don't quite know what was the purpose of that little story, Vreugde, but it was nonetheless interesting, and I hope you enjoyed it. I also rented a movie tonight called "Le cout de la vie". It was quite good and it got me thinking a bit.

Rub-a-dub-Dublin (and Galway)

Well, it only took three posts, and I'm already out of witty comments to make about the cities that I'm visiting. It's unfortunate, I'm losing my touch. I guess I'll just have to stick to what I actually saw and leave the flights of fancy to a minimum.

Actually, given that I've been here a week, I've seen quite a bit. In the interests of cutting down on reading time, (and incidentally, my writing time), I'll use the example of two days ago as typical of my experiences in visiting Dublin (and most other cities, as a matter of fact).

Typically, my day starts around 9 in the morning. As much as I would like to sleep in, when sharing a dorm with 16 other people it is the earliest riser that sets the pace for others, not the latest. Accordingly, I quickly showered and changed, and set out in my best tourist gear: khaki shorts revealing hairy legs, plaid cotton short sleeved shirt, mocassins (just because), water bottle, Canon "Sure shot" 80, and tattered copy of "Let's Go: Britain and Ireland" (bought for the pictures, as I'm definitely not going to read on my vacation).

I headed up O'Connell st., the main shopping artery of Dublin, until I reached Parnell Sq. Parnell Sq. had a nice statue to Parnell, an Irish "patriot" (called something different in Britain). They also had a memorial garden to other patriots that had died, which was quite nice. I went to the Irish writer's museum, where I looked at displays on many Irish writers, Swift, Shaw, Joyce, Beckett etc. They also had a nice Zen garden, but it looked slightly neglected, after the tour, I left.

I left with a vague feeling of unease, and I desire to take up my previous passion for writing. As I walked along Parnell St, I turned over in my mind a couple of novella plots that I hadn't had the opportunity to develop, and resolved to work on them when I had the chance. Fortunately, this resolution lasted only until my next stop, the Jameson Distillery tour.

I hadn't had breakfast, and only a light dinner the night before, so I came out of the tour, and ensuing whiskey-tasting a bit unsteadily, and with a bottle of Jameson I had bought at the museum store (note, to date, this is the only item I have bought at any museum store on my trip). I turned from spirituous matters to spiritual ones, and after a light lunch at a delicatessan, I arrived at St. Patrick's Cathedral on the south bank of the Liffey. Actually, I had been aiming for Christ Church cathedral, somewhat to the north, but had gotten slightly lost on the way, and reasoned that one cathedral was as good as another.

After the cathedral, I tried once again to get to Christ church. I found it, but masses were just beginning, so I had to postpone my visit for another day (or be condemned to go to church). Instead, I went to Dublin castle, which is a bit of a misnomer. A better name would be the Dublin Happy Time Fun Palace, and so much has been destroyed and remodelled over the years, that the structure resembles a palace the way a camel resembles a horse. But still, it houses the state rooms of the Irish republic, and I got a free tour, so I'm not complaining too loudly.

From the Castle, I wandered around for a bit until I stumbled upon the Chester Beatty Library, which had an excellent exhibits on Iranian steel, world religions and Orientalia, so I stayed there until it closed. I hung out in the gardens of the castle for a bit, and then headed out to dinner.

I had dinner at the Hard Rock Cafe, but only because I had a coupon for 5 euros off a main course. I went, and even with the 5 euros off, it was the most expensive meal I've had in Europe. And all I ordered was the pasta.
I had bought a pass to the Dublin "Working class heroes festival" which was basically a bunch of garage bands from across Ireland playing all sorts of music. The pass was 22 euros and the festival went on for 3 days. I went every night and enjoyed myself immensely. That night, I went with a German girl from the hostel whom I had told about the festival and we had a great time. The festival took place in the Temple Bar, which is the most active district of Dublin, with pubs, clubs and people out for a good time.

So far, Dublin is the city in which I've had the most fun while in Europe, perhaps because it reminds me a bit of Montreal, with lots of pedestrian walkways and many fun-loving people.

