A rude awakening

If it’s not the bells that wake you up on a weekend, then it’s fishermen protesting against rising oil prices that do it during the week.
That’s what you get for living around the corner from the Commission buildings. For a minute I thought Belgium had won in the football given all the honking, and my immediate thought was how Belgium had qualified when England hadn’t, but then realisation dawned that the football hadn’t even started, and that it was far too early in the morning for victory honking.
I only learned the truth when I turned the corner to work an hour later, when I thought I had walked into south central LA, being confronted by an army of shield and baton wielding police, who seemed to outnumber the protesters in sight, shooing me away when I tried to get a closer look.
For a small city, Brussels must have the most well-manned and well-equipped police force I have ever seen in my life – they should send them to Iraq. God knows what they do when there are no protests, but they must punch the air in joy and crack their knuckles in anticipation when they hear there is one taking place.
From my observation I would also note that you don’t ever want to get in the way of a water cannon, which I thought was quite an ironic police tactic used on men who worked in the sea. At least all the flares gave it that true European football atmosphere. Not to denigrate the seriousness of what took place, but my most memorable moment was the sight of a one-man news network who gave the metaphorical finger to a CNN budget by reporting, filming and combing his hair with his portable mirror and tri-pod all by himself.
The football finally did get underway of course, and the pace of European integration has probably slowed in its wake. There will be a few diplomats cursing there way around Brussels these coming weeks as they are forced to attend functions rather than watch their team, although the Phillipino ‘Bayanihan’ performance at least was a treat to watch as I missed the first half of Italy-Netherlands.
Unfortunately I have managed to singularly worsen Anglo-French relations this week, almost getting into a fight with a Les Bleus fan while I drank my pint of ‘Judas’ as my finger uninterrupted his vision of what must have been a momentous event in that flat as a fart game when the referee blew for half time.
I also bumped into a French guy that I mistimed a tackle on in football last week. When he explained he had just come back from the hospital for a check up on his foot, I realised perhaps maybe I really had got a little carried away at the time, although I couldn’t tell whether he was being sarcastic or just the way he spoke English when he said “it’s getting better now” as he limped off.
A week would also not go by without another disorganised stagiaire event, the Italian national party taking place within the realm of a museum, Autoworld. Fortunately I managed to leave in time just to catch my coach to Paris at 8am on the European equivalent of National Express, Eurolines, at a bargain return price of forty euros. You can’t even get from Derby to London for that price, and next week I’m hoping to do Amsterdam on the train for a similar amount. I am hoping for a relaxing weekend, so I’m hoping there are no fishermen in sight.
I will be on the lookout for a portable water cannon in the meantime just in case.