Je Suis Perdu

Oh dear, back to writing again. Not sure what compels me other than boredom... and .... it's odd trying to do it in a library with a person 12 inches to your right on another computer. Oh well.

With time comes change. A little bit too much change in a small amount of time for myself. I have, in the past 6 years:

 - married a beautiful French woman,
- separated from said French woman,
- acquired a heroin addiction in a desperate attempt to 'cure' my depression & anxiety,
- acquired a methadone addiction to beat said addiction (ironic, as heroin was made to cure opium addiction)
- been to prison (I was just waiting on a court date but it was still two weeks in a prison)
- moved into a hostel with other lost souls,
- left the hostel an even lost-er soul,
- taken up residence in a park where I sleep in the bushes with (sometimes) a Buddhist, and lately, a perhaps semi-crazed Swedish woman,
- worked randomly in a café as a kitchen porter,
- acquired a fondness for the habit of shoplifting which sees me lifting entire cases of wine from grocery stores not to mention Cadbury choc chip cookies................

my backyard... and front yard, and living room

 

That sounds well and good; perhaps exciting in retrospect, but it's more or less exhausting if you're living it. These things are now all me and I'm not sure I want to be them.

I suppose it's good to write things down, because reading my own thoughts, well, now I just feel like a spoiled child. Knowing full well that if this were 10 years ago I would read this in envy... I mean, I was sitting in a darkened bedroom by myself trading punk MP3 files, living most of my life on the internet, and now I'm actually living life but complaining about it. Shows how rotten the human soul is. We are rarely happy. Soft pink turds smoldering in the sun and complaining about the tan we're getting.

There's someone screaming outside of the library right this second --  a woman -- and my first reaction is: should I go investigate it for pure entertainment purposes, or, is it just more of the same and not worth hiking the 12 meters to the door? That's an actual thought in my head! Not "Hey! that woman sounds mentally ill, perhaps I should call someone." Just: "Is that worth walking to check it out? Probably not. I can get my own mentally ill person delivered to yell at me if I stand around long enough." That is what London does to you. Or does it? Am I just a prick?

In short, I haven't the slightest clue who the fuck I am any more, and I'm not sure I care. I think... well, I don't know... maybe I'll try to shoot over to France or Belgium, because now the Tories are in full power and all I see on the horizon is more Thatcher-esque purging of the poor. And I am poor. If we're not going to fight back, there is no other choice but to abandon the place and it isn't really even my place unless you want to count some ancient blood lines as evidence of my citizenship. Unfortunately, marking "Anglo-Saxon" on a doctor's application form doesn't make you eligible for all the benefits of that society -- and perhaps I should be grateful for that. I am American, not British. Today is the first day that's made me proud.

To Europe, then? But that's like swimming into the deep end, or out much farther than you should to catch that wave... where there are no helping hands... or even a bit of sand to land your feet in should you run into danger. I don't know what the hell is out there and it's scary! Admittedly. But I left the U.S., which cares not for human beings, and I guess now I'm leaving the U.K. which has, some how, become a cheap imitation of the brutal place my own homeland now is. They've copied it and made it worse, which is terrifying. So... so?

To Europe then? First of all, to get a job. To get a ticket. To pack a smaller backpack. To stop forming relationships with crazy women.

Etc.

As Long As You Brush Me

Every day, I wake up to gently place Justin Bieber in my mouth. I move him back and forth vigorously until a fine white lather encompasses my teeth and then I spit it all out, take a deep breath and think about what life has done with me. 

I mean, if I could afford the 6 pound toothbrushes at Superdrug I wouldn't have to buy the children's Bieber brush from 99P. For some reason soft toothbrushes can't be found except in pharmacies over here, like some sort of specialty item. People care about their teeth, man. The UK needs to take note. So anyway, I want a special toothbrush and so you could take it as a symbol, if you like, of me wanting a job. The day I get Bieber out of my mouth, the day I pull him from my lips and slam him upon the counter top and say "NO MORE!" is the day I've got things going the way I want them.

I could try to wax philosophical over my trials and tribulations, joys and victories over the past few weeks and months but instead I'd rather just make fun of duck boats catching on fire and stuff like that:

So here's a duck boat on fire :

When Marine and I take our walks along the Thames, we often point out the indigenous, amphibious landing craft that is the Duck Boat to each other with great smiles upon our faces. It is a sort of bird watching, you could say, and we just love spotting the world war 2 era duck boat and its wonderful yellow plumage.

The most interesting thing about the duck boat is that all of its passengers look either completely terrified or confused. In fact, the only time I think I've ever seen a duck boat full of people that looked reasonably happy was when they had not yet entered the water and were instead being driven safely across London Bridge. Even the post-bathing duck boats are full of what I would call more or less "victims" who look as if they've been pulled from a faulty rollercoaster. I've never been on one but I'm almost positive that there's a moment as the duck boat enters the water where the engine starts to chug and choke on sea water, emitting various diesel fumes, and the passengers exchange nervous glances suggesting something like "Did we bring enough ammunition" or "This is still operational, right?"

The answer is no; no it isn't, as the engine on the duck boat above appears to have received a mortar blast from the past. According to the Guardian, everyone on board had to bail, including a pregnant woman who suffered "some smoke inhalation". Oh dear. The UK seems to take on US traits by the day, let's hope lawsuits are not one of them or we won't have any more terrified duck boatees to point at on future romantic walks.

Funny thing, walks. London's huge but most of my walking is kept local. I keep trying to tell myself that all I have to do is get on a bus and I'll be in a whole new crazy area to check out, but some times the idea just feels so daunting. It's all those days spent back in America, I think. Spending all that time in towns where a car was necessary and people treated you like you were abnormal if you didn't want to drive. Now I'm in the perfect place but have the old world mentality. Only one way to fix that: head out on a god damn duck boat and post some incredibly fabricated CV's! And then bailing before we get anywhere near the Thames.

Britain needs better weather

I meet Marine every night after work, and most days at lunch. I walk her home or bring her food. I figure it's the least I can do considering I still don't have a real job. Today, I didn't realize that she had to pull the stay-after shift or whatever name they give for "You pulled the short stick, bitch" -- meaning she had to stay behind to answer phones and so I idled around outside her place of work reading some library book I'd picked up. I figured out what was going on after calling her and so I got all pissy and left for home. You can walk your own way home! Well, that's what I thought. Then...

On my way home I stopped in front of McDonalds to cross the street, 4 lanes of traffic total, to see a young woman attacked across the road from me. Like all fights, the first 3 seconds were entertaining and a sort of contact-adrenaline burst set in just watching from afar. 

10 seconds into the fight I realized the girl was being swallowed up in a gang of others and was beginning to get beaten down with various hair pulling and kicks to the head and body. I couldn't see anyone moving anywhere and a voice inside my head just kept saying "Surely someone is going to stop this. Stop this! I can't, there are cars coming. Someone will stop this? Surely." No one did however, so as soon as the vehicles stopped to watch I began to move across the road, juggling my library books in my hands along with my beer, my drink of choice on a hot summer's-- and--errr, -- well, winter's day. By the time I got to the other side and had played Frogger the girl was bleeding and was surrounded by a group of other people who were still doing nothing except watching, while the girls who did it all scampered away. The apparent instigator was pulled away by her friends, screaming her lungs out while they, in turn, screamed at her to run.

All I could imagine was my stupid pasty white ass in that mix of weaves and long nails, getting cut to shreds, and it was definitely what I was going to do if I could get across the street. I don't know who stopped the fight but I hope an adult stepped in because what I did see was just pathetic. No one doing anything. The girl on the ground had friends ready to help her away, but not to help her during the fight. Those are what I like to call "shitty friends". I believe I've heard of fairweather friends, etc -- these were just shitty friends though. And when she stops spitting blood she needs to get some new ones. I didn't think she would want to hear about it then so I headed home.