The next day, I went to Galway. On the three-hour trip over, I could see why the Irish hostellers I met in Edinburgh recommended that I leave Dublin to see the "true" Ireland. Loads of rolling hills, greenery and quaint houses and sheep all over the place as I bussed through. That being said, I was rather glad that I had the protective barrier of the bus to shield me from all that quaint excentricity. Otherwise, I might have caught something and started thinking wholesome thoughts and talking with a weird accent or something. I arrived in Galway at 1:30.

Galway was....nice. It had a nice pedestrian mall, and sufficient people to be a decent place to live. While I was there, I admired the scenery, and went wading in the Atlantic Ocean. I even went on their "Long Walk" and admired the Spanish arch. That being said, after that, there wasn't a hell of a whole lot to do, so I caught a movie in the Omniplex and had dinner in a traditional pub before catching the 7h30 bus back to Dublin.
That's all, and I'm heading for Brussels on the 9th. I'll be posting from there now.

Bel*RUN*fast

Belfast is the capital of Northern Ireland, and a city that has been long divided between Protestants and Catholics. Though in the past this has erupted in sectarian violence, since the Good Friday Accord, an uneasy peace reigns over the city. That being said, a climate of repressed hostility still exists and when crossing the city one is acutely aware that saying the wrong word, or a misinterpreted look, could result in assault or robbery. Or maybe this was because I was walking through the slums of Belfast trying to reach my hostel. At 10:30 at night. Carrying my 60 lb knapsack on my back and my money, passport and travelers' checks on me. Needless to say, I was a little bit jumpy.

To this day, I believe that the only reason I wasn't mugged was tht after my 10 hour trip, dressed in my raggedy windbreaker, wearing clothes that hadn't been pressed since I had left Montreal a week and a half before, and clutching a rather dogeared copy of "Let's go: Britain and Ireland" to my chest, I looked sufficiently pathetic that any potential muggers decided I wasn't worth the effort. It also helped that I only ran into five people on my walking trip, one of which was passed out, and two of the others which were engaged in a drug deal.

To arrive in Belfast, I had taken the bus from Edinburgh to the town of Stranraer, when I had taken a three hour ferry ride to Belfast. The ferry ride was enjoyable, except for the fact that the ferry was enclosed, so you couldn't really enjoy the salt air and the sea mist.

I spent the night at the hostel, and left at 10 the next morning on the bus to Dublin. Overall, there wasn't that much in Belfast that looked worthwhile, and I had seen most of it the previous night on my trek from the Docks through the majority of the city down to the hostel (which was on the complete other side of town).

North to Edinburgh

My guidebook says that the Scottish are renowned as a taciturn people. Given the cost of telephone and e-mail communications, it is not without reason that they aren't particularly chatty. The price that I pay for sending my e-mail messages home is roughly the same cost of a movie matinee back home. And it roughly takes that long for me to write a message, so essentially, what the Internet cafes are doing is charging me good money to go sit in an corner and entertain myself. It's a good thing that I am very easily amused.

On my last day in London, I managed to get a hold of Smidgie and Matt, who were back from the Algarve (Smidgie and Matt are friends of mine from the Algarve who live in London). They invited to go to their flat in Hampstead, and afterwards, we would go down to the Caribbeanna party on Notting Hill. I spent the morning wandering around London, and was happy to find out that I had learnt to navigate the centre of the City without the aid of my guide. I finally met Smidgie and Matt at three and we all headed out to Notting Hill, one of the wealthier districts of London.

The place was thronging and loud and garish. I had a great time. We met up some of Smidgie's friends from college, and wandered around to see the parade. Unfortunately, by the time we got there, most of the best floats had passed, but we still got to see the tail end of some of them. Stages were set up all around the neighbourhood, kind of like during the Jazz festival in Montreal, and DJs and musicians were rocking the house from the various venues. The most impressive venue was one that was shaped like the prow of a pirate ship, with musicians and dancers all decked out like pirates. They were playing ska music too, which I liked. I kind of wanted to dance, but Smidgie and co. all remained rooted standing absolutely still like statues, and I don't like to dance alone. I'm kind of shy that way. So, I just stood there swaying to the music.

