Been away the last week and a bit. To get married. But anyway, today was the day I'd earmarked for going along to the tax office, merely a few hundred yards from where I live, with my end of year tax return form to ask for advice. Preferably for them to fill it in for me. The Belgian tax year runs from January to December and everyone has until 30 June of the following year to submit their forms.
I was clearly not the only one in need of help. There were already about 50 odd people queuing outside at 9am. Everyone clutching hold of their forms. I assumed this was the queue I wanted to be in so I joined it and listened in on peoples' conversations so see how much French I could understand. Apparently, the forms this year have been the hardest yet to complete. Few people could understand them. Their family couldn't even help them with it. They had no choice but to come to the tax office. "Bof, what else am I meant to do on a Friday morning? Work? Please!"
I eventually got to the entrance to be given a ticket like everyone else. I asked the young guy handing them out if anyone spoke English inside as this kind of thing was far too technical to manage at my level of French. Yes, of course he said. Absolutely. Of course there wasn't.
I followed some people who (seemed to) know what they were doing up some stairs, to be greeted by another queue. Once I got to the front, a woman took my form, took out all of the additional sections from it, the how to fill in your form bit, binned them and told me sit and wait outside one of the offices. This procedure was done for everyone.
I quickly learnt that the tickets did in no way correspond to an order for who is to be seen when. It really was a free for all. So, it was a question of let the people I thought were in front of me go in first, then follow them afterwards. When it was eventually my turn (probably) I looked around me, got a couple of nods of approval, which I took as my lead to go in, and entered an office with two people, one of whom was playing patience on his computer.
After waiting for a few minutes a woman came and spoke to me and after realising that I was in Belgium working as an independent/freelancer, told me I was in the wrong office and directed me to another one. Luckily, there was only one person in front of me so it was easy to work out who was next. Even for Belgians. Over the last couple of months I've been mentally compiling a list of things that I believe are imperative as part of a 'civilised society.' Queuing, British-style, is definitely one of them. The Belgians struggle with this.
My chat with the very friendly and smiley woman in the tax office lasted a matter of minutes. She quickly worked out that I had been posted the wrong form all those many weeks ago, saw the invoices I had received for the very little work I actually did in Belgium in 2009, filled in the correct form for me on her computer, and I was on my way. Easy. They may not be able to queue, but they're a damn friendly and helpful bunch these Walloons.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Thurs 10 June
The radio stations keep playing an advert promoting the fact that Prince is coming to Belgium sometime this year. In the background you hear segments of various Prince tracks, one of them being 'Sexy MF.' Except, they're not playing the radio edited version, but the full album one with swear word intact. Brilliant. I wonder if English swear words really have the same shock value in the French-speaking part of the world, though? I know I can say the few French swear words I know and not think they have much impact because they don't really mean much to me.
The Metro's main story today leads with a study by a Belgian academic that an independent Flanders is unrealistic. In his analysis, Vincent Laborderie explored three possible scenarios leading to independence: an armed conflict (highly, highly unlikely. In fact, so unlikely, god knows why he wasted his time even entertaining such a prospect.), an amicable separation, or a unilateral declaration of independence.
The second scenario is also dismissed because Loborderie doesn't believe it would ever be sanctioned by Brussels. It would also saddle Wallonia with enormous debt, which it would never be able to pay off. Therefore, Wallonia is never likely to agree to it. The third option is also ruled out as it would be strongly opposed by many EU states, pointing to the example of Kosovo. In other words, many member states would fail to recognise Flanders as a state in its own right. And without much international support, Flanders' dynamic and open economy would suffer.
He ends by saying that the majority of Flemish people are also opposed to independence. I'd like to see other studies and surveys to see if this can be backed up. I'm not so sure. The impression I get from what I've read and seen is that a rather large number of Flemish people favour separation. Who knows. More will be revealed after this Sunday's general election, especially if Vlaams Belang, the Flemish separatists, win a significant proportion of the vote at the polls.
By the way, the Belgian political system is as complicated and baffling as it gets and will be explained another time. When I've fully understood it myself. Just to note, the populations of Wallonia and Flanders have their own parliaments and so vote for completely different parties. And they still maintain they're one country!
The Metro's main story today leads with a study by a Belgian academic that an independent Flanders is unrealistic. In his analysis, Vincent Laborderie explored three possible scenarios leading to independence: an armed conflict (highly, highly unlikely. In fact, so unlikely, god knows why he wasted his time even entertaining such a prospect.), an amicable separation, or a unilateral declaration of independence.
The second scenario is also dismissed because Loborderie doesn't believe it would ever be sanctioned by Brussels. It would also saddle Wallonia with enormous debt, which it would never be able to pay off. Therefore, Wallonia is never likely to agree to it. The third option is also ruled out as it would be strongly opposed by many EU states, pointing to the example of Kosovo. In other words, many member states would fail to recognise Flanders as a state in its own right. And without much international support, Flanders' dynamic and open economy would suffer.
He ends by saying that the majority of Flemish people are also opposed to independence. I'd like to see other studies and surveys to see if this can be backed up. I'm not so sure. The impression I get from what I've read and seen is that a rather large number of Flemish people favour separation. Who knows. More will be revealed after this Sunday's general election, especially if Vlaams Belang, the Flemish separatists, win a significant proportion of the vote at the polls.