Sirens began to ring and I walked away shaking my head. How stupid, glad it's over. Thank baby jesus. They headed past me, though -- so I assumed it was just another ride to the hospital, something unrelated but not... What's this though? No, they stop meters down the road from me. More flashing lights. There I see a bicyclist, a woman, on the ground with emergency personnel scattered about along with a car windshield. Someone keeping the woman's neck in place, her helmet still on and her bike thrown to the side of the road. I didn't want to look, I felt like it was rude. Especially since she was still comatose. I just kept walking but made sure to make a face like "Ouch, that must smart. That's too bad!" just so people around me might know that I wasn't a bastard.

I wondered what was going on with the world until two men in front of me started to push each other around a bit. One of the men picked up a bag of trash and threw it at the other who blocked it and then began to curse at the other man who quickly scampered away to the laughter of many other Jamaican men standing nearby, watching. Probably for the best that Trash Thrower scampered, as Trash Receiver appeared to be pulling out a blade attached to his car keys (I still don't see how this can be safe if you want to unlock your car AND keep your testicles, but each to their own sliced bollocks as they say). 

This is all happening next to police officers who are directing traffic because of the bicycle accident. I figure nothing else can happen because they're there but I turn the corner and hear a big "OOoooh!" as if a blow has been struck. I head back -- I mean, shit, at this point why not? --  in time to see Trash Receiver being pulled away before things can escalate and the police are forced to get involved. I don't want to be no snitch so I scamper off, yo!!!

Why today? The funny thing is, living in the center of Brixton, I KNOW WHY today. It's because it's beautiful outside! That's it, that's why! And it's the first day in a long time. Any time Spring starts to show its face, I've realized, I'm destined to hear sirens and kids fighting, if not even adults. This all continues until they get tired of it or the sun drains them and they chill out. People simply get excited, is all I can figure, and they resort to childish stupidity. That's literally it. You don't need a psychologist or sociologist to figure it out, people get sweaty and they are not used to it.

Britain needs better god damn weather and it always has, and this is why the Nazis could never conquer the isles. That's right, I made that leap. Post done.

Recently

I've done a bad job at keeping up to date. I have tried to remedy this a bit by buying matching journals for Marine and myself last month. She has done a better job than I.

When I first saw the notebooks at Poundland, the two in nice hardcovers and shrink wrapped together, the idea struck me. Two note books? Why, there's two of us! Ah-hee-hee!
"We are going to keep a journal of every day!" I told her excitedly, on returning home. "Even if it's just the weather. It's good for you... it'll be interesting later!"
"Later, when?" she asked.
"Later! For ourselves... or our grandchildren." I said all of this with confidence but had only read the idea sometime before and decided it sounded nice. If I could get Marine to do it then that meant we would both be pulled into it and she would make me do it. That's how things work when you're married.

She reluctantly agreed after some prodding and eventually she was doing better than me. Her whole book is almost full now, albeit with long, large, curling loopty-loops of cursive -- but it is full.

Myself? Not so much. I am trying though, because I think there is some sort of value in it. To look back and see your days are boring. To look back and find them interesting. To look back. Just that -- because I often find myself so at-odds with the person I once was, cursing myself and asking myself why, why I had done this or that.. something I couldn't imagine myself doing now. Why did I do what I did? I remember the events, but not necessarily the thinking. This could be a way to figure out why I hold so much resentment towards myself, not to mention others. Memories fade, but fortunately ink does it a lot slower. So I'm trying.

Our friends Jarrod and Tiffany visited in March. We were happy -- elated -- to have them in the area for the week, but I wasn't sure what we might get up to. Things are limited when you're broke and it's hard dealing with friends in that state. They are in vacation mode while you remain in broke-ass ghetto mode.

I started giving English lessons and for a good month or two I had a group of 3 Catalonians requesting classes nearly every day until they got jobs or otherwise, and with them went any money I was bringing into our household. Marine's always there and always on duty thank sweet Jesus. And fortunately, our friends have kind hearts as always, and they treated us to an Indian dinner among many other treats, so we could all enjoy ourselves. Gifts of the white trash variety were even brought (as per my request)  -- Velveeta cheese and Beef Jerky. Friends, food, beer? I was in heaven.

I've been moving all of my life, so you would think I'm used to the idea of saying goodbye and moving on... Even I think about it. Why I haven't become immune to saying those words to those I care about and love, why "goodbye" remains such a painful word.

The answer is simply because it doesn't really get easier, ever. Over time the feelings dull and perhaps you get used to the idea of the pain, but things never get better. They just are what they are. You try to find new friends but often ask yourself what the point is in the end, as you will undoubtedly be saying those words again to them as well. It was the same in my youth and now it is the same in my adult life.

I, of course, have the chance to change things now. I could try to live wherever I would like to. There are always drawbacks -- my life is here now, with my wife, where she is making her career. I have few friends. That is my fault. I have left a trail of them across the United States and into Europe and across to the UK. I have friends who love me and who will help me but no one to come running if needed. No shoulder to cry on. Sometimes I wonder if I would have had that if I stayed in one place. I know at heart I'm a nomad, but what have I missed because of it?

I still don't know. I have my wife, my ultimate best friend, the person to whom I am attached forever. Our bond is stronger because of my lack of friends,  I imagine.When Jarrod and Tiff left, after halving a box of wine with Tiff, of course I was in tears of sorts. Perhaps not huge snot-ball tears, but they were there. I wasn't sure why, though. I've dealt with this shit before! I had to ask myself again, Shouldn't it get easier over time? Why the hell is this hitting me now? It came out of nowhere, those cunting tears.

Seeing how life could be with friends around, hanging out, joking, spilling your guts over tough situations and getting good feedback, the type of stuff you need to keep yourself together -- all the things I miss and would love to have... a normal life... was all realized in one week seeing them again and then suddenly it was gone.

I don't regret travel. I just wish I could bring everyone with me. That'll never happen, and at least we have the internet, but it's not the same. And at the age of 29 finding new friends, the type you can trust to the end, feels almost impossible.

I don't think I will move back to the US despite having family there. I don't get along with half of them and I never got along with most of my countrymen in the south, at least. Where I belong is in limbo. It was how I was created and where I will remain. I just wish it were a lot easier.

The weather today is 36F, large snow flakes falling upon our faces when we walk here in Brixton. I woke up to the sound of my phone ringing for the second day in a row, at 8 am. Unknown number. I answered once only to find a female voice with a London accent asking Hello and if I was there. I hung up. My landlord wants back rent, I'm sure. Or maybe it's a job offer and I'm just too much of a coward to answer. My day is spent at the library reading, searching for jobs. I am hungry but don't want to eat. I'm tired but don't want to sleep. I'm thirsty, so I'm going to go have a beer.

The Knives of Brixton

I live a stones throw away from Moorlands Estate and Southwyck House, AKA the "Barrier Block" or "The Prison" (as it is ugly as sin and resembles a penitentiary), so I was a little shocked to hear some poor 17 year old kid got stabbed there the other night. That's just one of them though: there have apparently been 7 other stabbings in the area in the last 10 days. Not to mention a rape.

I read a statistic recently that said this borough has the highest domestic violence numbers in the country, along with one of the highest poverty rates. I didn't really know any of that when I moved here, obviously. I knew it could be rough, but not "8 stabbings and a rape" rough. That's a whole new means of measurement to me.