That evening we all headed to a pub, where, after about three pints, we started playing drinking games. One consisted of coming up with as many capital cities as possible. Just for the record, I object to the use by the English of Edingburgh, Cornwall and Belfast as capitals. Scotland may have received its own Parliament recently, but that doesn't make it a country. I was therefore kind of unsteady on my feet when the posse dropped me off at the hostel that night. I then did the next natural thing and headed to the hostel's bar for more beer.

One of the guys at the bar, Dave from New Zealand, who had been dressed as the other priest during the costume party several nights before, had found a novel way of dealing with rejection. When a girl refused to dance with him, he simply danced with her chair. When that didn't work, he undertook to find men who weren't doing much and sending them over to ask the girl to dance and to dance with her chair if she refused. I was bored and it seemed like a laugh, so somewhat embarrassed, I headed off and started dancing with her chair. I'm not exactly sure of what he was trying to accomplish, but needless to say, Dave's plan met with complete and utter failure.

Dave then decided that more drastic measures were called for. Having buttonholed me into helping him implement "Phase 2", the two of us went up together to the girl and started dancing with her chair. This earned Dave a drink thrown in his face. Prudently, I decided to withdraw to fight another day.

The next day I left for Edinburgh. The train trip was long and dull, so to pass the time, I took out my old Tarot cards and practiced my readings. I don't believe in Tarot, but I find that doing readings sharpened certain skills, namely the pattern watching in developing an interpretation, imagination in presenting your reading to your victim (er, client) and psychology.

I reached Edinburgh at 5 at night, and after checking into my hostel, I bought a ticket to a show at the Fringe, and then went over to Madevi's (friend from high school) to hang out. We had supper together, and chatted, and had a good time, and we went for a walk together before my show.

The next day I went to the Edinburgh castle, met with a guy I had met at the London hostel (Gordon) and also went to the Kirk of St. Giles. That evening, I was in the common room of the hostel, writing combinations of tarot cards in my notebook, when one of the other students in the hostel struck up a conversation. She was quite interested in the tarot, and I was enthusiastic to practice my skills, so I offered her a reading. I did a straight forward reading (the only one I know) and it basically said something about starting a new relationship, but being hesitant to do so, and that she should listen to her heart. One odd card that came out of her reading was the Empress card, which represents a maternal influence in her life.

After her, I did a couple of other readings at the hostel. I told this guy that he was going to get laid within the next two weeks (what can I say, he had very good cards :-) ), this woman that she should expect a reversal of fortune in the next month and that she should start a relationship, and to someone else, that there was a challenge in their future, but they would be able to surmount it.

Than the first girl I did a reading for comes back in the room, visibly distraught and asks me to do a second reading for her, concentrating on health and family. Now, I am not a spiritual counselor, and I was put in a rather awkward position. I didn't want someone to actually put any faith in my readings beyond the sort of casual 'uh, okay' that I put in them myself. On the other hand, I didn't want to refuse her request, and she was fixing me intently.

Reluctantly, I set out the cards. I didn't want to give her any false hope, but on the other hand, I didn't want to freak her out or come off as a charlatan either (which technically, I suppose I am, since I give readings even though I don't believe they reflect anything). Finally, and this was vaguely supported by the cards I drew, I told her that the cards said that she should get into communication with her family, and I had drawn two cards that strongly indicated transitions, which meant what they meant.

Remember the Empress card I drew for the girl, the one that represented a maternal influence? Poor girl told me that not five minutes after my reading with the Empress as the central card, she receives a call from her sister saying that there mother is in the hospital and she wanted to see if she would be all right. I try to comfort her, as do some of the other women at the hostel.

I ran into her the next day, as she is taking the bus back to Ireland, and I wish her well and wish her mother a swift recovery. This experience has made me a bit wary of taking out my cards and reading fortunes to break the ice at parties!

Today, I was quite busy. I managed to see, in quick succession, the Ivanhoe Memorial in Central Edinburgh, the National Gallery, the Museum of Scotland, and in the afternoon, Holyrood Palace and Carleton Hill. Tomorrow, I hope to see the Writer's Museum before I head to Belfast in the afternoon. I am not spending much time in Belfast (I'm aiming for an overnight stop) so my next posting will be from Dublin.