Brussels (and not a sprout to be seen)

And so I found myself at Heathrow airport, sleep-deprived, time-confused and in desperate need of a shower. Unfortunately my journey had not yet ended - I still needed to get across London, the destination being The Cousin's flat in Clapham. Joy of joys, I was to lug my case and bags in and out of a multitude of trains. First, I needed a UK SIM card for my mobile. After enquiring in Boots, I was directed towards a vending machine - yes, it seems vending machines are not just for highly calorific snacks and drinks, but also for SIM cards. How very Japanese of us. It cost me £10 so naturally I assumed that it contained credit. Not wanting to waste any more time, I zoomed down to the Heathrow Express (after purchasing a disgustingly expensive ticket for the fifteen minute journey) and hopped onto an awaiting train. So far, so good. Knowing that I would be heading straight for the tube (which, being built over one hundred and fifty years ago, does not have mobile reception) I texted The Cousin to let her know approximately when I would be arriving so she could meet me at the station. I pressed send and nothing happened. I pressed it again - nothing. It would appear that in England £10 will only buy you the SIM and not any credit. This was going to be an expensive holiday.

As soon as I got to Paddington, I rushed into W H Smiths and bought some credit, texted The Cousin and went through to the Tube (not before getting my case stuck in the turnstile,causing an alarm to go off, holding up everyone behind me and getting told off by the mean attendant for not using the disabled turnstile). Now the fun began. I had to change trains twice, navigating my way through narrow tunnels, steep staircases and crowded escalators with a large, heavy suitcase, a handbag and a holdall. Of course, Londoners are far too busy to be able to stop and help a clearly struggling woman with her bags. Big, beefy men would rush past me, barely glancing my way as I hauled my case up one step at a time. On top of all this, I was roasting in my jeans - the Tube is a sweaty, sticky, smelly place to be in the summer. I was not having fun.

I eventually arrived at Clapham Common station to find no sign of The Cousin. I pulled out my mobile to find a text message reading 'Who are you? I don't know you. Have you got the wrong number?' Unless The Cousin had had a severe case of memory loss, she should have realised that it was me texting her so the only assumption to make was that I had the wrong number for her. After making a fraught call to her mum, I got the correct number and called her. By this point, two and a half hours had passed since I had landed so she was beginning to think that she had indeed lost her memory, completely forgetting which day I was arriving. She whizzed around to the station and walked me back to her flat. Finally, I could relax. After a cup of tea and a shower I was feeling much better. After a couple of glasses of wine I was feeling better still. And after a pub meal and half a bottle of very nice rose I was feeling just fabulous.

Thankfully, I slept well and woke feeling almost refreshed. Today I was to meet The Girls at St. Pancras to catch the Eurostar to Brussels. C'est plus excitant! St. Pancras was hit by several periods of high-pitched squealing as one by one we met up for the first time in eighteen months. This happy reunion was only slightly blighted by the fact that I found I couldn't withdraw any money as the bank was declining authorisation. After a twenty minute conversation with them that got me nowhere, we had to board so one of The Girls very kindly lent me some euros (it later turned out that I had been sent a new visa card in January which clearly didn't get to me). Shortly after boarding the train we popped the pink fizz - deemed absolutely necessary for such a momentous occasion - and I began relaying to them all what life is like in Australia. Our carriage seemed to be the quietest in rail history so I'm sure everyone on the train knew my entire life history by the end of the journey.

My suitcase, which I have now named The Beast, proved to be tricky to get down the steps of the train so I made a lot of 'this is very heavy and I am having difficulty lifting it' type noises and, lo and behold, a kind man helped me - the first since I had arrived. I don't think he was from London, so that's probably why. Brussels Metro caused me further suitcase problems, but at least most of the stations had lifts, albeit officially the slowest lifts in the world.      

