The one thing which has always enfuriated me is being spoken to in a foreign language and being expected to understand. I live in Leuven, so I expect to speak Dutch wherever I go, but ever since I've been here, many people still insist on addressing me in English. I find this quite a nice touch from the Flemish, but they are taught foreign languages from a very early age. This doesn't happen so often now, as I've lost the accent and know the grammar pretty well. The Flemish love to show off their language skills. However, there is this anti-French Belgian streak in many, especially in Antwerp and the countryside. I put this down to one fatal flaw in the Belgian system: language education in schools.
You see, French-speaking Belgians, known as the Walloons, are notoriously monolingual. What doesn't help is that Brussels, a supposedly bilingual capital, is mainly French-speaking, even though during the working day the majority language is Dutch. On a recent promenade through Leuven, I heard a man shouting "monsieur, monsieur!" from his battered Ford Escort. Upon realising he was addressing me, I made my way to his car, to be asked for directions to the station. In French. In a Flemish town. Now if a Flemish guy pulled up in Charleroi and asked for directions in Dutch, there'd be a moment of silence before bewilderment, mirth and laughter in equal proportions. Here was a guy who knew that it just ain't the same in Flanders.
I replied to him firstly saying "how did you know I spoke French?" He replied that all Flemish people speak French. I pointed out to him that I was British and told him that, in the same way that he negligently missed his language classes as a child, I didn't take geography classes seriously and told him to ask someone who knew how to give directions, because I certainly couldn't. I mean, you'd think he'd even say something about his linguistic incompetencies, but no, nothing. So I sent him packing. But it doesn't stop there. I do the same sort of thing to English speakers too. I honestly don't mind helping someone out if they firstly make some kind of an effort, a word or two, or a gesture of apology for their incapabilities in Dutch.
Now, if I, as an outsider, start thinking like this, it doesn't require a leap of the imagination to understand what must be going through the heads of Flemish people. This has caused irreversible breakdown in the relations between the north and the south of Belgium.
There are other problems which don't help matters, for example the Flemish tabloid press. They are despicably anti-monarchy and anti-Walloon. They would do anything to create controversy, sell their dirty rags and get the Flemish out of the union with Wallonia, and take Brussels with them. Not all newspapers are like this, but you can tell the ones who are, by their blue logos. Another bee in the gutter press bonnet is, as I mentioned, the royal family. Even though they are weirdos they're royal weirdos and are the main reasons why Belgium still exists. And that's why the journalists are going out of their way to discredit them.
And then there's the difference in education. And what a difference it is. There are two main education systems in Belgium: the state system or the Catholic schools. Catholic schools are by far more disciplined and wide-ranging, and despite their affiliation, do teach Darwin and abortion. They cost a little, but are affordable even to the lower end of the wage scale. The state school system, like in most European countries, is a shambles where kids rule the roost and those who genuinely want to learn are marginalised. OK, there are also some good state schools and some bloody awful Catholic ones, but that's the general perception. A vast majority of Flemish send their children to Catholic schools, whereas in Wallonia state schools are in prominence. Thus the differences in knowledge, academic skills and career expectations are also large.
Popular culture is another thing: Walloons are happy to watch French language TV or French TV itself where everything is dubbed, so Chandler from Friends sounds like Daniel Auteuil and Sean Connery sounds like Yves Montand. On the Flemish side everything is subtitled for those who don't speak the language of the show or film. Since I started watching Flemish TV my reading ability has also improved. I can read much faster (you have to, before it disappears!) and even before I came to Flanders, I have always detested dubbing. Let us also remember that many Belgians also go to France on holiday in the summer, so even then the Walloons don't need to change languages.
We can also look at a thousand and one other things but I won't. What I want to say is that both sides have their flaws. How can a region like Flanders have such a great amount of xenophobes willing to vote for the Vlaams Belang (the Flemish nationalist separatist party) and yet be so culturally aware, so capable linguistically and so open to new cultures? And how can a region like Wallonia, always seeking inward investment, always desperate to create jobs, with wide open spaces for industry, be so backward-looking, introvert, and intransigent in reforming its 1960s-era social model?
The answer lies in there somewhere; I have yet to fathom it out...
Thursday 26 April 2007
Wednesday 25 April 2007
The trouble with smokers
I am a smoker. I don't smoke cigarettes - they're just chemical packages with fibreglass filters for that extra damaging affect. No, I smoke cigars but when working I smoke cigarillos as they're good for between meetings and lectures. I am also a social smoker. I like a good puff but I try to stand downwind outside so I don't blow any smoke into the faces of others. Inside I do my best to hold my cigar up in the air, which although it makes me look a little bit effeminate, at least means the trail of fog from the cigar doesn't end up in someone's face. And I never smoke if someone's eating, and God be my witness, never in the house of a non-smoker.
