ON STANDBY…

… because yesterday I felt asleep at 4.30. I had nothing to read (error) and could not sleep because I am sick (a cold that evolved into bronchitis, bloody cigarettes). So I went in Charlie’s room looking for anything readable (Charlie is my flatmate, who yesterday was at Suequi’s, his Swedish girlfriend; no, I do not know her name, I should but I always forget it). I bumped into a paperback called "A year in the Merde" that looked funny. It narrates the adventures of a 27 year-old Englishman, single and unattached, who is recruited by a French entrepreneur and given a one-year contract to come to Paris. I read about 200 pages and could not stop laughing, I would have kept on reading throughout the night but I know better, so I made the sensible decision of putting it off until today, As soon as I get out of here today I am purchasing it. It will not be awarded a Nobel yet it was downright hilarious, specially for expatriates, And I fully empathise with the protagonists efforts to make himself understood in French and his remarks about the inability of the majority of the French to utter two words in English in a row…

Tomorrow there is the EuroBall and I must admit that I do not bloody feel like going, although I already bought a ticket. A frigging rip-off at that. One would think that, these being events organised by stagiaires for stagiaires (my props to the organisation, and I am not being ironic now), some smart arse would have borne the "solvency" factor in mind. Does not look like it. Not only are the tickets expensive, but we must also dress nicely (tuxedo and bow tie) and grab a mask somewhere… I, for one, shall not dress as recommended. Tuxedo and masked ball…

I’d rather be in Colgne Carnaval, listening to Teutonic hits, having some Weizen and reminding erasmus. I recommend this post to all of you who have lived and partied in Germany. The good old times. And take my word for it, the author knows whay he is talking about, although my number one is "Irgendwie irgendwo irgendwann".

On the brink of tears, I am!

Brussels. You dodge the mountains of rubbish that crowd the streets of the capital of Europe, grey clouds are mirrored on grey puddles while the combination of grey smoke from grey cars owned by grey executives and driven by grey chauffeurs on grey roads and grey skyscrapers prevents one from seeing the grey skies. It snowed last week, yet although I hoped for it to settle it failed to materialise, for the blend of white and pure snow with the greyness and the layer of rubbish spawned some sort of semi liquid shite. It was grey. I read on a guide that Brussels is a city desperately in need of a PR Job. It is accurate, Parisian weather is as wretched as Brussels´, but the City of light advertises itself so skilfully that Euro Disney was set up there (it is a flop, for it is always raining). But the Bruxelloises are not very proficient at marketing: they just say that it rains and it is grey. I haven’t got the foggiest idea as to whether Brussels was nice before the arrival of the institutions (the Flemish houses here and there and the possibly most beautiful central square ever say it was a serious competitor for Antwerp or Bruges), yet the evolution from quaint Flemish town to “Dump of Europe” brought about property sharks, speculators without qualms and laissez-faire developers that made some parts of the city look like, I read somewhere, post was Sarajevo. I’ve been to Sarajevo, and I can assure it is far nicer than Brussels.

The stage is over in two weeks and, short of a last minute miracle, I will be jobless in March. I do not love Brussels, but I want to stay and try and find something here. Going back to Spain out of the blue cannot be a good decision, I would be totally lost. I have sent some CVs here and there but the response is not being very warm. In plain words, nobody answers and I sometimes feel on the brink of utter paranoia: “Does my e-mail work?” “Have I got the crappiest CV ever?”. Well, the latter is closer to reality than to paranoia. Nevertheless, I am not applying to succeed Mr. Gates in Microsoft.

I am listening to Neil Young, it helps disconnect and keep some balance. As long as there are things that sound like “Hey hey my my”, the rest seems pretty unimportant. Mmmm, then again, nothing sounds like that. Have you ever heard anything so… raw? It almost hurts, those guitars. Anything dubbed mould breaking after that is but peanuts in comparison.