I remember a scared Polish woman that stopped in where I worked just for a place to sit down and feel safe while she waited for her train. She said she'd been harassed several times just walking down the road to get to the station. She couldn't get back on a train and out of the area fast enough. I took it as a typical response to someone first visiting the area and being paranoid (and wearing weird tights up to her cooch that no doubt brought attention), but she explained to me how she was studying to be a lawyer and was in the courts all day sitting in on trials, and then rattled off some statistics. Something like how 1 in 5 people here were below the poverty line and living on council estates (ghetto housing), etc. I noted that I lived in the area and I didn't think it was all that bad, even if people were poor. She tried to awkwardly back pedal: "Well, of course I don't mean you!" but I just laughed it off. The area really just doesn't seem that bad. Then you look at the statistics and wonder. Maybe I've just been missing it all?

A couple of weeks ago before I lost my job at that very crapshack (AHEM - don't go to the café at Loughborough Station, it's shite - AHEM), there was another stabbing just down the road from me, near the old house we used to live in. My friend/ex-flatmate was visiting me and he ran around the corner to get a cigarette from one of the local night shops as I closed the café. He had to sort of side step a few teens that suddenly took off chasing after another guy.

Apparently they hit the victim right as he ran through a doorway. He survived, but his bloody jacket was left lying on the floor of the place for all to see. It was across from the "The Hole" that we both used to live in, near our favorite chicken restaurant and at the door of the convenience store we used to frequent nightly... Not something we expected to see, but some how not really surprising at the same time. It's not the nicest looking area, but it was our ugly little area for a little while and we'd never seen that happen. We ended up getting a ride in a police car, which I did not like, and my friend had to give a statement. It made the night interesting. Well, for me, anyway. He's Mexican, so I'm sure he's used to stabbings and police. I've heard his stories.

A couple of months prior to that little event, I ran outside of the café because I heard broken glass and screaming. I ran over to the Chinese restaurant next to us and saw the door had been smashed in and a couple teenagers were running around inside. I flagged down a police van (funny how many of those are around), thinking they were robbing the place and maybe hurting the Chinese woman who was screaming her head off, but in the end it was just another fight. One of them apparently had a knife. Days later on a way to give a class, Marine saw a guy being chased and yelling for help. I kind of wonder if that was just the beginning to all of this.

The thing about it is that I don't feel weird walking out alone at 2AM into Brixton or anything. Most of these rapes and stabbings are gang related, most of the gang members being teens. People like me don't really exist in their world. We're just the people who look on, confused. Still, there's a reason most people don't go walking alone in large cities in the middle of the night -- it's because there are weirdos out there. When you go out into a now silent city that was bustling earlier in the day, you are playing Weirdo Lottery. The witching hour and all that.

The other night I wanted to run out and buy something but it was too late. The local shop with the asian owner who talks like a rastafari was closed, much to my chagrin, so I had walk a little further than I wanted to. On my way back I encountered a man in a life or death fight with a road barrier. He was using karate, so I don't know who won, but I made sure to cross the street before I let him use it on me. I'd made the same walk several times before in the dead of night, the streets eerily empty, and was fine. That night though, if I didn't divert to the other side of the road I may have been viciously beaten by karate construction crack man. You just don't know.

There are a lot of good things about walking around the Brixton streets, though. You never know what you might see, or hear, and some times that's a good thing. Marine and I were introduced to the tunes of Dennis Brown by walking past one of those incredibly loud music shops that sell pirated CDs. That will probably be one of my lasting memories of living here... walking home from the market with my wife through the smell of incense and deciding to buy whatever great album was being played. It was a good decision:

And there's the Brixton Village. There's The Cabana (giant steak & rice & beans mmmm), Ms. Cupcake (giant cupcake mmm), London Fast Food (best fried chicken in London mmm) and of course all the other things that aren't edible. Music shops, market stalls, couple nice parks, a diverse mix of interesting and crazy people. It's just the ones with the knives that give it a bad name. Hopefully the kids doing this shit will live to grow up and realize an entire world exists aside from this place and the problems it does have, like poverty. Because you can't enjoy cupcakes or steaks or chicken if you're poor as fuck and have nothing else to do. I can understand that. Unfortunately, the response seems to be "send in more police" which is like par for the course when any trouble happens over here. Maybe the local councils or government could focus on why these guys feel like they need to attack each other and get to the root of it or something. But what do I know

Caffè latte Loco

During one of my first weeks of work at the coffee shop, I had my first, and last big tip. I was pretty nervous working a new job since I hadn't really worked in a public setting in a long time and it probably showed. Maybe I looked a little unhappy.

I was sitting on a leather bench that ran the length of the wall having a break. A large and rather talkative black woman with giant locks of hair sat across the room from me drinking a coffee I had made her.

"Come here, darlin'!" she said.

That's not a common request. Usually people just want to know where the sugar is, or they want a napkin.

"Sorry?" I said.

She repeated herself, and so with my fellow employees watching I sheepishly stood up and walked over to her, unsure of what to expect. She started to reach in between her enormous breasts as if she was going to pull one out as a gift, and I stood ready to accept, as it would be impolite to refuse. Rather than a giant nipple popping out to greet me, however, came a 5 pound note that had just moments before been neatly tucked into her cleavage. She handed it to me and said, "I want you to have this. You deserve it."

"Oh no, that's too much!" I said, looking confused.

"Take it, baby."

So I took it.

Every once and a while after that I'd get a one pound tip and I'd be thankful, but never again did I receive a 5 pound cleavage bill as a form of thank you. Not even a regular 5 pound note. I don't think I ever will.

Interacting with people in such a busy place meant there was always something interesting that could happen at any given moment. Most of the time, they weren't good things, though. For example, on a different day I was, again, sitting down taking a break (this does not reflect upon my work ethic) when a skinny Sarah Connor-lookin' woman ran past me towards the bathrooms. It took me a second to realize that she had 3 butcher's knives in her hands that had passed inches in front of my face. I looked up at one of the owners as if to ask, did you just see that? I stood up, thinking maybe she was going to hurt herself and we should do something, but then she stuck her head out of the bathroom and began screaming about how her boyfriend was just shot and how they were going to kill her too, "But don't call the police!" She popped her head back in. This went on for some time. I remember nervously pacing the floor when a woman approached me and kindly asked if she could use the bathroom. I kindly told her that a woman had just run into the bathroom with a set of very sharp knives and that maybe now would not be the best time. "I think I'll go somewhere else then," she replied.

My landlord/boss decided that he'd let her be, because "If you do something for one of them [lunatic or drug addict], they will do anything for you!" he laughed. Which sounded psychopathically messed up: he literally meant it as in, if you help out a desperate person who can use them later. He was the type of two faced, narcissistic person that would do anything to have anyone like him for that very reason, so it wasn't surprising. Me, I went and found a cop car, but by then she'd run off.

Crazy is crazy, but crazy with a knife or three changes things. Only weeks before, a woman in London had randomly ran into a shop, grabbed a knife and stabbed two random people, so I think I had reason to be concerned.

Then there were the crackheads who demanded chicken sandwiches and tea "Not too hot! I'm a crackhead, you know!" as if I was supposed to know what that meant in terms of hot tea. All free, of course. I gave it to them, until the day one of them kissed me for a pizza. Kind of threw me off the whole charity thing.

And finally you get your 7 foot tall giants showing buttcrack who politely order their lattes, sit down, and begin talking to themselves, making you and the rest of the staff (my poor wife) incredibly uncomfortable ("American? Yeah well fuck off back to where you came from. That panini looks good. Yeah, it does. I do like New York, though."). Between him and the guy that came in and demanded 5 pounds, sat down and started talking into his mobile phone as loudly as possible to no one, there could have been an actual conversation going. Organize your days, guys.