But it seems I'm rare.
Most smokers I come across have no sensitivity for passers-by, children, others in their vicinity or indeed where they do it: bus stops, entrances to buildings, dinner tables, etc. And you can find cigarette butts everywhere: pavements, gutters, floors, toilets, sometimes even dinnerplates and saucers. Those smokers are responsible for getting themselves banned from pubs, cafés and restaurants in Europe. They're the reason why smoking is top of the black list, even above noisy neighbours (more on them in a future article).
And I totally understand. I also hate it when someone smokes in my direction, despite being one myself. It is the attitude which bothers people, rather than the smoke itself. Before this article ends up being an apology for us smokers, there is another group of people that I totally despise, a group of people I can only term "health Nazis" due to their utter contempt for anyone who doesn't think exactly like them; one step up (or down if you like) from a health freak.
I am referring to the type of person who, despite standing downwind or out of pollution range, still insists on his/her vicinity to exclude the unholy sight of an object used for smoking. They make rude comments about smoking, or insult those they find don't adhere to their desire, no obligation, to breathe immaculate air. This is the same individual who is just a short migraine attack away from being a hypochondriac, a fitness freak, a season ticket holder to the doctor, a person who takes a day off work if they sneeze.
And worst of all, they usually keep the windows closed if there's a draft, even in August.
Last week I had the misfortune of experiencing one of these people. The lady in question was sitting in a smoking area of a café in Brussels. She insisted on waving her hand in front of her face, despite my smoke rising to the ventilator. Then she looked at me and in that dismissive way closed her eyes in my direction and turned disgustedly away to look out of the window with such a condescending smirk, I got the feeling she'd been practising. Don't forget, this is the type of boil-in-the-bag health Nazi who never tells you to your face, but makes it perfectly clear through hints, gesticulations and acts of desperation. When the magazine came out of her bag and she waved it about, a sure sign of aggression, I had had enough and felt the need to intervene.
I casually ambled over to her and asked her if there was a problem. Upon being told there was, and would I please not smoke, I referred her to the smoking zone signs. She said that it wasn't the point. What she didn't know was that I saw her arrive. I referred to the huge metal hulk of Japanese 4x4 Toyota Jeep People Carrying Petrol Consuming Off-Road Quango parked across the road.
"Is that your Jeep?" I asked.
"Yes," she replied.
"You drove it here?"
"Yes, why?"
"Because considering the smoke my little stick gives off compared to your 4x4, I don't think you have much of a case against me."
Three uses for a health Nazi:
Remove all their nerves and use them as fishing lines. With their levels of stress, their nerves must be really stiff.
Employ them at airports. They'll be just as effective as sniffer dogs but will be able to tell the handlers what substances the suspect is carrying.
If you're famous and unpopular, or a terrorist target, get them to open your mail. It'll show them what it really feels like to be close to death.
And how to get rid of them:
Buy all the health food shops and fitness centres, close them all down, and sell them on to developers with a clause in the contract which states, that under no circumstances, should they be reverted to what those buildings were before.
Bribe your local newspapers to print an article stating that smoking is now compulsory in all restaurants.
But it seems I'm rare.
Most smokers I come across have no sensitivity for passers-by, children, others in their vicinity or indeed where they do it: bus stops, entrances to buildings, dinner tables, etc. And you can find cigarette butts everywhere: pavements, gutters, floors, toilets, sometimes even dinnerplates and saucers. Those smokers are responsible for getting themselves banned from pubs, cafés and restaurants in Europe. They're the reason why smoking is top of the black list, even above noisy neighbours (more on them in a future article).
And I totally understand. I also hate it when someone smokes in my direction, despite being one myself. It is the attitude which bothers people, rather than the smoke itself. Before this article ends up being an apology for us smokers, there is another group of people that I totally despise, a group of people I can only term "health Nazis" due to their utter contempt for anyone who doesn't think exactly like them; one step up (or down if you like) from a health freak.
I am referring to the type of person who, despite standing downwind or out of pollution range, still insists on his/her vicinity to exclude the unholy sight of an object used for smoking. They make rude comments about smoking, or insult those they find don't adhere to their desire, no obligation, to breathe immaculate air. This is the same individual who is just a short migraine attack away from being a hypochondriac, a fitness freak, a season ticket holder to the doctor, a person who takes a day off work if they sneeze.