Our group of seven friends from uni were in Brussels, the capital of Belgium and the administrative centre of the European Union, to visit our good friend Cath, who has been living over there for a couple of years. To be honest, it is a miracle that all of us managed to get ourselves over there together - we're hardly ever available all at the same time, obviously especially now that I live on the other side of the world. We spent a wonderful long weekend walking the streets of Brussels, taking it all in and visiting the main sights, making a day trip to the beautiful city of Ghent, and of course eating waffles and moules frites and drinking copious amounts of Belgian beer - well, we had to try as many different ones as possible, it would have been rude not to! One such beer was called Westmalle Triple and was 9.5%, nearly as strong as wine.I drank this at the end of the night which, in hindsight, was probably not a good idea and probably explained why I was seeing four of one of The Friends' heads later on. It later became clear that 9.5% was nothing - the strongest Belgian beer is a whopping 12%. Definitely one to be approached with caution and respect - you certainly wouldn't gulp down a pint of wine and similar restraint must be upheld with beers of this strength. We had the chance to try a number of different beers at a bar we were taken to on the second night which sold over two thousand beers - now, that's a challenge! Unfortunately, my jet-lagged body would only allow me two, both of which were very nice. I avoided the one that smelt and tasted of a rugby player's armpit for obvious reasons. I left earlier than some of the others and apparently missed dancing on tables, free hugs given by a random man, and a girl wearing a sequined bikini. One of The Girls fell as soon as she stumbled into the bedroom, before proceeding to crawl across the floor, ending up getting herself stuck in the wardrobe. Another danced in the toilet to her i-pod for an hour, pausing to tell her roommate that 'I just need to dance it off!" As you can imagine, there were a few feeling slightly delicate the next day. I, on the other hand, felt the freshest I had since arriving in London, and felt extremely smug about it - it's not often that I am one of the few not hungover.

I don't know whether it's over-consumption of beer by its officials, but Brussels has some very odd statues. The city's main landmark is the Manneken Pis, a small bronze fountain sculpture of a little boy peeing into an urn below. That is weird enough but what is even stranger is that they like to dress him up in different costumes. When we saw him he was wearing what could either have been a bee-keepers outfit or a fencing costume. If you feel so inclined, there is a museum in which you can see the hundreds of costumes that have been made for the urinating boy. There is also a statue of a peeing dog somewhere in Brussels - they obviously have a thing for wee. There also seems to be quite a lot of it in the Metro but that's another thing entirely.

Brussels is a lovely city, defying the often derogatory comments made about it. Much of the beautiful Gothic architecture has been kept, there are hundreds of little cafes, bars and restaurants in squares and down twisting cobbled streets. It's packed full of character and, being home to so many different nationalities, has a wonderfully cosmopolitan feel. The international food festival was taking place while we were there, and representatives from ever European Union nation were present, hosting stalls bursting with produce from their countries. We ate food from all over the continent, as well as trying a few sneaky wines and beers. The highlight of the day has to be the German male choir, made up of pensioners with fantastic moustaches. They sang sea shanties and wore sailor's uniforms and we fell in love with them. Like groupies, we shyly made our way over to them as they came off stage and asked to take a photo with them. A number crowded in, probably loving the excuse to feel up a bunch of young ladies, and one of The Girls asked a woman to take the photo for us. Misunderstanding, she moved to get in the photo herself. "No, no, no" she said, pointing to the camera. It turned out that, of all the people at the market, she had asked a blind woman to take the photo. And not only that, but she had cut her down with not one but three nos when she tried to get in the photo. I don't think I have ever laughed so much in all my life, or tried so hard not too. This is the same friend who, earlier in the weekend, wondered why a group of tourists were all wearing bright blue bibs with the word 'Tourist' emblazoned on them - not the best way to blend in, was her astute observation. The bibs actually read 'Tourist Information' and were designed to stand out for that reason. Amazingly, this friend is a lawyer working for a top firm. I won't give her name for fear she may never be given a case again.

Upon arriving back in England, I once again struggled with my luggage to board a train bound for Solihull, home of The In-laws, where I was to spend a day with The Mother-in-law. Luckily for me, she is not a fire-breathing dragon and we spent a lovely day shopping, eating and drinking wine. I am about to depart yet again, this time for The Grandparents' in North Oxfordshire where I shall chill out in their countryside retreat before a night in London and a weekend in Somerset. Who knows when I shall next get to blog again but as soon as I am able to, I will. My tour of Britain continues...