Worse than any of that though, was the woman who requested a "Babycino". I don't know who invented that word, but it instantly made me understand some of the random knifings going on in the world.

So let's all give thanks that I do not have to put up with requests for that or anything else any more. So long, Loughborough Junction. Stay classy.

I Am a Sucker

I stayed late at work tonight, just taking my time cleaning and using the internet. You get different people in the area at different times of the day, and at that time of night one of the local whatever-heads happened to be outside aggressively begging. What I mean by aggressive is yelling "Oi!" and quickly marching up to the person with a "PUH-LEASE give me 20p, PLEASE?!"

When you reject her, she sometimes screams a frustrated "Fuck!"

A person like me could find that endearing, because I believe when she shouts "fuck" that it is sincere and she is desperate for whatever it is that she needs -- but I have rent to pay, I make 4 pounds an hour, and have a hole in my pants and problems of my own and I know the next time I see her she'll recognize me and swarm me like I owe her something like all of the others have done, so I'm sorry. Leave me alone. I have anxiety issues and being yelled at with fucks and shits just makes them worse, lady.

It's a pathetic sight and with her unkempt hair you peg her immediately as being down and out, but when she starts charging at you begging for money you sort of go into evade-mode and don't give her anything at all, even if you might have been feeling generous. The bravado involved is sort of shocking. Here's this 90 pound girl and she doesn't look scared or humiliated, just... frustrated and intent.

I heard her shouts of "Oi!" and watched her through our glass doors thinking Why can't you go away? I want to go to the grocery store after this and I know you're going to harass me on my way and make me feel uncomfortable. Learn to beg better and do it somewhere else. Put on the lame show about how you need 10p for rice and lie if you have to, but just leave me alone. Sincerity doesn't work in this world.

I made a dash outside to gather the chairs and signs, hoping she wouldn't see me, lest my anger or even pity get the better of me. She didn't bother me though, just kept begging the passer-bys.

Two lost, clean looking women came out of the station. The dirty girl charged.

"WHERE DO YOU NEED TO GO?", she demanded. "THE CLOSEST STATION IS THAT WAY!" Only to follow it up with more begging. Then a few more people: Do you have a cigarette? What about 20p then? She failed and failed, and failed then finally some Brixtonite told her to "Fuck off" and she said "No, fuck you."

Everything was finally done in the shop and I packed up and left and headed to the store. I lucked out, she was no where in sight. Good. I want to get my beers and go home as usual and sit in the dark and watch TV and forget all of this. I didn't see her until I got to the entrance of the shop.

When I looked inside I saw five of the guys who run the place struggling with her. There are usually around 10 Pakistani men inside, either standing at the door as security, working the register, or continually restocking. One of them must have seen her try to steal something. As I turned to walk through the doorway, they pulled her inside and swarmed on her. One managed to slam her to the ground on her chest and lay on her back holding her arm behind her like a policeman. She must have coughed up what they wanted because after her repeated shouts of "LET ME GO BRUV!" they finally pushed her out the door. People in line just sort of watched the mayhem. The guys went back to their registers or their other work, business as usual. I just went inside and bought my beer.

A weird sort of conflict went through my head as they wrestled with this girl and then violently threw her down -- a part of it was "You are getting what you deserve" and the other was "Just let her go, why did you have to do that?"

On the way back towards my place I passed by my work and saw I had forgotten to throw away a trash bag. So I grabbed it and went down one of the nearby alleyways to put it in a can. There was the girl again, but this time huddled in the dark against a wall with her knees up to her chest. She was spitting on the ground and looked like she might be crying, but she didn't say a word when I walked by. All I could think of was how she might not deserve whatever she wanted the money for, but she also didn't deserve where she was right now. So on the way back I reached into my pocket to give her the only change I could find. Before I could give it to her she managed to ask "Please, do you have 20p?" But this time it wasn't loud or confident or aggressive, just desperate and nothing else.

"Here's 50," I said, and went on my way.
"THANK YOU!" she said. "Oh, THAAAANK YOUUUU!" she shouted around the corner.

I guess she won in the end.

I love French newspapers

These two caught my eye the day after Bin Laden died and I felt compelled to clip them out. You would never find these published back in the States. Nobody has the guts

Courtesy of Charlie Hebdo

The death of the King of Pop

Porn videos in Bin Laden's hide-out

Begging for Compliments

Ah, spring. When the birds take to the air and sing, and all the people in the restaurants below my apartment sit in front of the door and get really loud all night long.

A couple of minutes ago I was sitting in here with the window open, the sound of music playing and people talking in the background. It was about 1 AM. Then, a noise.

I'm not sure how to describe the scream other than primal. It made me think of Native Indians dancing around a camp fire. It was high pitched and started out with "Ayy-haaaaaayyyy..." and then got progressively louder until the it ended with a loud "-HIY!". It was funny the first few times because I assumed somebody was really drunk and loving it. The people outside started to mimic the screamer in groups and laugh.

It seemed he or she was making their rounds through the neighborhood and entertaining the onlookers who sat relaxed in their chairs, sipping on their beers until finally, somebody got tired of it. A man bellowed something in a deep, angry voice, as if he was trying to shoe away an animal from his garden. Seconds later a beer glass shattered to a chorus of "Ooooh!"s and "Hey!"s, and everything went quiet. Slowly the talking began again as normal.

And then, somewhere further into the neighborhood, barely audible...
"Hay-yi-yi-yi-yi-yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa-YA!"

The crazies really do come out of hibernation in the spring time. Thawed and rested, they have an ample amount of lunatic energy to put on display. There's the guy who stands in front of McDonalds laughing maniacally and babbling to himself; the old man mysteriously called "The Professor" who likes to shake hands and then ramble nonsense with vaguely racist overtones, and that one guy who lies down in the middle of the sidewalk with all of his belongings splayed out in front of him neatly like on a bed side table: cigarettes here, lighter there, broken watch neatly next to those, beer always close by. Matonge's slogan seems to be "colorful" and well, they got that part right. It's not just the super bright peppers and exotic fruits on display...

It's the other exotic fruits on display. Of the cake variety.

Speaking of hot peppers, Africans like spicy food and they use those extremely hot peppers to make really good pimento sauce. Which I love. However, you have to be super careful with the things when cooking because they will burn the shit out of your eyes and any sensitive areas you touch, like your penis or vagina. Which I touch a lot while cooking.

Now, I've mentioned Maurice, our local homeless mascot who lives in a small one-car parking garage in front of a kebab shop. He keeps to himself normally and talks to no one unless approached, just a quiet "Merci" when given food or money. But lately I have noticed he's some how acquired a radio, which he uses to listen to non-stop 80's hits such as Phil Collins and Michael Jackson... and I don't know if rocking out to Nostalgie FM has bolstered his spirits or something but he's been up to shenanigans. On my way back from the store one day I saw him walk up to one of the many shops with fruits and vegetables on display, peer into the window to make sure no one was looking, and then snag three bright red and yellow peppers from the stand.

I wish I saw what must have happened next. I didn't hear any screams but I can only imagine his silent pain. If he didn't eat them and writhe around in excruciating pain, I have no clue what his plans were. Maybe he put them on his shrine to the statue that is perpetually "relocated for cleaning".

There used to be a statue depicting an African woman carrying her child made entirely out of bullet casings. It was dedicated to those from war torn places like Congo and Rwanda. Since it's been taken away, I've noticed random crap piled onto the concrete block where the statue used to be, like offerings to a God. Three rocks and a beer can. A backpack. Sticks. All stacked, some like pyramids. It's right next to Maurice's pad so I can only imagine it's him, but who knows. There are lots of weirdos around here.

The other night I was out running to get something for dinner and a guy asked me for some money. Yadda yadda, the whole routine in French.