And worst of all, they usually keep the windows closed if there's a draft, even in August.
Last week I had the misfortune of experiencing one of these people. The lady in question was sitting in a smoking area of a café in Brussels. She insisted on waving her hand in front of her face, despite my smoke rising to the ventilator. Then she looked at me and in that dismissive way closed her eyes in my direction and turned disgustedly away to look out of the window with such a condescending smirk, I got the feeling she'd been practising. Don't forget, this is the type of boil-in-the-bag health Nazi who never tells you to your face, but makes it perfectly clear through hints, gesticulations and acts of desperation. When the magazine came out of her bag and she waved it about, a sure sign of aggression, I had had enough and felt the need to intervene.
I casually ambled over to her and asked her if there was a problem. Upon being told there was, and would I please not smoke, I referred her to the smoking zone signs. She said that it wasn't the point. What she didn't know was that I saw her arrive. I referred to the huge metal hulk of Japanese 4x4 Toyota Jeep People Carrying Petrol Consuming Off-Road Quango parked across the road.
"Is that your Jeep?" I asked.
"Yes," she replied.
"You drove it here?"
"Yes, why?"
"Because considering the smoke my little stick gives off compared to your 4x4, I don't think you have much of a case against me."
Three uses for a health Nazi:
Remove all their nerves and use them as fishing lines. With their levels of stress, their nerves must be really stiff.
Employ them at airports. They'll be just as effective as sniffer dogs but will be able to tell the handlers what substances the suspect is carrying.
If you're famous and unpopular, or a terrorist target, get them to open your mail. It'll show them what it really feels like to be close to death.
And how to get rid of them:
Buy all the health food shops and fitness centres, close them all down, and sell them on to developers with a clause in the contract which states, that under no circumstances, should they be reverted to what those buildings were before.
Bribe your local newspapers to print an article stating that smoking is now compulsory in all restaurants.
Tuesday 24 April 2007
Boris Yeltsin 1931-2007
Boris Yeltsin, that beacon of hedonistic governance, passed away this week, taking with him the decadent lawlessness he fostered during the "Wild East" period of the nineties. I can't say I'm too sad about it. Under Yeltsin, rampant capitalism unseen in Europe until then took hold, allowing former Communist Party members, ex-KGB agents and gravy train riders to pillage the country of its natural resources and set up vast commercial enterprises which led to the rise of the oligarchs and their own rule of law.
Vladimir Putin has the right idea, trying to rein them in, but their walled-off tax havens outside Moscow mean they have made themselves virtually untouchable. Changes in the law and imaginative criminalisation have dampened the Yeltsin-era grab for cash, only to be replaced with draconian limits on freedom. When I was in Russia in the early nineties, there were a lot of bandits roaming free, ripping the poor off, making a grab for anything they could, and it worked well. Some of these have ended up painting their living rooms gold and thinking nothing of buying multinational companies as "playthings". They rent whole hotels in the Mediterranean so they don't have to mix with ordinary tourists. They shamelessly buy works of art for double the price to outbid any rivals. They know no compassion. They evacuate whole tower blocks on land they've bought to redevelop, ejecting families onto the streets with 24 hours' notice. These "people" have no upbringing. To put it bluntly, all the money in the world doesn't buy class. They'll still be the children and grandchildren of the Communist proletariat.
To think European and North American shareholders and owners let them purchase whatever they want just shows us what sort of people run our world. How did this all start? Boris Yeltsin made the biggest mistake in Russian history by freeing up the markets overnight, permitting everyone to have a share in Russia's wealth. Most Russians, finding themselves on the poverty line, did nothing more than sell their shares to the aggressive and persuasive New Russian entrepreneurs to feed their families. Result? A very small, elite pack of all-powerful, blood-sucking, unethical monsters who keep all the money while Russians continue to starve.
Vladimir Putin has remained popular during his term as President because ordinary people put their own needs over civil liberties. Russians have never known true freedom in the European sense, and thus know no different, but many are happy that Yeltsin's successor didn't allow their desolate situation to get even more extreme. It just amazes me that not only in Russia, but outside, governments, companies and even charity organisations feel the need to economise year after year, to assure the bank balance looks larger and profit margins greater. This is rampant capitalism on cocaine. Why do we find companies shedding jobs, frowning on pension schemes, cutting down on holiday time, bringing in the cheapest outsourced companies to do the manual tasks, even reducing travel allowances for people to get to work? Simply to bring greater profits to the shareholders, owners and directors: the Pharoahs of the 21st century.
