A Long-ish Walk

Dear Thomas,

It's not been as I imagined, so far.
To think, in my head it was all museums, French lessons, aimless but tranquil wanderings, peace, yoga, a blissful doing of nothing.

Not so. Well, not yet, anyhow.
I'm not settled, not by a long shot - incredibly restless actually.
I'm not sure why this is. I think part of me still feels like it's a holiday -  living out of a suitcase (because there's nowhere else in this flat to put my pathetically small set of clothes!) and maybe subconsciously I'm still waiting, perhaps, for someone to tell me it's time to go home. A bit of new life jetlag? Could be.

I need my things with me. My stuff, the stuff that is me.
I need your things too (not all your things - just the bits and pieces that show you really did exist and I didn't invent you).
Also, frankly, this flat is neither suitable nor appropriate for long-term living. I adore the view - the setting really couldn't be more stunning - but it isn't a home. The kitchen doesn't really work, the bed doesn't fit in the bedroom; the bathroom, well, let's not go there, and the staircase? Woah - you take your life in your hands every time you descend those 50-odd  precipitous spiral steps!

And so we are flat hunting in earnest....which isn't easy in a city you don't know at all.
You listen to word-of-mouth, you study the expat sites, but when all an estate agent puts in his advert is a picture of a washing maching, or a table with a vase on it and doesn't really give any other details at all, you really have no choice but to go and see for yourself. It is, therefore, incredibly time-consuming.
Still, there's no better way to get to know a city and find your way about.

Yesterday I walked 8km to view a place. I could have taken public transport - the way buses, trams and tubes link in with each other really is exceptional - but I argued with myself (I do that a lot) that walking would be a good way of getting a firm grip on the city. After all, it always bugs me about London that I never know where anything is in relation to anything else, because you travel like a mole, dropping down into an abyss in Kennington then snuffling back up again and 'Hey, It's Madame Tussauds!'

I passed the cathedral during bell-ringing practice, skirted the environs of the European Parliament and onwards and onwards, past the vast, intimidating European Commmission building and then into the beautiful Parc Du Cinquaintenaire.
The sudden change of pace, the vivid absence of street noise was delightful. Birdsong, at last.
Parakeets, emerald green with vibrant red beaks were shrieky, flashing among the bare branches, and gloriously unexpected; great tits, blue tits, a blackbird (hopping and listening, hopping and listening, still not ready to sing); crows wheeling, pigeon wings clapping, starlings doing that whistling thing they do.

I sat for a bit, just to listen, watch, and breath a little. The air is warmer now and having left the flat in multiple layers with hat, scarf and gloves, it was a chance to catch a cool breeze and, literally, chill, for a moment.

At the far end of the park, after passing underneath the huge triumphal arch and the sweeping u-shaped buildings of the museums is a lake with a fountain.
Unlike other water features which were shut down during the recent 'grand froid' this one was still in operation and, every few minutes or so, it shot forth a jet of water high into the air, smaller mini jets spewing at an angle all around it.
Ice had  taken a hold at the base: great lumps and bumps of it, like a strange collapsing dessert. As the water streamed out there was a kind of subterranean clunking, clocking, blocking sound, as if big chuncks of ice were being knocked together by the force of the water.
Those of us watching - and listening - stood for longer than we might have, convinced, I think, that the whole thing was about to blow its top.

Back into the frenzy of Brussels city traffic and across countless roads and junctions, never knowing whether anything will stop when you pop your foot onto a zebra crossing. It's always a bit fraught when, no matter how hard you think, your brain still won't remember at the crucial moment which way to look for oncoming traffic.
 The same pedestrian crossing system applies here, but whereas in the UK we have the 'beeps' of the little green man, over here the signposts emit an almost mechanical-sounding 'tinck tinck tinck tinck' when it's not safe to cross, turning to a frantic, tinny, 'tickertickertickerticker' when the traffic stops.

Woluwe St Pierre was the destination - a beautiful town/suburb. But it dawned pretty quickly during my route march as blisters started to form that this wouldn't be for us: simply too far away from the city centre.
Didn't I realise that when looking at the map??? Well yes, probably, but I wanted to explore and be sure.

After viewing the flat - beautiful inside but quite gloomy and, I'm sorry, me and the estate agent clearly have differing views on what constitutes a terrace (this was little more than a concrete windowsill) - I walked to the market square where the friterie was doing brisk business. Then, as the heavens opened, I dropped down into the Metro.

I think the people running the underground that day couldn't quite decide between hailing the singer Adele's success at the Grammy's or mourning Whitney Houston's tragic demise. So they opted for both: underground celebration and commiseration.
Each time the doors opened at the different stations between Stockel and St Catherine we were greeted by either 'Someone Like You' or 'I Will Always Love You' on a gush of warm air.

The former got a group of young teenage girls singing along to each other - English in a glorious French accent.
The latter quite got to me.
It's mawkish I know. But hearing it at this time of the year - when the 12th marks your death and the 16th your birth - well, we all put our own meaning on lyrics to suit the occasion, don't we Tomble?



xxxx