There and back again
May. 24th, 2004 06:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wojelahWell, we’re here. –Getting– here was, as seems to be the case lately anytime a journey beyond the grocery store is involved, a bit interesting. Fortunately, Marla, the other summer associate coming to Brussels from DC, is very good at NOT being neurotic, as I seem to have that niche well covered.
We left from Dulles, which is not a great sign to begin with. We made it through check in just as that very special “mysterious package” was discovered in Terminal C, thus effectively shutting down the airport entire, about, oh, an hour before we were supposed to leave. Which was interesting, especially given the three helicopters that arrived to hover outside the terminal until everything settled out. More interesting was the efficiency with which we made it through security after the fact – we made it through in time to board, and ended up leaving only about a half an hour behind schedule. At the time, that seemed pretty good.
My seatmate was great – Rory, from San Marcos, TX, a mere 40 minutes down the road. She had never left the country, and was on her way to London to work at a theater for the summer – the Globe, she hoped – and was doing research for a screenplay about a man who apparently revolutionized the way Shakespeare was performed in Germany in the late 1800s. So maybe it was in Prussia. Anyway. Also interesting was the family of seven (five boys) from Rochester, on their way to who knows where, all of whom were fluent in Russian and would frequently simply switch languages midsentence, generating the feeling in shameless eavesdroppers (read, me) that they were listening to John Cleese speaking nonsense. Less exciting were the continual and forbidding reminders from the stewardesses that those of us who’d chosen to travel steerage were utterly forbidden from crossing the no-longer curtained line between economy and business class, lest we violate some unknown law and bring the whole caste system crashing down about our ears.
Arriving in London, we took a mild bus tour of the airport en route to the next gate, and went through security to stand in line some more, only to find that Marla had arrived too late to check in and I couldn’t be switched to a later flight because my luggage was checked through. (Things also learned in the ticket line: there is a common tone of voice between husbands and wives in times of stress that requires no translation whatsoever.) Marla, fortunately, had the common sense to come down to the gate anyway, where the delightful individuals who work at British Midlands let her on the flight after discovering that, late arrival or no, her bags would’ve made it on the flight anyway. And thus we arrived in Brussels. A short taxi ride later, we arrived at our apartments (which are great, pictures to follow), and spent a half an hour or so exploring and pretending to unpack.
We live in the EU quarter, which is sort of like downtown DC at night: everyone leaves at night (and on the weekends). Translation: not a soul on the street. To the point that it feels slightly post-apocalyptic. A few hours of wandering in search of a bank found us at the central train station, acquiring sandwiches. We sat and ate on a bench a few blocks later, just off the Grand Place watching people, including two men in kilts and leather harness. That evening we managed to connect with the summers here from New York City and made our way to a fun Belgian restaurant serving bouillabasse in tureens large enough for my head. (Shut –up-.) Before heading out, we spent several minutes caught in the thrall of the BBC, watching a strange cross-breed of American Idol and ballroom dancing, color-coordinated by the people who evolved the “Classic” Crayola marker colors, with about the same degree of success in terms of not searing the eyeballs.
About half of Sunday was spent in the depths of a coma, swaddled in the duvet, enjoying the longest unbroken period of sleep since finals. On rebirth, the next (successful) adventure was finding one of the few grocery stores open in Brussels on a Sunday. Brimful of a sense of achievement, more napping ensued, followed by sushi and another successful experiment: figuring out how a trouser press functions. In French. I realize that this is not difficult, really, as using a trouser press really consists of opening the press, inserting trousers, closing the press, and pushing a button. I would point out, however, that it took me 36 hours in Copenhagen to figure out how to work a duvet cover, so clearly my learning curve is improving.
We left from Dulles, which is not a great sign to begin with. We made it through check in just as that very special “mysterious package” was discovered in Terminal C, thus effectively shutting down the airport entire, about, oh, an hour before we were supposed to leave. Which was interesting, especially given the three helicopters that arrived to hover outside the terminal until everything settled out. More interesting was the efficiency with which we made it through security after the fact – we made it through in time to board, and ended up leaving only about a half an hour behind schedule. At the time, that seemed pretty good.