I don't put the culpability at the door of the former Russian leader, but he helped make it acceptable in Russia. What has this led to in Europe? We dare not criticise Russia, or our gas will be switched off, Ukraine-style. So EU leaders pussyfoot around pretending to be great friends of Russia whilst behind their backs looking for ways out of the deal.
And what of the future? Russia is on the frontiers of the EU, a possible candidate. If it applies one day, we can't treat them like we do to Turkey. Russia won't accept being handled as second-class: we'd have to let them in. Imagine the power it would have. We might as well change the name from European Union to Russian Union. Or why don't we just go back to calling it the Soviet Union? The great dream of Stalin and Lenin will finally be realised: if invasion doesn't work, just buy the place.
Vladimir Putin has the right idea, trying to rein them in, but their walled-off tax havens outside Moscow mean they have made themselves virtually untouchable. Changes in the law and imaginative criminalisation have dampened the Yeltsin-era grab for cash, only to be replaced with draconian limits on freedom. When I was in Russia in the early nineties, there were a lot of bandits roaming free, ripping the poor off, making a grab for anything they could, and it worked well. Some of these have ended up painting their living rooms gold and thinking nothing of buying multinational companies as "playthings". They rent whole hotels in the Mediterranean so they don't have to mix with ordinary tourists. They shamelessly buy works of art for double the price to outbid any rivals. They know no compassion. They evacuate whole tower blocks on land they've bought to redevelop, ejecting families onto the streets with 24 hours' notice. These "people" have no upbringing. To put it bluntly, all the money in the world doesn't buy class. They'll still be the children and grandchildren of the Communist proletariat.
To think European and North American shareholders and owners let them purchase whatever they want just shows us what sort of people run our world. How did this all start? Boris Yeltsin made the biggest mistake in Russian history by freeing up the markets overnight, permitting everyone to have a share in Russia's wealth. Most Russians, finding themselves on the poverty line, did nothing more than sell their shares to the aggressive and persuasive New Russian entrepreneurs to feed their families. Result? A very small, elite pack of all-powerful, blood-sucking, unethical monsters who keep all the money while Russians continue to starve.
Vladimir Putin has remained popular during his term as President because ordinary people put their own needs over civil liberties. Russians have never known true freedom in the European sense, and thus know no different, but many are happy that Yeltsin's successor didn't allow their desolate situation to get even more extreme. It just amazes me that not only in Russia, but outside, governments, companies and even charity organisations feel the need to economise year after year, to assure the bank balance looks larger and profit margins greater. This is rampant capitalism on cocaine. Why do we find companies shedding jobs, frowning on pension schemes, cutting down on holiday time, bringing in the cheapest outsourced companies to do the manual tasks, even reducing travel allowances for people to get to work? Simply to bring greater profits to the shareholders, owners and directors: the Pharoahs of the 21st century.
I don't put the culpability at the door of the former Russian leader, but he helped make it acceptable in Russia. What has this led to in Europe? We dare not criticise Russia, or our gas will be switched off, Ukraine-style. So EU leaders pussyfoot around pretending to be great friends of Russia whilst behind their backs looking for ways out of the deal.
And what of the future? Russia is on the frontiers of the EU, a possible candidate. If it applies one day, we can't treat them like we do to Turkey. Russia won't accept being handled as second-class: we'd have to let them in. Imagine the power it would have. We might as well change the name from European Union to Russian Union. Or why don't we just go back to calling it the Soviet Union? The great dream of Stalin and Lenin will finally be realised: if invasion doesn't work, just buy the place.
Monday 23 April 2007
Barbecues in April
When I was a boy, we had four seasons: drizzly and windy spring, humid and breezy summer, precipitous and blustery autumn and a soaking, gusty, stormy, soggy winter. All right, it wasn't all wind and rain, but the weather was so much more difficult to predict. You could have a glorious summer morning outside your window, but the weather forecast would predict a cold front coming in. You knew that was the cue to take your raincoat with you even if the skies were clear overhead.
Last week a bank of wind and rain had just crossed the Atlantic. In the good old days we would have taken the plants inside and walked the dog before the change in the weather's mood. Nowadays, it's just impossible to read into the tea leaves of meteorology. It's in fact pointless. This wind and rain which was forecast swept in and by the time it reached Leuven it was just a paper-thin blanket of grey residue which would not even have filled the dancefloor at the Red and Blue club in Antwerp. As for the wind, I could breathe out more forcefully whilst yawning.
We haven't had a single drop of rain in Belgium this month and it's only a week until its conclusion. Anyone transported forward in time from 1980 would think it was high summer. This is how summers were for me. Not now. I sunbathed on my roof terrace in next to nothing on 13th April this year. I remember sitting in the evening on a café terrace with my colleagues in Brussels on 2nd February.
