Dog Turds in Brussels

I am not sure I have gotten my head around this town yet. However I have had an opportunity to get out and about this afternoon and walked a few kilometres through an interesting cross section of the city. It is certainly a town of contrasts, all living cheek by jowl. Perhaps starting with a panoramic view helps set the scene. The view from the high point of the city, the Palais de Justice, is telling. The cathedral spire, dating back to the thirteenth century, and other ancient and beautiful buildings are nearly lost by that horrible post war bland box architecture which blights all our cities to one degree or another. But in this city ancient is hemmed in by 1960s “deadimaginesque” and all piled up in a strange mix. There is no old centre gradually giving over to the modern the further you get out, although to be sure the Grand Place is about as grand medieval place as you can get. Surrounding the Palais de Justice are some interesting juxtapositions. Down from its base of imposing Roman architecture black children shouting in French play in a small concrete soccer field but with blocked drains so half their field lies under a stagnant pond. Graffiti covered the surrounding walls. Although some of that is art worthy of attention. Lift your eyes up from the soccer kids and look south across a concrete block paved courtyard surrounding the obligatory monument to the war dead of 1914-1918 an d1939-1945. Grass grows through every crack, moss and corrosion taint the statue and the damp must of a tomb pervades the site. It is a hang dog affair for the commemoration of something so glorious. Or maybe its ruin is appropriate.

Walking down from the high ground you pass through cobbled lanes that are alternatively pretty, flowered, cobbled, and given to fine furniture, architecture, or fine art, or drab piled high with rubbish and littered with dog turds. Street repairs are like those you see in China. Half done. Piles of ripped up cobbles and heaps of earth, some with well established weeds, indicating workers have been absent a while. And I am not in the back blocks here but down town – the Grand Place is a short two minute walk away.

Worship Via a Cell Phone

These old cathedrals reek of smoke and wax and are scented with aged timber. Light catches gilt and gold, careens off marble and helps give life to the slate floor, all cracked and tilted but polished smooth from eons of traffic. In their calm stillness you can understand how worshipers seek God, the more so for the singing choirs quietly being played in the background. You can imagine rows of chanting monks helping set a tone of awe, reverence and respectful worship. They would be nonplussed at the overcoated grey haired gent who rushed into this pool of quiet worship this afternoon. Crying out in French to the statue of Mary shrouded in a beautifully gilded cloth. Pointing and waving. And talking into his cell phone. I thought he was talking to someone else then I realised he was talking to Mary via his cell. It would have been humorous if his entreaties were not so earnest and heartfelt. I had stumbled over the place wandering the lanes of Brussels and had welcomed its solitude and a place to be reflective. I handed over to the cell phone worshiper and left him to this place. I hope God picks up at the other end for him.

Tintin, Waffles and Chocolate

Brussels is a strange town. I sat and ate a very expensive McDonalds burger (the Big Mac Index blows out in this place at about USD8.00, AUD10.00. And as I did so watched grey people on a grey day. It is Sunday, Mothers Day and everyone seems to be out and about. But it is not an attractive city today. It has a hard edge to it. Dirty and somehow forgotten. Museums are boarded up being repaired. Streets are filthy – cobblestones are great for trapping rubbish. Yet that which had people flee the old world is no doubt what attracts us all back. There are flashes in this town that surprise and enchant. And let’s face it, I have only walked for a couple of hours after getting off a 24 hour series of flights from Sydney. So my sampling is very limited. On the other hand first impressions count.

There is an area surrounding the Grand Place – a beautiful central square - in which you could lose yourself for a long time. Art and music, food and chocolate, fashion and books. An arcade in which colour and light entice you to the window like mosquitoes to a blue light, and from there the scent of cocoa and spices draw you in to the chocolate tar pit from which you never escape. Unless of course you spend a small fortune and walk out with your purchase wrapped in Tintin paper.

Airport Security: A clever Marketing Exercise

Security is always about trade offs. If I want to get to my destination I will put up with the impositions of removing shoes, stripping laptops in and out of their bags, handing over my bottle of water. And tolerate people handling me in a way that would earn them a quick uppercut to the jaw and a call to the police if they tried the same behaviour in a shopping mall.

There is nothing that convinces me all this imposition is helping keep us safe. Explain how it is that having liquids limited to 100ml and placed in a small plastic bag is helping the cause? The best it is all doing is giving the travelling public some assurance that somebody in authority is doing something. But there is no question it is simply mistaking activity for progress. And of course helping position those authorities so they can argue that they were doing everything they could, should something ever goes wrong.

Which is highly unlikely. An aircraft accident is more likely to kill us than the act of someone taking an aircraft down with a bomb disguised as VO5. And being killed in an accident is less likely than dying in an automobile accident. Indeed, to put that likelihood in perspective about 45,000 Americans kill themselves each year in car accidents. We don’t limit what is loaded into our cars, and who climbs into them! And to put 45,000 automobile accident deaths into context consider this - assuming there are 250 passengers in a 747, there would have to be 180 747 accidents a year, or 3.5 a week. Imagine 3-4 747 accidents a week in the US alone. We say that is ridiculous. The public would not tolerate it. Of course not. But the likelihood of a terrorist strike is even less than accidents suggested here - yet we put up with the stupidity of the security madness at airports so we can all feel comfortable about going through the security motions. But there is no additional protection that I can see. Can anyone else? What are we trading off – not improved security, that is for sure. We are all kidding ourselves. But I am not sure why. Maybe we are just so desperate to get to the other end that the end justifies any means.