Une petite pièce? Spare some alms for an ex-leper?

I said no, sorry. But I was going into a night shop for a drink anyway so I thought Ok, I'll get this guy something because I shouldn't judge people and just assume they're drug addict leaches or scum begging for a living, and I bought him a beer. So that he could be a drunken leach instead.

So I came out, didn't see him and said screw it, I'll just keep it. I walked two feet to the left and there he was in front of me.

"Oh, you have money to buy things there but not enough for..." and then I stopped him and offered him the can of beer to get him to shut up. He reversed his pity story, thanked me 10 times and I walked off.

I was outside waiting for my food to be cooked, just looking around, and there he was again asking for a light and to say that it really was nice of me, and then to ask if I wanted to have fun tonight and if I liked cocaine. You give a mouse a cookie, and soon enough he wants gay sex and coke.

"No," I said, "not interested in that stuff."
Then he asked me how much the beer cost. I told him.

Well, he said, can you go back and exchange it for this and that, I like it better and it has more alcohol. Blah blah. I was hesitant to walk anywhere with the guy, but it was close by and there were a lot of people around so I agreed. Fine, whatever, give the mouse his preferred cookie with sugar on top. I got it for him and he then asked, "Well, can I just have the euros for it?"

"No," I said "I can't do that. Here you go, enjoy."
"Are you Flemand?" he asked. I suppose my accent gave me away.
"No, I speak English."
"British?"
"No, American."

I don't really care if he knows where I'm from to be honest. It's pretty obvious when you see me with my various t-shirts or what have you.

"I have a sister in Washington, DC!"
It hits me that he sounds exactly like Tracy Jordan with an accent and I try to stop myself from laughing hysterically.

"Yeah ok, that's cool. I'm not from there. I'm from Tennessee, in the south" I said.
"They're racist there, aren't they? Are you racist?"
"No. I just bought you beer, so obviously not."
"You're not racist! Thank you!" he said.

Then, he motioned with his shoulders and arms and said,
"You're a very big strong man!  Lots of muscles!"
I told him not everyone agreed with him, but thanks, and went on my way with him giving me lots of "God bless you's".

Now, dude's a little creepy and I know his comments were to either get more from me (one way or another) but I took the comment and went on my way because I've been feeling like shit lately, especially after the mother in law's comments about how I've turned into a fatty over the winter months. So what if he just wanted a cocaine party with dongs everywhere? At least he thought I wasn't a fat bastard and said so. It was worth the price of a Leffe.

Now to just avoid him, forever.

Royal (Wedding) Twats

I was watching a BBC segment on the family tree of Kate Middleton, the girl that married one of the princes. Harry, Larry, Barry, who gives a fuck. Anyway, they traced her family tree and showed that her family worked in coal mines or, as one of her cousins does now, works at a fish and chips shop. Oh, how quaint! They focused a lot on her grandmother, I believe, who reportedly had great drive and aspirations and "always strived for more in life" or something like that, and noted that she died 5 years ago -- but not before seeing where her granddaughter was then. With a prince. Oh, let me wipe the tears from my eyes.

So, grandma, your goal was to be rich without merit? It was literally to win the national royalty lottery? Is this what people still want in the 21st century?

Where IS her granddaughter now? What is the point in the royal family and most importantly, who gives a shit aside from old British women with collectible Princess Diana plates? Really, it may be a "rags to riches" story, but don't try to inject it with a bit of working class spirit, American dream stuff -- she's literally just fucking a prince. He saw her one day and thought, "I'd like to get inside of that", and because he's a prince with a yacht he now has, and that's about it. She's done nothing except open her castle gates and let a rich novelty inside and well, good for her, I guess... Why this is on the BBC is my main question, along with How anybody finds this to be heartwarming or interesting aside from Britain's board of tourism.

At least Belgium's just got a shoddy king that nobody cares about and the Manneqin Pis to show off. The Belgians seem to prefer more important things in life like making delicious beers and fries. Leave it to the Brits to romanticise the class differences like life really is some fairy tale and it's worth being in the gutter because some day, you too, might live in a castle paid for by the underlings of the country.

Wankers.

Use Your Head

When Marine leaves I often end up neglecting myself for whatever reason, and so I may not eat all day but then wait until the last minute, drag myself out the door, and eat something bad for me. It makes no sense, because when she's here she doesn't really cook that much. In fact, it's me making sure that she eats otherwise she will get angry and fatigued like a small baby. I just seem to lose all energy and I don't do anything, and today was a good example. I pushed through the hunger, gave an English class to an architect (which I couldn't avoid as he was coming to my house, there's not much else I could do), and then when I felt as though I might pass out I decided to descend the stairs and get something to eat.

I've talked about African food and how much I love it. Goat, chicken, rice, beans. Whatever. It's cheap and local and I know that when I move I'll probably not have the opportunity to eat it again, so I decided why not, 5 bucks, I'll go get some African. As is normal in Belgium, the place I frequent decided to close for no reason other than that they did not want to open that day. I backtracked and thought about the place across the street from me -- it's good but I prefer a specific type of chicken with sauce called moambe and, not being from Congo, the guy doesn't usually make it. But again I said screw it, I don't have the energy to be bothered looking for anything. Went there, got some goat (it's odd to use that casually, like for example he was telling me what was available and I said, "Mmmrrr.. I think I'll have the chicken -- wait no, the goat." -- you don't get to say that often) and he speaks fluent english so I had a little chat with him.

It's a new place next to a parking garage and he has nice new glass doors, but one was put out of commission and he had a chair behind and in front of it with a giant sign saying, Do Not Use This Door, as if a lot of people had tried and he had to barricade the thing in to stop them from shattering it and hurting themselves. I asked what had happened, just out of simple curiosity. I mean, he's basically a neighbor and I'd like to know the goings-ons in my neighborhood. "Well," he said, "They broke it and so I went and replaced the door. Then they broke it again the very next day. I said to them, It's ok, but give me the money to replace it!" He laughed and I tried to imagine it in my head.With the parking garage, I just made an assumption and asked "Did a car back into it or something?"
"No, with his head! He pushed the door open with his head".
That made no sense to me so I asked him and he explained a guy was coming in, twice, and broke it with his head. That simple.

I have no idea how someone does that and doesn't horribly maim themselves in the process, to be perfectly honest. He just continued to smile and said "It's Matongé, you never know what's going to happen!" I laughed with him, cause, well, it's true. People push open doors with their heads.

Sure it spices life up, but lessons should be learned here. Just as you shouldn't throw stones if you live in a glass house, you shouldn't own glass doors if you live in Matongé. There's plenty of evidence of that, unfortunately.

I just wished him good luck and went home and ate my goat.

Show Me Your War Face

We recently had to take our end-level tests at the EPFC, and as usual we had to pair up for the oral tests (heh heh). A lot of the time, if the teacher has a stick up their ass -- and a lot of them do -- they choose who will pair with who, or at the very least they'll veto your request and tell you to choose a different person. For example, I met a Canadian a few courses ago and since then we've been taking the classes together, sitting next to each other so if we're totally stumped we can try to help each other out, etc. But since we're both anglophones, we've had the profs try to split us up. I don't really know why, because listening to some of the eastern Europeans or Spanish speak French is grating and difficult to endure let alone understand. Not that my friend's accent is any better, but at least we can practice speaking to each other and feel prepared. The tests are also really stressful, in that it's you in a room with a professor, speaking in front of him or her while they sit there staring at you fumbling along. It's a little more comforting doing it with a friend -- I mean, it can be embarrassing and of course you hit the mental blocks because you get nervous, everyone does. Some more than others, like me. I have to actually be sedated for them.