Now, you may think I'm building up to saying that this summer is going to be a roaster, but you would be wrong. I believe the earth is an intelligent multi-tasking planet with capabilities far beyond current human understanding. I in fact believe that Mother Earth has a built-in thermostat. She recompenses hot weather with cloud and periods of dull skies. Remember the baking hot summer of 2003? I do. I spent most of it in Rotselaar lake with just my head and hands out of the water holding a book wearing nothing more than a wide-brimmed hat. It was almost consistently 30 degrees from mid-June until mid-September. Unrepeatable weather. Since then our planet has tempered its displays of scorching hot sun with rather unpredictable phases of shadow.
I believe climate change is taking place, but not in the way predicted. It might get warmer, ice caps may melt, seas could rise and flooding is our possible destiny. However, I can't see how the earth would allow the sun to penetrate as much as the prophets of the apocalypse like to keep on reminding us day after day. I can see why they're doing it: they're not sure themselves, but it gets a little too much when we see TV serials about mega-hurricanes and storms the size of Europe. I think that the reason why the Americans have not yet entered into any serious discussion about climate change is either because they think it already too late so better just let it happen and deal with it as it occurs or because, as is my view, they understand that this planet will deal with it in its own way. I think the future is in fact global cooling, not warming, although for the time being it will keep getting hotter until the terrestrial thermostat is switched onto winter setting and barbecues in April will once again be a thing of the past. Indeed, July barbecues might end up being the luxury of Moroccans, Mexicans and Malaysians.
I can see the time when migration picks up further and people on an even greater scale start a mass exodus for Cordoba, Calabria and Corfu. I for one will be happy to play once more in the snow and find a use for my Crombie coats again.
Advantages of global warming:
Longer open-air concert seasons
Enormous strawberries
The British olive oil market will quadruple each year
Holidays at the Baltic will become fashionable
You won't have to go to Madagascar to see the meerkat: it'll be in Hampshire
Roadsigns will read, "Welcome to Kent, the Serengeti of England"
Outdoor snooker centres
Disadvantages of global warming:
Your washing will get eaten by gazelle and antelope
More Spanish tourists will venture northwards
The heating will still remain on in your office
The Rhine will become the widest motorway in Europe
No more skipping work because of snow
Aspects of global cooling:
No more sweaty stink emanating from the mound of gristle sitting next to you on the tram
The Winter Olympics can enter new territory
Christmas songs about Jack Frost, snow and sleighbells will have more relevance
Fruit flies in your kitchen will be obsolete
Last week a bank of wind and rain had just crossed the Atlantic. In the good old days we would have taken the plants inside and walked the dog before the change in the weather's mood. Nowadays, it's just impossible to read into the tea leaves of meteorology. It's in fact pointless. This wind and rain which was forecast swept in and by the time it reached Leuven it was just a paper-thin blanket of grey residue which would not even have filled the dancefloor at the Red and Blue club in Antwerp. As for the wind, I could breathe out more forcefully whilst yawning.
We haven't had a single drop of rain in Belgium this month and it's only a week until its conclusion. Anyone transported forward in time from 1980 would think it was high summer. This is how summers were for me. Not now. I sunbathed on my roof terrace in next to nothing on 13th April this year. I remember sitting in the evening on a café terrace with my colleagues in Brussels on 2nd February.
Now, you may think I'm building up to saying that this summer is going to be a roaster, but you would be wrong. I believe the earth is an intelligent multi-tasking planet with capabilities far beyond current human understanding. I in fact believe that Mother Earth has a built-in thermostat. She recompenses hot weather with cloud and periods of dull skies. Remember the baking hot summer of 2003? I do. I spent most of it in Rotselaar lake with just my head and hands out of the water holding a book wearing nothing more than a wide-brimmed hat. It was almost consistently 30 degrees from mid-June until mid-September. Unrepeatable weather. Since then our planet has tempered its displays of scorching hot sun with rather unpredictable phases of shadow.
I believe climate change is taking place, but not in the way predicted. It might get warmer, ice caps may melt, seas could rise and flooding is our possible destiny. However, I can't see how the earth would allow the sun to penetrate as much as the prophets of the apocalypse like to keep on reminding us day after day. I can see why they're doing it: they're not sure themselves, but it gets a little too much when we see TV serials about mega-hurricanes and storms the size of Europe. I think that the reason why the Americans have not yet entered into any serious discussion about climate change is either because they think it already too late so better just let it happen and deal with it as it occurs or because, as is my view, they understand that this planet will deal with it in its own way. I think the future is in fact global cooling, not warming, although for the time being it will keep getting hotter until the terrestrial thermostat is switched onto winter setting and barbecues in April will once again be a thing of the past. Indeed, July barbecues might end up being the luxury of Moroccans, Mexicans and Malaysians.