Insufferable Changi

The Airport I mean. Nothing to complain about really when the “other Changi” is contemplated – that is, the Japanese POW camp that used to be here. Perhaps been through here fifty times and it never gets any better but I should not complain – a passenger is a statistic to be processed after all. It boasts a not unreasonable infrastructure and the facility is clean and well managed. But we get spoiled at home by people who have some comprehension of what service is about. Something the staff at this airport have never gotten their heads around. Officious, petty, hustling, full of their self importance and propped up by their uniforms and badges. Processing you though their security like the number you are. I think sometimes when I am here that I prefer the heat of a Tel Aviv grilling. At least there they looked you in the eye – and you were being handled by security people who knew what they were doing, rather than by a bunch of people who have not been able to make it anywhere else in this society. (Next time you are through here do the sociological exercise of noting how many Chinese staff are actually doing these so called menial tasks). At least at this time of the night (midnight) the place is fairly empty. Enough grumping – back onto the plane and off to London.

400 Tonnes Gets Airborne

The 747 is roughly 200 tonnes of aircraft and 200 tonnes of fuel. Pretty amazing weight when their take off and flight it so elegant and graceful. They say fat people make the best dancers – sure on their feet and confident about handling their bulk. But I would be reluctant to label the 747 fat. Big boned maybe. Not fat.

I took this sequence of photos as we departed Sydney yesterday. If you take note of the leading edge in the top photo, taken while we were powering north along the runway, you can see how straight it is. As the aircraft lifts off and the weight is taken off the undercarriage (wheels) you can see what happens to the wings as the 400 tonnes is transferred to them – the leading edge takes on a decided curve upwards to the tips. If you are standing on the ground watching this, from behind and below, the fuselage appears to hang in the middle of the wings, as indeed it is designed to do. The engineering involved in this is endlessly amazing. Think about the compression of the top skin of the wing as this happens. And the stretching of the underwing skin. Then the reverse when the aircraft lands. Then think about the metallurgy involved. The internal plumbing. The fact that it is a wet wing – fuel is flooded through parts of it. A constant source of amazement.

Do Security and Duty Free Have anything In Common?

I am never sure which is worse - the security routine or the duty free rigmarole. Departing Sydney now requires anything that might be a cream or gel or liquid to be packaged in a small plastic bag – if you wish to take it on board that is. Even your toothpaste. And the quantity allowed is minuscule. Not too much of a problem for most male passengers I suspect, but I stood in line watching two women trying to decide which perfumes they were going to have to discard. It was actually a choice between perfumes, hand gels and moisturisers and other bathroom bits and pieces they had with them. Used to years of travelling with that sort of support no doubt. Now constrained. Reluctantly they made their choices, discarded the rest and then moved to the scanner portals and X-rays.

No matter as it turns out since the body scanner portal is followed very closely by the entrance to the duty free gauntlet. When departing Sydney you have no choice but to walk a linoleum road through a forest of air brushed celebrity faces (OK, so that is not so bad) and endure a blizzard of conflicting scents and perfumes, all swirling around you in an attempt to induce a headache before you board your plane. And a billion litres of liquid, and all the gels and moisturisers your little heart desires. I think it is worth checking out - I bet the security company confiscating potions and gels is a sister company of the duty free company. Come on, it happens in India, why can’t it happen here?

Departing Sydney

I have a real soft spot for the city of Sydney. All the things we say about it in our promotional material is very clichéd but, in most cases very true and in which lies its appeal. Brash. Loud, Flamboyant. International recognition. That unique harbour. All true and part of the formula. On an autumn day when the temperature is in the low twenties it is especially appealing (although I prefer the humid heat of summer). The sugar maples are not too sure if it is really heading to winter so their leaves are still hanging on, some a dirty green, others a burnt umber. But bare branched? Not at all. As if hanging in there with the rest of us, denying the notion that winter ever happens in this place. A clear blue sky but with a hint of yellow haze as the sun drops early, long shadows tricking the mind into thinking that it is later than it really is. Throwing the city in relief, highlighting the off-white building surfaces and showing off a city that is never in any doubt that it is up there with the best of them. This view from the international terminal and on day one of the long haul to London. Which is a 22 hour marathon from here. And a world away from this brilliant place.

An Ideal Weekend

FuelMy Blog and lastminute.com invited 300 words describing an ideal weekend in a competition, the prize for which is business class travel to “the continent” – but for UK residents only (it did sound too good to be true). No matter, it was an interesting challenge. No doubt competitors will write in anticipation of an ideal weekend. I thought I would try something retrospective. Just for the heck of it.

Taxi Story – Mauritius

My family have been here for years. I came here fifteen years ago after all my brothers and sisters pressured me to come and be a family again. But initially I was reluctant to do so since I could not speak English. I could speak six other languages but not English. I was living in France at the time, teaching Ancient History. I love Ancient History. If I had my time over again I would love to sit for hours and talk about Ancient History. If you are not careful we will drive for hours and I will talk about Ancient History. Mesopotamia mainly. And recently I have been doing a lot of study about Egypt. We think we are clever with our technologies but those ancient civilisations were capable of some amazing engineering. Did you know there are no cranes available today that could lift the blocks found in the Pyramids out to the distance they need to be placed in those structures?

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