Bug out day, pack up after six days in Paris and head to grey Brussels.
The bags pack quite easily so I am wondering what I've lost.
I've stopped laundering, as I think I have enough clean stuff to get me through and arrive home smelling like a polecat.
BTW what do polecats smell like?
Drag my bags up to Gard de Nord, where I am too early, of course. Watch the passing parade, have a coffee, chat to a couple of Australian's who are off to Iepers and a driving trip around France, and then onto the train.
Find my voiture and seat, throw my bags up on the rack, get settled in, open the computer and think, better check my seat number. I am in seat 22, my ticket says I should be in seat 33, Crap.
Nonchalantly, try and make my move look routine. I think I am the only one who cares.
Settle beside another guy who is on his iPad the whole time, we don't speak.
Skype Sue for a while as were going along, the train has WiFi, but not quick enough for Skype to work that well. We give up.
Brussels arrives after only 90 minutes, it's 11.30AM.
My bloody phone can't log into Maps, so I can't get directions to the YHA.
The taxi driver I grab has no idea and finally drops me at Gare du Central, I got out at Gare du Midi, EU 15.00 later. Turns out he wasn't that far off track as the YHA is about 200 metres away, but I don't know that, and don't have a map.
I find the Grand Market, I've been there before, grab a map from the Tourism Place and get directions from them.
All is well, book in, get rid of my luggage and head back to the Grand market for a walking tour.
Oh no. not another walking tour. Fraid so.
This goes from 2.30 to nearly 6.00PM, given by an Argentinian, who is here virtue of a Hungarian mother.
He is very good, full of facts, has his own views and we actually do some walking too.
We get the history of Belgium, who started Brussels, and how it ended up a schizophrenic city, in
rather schizophrenic country, with the Flemish, the Dutch and the others all vying for superiority.
Truly multilingual, but luckily for the poor old tourist most, except taxi drivers, speak English.
Brussels is waffles and chocolate, I have yet to try either.
Maybe tomorrow as a parting gesture.
Now I find myself in the basement of the YHA having a vin rouge, with loud music and a smoker.
I must be desperate.
As the sign on the door says "If the music is too loud, then you are too old". I think they're right, though it's the smoke that's really going to get me to bail out.
Photos later.
Pictures from Picasa
The bags pack quite easily so I am wondering what I've lost.
I've stopped laundering, as I think I have enough clean stuff to get me through and arrive home smelling like a polecat.
BTW what do polecats smell like?
Drag my bags up to Gard de Nord, where I am too early, of course. Watch the passing parade, have a coffee, chat to a couple of Australian's who are off to Iepers and a driving trip around France, and then onto the train.
Find my voiture and seat, throw my bags up on the rack, get settled in, open the computer and think, better check my seat number. I am in seat 22, my ticket says I should be in seat 33, Crap.
Nonchalantly, try and make my move look routine. I think I am the only one who cares.
Settle beside another guy who is on his iPad the whole time, we don't speak.
Skype Sue for a while as were going along, the train has WiFi, but not quick enough for Skype to work that well. We give up.
Brussels arrives after only 90 minutes, it's 11.30AM.
My bloody phone can't log into Maps, so I can't get directions to the YHA.
The taxi driver I grab has no idea and finally drops me at Gare du Central, I got out at Gare du Midi, EU 15.00 later. Turns out he wasn't that far off track as the YHA is about 200 metres away, but I don't know that, and don't have a map.
I find the Grand Market, I've been there before, grab a map from the Tourism Place and get directions from them.
All is well, book in, get rid of my luggage and head back to the Grand market for a walking tour.
Oh no. not another walking tour. Fraid so.
This goes from 2.30 to nearly 6.00PM, given by an Argentinian, who is here virtue of a Hungarian mother.
He is very good, full of facts, has his own views and we actually do some walking too.
We get the history of Belgium, who started Brussels, and how it ended up a schizophrenic city, in
rather schizophrenic country, with the Flemish, the Dutch and the others all vying for superiority.
Truly multilingual, but luckily for the poor old tourist most, except taxi drivers, speak English.
Brussels is waffles and chocolate, I have yet to try either.
Maybe tomorrow as a parting gesture.
Now I find myself in the basement of the YHA having a vin rouge, with loud music and a smoker.
I must be desperate.
As the sign on the door says "If the music is too loud, then you are too old". I think they're right, though it's the smoke that's really going to get me to bail out.
Photos later.
Pictures from Picasa
maybe the sign should have also said "If the smoke affends you are too healthy"?
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