I can see the time when migration picks up further and people on an even greater scale start a mass exodus for Cordoba, Calabria and Corfu. I for one will be happy to play once more in the snow and find a use for my Crombie coats again.
Advantages of global warming:
Longer open-air concert seasons
Enormous strawberries
The British olive oil market will quadruple each year
Holidays at the Baltic will become fashionable
You won't have to go to Madagascar to see the meerkat: it'll be in Hampshire
Roadsigns will read, "Welcome to Kent, the Serengeti of England"
Outdoor snooker centres
Disadvantages of global warming:
Your washing will get eaten by gazelle and antelope
More Spanish tourists will venture northwards
The heating will still remain on in your office
The Rhine will become the widest motorway in Europe
No more skipping work because of snow
Aspects of global cooling:
No more sweaty stink emanating from the mound of gristle sitting next to you on the tram
The Winter Olympics can enter new territory
Christmas songs about Jack Frost, snow and sleighbells will have more relevance
Fruit flies in your kitchen will be obsolete
Sunday 22 April 2007
Public Transport In Brussels
If there's one thing which marks me as different from other people in my profession and stage of life, it is that I don't drive. This means I can spend more money on enjoying my life rather than burning more fuel while wasting cash on a thing that will be obsolete in 20 years when all the petrol runs out. I wear expensive clothes, I eat game and play golf. I am 33 years old and I refuse to get a driving licence, but this is becoming increasingly difficult. You see, Belgium is a federalised country, and its three main regions don't like to co-operate with each other. Living in Leuven, Flanders, and working in Brussels, the Capital Region, means I have to change public transport companies in order to get to my place of work each day.
I get a Flemish bus to Tervuren on the outskirts of Brussels each day, and then I change to the number 44 tram to Montgomery metro station, where I go three stops to Maalbeek and walk. On a good day when they all coincide, this takes 45 minutes to an hour. Problem is this is rare. The timetable for the number 44 tram is a great piece of fiction. The greatest piece of fiction, in the words of Edmund Blackadder, since vows of fidelity were included in the French marriage ceremony. They may as well write the football results, or the weather forecast for the coming season. At least there'd be some truth in it.
My Flemish bus is about 5 minutes late each day, because it speeds up on the main highway and arrives on time or even early in Tervuren. Then I walk across the road to the Brussels tram. Then everything goes wrong. I look each day at the timetable to see if it is the same one and I wait for it to leave at 18 past. But it doesn't. The driver reads his paper, smokes, or chats to the other drivers behind him in the queue for the next departures after his. Then he sees the passengers getting impatient and he departs. The one after the 18 past is the 32 past, but he's left at 25 past. So is he the late 18 past or the early 32 past?
Should I buy a car? Where on earth would I park it in Brussels? How much does it cost to run a car per year? And then the driving tuition costs a fortune here. The nanny state demands that each individual takes 20 hours of driving tuition before even considering taking a test.
Advantages:
Go anywhere you want
Go shopping less often because you can fill your car up with as much as possible
Avoid the mp3 players of the neanderthals who sit in the back of buses playing their noise
Leave work when you want
Go out in Brussels until after midnight
Take all the costs off your taxes
Disadvantages:
No more excuses to not visit those eccentric acquaintances in the country who keep inviting you for coffee and naked backgammon
Transport bills quadruple
The urge to run over cyclists or annoying pedestrians would eventually be fulfilled
You can't read or prepare your day ahead while driving
You can't talk on the phone or finish off your appearance while driving, although Brussels drivers don't necessarily adhere to this rule
You can't flirt with other passengers unless you carpool - and then you have to hope your passenger is not a 40-year-old bloke in dungarees with sweat patches under the arms
Or should I stick with the public transport?
Advantages:
You can prepare the day ahead without one hand on the steering wheel
You can look in the shop windows without worrying about causing damage to the car in front
You can get away with admiring passers-by without steering your car into a rubbish collector
Your only fiscal worry is whether the ticket machine works
You don't need to negotiate your tram into a tiny parking space
Disadvantages:
You need to stand in the right place the bus pulls up or you're last on - Belgians have no concept of justice when it comes to who was there first
You need to drag your wheeliebag on and off each time you change
You have to make sure you are holding on as soon as possible or you can find yourself lying on top of the person behind - Brussels public transport drivers love their pedals
You are forced to listen to the incoherent nonsense of the passengers around you
You can't do anything about the baboons with earphones who think everyone else should have an interest in their music
You meet the same people each day for years and they STILL don't say hello to you
So all-in-all, the disadvantages outweigh the advantages each time. This implies that whatever you do, you're never going to be satisfied.
