Grey's Journal

When Zornitsa moved to Brussels, she left behind two suitcases of her belongings: one a normal shoulder bag, the other a red monstrosity half my size and dense as a neutron star.  I tried to put it out of my thoughts by hiding it in the alcove, but its gravitational pull tugged at my mind.  I knew it would be my burden to carry this suitcase to the continent over Easter break when it came time for me to visit Zornitsa.

When I pack for travel, it is an exercise in minimalism.  I lay out only the things I absolutely need: change of clothes (one), journal, camera, iPod, and book.  The book is the smallest paperback I am currently reading (regardless of enjoyment) and the clothes are the lightest I own (regardless of weather).  I then survey the small pile of things and frown at it, thinking it is still too big -- it will always be too big -- and debate if I can manage six hours of travel without book or music or if there will be anything worth photographing or writing about at my destination.  For longer trips I allow myself to bring my laptop (purchased because it was the smallest) but if a trip requires more than a backpack, I'd rather not go.

At 5:20 AM, my pick up time, the cab company called to let me know that in London, a city of seven million people, there was not a single cab available to take me to Waterloo International -- contrary to their promises the night before.

``Are you still planning on traveling this morning?''  Asked the guy from the cab company.

``Yes,'' I said.  ``That's why I'm awake and answering the phone before the sun has risen on a Saturday.''

``Oh,'' he said.  ``Well, there's nothing I can do to help you.  Good luck.''

``Thanks,'' I said, injecting all the sarcasm I could into the word.

My obsession with minimal packing is just for moments like these.  A lifetime of flying standby trained me never to expect travel plans to work.  Never check bags.  Always be ready to run.  I sighed, looking at Zornitsa's bag and knowing there would be running this morning.  I had an hour before my train left and it normally took that long to get to Waterloo by bus, currently my only transportation option.  I hoped that the bus would be faster this morning with fewer stops.  After all, who would get the bus at 5:30 AM on a Saturday?

Apparently, lots of people.

The bus was just as full as during rush hour.  But rather than the usual loud, inane and unavoidable chatter of passengers, at this hour oppressive quiet was the rule -- a bus full of sullen-eyed Morlocks.  This is the under-class that keeps London running so people like me never have to think about it.

When the bus picked me up, I tried to lift Zornitsa's bag from the curb and the handle broke off and the bag thudded back to the sidewalk.  The bus driver looked at me, the handle in my fist, the red suitcase, then back to me before saying helpfully, ``That's one heavy bag you got there, mate.''

``Indeed.''

Without the handle, lifting the bag was like lifting a 100 pound cat -- everything I tried to hold onto slipped out of my hands.  Eventually with much pulling, and the assistance of a small Indian woman, the bag came on board and off we trundled to Elephant and Castle, where I needed to change buses.

Aside from it's consistent ability to win `ugliest location in London' awards, Elephant and Castle is a mess of urban design that makes it impossible to change buses effectively.  Five major roads intersect at the roundabout and 38 bus routes converge there.  No pedestrian crossings are available on any of the streets.  Instead underground walkways take you through a maze of diversions past great cities of the homeless and vendors selling suspect wares.  Not a place I cared to be so early in the morning with a 100-pound suitcase that would make a luxury condo for the homeless man urinating himself in the corner.

Up and down the ramps I went trying to get to the right spot and never succeeding before giving up and making a mad dash across the six lane road like a turtle dragging his shell to catch the oncoming bus to Waterloo.

* * *

I am not good at visiting people.  If I haven't seen someone for two months, I expect there will be two months of talking to do, but there never is.  It's times like this that I realize how much conversation is on the minute details of shared common life.

Zornitsa and I hardly made it from the train station to her flat before she finished filling me in on her new job and her new life.  I told her that my life was much the same, and the information exchange was over.  We had a quiet lunch in her flat.  Afterwards we took a bus tour around the city, which was a relief because it was something we could do together without the pressure of talking.  I felt guilty that I wanted to spend the weekend like this, in her company but without the burden of conversation.

When the tour ended, Zornitsa and I sat at a cafe in the Grand Place, a beautiful open square surrounded by Gothic buildings.  In the spring, the city fills the area with a carpet of flowers.  We were a few weeks early for that, but in its place were 200 blocky mannequins made of discarded soda cans or computer parts.  While not as beautiful as a bed of roses, it certainly was arresting.  We sat at the cafe, each drinking our coffee, painfully trying to find something to talk about as the silent trash statues looked on.

What didn't help was my feeling that this cafe, and the city as a whole, seemed not to want me around.  Everything I did felt wrong, the way I spoke, the way I ate, the way I dressed.  Brussels is Zornitsa's place, she fit better there than in London, but it is not for me.  I felt like Brussels was being polite, but making sure I knew I was snubbed at the same time.

Later that night as we shopped for dinner in a market, Zornitsa bumped into a friend of hers from work.  I did what I always do in these situations, shake hands quickly then express a tremendous interest in something nearby -- in this case, baby diapers.

To enhance my awkward position, an old black man carrying a case of beer came up to me and started talking in French.  For some reason, rather than saying `I don't speak French' I decided to just repeat `No' over and over, which only made the man more insistent.  He pulled out one of his beers and offered to me.

``No...''

Je vole ces bieres. Voulez-vous un?