Anyway, a few weeks back we had to decide who we were pairing up with and for whatever reason I was absent and the Canadian was off doing Canadian things like skiing in the alps, so neither of us signed up. Now, there's only one black girl in the class and she's Rwandan. My professor knows I live in the African district so I suppose she just assumed we'd be happy to do it together or something. I have no idea. But when she asked the girl, she refused, saying that she was scared of me and that I looked mean. Apparently, the other people in the class agreed. They told me so after we had some drinks and they realized I wasn't going to murder them or something. We all laughed about it, or at least they did -- I was just surprised. How often do you get feedback like that from people you barely know, let alone an international jury?

I just don't believe in false advertising.And so what if I don't come into class and greet all 18 people individually, or smile like a vacant jack ass all day long? I'm not going to kill you and rape your corpse during the oral examination. Well, I wasn't going to...

Ah, Matongé

They're renovating the area that I live in now. Tearing up the streets to create a larger walking space for the tourists that like to come through the area, I guess. Normally, there would be a constant amount of traffic passing by, but since the street I live on is currently blocked, people have decided to use it as free parking space . The problem is when someone gets blocked in -- which is what happened two minutes ago.

This is the Congolese or "African" district mind you, and the solution to any problem is to honk your horn. A lot. Bite your tongue? Honk. Angry at the world? Honk. Happy? Honk too.

 In this case, somebody came out of one of the bars and found themselves shut in, so they honked. And honked. And honked some more. My frustration started to grow after about 5 minutes until a car, a street or so over, decided to start honking along in solidarity. Like two ships lost in the fog, they communicated in slow, defiant beeps. I have no idea what they said, other than "Get me the fuck out."

 The common struggle of Matonge. Or maybe people just like honking. I've been told that it is just the way to get things moving in Africa: you honk, they move. Nevermind the noise.

I haven't been to Africa yet, but I'd guess it would be an interesting visit after living here, a place modeled after a city in Congo. The only way that I can describe the Africans I've met since living here is... relaxed, to the point of not giving an absolute shit. A cop came to verify my existence when I applied for my ID card here, and when I answered the door he gave me a run down of my new neighborhood. He said,

"Most of the people around here will tell you if they have a problem. They will say it to your face, that's their culture. Except for the Moroccans, they'll stab you in the back".

A little racist-sounding, and he was a Flemish cop (managed to insult my wife, too), but the point I got out of it was that the cultures are very different, and the majority of people who live or frequent the area bring their culture along with them. It's true. It's not even a question, really.

A lot of the people living in this area are first generation immigrants. The streets that compose Matonge are lined with fruit and vegetable shops that sell things like plantains, and the "really fucking hot peppers", as I call them, that tend to grow in Africa... not to mention weaves and other hair products. All at the same time, in the same shop, sold by Pakistanis (Chris Rock should have come here for his documentary. I have literally seen TumbleWeaves).

That's why I love this place; the fusion of cultures is exactly what you would expect from "big city" life, as my grandparents would probably call it. Yet it works -- Matonge isn't Dante's Inferno, like everybody seems to think it is. (The last article I looked up online was some racist bullshit about gang violence)

Despite everything, Brussels is a melting pot full of all sorts of people who manage to get along under almost any circumstances. And there's not even a government! Maybe that's why it works?

Belgian McDonald's and other horrible food

Tonight I had nothing much in the fridge and I started to think about if I should bother heading out to grab something quick to eat or just go to bed. It's not like I don't have options around here, unlike a lot of other areas in Brussels. There are no fritkots within throwing distance, but there's plenty of other stuff to clog my arteries.

I pass Pizza Hut, McDonald's and Quick on a daily basis, a reminder that multinational corporations and capitalism are never far away. And as much as I hate to see their giant logos so far away from the country that spawned them, I'll admit that I love walking up to the Pizza Hut counter and paying 1.60 for a slice of a pizza whenever I want and then being on my way. And I don't complain every once in a while when classmates drag me to McDonald's to get a burger after a few drinks. Beyond the staple restaurants you have the not-so-common places like Chicken Spot (why didn't they just call it Chicken Restaurant Place and be done with it?) or kebab shops.

One of the first things you notice after walking into a McDonald's or anything else from the states is that they don't run the same menus over here. You'll find the Big Mac but beyond that it gets kinda weird. For example, one of their specials right now is the CHICKEN MYTHIC.When I hear the words Chicken and Mythic together, the first and immediate image that comes to mind is a Mythical Chicken from some epic Greek poem, about a gigantic fucking chicken who roams the countryside at night, eating children who dare to venture beyond the city's walls. What I don't picture is a nice big chicken patty on a piece of bread and some fresh iceberg lettuce.

Us Americans really do have a gift when it comes to advertising, it seems. But we also deliver on those offers. It's just not in their blood over here. I think it comes down to 10 Frenchmen sitting around a table gesticulating, the boss finally piping up with "Alor, what should we call zis thing?"

And in accordance to French work ethic they all just shrug, mutter something about the food being dégueulasse (that's "disgusting" and you should say it like "degolass", with a sneer) ... and then say they'll think of something later after they finish their apperitifs of Pernod, but then never do it, and they lose your paperwork and act like they don't know what you're talking about when you show up for your identification... wait, I'm getting off track. But the government offices might as well be run by McDonald's employees.

If you bother going to the McDonald's websites (who does that, ever?) you'll notice the European McD's has a really small menu compared to the US one, not to mention everything looks smaller. There is no double quarter pounder, that is for sure. Probably because people here are not horrible, fat monsters.

Now let's take a look at Quick, France and Belgium's answer to shit food. Their menu includes:

• the Cheeseburger
• the Classic Pepper
• the Supreme Cheese
• the Quick 'n Toast
• the Giant
• the Long Chicken
• the Long Bacon
• the Long Fish

Exciting! And that's right, you heard me, the Long Chicken. The second cousin of the Chicken Mythic, destroyer of children, friend of Long Fish, destroyer of seafaring vessels (no relation to longcat). The Supreme Cheese tells them all what to do. That's ingenuity. Lately, though, I've seen all sorts of advertisements in the streets from Quick. They're taking a cue from us Yanks and are cranking it up a notch, throwing out stuff like the...

You can almost hear the advert shouting SUPREME TENDER BEEF at you, but that's where the excitement ends. That's European supreme -- a regular burger. Like American companies, Quick routinely tries to pass off food as EXTREME and GIGANTIC, but that's where they have our evil corporations beat, because they give you a normal burger but charge you a supreme price. For the price of that thing you could get 3 of these things:

...and then you would die, but that's your choice, damn it. It's available. Ah well, when in Brussels. I guess I'll have a beer and go to bed and wake up to feel miserable.

Belgian Frites

That's "french fries" or "chips" to you and me...

Belgium's known for a lot of things. Never mind that it's the heart of the EU, or that Napoleon got his ass kicked in Waterloo -- forget the diamonds in Antwerp and the battlefields of Ypres (OK, maybe not the latter, that's kind of important). It's the food and drinks that they're really known for. Waffles, chocolate, beer... mussels and fries. If there were ever a country after American's own cholesterol laden heart other than itself, it is Belgium.

And by no means am I exaggerating. When it comes to things to make you fat, Belgium truly has America beat. Believe it. No matter where you walk around in Brussels, for example, you're bound to find a fry shop, chocolatier, pub with more beers than you can count, or the sweet smell of waffles wafting through the air. It is that prevalent. But today I'm going to talk about the fries, because those are just as important as anything else.

The story goes that during WW1 American doughboys saw Belgian troops eating fries and subsequently called them "French fries" -- after all, they were speaking French, so who else could they be? They then brought the idea back to the states and the rest is fatty fatty two-by-four history.