I get a Flemish bus to Tervuren on the outskirts of Brussels each day, and then I change to the number 44 tram to Montgomery metro station, where I go three stops to Maalbeek and walk. On a good day when they all coincide, this takes 45 minutes to an hour. Problem is this is rare. The timetable for the number 44 tram is a great piece of fiction. The greatest piece of fiction, in the words of Edmund Blackadder, since vows of fidelity were included in the French marriage ceremony. They may as well write the football results, or the weather forecast for the coming season. At least there'd be some truth in it.
My Flemish bus is about 5 minutes late each day, because it speeds up on the main highway and arrives on time or even early in Tervuren. Then I walk across the road to the Brussels tram. Then everything goes wrong. I look each day at the timetable to see if it is the same one and I wait for it to leave at 18 past. But it doesn't. The driver reads his paper, smokes, or chats to the other drivers behind him in the queue for the next departures after his. Then he sees the passengers getting impatient and he departs. The one after the 18 past is the 32 past, but he's left at 25 past. So is he the late 18 past or the early 32 past?
Should I buy a car? Where on earth would I park it in Brussels? How much does it cost to run a car per year? And then the driving tuition costs a fortune here. The nanny state demands that each individual takes 20 hours of driving tuition before even considering taking a test.
Advantages:
Go anywhere you want
Go shopping less often because you can fill your car up with as much as possible
Avoid the mp3 players of the neanderthals who sit in the back of buses playing their noise
Leave work when you want
Go out in Brussels until after midnight
Take all the costs off your taxes
Disadvantages:
No more excuses to not visit those eccentric acquaintances in the country who keep inviting you for coffee and naked backgammon
Transport bills quadruple
The urge to run over cyclists or annoying pedestrians would eventually be fulfilled
You can't read or prepare your day ahead while driving
You can't talk on the phone or finish off your appearance while driving, although Brussels drivers don't necessarily adhere to this rule
You can't flirt with other passengers unless you carpool - and then you have to hope your passenger is not a 40-year-old bloke in dungarees with sweat patches under the arms
Or should I stick with the public transport?
Advantages:
You can prepare the day ahead without one hand on the steering wheel
You can look in the shop windows without worrying about causing damage to the car in front
You can get away with admiring passers-by without steering your car into a rubbish collector
Your only fiscal worry is whether the ticket machine works
You don't need to negotiate your tram into a tiny parking space
Disadvantages:
You need to stand in the right place the bus pulls up or you're last on - Belgians have no concept of justice when it comes to who was there first
You need to drag your wheeliebag on and off each time you change
You have to make sure you are holding on as soon as possible or you can find yourself lying on top of the person behind - Brussels public transport drivers love their pedals
You are forced to listen to the incoherent nonsense of the passengers around you
You can't do anything about the baboons with earphones who think everyone else should have an interest in their music
You meet the same people each day for years and they STILL don't say hello to you
So all-in-all, the disadvantages outweigh the advantages each time. This implies that whatever you do, you're never going to be satisfied.
Saturday 21 April 2007
Raymond Goslitski's first bloguette
Hello, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Raymond Goslitski and I used to live in Leuven, Belgium. I moved to Wiltingen in Germany in April 2008 to enjoy a more rural way of life. From my name you will deduce that I am not of Belgian or German origin, and you will be right, for I was obviously born in Kent, UK. And my name is as British as the Royal Navy. Actually, it's Polish-Russian, but mainly Polish with a French spelling.
It all started with the aristocratic lines of a Szlachta (aristocratic) dynasty in Poland in a small village near Płock in the centre of the country. My ancestors were originally from that village which even now only accommodates 24 people and a few domestic animals, therefore people with my surname are pretty rare. Even rarer, considering the spelling was changed from the original.
This occurred at the beginning of the 20th century when my grandfather, the young Eugene Alexander Goslitski, left Batumi, Georgia, where his father was apparently working with the Rothschilds, although no record of him is located there, and headed for France. He received his education there and almost became a Catholic priest, but fortunately he liked women too much, or I would never have been born. His guardians, an uncle and an aunt, whose names I think I now know, were not very nice to him and he decided to go to sea.