``N-no...''

Etes-vous sur? C'est tres bon.

``Uh... No...''

Quel est le probleme avec vous?  Etes-vous malade ou quelque chose?

``No...''

Eventually, Zornitsa stopped talking to her friend and I ran after her, leaving the old man to find someone who could speak his language.

We walked to her flat in silence for a while before she spoke.

``You haven't written a journal in too long.  You should write about this weekend.''

``Why?'' I asked.  ``So I can say how we didn't talk?  It's one thing to know that you're socially awkward, it's quite another to document the evidence.''

She didn't contradict the facts.  ``The people sympathize,'' was all she said.

* * *

The next morning I set off on my own to explore Brussels.  Zornitsa and I had not slept well the previous night.  I thought it was just me lying awake at 3:00 AM when Zornitsa suddenly yelled ``Stop moving so I can sleep!''  From there we proceeded to have our only real conversation of the weekend -- slow and unsure with long minutes between exchanges where we both hoped to nod off, and every fifth sentence was `are you still awake?'

Since Zornitsa had stayed out late the night before I arrived and didn't get any sleep the night I was there, we agreed that I should explore the city on my own in the morning.

I took the metro up to the Atomium, the only thing I knew of and wanted to see in Brussels.  It's a 103 meter tall model of a crystal of nine iron atoms.  In spite of the city's snubbing of me, Brussels got major geek points in my book for building the Atomium in such a prominent place.  Sadly, the Atomium was closed for renovation, and I had to content myself with looking at it from the outside.

Just behind the Atomium is mini-Europe.  At first glance it looks like a mini-golf course, but it's a collection of models of famous buildings from the members states of the European Union -- with Belgium getting a suspiciously large share of the real estate.  Touring Mini-Europe would give me an excuse never to leave my island again.  Go to Spain to see El Escorial?  Bah!  I've already done it at 1/32nd the size.

As I entered mini-Europe, the park's live mascot, a large orange and blue turtle, and a cameraman ambushed the family ahead of me.  I edged around this group, figuring that they would leave me alone -- but, alas not.  In the center of the park I heard the sounds of padded feet and jostling equipment and turned to see the turtle and cameraman hunting me down.

Holding an orange-mitted hand as the photos were taken, I felt uncomfortable, realizing I was a male on his own in a park filled with families getting a photo taken with a giant turtle.  As though it would save my dignity, I spoke to the man inside the turtle costume, trying to indicate that I knew a) he wasn't a real turtle and b) the photos were taken to make money for the park.  The turtle and his companion either didn't speak English or chose to ignore my comments, greatly magnifying my discomfort.  Snubbed again.

When I came upon the models of  Parliament and Big Ben, I took a photograph... then wondered why.  Why did I take a photograph of a model of a building in the city where I live?  I had photographs of the real thing after all.  I felt sad, but it took me a long time for me to place the feeling for what it really was: homesickness.  Not an emotion I've often felt, it was different from simply wanting to be home, more a longing for familiar, safe surroundings and people.  I had not yet been outside of London for 32 hours.  I sat on a bench and looked at the mini-Big Ben for a long time.

After mini-Europe, I wandered among the parks of Brussels, which were well kept and well used, but as the day wore on, I grew bored.  I had expected Zornitsa to call me when she woke up, but she never did.  In the evening I returned to her flat to have dinner with her, but I found her reading though a tall stack of papers for her job with the European Union.  She didn't intend to eat dinner (with me or otherwise) as she had too much to prepare for the next day's work.  I hung around for a little while, idly watching MTV without seeing it, before going back out into the city to find food.

* * *

Finding food proved a challenge, both because of my unadventurousness and because the menus were in French and Dutch.  Eventually I found an Italian restaurant whose foreign language menu presented no problem.  I sat on the street, eating a pizza slightly too big for one person, drinking glass after glass of red wine while trying to read my book as roving men with accordions failed to convince me their skills deserved my spare Euros.

The book was Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, pushed on me by my new flatmate.  She is a big fan and as a result of her insistence I'd read too much Hunter S. Thompson lately and his words were in my head.  I felt oppressed by the small, twisting streets of this European City.  I wanted to rent a red convertible and drive the hell out of Brussels at a hundred miles an hour leaving black tire marks all the way to Vegas.  I wanted to go on a quest.  I wanted to vent frustration in a huge, American way.

Sometimes things go so wrong, and you don't know why.

After dinner I wondered the streets -- unsteady and without purpose.  While killing time, it came into my mind to see the last major landmark in Brussels I had not yet covered: Manneken Pis.

I knew that somewhere in the city was a statue of a little boy urinating on a street corner.  Why?  That answer is lost to history, but the citizens of Brussels love him if tourist shop junk is an accurate metric of public affection.

This seemed a fitting final Brussels monument to see.  So, without map, nor vague idea where to go, nor intentions to ask for help, I stumbled into the night.

Immediately lost, I ended up in the restaurant district where I pushed through the streets, packed with sidewalk tables, brightly colored clothes and napkins and waiters who bribed, begged, cajoled and pulled couples into their restaurants.  As a single man with a book in one hand and a camera in another, I was invisible to the waiters.  Snubbed again.

`Fuck them' I thought. `I'm on a quest.'

 

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Copyright © 2005 Wellington Grey


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