I figure if you've never been to Belgium it must be hard to picture where you get fries, and why. Especially if you're from the US and you can (and maybe do) get them with just about any meal you want. I wanted to visit for years and read all about where to go and what to do but paid no attention to the frites.

So first off, why? Well, everyone loves fries. Or they should. Secondly, it's a matter of Belgian pride, as they're the ones who created them. It's almost an art form here. In the end, though, it's just a nice treat; they're good, they're cheap, and they hit the spot. There are also a billion different sauces to choose from to mix things up a bit, some of which still remain a mystery to me. Your typical menu of sauces at any given place consists of the following, and it's easy to understand why it can get confusing: Sauce Blanche, Sauce Samouraï, Sauce Andalouse, Sauce Harissa , Sauce Aïl , Sauce Cocktail/Américaine, Sauce Barbecue, Sauce Curry , Sauce Tartare... the list can go on.

The Belgians and Dutch prefer straight up mayo, but a lot of the other sauces are mayonnaise-based and ketchup-based with different spices thrown in. Example: Américain is simply mayo + ketchup. Some are hot, some just have a different tang. I tried samourai on my Kebabs before I knew it was essentially fiery mayonnaise and fell in love with it. Only later when I realized what I had done did I feel dirty (I got over it). If I'm not sure what to get I stick to a little bit of ketchup and some salt and that's it. Depends on your mood and how many hours or days you'd like to shave off of your life.



The fries themselves are supposed to be fresh, "irregularly cut", and fried twice. The oil used for frying is really what gives them their unique flavor -- each friterie has their own oil and cooking method of choice. Normally, the fries are served in a cone (to maximize the amount) and the sauce comes splattered on top. You eat them with a little plastic fork unless you're me, in which case you just dig in with your hands. That's when the cone and the sauce become a problem. Honestly, I couldn't care less what they come in, because when you get frites here in Belgium it's usually after you've had a few beers. Whether it's the same night after nursing some 8%'ers or the next day to nurse your hangover, it really doesn't matter; the two go hand in hand.

Ironically, the best frite places are often little stands placed through out the city. You might expect more, but then you'd be disappointed. Most of the places are in "fritkots" (that'd be dutch this time), almost resembling what we'd call a "roachcoach" back in the US. A little portable trailer and nothing more. Even the brick and mortar places are incredibly small. You can get "french fries" anywhere, but it doesn't mean the establishment is devoted to them, so it's not going to be the same. I think in this case, the smaller it is, the better. Here are 4 places I frequent or at least know of for now. All of them are hailed by locals and tourists alike, so you really can't go wrong:

Fritland

This one is an exception to the rule, as it's even got sitting area inside. As per my rule, it's really not the best place in town, but Fritland is very popular, and for a reason. It is where you go after a night of drinking, or after a night of anything, actually. It's open late -- 1.00AM or so, and it's situated right in the center near the bus stops. On your typical Friday or Saturday night, you hit up a few bars and try some Belgian beers, then head home on the bus. Before you get there, the smell of this place hits your nostrils and soon you're queuing in line for a cone your own... which, inevitably, ends up being shared, willingly or not, with your buddies... everyone mauling at it like a group of Mr. Potato Head zombies. You can sit inside during the day if you feel like exposing yourself to the immense amount of heat being put out by the fryers, and like most places you can get kebab-like sandwiches or loempia or just about anything deep fried. At night they close the doors, so you order from the window and then stand around gorging yourself like a fat fuck in front of all the people catching their buses. But it's worth it when you're desperate.

Frit'Flagey

I pass this place on the bus all the time. I look at it longingly and yet it always seems to evade me. Part of the reason is because it's always packed, but if the locals like it, you know it's worth the effort. It's situated in a chaotic area -- Place Flagey -- on the way to the University of Brussels, so it's a sort of hub stop for trams and buses, along with a billion cars weaving here and there across the FUBAR'd intersection. Apparently, one of the guys running the place is fairly well known for being a dick. Much like the "Soup Nazi" in Seinfeld, he will refuse service to you if he doesn't like the way you speak to him. Part of me thinks that's wonderful and I'd like to have a beer with that man, and the other part of me says, if I wait in line 30 minutes for some fries I better fucking get them. There are other places, however, which leads me to...

Pitta De La Chapelle

That's right, everybody. Here's a picture of a beautiful chapel built in 1134 and I'm talking about the fritekot in front of it. Let's just call these guys religious, as they had the balls to name their fry stand after the gigantic medieval church situated behind them. In fact, you can hardly see the 'kot in the picture because it's dwarfed by said church (behind the van). That's Belgium, baby. It's located near the Sablon where you can find a lot of antique shops and a market area on Sundays. I go there for the fries. The guys are really nice and you can take a seat on one of the benches next to the church if it isn't too busy. Normally it's a calm area, which is why I frequent it. There's an ATM really close by and you can use your extra money to get a Poulet Croc if you get the chance -- it's just a stick of deep fried chicken, but it is truly a piece of heaven. After that you can go into the church and pray for your arteries.

Tabora

These guys are hardcore. They stay open until 6am and apparently use veal fat for their frites, giving them their own unique flavor. This is the first friterie I visited in Brussels. Marine took me there after a night of wandering around and it was definitely a surprise. In America you're used to fries sitting under heat lamps and being shoveled at you in cardboard cartons by fast food workers who couldn't give a shit. I don't know if they give a shit at Tabora, but it sure seems like it. It's small and it can be a pain in the ass waiting in line some nights as there is simply the cooking area and room for a handful of people to order. Normally, you get your food and stand or sit (if the chairs aren't already taken) outside at the tables or simply go for a walk. That's my only complaint, there's no where to really chill with your fries. I'd prefer a dark corner so that no one sees me at my most grotesque.

Protest Day!

Some time in the afternoon today I started to hear loud booms and what sounded like explosions or gunfire. Then the helicopters started flying by. I honestly had no idea what the hell was going on, and as I had no reason to leave the house, I remained nude and listened with interest as I made spaghetti (a risky, but worthwhile endeavor). I figured it was just another "event" here in Brussels, of which there are many thrown sporadically through out any and every month. It could be a free concert, a Francophone day, a Flemand day, or "just another reason to take off work day".

As the booms started getting louder I started to think the Flemands had finally gotten angry enough to start some shit, so I started texting around and asking what was happening. Fireworks are usually a night time thing. For a second, I even wondered if there'd been another bank robbery down the road.

Nope, it was just approximately 100,000 people protesting the government slashing salaries, employment, and pensions/retirement. Politics over here can get hazy and confusing but essentially what the unions are saying is that the banks fucked up and the common man shouldn't have to pay for it. Hey, that's not so foreign after all! Sounds familiar. Except I don't remember anybody marching the streets of America these past few years. Unfortunately, our protest phallus is forever flaccid.

I was a little bitter when I found out this went on today and I didn't get to at least witness it, because this is the type of stuff I wish us Americans would do -- show up and be counted for when it comes to our government being lazy, inept, or corrupt. But all we can ever seem to do is put our hopes in a politician's hands and then quickly wash our own of the situation. He's successful, he got the American dream to work for him. Maybe he'll get it to work for us!

The classy European style of protest complete with Eyes Wide Shut orgy masks. After the march it's off to enjoy some beer, frites, and some other dude's wife!

I can't even find a real job over here, so I'm not sure I should have a say in anything protest-wise. I don't feel like it's my place to join in on things like that when I can barely understand the politics of Belgium itself, let alone the entire EU. Ideally, any time would be the right time to protest rich fuckers getting richer and the poor getting poorer, but I'm not really an idealist. I don't know what I am. Lately I've just been gassy.