He trained as an engineer and joined the merchant navy where his chances took him to Montréal and from there to London. He met his future wife, Florence Maud Petterson, and produced eight children, one of which was my father.
The reason for the change in spelling in the name is quite simple, and as a linguist, I am in the perfect position to tell you this, having a degree in this area, but I won't because I would prefer to tell you once I have all the family documented and the history is clear.
My family history is still a little cloudy, but one of the leading ancestors was known for contributing to the compilation of the Polish Commonwealth Constitution almost two centuries after his death. He wrote a forward-thinking paper and many of his words are visible in other constitutions today, including the US.
I am still tracking the complete story of what happened between 1607 and 1900, but I am sure I will get there in the end. I am reading up on the family line, and although all the material is in Polish, I, along with some of Europe's finest translators, will piece together the respective information. I do not intend to reveal too many details about things until I am sure of the facts, because I want to make sure they are totally correct. Furthermore, an artist never reveals the painting until it is complete. I also don't believe in giving out information for free, especially if I am doing the legwork. I have enough family in the UK who, if they were really interested, could pop along to the National Archives and check it out for themselves. But from Germany it gets expensive. I have already been once in March 2009 to the National Archives, despite asking others to go there. Still, if you want a job done, better do it yourself. So much for teamwork. And even if the person I asked to go went, I haven't heard back. So much for trust.
I am planning a trip to Poland in summer, and eventually Marseille and Montréal. More nearer the time.
What do I do? I am a language trainer and linguistic adviser for international institutions, formerly in Brussels, now in Luxembourg, and my passion is language. I hope to go into more detail about this in future blogs. I also enjoy photography, and although this is only a hobby, I enact my fantasies through photography on a frequent basis. My photo-website is http://www.goslitski.net/.
I don't talk much about the rest of my private life because there are some things I like to save for myself, but I hope to add my own contribution to the ever-crowded space on the Internet and who knows? Someone might actually read this stuff!
It all started with the aristocratic lines of a Szlachta (aristocratic) dynasty in Poland in a small village near Płock in the centre of the country. My ancestors were originally from that village which even now only accommodates 24 people and a few domestic animals, therefore people with my surname are pretty rare. Even rarer, considering the spelling was changed from the original.
This occurred at the beginning of the 20th century when my grandfather, the young Eugene Alexander Goslitski, left Batumi, Georgia, where his father was apparently working with the Rothschilds, although no record of him is located there, and headed for France. He received his education there and almost became a Catholic priest, but fortunately he liked women too much, or I would never have been born. His guardians, an uncle and an aunt, whose names I think I now know, were not very nice to him and he decided to go to sea.
He trained as an engineer and joined the merchant navy where his chances took him to Montréal and from there to London. He met his future wife, Florence Maud Petterson, and produced eight children, one of which was my father.
The reason for the change in spelling in the name is quite simple, and as a linguist, I am in the perfect position to tell you this, having a degree in this area, but I won't because I would prefer to tell you once I have all the family documented and the history is clear.
My family history is still a little cloudy, but one of the leading ancestors was known for contributing to the compilation of the Polish Commonwealth Constitution almost two centuries after his death. He wrote a forward-thinking paper and many of his words are visible in other constitutions today, including the US.
I am still tracking the complete story of what happened between 1607 and 1900, but I am sure I will get there in the end. I am reading up on the family line, and although all the material is in Polish, I, along with some of Europe's finest translators, will piece together the respective information. I do not intend to reveal too many details about things until I am sure of the facts, because I want to make sure they are totally correct. Furthermore, an artist never reveals the painting until it is complete. I also don't believe in giving out information for free, especially if I am doing the legwork. I have enough family in the UK who, if they were really interested, could pop along to the National Archives and check it out for themselves. But from Germany it gets expensive. I have already been once in March 2009 to the National Archives, despite asking others to go there. Still, if you want a job done, better do it yourself. So much for teamwork. And even if the person I asked to go went, I haven't heard back. So much for trust.
I am planning a trip to Poland in summer, and eventually Marseille and Montréal. More nearer the time.
What do I do? I am a language trainer and linguistic adviser for international institutions, formerly in Brussels, now in Luxembourg, and my passion is language. I hope to go into more detail about this in future blogs. I also enjoy photography, and although this is only a hobby, I enact my fantasies through photography on a frequent basis. My photo-website is http://www.goslitski.net/.
I don't talk much about the rest of my private life because there are some things I like to save for myself, but I hope to add my own contribution to the ever-crowded space on the Internet and who knows? Someone might actually read this stuff!
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