My seatmate was great – Rory, from San Marcos, TX, a mere 40 minutes down the road. She had never left the country, and was on her way to London to work at a theater for the summer – the Globe, she hoped – and was doing research for a screenplay about a man who apparently revolutionized the way Shakespeare was performed in Germany in the late 1800s. So maybe it was in Prussia. Anyway. Also interesting was the family of seven (five boys) from Rochester, on their way to who knows where, all of whom were fluent in Russian and would frequently simply switch languages midsentence, generating the feeling in shameless eavesdroppers (read, me) that they were listening to John Cleese speaking nonsense. Less exciting were the continual and forbidding reminders from the stewardesses that those of us who’d chosen to travel steerage were utterly forbidden from crossing the no-longer curtained line between economy and business class, lest we violate some unknown law and bring the whole caste system crashing down about our ears.
Arriving in London, we took a mild bus tour of the airport en route to the next gate, and went through security to stand in line some more, only to find that Marla had arrived too late to check in and I couldn’t be switched to a later flight because my luggage was checked through. (Things also learned in the ticket line: there is a common tone of voice between husbands and wives in times of stress that requires no translation whatsoever.) Marla, fortunately, had the common sense to come down to the gate anyway, where the delightful individuals who work at British Midlands let her on the flight after discovering that, late arrival or no, her bags would’ve made it on the flight anyway. And thus we arrived in Brussels. A short taxi ride later, we arrived at our apartments (which are great, pictures to follow), and spent a half an hour or so exploring and pretending to unpack.
We live in the EU quarter, which is sort of like downtown DC at night: everyone leaves at night (and on the weekends). Translation: not a soul on the street. To the point that it feels slightly post-apocalyptic. A few hours of wandering in search of a bank found us at the central train station, acquiring sandwiches. We sat and ate on a bench a few blocks later, just off the Grand Place watching people, including two men in kilts and leather harness. That evening we managed to connect with the summers here from New York City and made our way to a fun Belgian restaurant serving bouillabasse in tureens large enough for my head. (Shut –up-.) Before heading out, we spent several minutes caught in the thrall of the BBC, watching a strange cross-breed of American Idol and ballroom dancing, color-coordinated by the people who evolved the “Classic” Crayola marker colors, with about the same degree of success in terms of not searing the eyeballs.
About half of Sunday was spent in the depths of a coma, swaddled in the duvet, enjoying the longest unbroken period of sleep since finals. On rebirth, the next (successful) adventure was finding one of the few grocery stores open in Brussels on a Sunday. Brimful of a sense of achievement, more napping ensued, followed by sushi and another successful experiment: figuring out how a trouser press functions. In French. I realize that this is not difficult, really, as using a trouser press really consists of opening the press, inserting trousers, closing the press, and pushing a button. I would point out, however, that it took me 36 hours in Copenhagen to figure out how to work a duvet cover, so clearly my learning curve is improving.
i'm too indie for livejournal, my adventures are independently hosted
Date: 2004-05-27 04:05 am (UTC)I'll be home in two days, then you'll hear from me. And I am awfully jealous that you are in the EU quarter when I am the EU expert, so maybe if I work eighty hours a week for the next month I can make airfare to visit before you go.
Probably not though. Bummer.
Re: i'm too indie for livejournal, my adventures are independently hosted
Date: 2004-05-27 04:43 am (UTC)Or beg the parents for advance assistance (Hi, parents!) (good luck.). The EU quarter is great during the week, but a little dead at night. I think this weekend's plans include Brugge on Saturday, then wandering Brussels. Tonight, I hope, is dinner with Evelyn's father, if we can ever manage to be next to the telephone at the same time - he's here on a business trip.
Re: i'm too indie for livejournal, my adventures are independently hosted
Date: 2004-05-30 10:25 pm (UTC)