I do know one thing: if there's any reason to head out and protest it's to piss of the Belgian police force. What a bunch of complete dickheads. I never seem to hear anything good about them -- ever. Whether it's the guy whose car was stolen at gunpoint and who was essentially told to "screw off", or the new classmate I have who traded one regular stalker for two police stalkers after she went to file a complaint (she still gets SMS's from those guys) none of the stories are good ones. I asked for directions once and had to give justification for where I wanted to go, but the icing on the cake was when I saw a cop literally get bribed in front of me after a drug transaction. What role models, these guys. They really have taken the whole "uniform = asshole" thing to a whole new level. Like they're playing catch up with the Americans or something.

At least the Brussels protest wasn't as bad as those in Spain (or as good, I'll let you be the judge of flaming police cars and flailing batons).

But I'll end this with a legitimate question. Do plainclothes police beat any harder than regular cops? I mean, your average pig has the uniform to help with the small man complex, but what about the guys pretending to be normal human beings?

Bonne Nuit

Seems to be a high or insane person walking around Porte De Namur tonight screaming random shit at the top of their lungs. Could be either/or , I don't know. Probably too much coke. I think they're shouting "Viens!" or "Come here!" The police won't come because they never do -- not that I'd bother calling them. They're useless, after all. Unless you need them at 5am on a Sunday yelling through their loudspeakers and sounding their sirens.

Sometimes I wonder about the homeless. You see some in the center, but not here. Actually, just one... there's a guy named Maurice that I've given beer or fries or money to on various occasions -- he sleeps in a small garage down the road. He's quiet so nobody bothers him. I saw him pissing in traffic at noon, once, but that isn't loud, so people don't care. He seems nice enough and I wonder what his story is and what he does when he hears animals screaming in the night. Does he pull his blanket up over his eyes and hope it all goes away or does his insanity just mix with theirs?

When I first got here and realized his situation, I'd offer him change or food. One day I even bothered to ask him his name. How naïve of me. After a while there isn't a point: He stays in the same place, nobody does anything, neither do you, neither does he. I've seen others give him food or whatever, but the last time I can remember the public interacting with him was through me. I entered his "cave" to offer him the extra food I got at a kebab shop and on my way out some dudes insinuated I was in there getting a blow job. Normally I'd shrug off shitty humor like that but I didn't let it go because I couldn't understand why a person would be so callous. I stupidly tried to instigate something but my horrible French just confused them and they walked off. For the best.

Viens! VIENS!

I guess it's a good night to wander and scream if that's your thing. The streets are empty. Today was some sort of Francophonian holiday, so I didn't have to go to school. I don't think anyone did. I'm sure somewhere there are Flemands cursing in dutch about how lazy they all are. Or is it we... am I one of them now? I guess so.

Speaking of the neighborhood, we've got a pretty nice church just around the corner called St. Boniface. Since I've lived here the damn thing has been under repair or cleaning non stop. Only just this week have they taken off the fencing and construction facade covering it all up. I may not appreciate religion but I can appreciate art and I'm kinda proud to live here. Even with weirdos like me and Maurice hanging around.

Viens!

Saint-Valery-sur-Somme

The father-in-law & Marine's sort-of-step-mom have decided to split, so a bit of house cleaning was required this weekend. I don't know if I've ever mentioned the step-mom, before. Where to start? She once told me the story of how she lost her virginity; she was 15 and an older gentleman bought her a lemonade. He then took her up to his hotel room where he nailed her. I guess that sums up a lot about her, actually. The French, even. Often while drunk she would force me to dance with her to Talk Talk's "It's My Life" or other 80's hits, an attempt to relive her youth where she was young and blond and drank lemonade and got fucked.

People don't like to move on, it's natural. Last winter I actually spent a couple of months in the house with her because I had no where else to go. She drank a lot of wine and watched a lot of Bewitched. I think she wished she was Samantha so she could wiggle her nose and make everything in her life OK again, back to when they might have even looked a bit alike. But not any more. Now, she talks a lot about her rich Dutch ex-husband, a suspected pederast, who absconded to Japan. According to her, that left her a shell of her former self. I won't argue, it's all pretty depressing.

It wasn't all bad this time. I think she was happy to have the house cleaned out. We even got some free stuff. Some Village People vinyls were salvaged and I snagged a Mickey Mouse phone that nobody wanted. I don't know if I want it either, but there was something sad about that mouse just sitting up there in the attic, waiting so patiently for someone to answer the phone.

After that, we ended up staying in Saint-Valery since Marine's grandma owns a summer house there.

Saint-Valery-sur-Somme looks like your average little port town. It's a place for old French people to use as a summer home and basecamp to gossip from, and a place for families to spend a bit of their vacation. The tourists are from other parts of France, or Spain or Britain -- lots of British -- who come with cameras hanging around their necks, waiting for the perfect sunset so that they can capture it and take it home to bore the shit out of their friends and family. A lot of the old houses have maritime motifs just like you might find somewhere in Florida. An old fishing net hangs from a rafter in our attic-bedroom, picture frames are lined with seashells and doors have the anchor or boat wheels decor. I can't tell if it's a caricature of itself or if it's just so fucking genuine that I can't swallow it. That's what I get for growing up in a country dotted with Red Lobsters. Cynicism and suspicion.

But there are old and winding streets that weave up and down hills, and an inlet where you can watch rich people take their boats out to sea. Across the inlet is another town and when the tide goes out, you can practically walk across to it. It's when the tide comes in that people drown, the currents sucking them out to sea. Down the road is putt-putt golf and occasionally during the summer they'll have musicians come around to play the usual family-friendly blues crap. In the restaurants stretched along the waterfront you'll find people eating the seafood you'd find anywhere. Mussels, shrimp, fish. Whatever the French can find buried in the sand. If you can manage to forget the other people, it's nice to take a walk along the water or through the town -- I like the old architecture and the sides of buildings that have been painted with now-faded liquor advertisements.

Aside from the aesthetic beauty, though, it's pretty damn boring. Like most cities or towns in the north of France, it's small. Very small. OF course, that doesn't stop people from coming and it never has.

My wife's people, the Guals, were here well before ol' J.C. was born, and so were the Romans, who came in to conquer them. And then William the Conqueror sailed off from here in 1066 to, well, conquer the absolute shit out of the British. The house we stay in was built in something like 1860. The cellar was built in 1231. Much like the small and winding roads that barely accomodate cars, the architecture in a lot of the houses seem to barely accomodate people; I've managed to hit my head in both the attic and the cellar now -- both, painful souvenirs. But it does have a cozy feel and there are layers of history everywhere, which is a little overwhelming to me. I mean, Joan of Arc passed through this place, maybe even had a tinkle down the road.

How old is that wall? When was this built? Why, and by whom? Lots of questions no one can answer, because nobody really cares. I love history and I know I'm lucky to be over here, but for someone like me, European towns like this are just frustrating. There's nothing tangible. Some times it just feels like a lived-in old house. You put up with the wear the others put on it and then you move on. Sure, it's neat to see "Jacques X, 1644" etched into a wall, it's nice to sit and imagine the story of the person and what times were like back then, but that's all your doing because it's all in your head. There's no story to be told. The artifact to find here is the town itself, the only problem is sharing it with everyone else.

I keep having to tell myself, "This is France, man. People have lived here for a long time and they're going to continue to live here. That's it."

Me, I want to get out there and discover it all each time I come here. I want to explore and get dirty and find things nobody has seen in years, mysterious things that have secret stories that can never be told, because their owners are long since dead. All that silly, romantic crap.

It's too bad I can't just be happy where I'm at. Maybe someday when I'm old, too.