My flat contract expires this month and my landlady was pressing me to renew for 5 or 6 months. I had already stomached the idea and the loss of money (I must fly to Spain two or three times in the next months, and I pictured myself jobless, paying flights and rent for 5 months or else I would lose the deposit + 1 month penalty, begging outside the Charlemagne)… until I read the contract (it is normally a good idea, reading the contracts one signs) and found out it said I am entitled to a continuation of three months. So I talk to the landlady, who was a bit dumbfounded when she read it (she was hoping for a 5 month continuation), uttered “my mistake”, and lo! I signed. So good news, I will not lose money.  It seems not sensible to stay here, yet I want to try. And 3 months is not that much. Not economically at least.

My collision money holds, I reckon what I saved before the stage will allow me to keep body and soul together for 2 or 3 months. I am not living like a dog, but I do not spend much, either. I will have to be prudent and restrain from travelling round, it is where I spend the most. But it is great.

I was in Paris, at last. Nice city, terrible weather and the resolution to go back with more time, you cannot see anything in a weekend. Great company and an apartment to die for (views to Les Invalides´ dome). I felt like a real Jaques observing Les Invalides with my morning coffee and fag, more French than a baguette. And last weekend I went again to Amsterdam. As always, it was awesome. Train ticket 40 €, beers and eating a further 60 €, free accommodation thanks to my cousin, going back home at 4.00 on a pink bicycle was PRICELESS.

I have neglected the blog a bit as of late. Moreover, I have not written anything in English for ages. I am beginning to consider whether I should drop the blog in English; truth be told, hardly anybody reads it. I have not blogged because last week was stressful in Charlemagne, I enjoyed the plat du jour only one day out of five. I still keep myself from posting from Commission. So not a lot of action on the net. But I cannot help but tell you the strange events of last week.

On Saturday the 11th I flooded my bathroom. On Sunday the 12th I triggered the fire alarm while doing some high profile cooking. On Monday the 13th the water heater broke down and it remains very broken today; I do not give a damn but Charlie is rather annoyed, I´d reckon; our landlady is not very helpful. On Friday 17th I arrived really early at Kindergarten (Commission I meant) due to urgent motives that required my attention and:

Imbecile: foolish boy; he who forgets the badge at home

So I had to return home to pick it up. I rather dislike the badge; leastwise I´ve got a magnetic one. Others have to take a tiresome detour. On the same Friday I made a fool of myself at a meeting with some RELEX bigwig. I suppose it is normal, one month here and they let me go alone with no backup whatsoever to such things; besides, I received new instructions barely 10 minutes before the beginning. Thank God the RELEX blokes knew the WTO rackets on bananas far better than I do.

Saturday the 18th dawned bright, autumny, perfect (the best season doubtless, and this year is being long), so I went out to explore Brussels. After two Parks full of that amazing colours that spring up only in autumn, I took to the centre. Brussels´s got but one real sight: the Grote Markt or Grande Place. The centre is lovely but you need to delve deep to find your bearings, for is quite a chaotic maze. Brussels is also the city of the “9th art”, comic strips. In the petit ring, 30 walls show some Belgian comic heroes; they are scattered, hier and there, no order nor rationale. It is a great way to come to know the centre and get off the beaten track, so I went to chase the comic strips. They are hidden and I found only seven before I grew tired. I hope I see them all before I leave, for they are very good. The first chapter: Bruxelles, la ville des comics.

But let us not get sidetracked, shall we? While comic chasing I happened to find myself in an area where:

• There were no women
• There was a group of men in every corner smoking and doing nothing
• They were Arabs

I was lost seeking the comic image that must be there, camera in my hand. All of a sudden and coming from the back, someone grabs the camera while attempting to run away with it; a second later I´m shoved. The camera stayed in my hand since I had its string round my wrist. It was so fast I neither realized, nor got scared. The two Arab wankers (for that they were, wankers and Arabs) just kept on running and disappeared. Now how can this happen? Where the chuff is the bloody police? And of course it is only strange that they were Arabs… the hell it was! Call me a racist, but the natural and immediate wish one´s got after such a thing is that it would be only fair that someone should practice some Nationalsocialist techniques on these arseholes… on the whole frigging lot, because, as it is, I think 90% of them are just that: arseholes.

Well no major problem, I did not even get angry because it happened so fast. I just went back home, took a (cold) shower and posted, very happy with the resulting animation, la ville des comics to the rhythm of the words of one wise man.