By the way, the Belgian political system is as complicated and baffling as it gets and will be explained another time. When I've fully understood it myself. Just to note, the populations of Wallonia and Flanders have their own parliaments and so vote for completely different parties. And they still maintain they're one country!
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Thurs 3 June - Drunk Man in Subway...Almost.
We were both looking out of the kitchen window and having a good laugh at a very drunk man on the other side of the ringroad, stumbling and falling all over the place. But, when he then tripped, and fell down the stairs leading to the subway I knew this wasn't good. My vivid imagination and knowledge of this kind of thing, coming only from watching various TV programmes, meant that I now associate falling down the stairs with being something potentially fatal. Well, it often is in the movies, anyway. Man and woman have argument at the top of stairs. Man grabs woman's arm, woman loses her balance, falls, and dies.
We both raced out of the house and across the road to see if he was okay. Or dead. He had actually only, miraculously, fallen down the first four stairs and was still breathing. He was clearly absolutely plastered. He had also, impressively, managed to prostrate himself on his front, spread across all four steps, so that he had his feet, legs and arms all on different steps. The kind of thing that you'd probably fail to recreate when you're sober. He was face down, and barely moving. His huge nose looked like it had the texture of plasticine and was squished against a step. It didn't looked like it was broken. In fact, I couldn't see any blood or scratches on him at all.
I gave him a good shake and slapped his back a few times but he didn't stir. C meanwhile tried getting help from the neighbours but nobody appeared to be in. Instead, she then flagged down a car and asked for help from a young couple. All done in French of course, but she said her French somewhat failed her at this time of emergency. What she said translated as something like this: "Please. There is a problem with a man. In tunnel. Over there. He is fallen down. Can you call an ambulance?"
Within 10mins an ambulance and another car had arrived and 5 people were helping to pick him up and load him in. He didn't really seem to know what had happened and just kept repeating the words "je suis tombé." Yup, you certainly did. Before they left, I made sure the crew didn't forget the crucial accessory that had fallen out of his pocket: his packet of fags.
And so, conclusive proof that we have what language experts would call 'survival French.'
We both raced out of the house and across the road to see if he was okay. Or dead. He had actually only, miraculously, fallen down the first four stairs and was still breathing. He was clearly absolutely plastered. He had also, impressively, managed to prostrate himself on his front, spread across all four steps, so that he had his feet, legs and arms all on different steps. The kind of thing that you'd probably fail to recreate when you're sober. He was face down, and barely moving. His huge nose looked like it had the texture of plasticine and was squished against a step. It didn't looked like it was broken. In fact, I couldn't see any blood or scratches on him at all.
I gave him a good shake and slapped his back a few times but he didn't stir. C meanwhile tried getting help from the neighbours but nobody appeared to be in. Instead, she then flagged down a car and asked for help from a young couple. All done in French of course, but she said her French somewhat failed her at this time of emergency. What she said translated as something like this: "Please. There is a problem with a man. In tunnel. Over there. He is fallen down. Can you call an ambulance?"
Within 10mins an ambulance and another car had arrived and 5 people were helping to pick him up and load him in. He didn't really seem to know what had happened and just kept repeating the words "je suis tombé." Yup, you certainly did. Before they left, I made sure the crew didn't forget the crucial accessory that had fallen out of his pocket: his packet of fags.
And so, conclusive proof that we have what language experts would call 'survival French.'
Friday, May 28, 2010
Le Doudou: Fri 28 May - Sun 30 May
Actually, it officially lasts 8 days, but all the good stuff happens on the first 3. Bit like Passover. The 661st Doudou came to Mons this weekend, and with it the city's population virtually doubles in size (from around 91,000 at present). This festival, or carnival, orginated in 1349 as a way of helping the local Montois fight off the plague. The procession, which forms an integral part of the festival, was said to have been successful in banishing the plague from the city, and hence thanks to this it continues today.
As part of the Doudou, the Friday night traditionally sees a free concert in the Grand Place, the Saturday is a day of drinking, eating, dancing, and the torch procession, and the Sunday (the most important day) is the procession of St Waltrude's shrine (she being the patron saint of the city), through the centre of the city, followed by the reenactment of the slaying of the dragon by St George. This St George figure seems to find himself as a lot of people's saviour.
It's one of the most well known and revered festivals in Belgium. Well, in Wallonia anyway. My first sight of 'doudou fever,' was the steady flow of cars into the city, gradually occupying any bit of pavement, road or grassy-bank they could find in which to park. I was certainly taken aback when I also saw several portable urinals lining many streets. I never in a million years thought I'd see those same, nasty, grey things in Mons, of all places. The last time I saw them was almost 7 months ago. On a Friday night in Bristol.
Apparently, Mons does turn in to one big public toilet over this weekend. Indeed, I can vouch for this. The walk around the centre on the Monday morning, a very warm Monday morning, wasn't pleasant: stale beer and sticky floors galore. The stench you'd associate with that of a music festival.
So, I wandered around Mons on the Friday afternoon to get a feel for what was going on. Lots of the bars, restaurants and cafés had erected their own mini-gazebos outside their premises. Many had hired their own DJs, some preferred to stick huge speakers outside with dance music playing. Almost every gazebo came complete with a food and drinks stool, selling anything from the usual pommes frites, to burgers, noodles or filled baguettes.
The restaurants and cafés that live in the Grand Place had put out special long benches in place of their usual tables and chairs. By early evening, the party spirit was up and running. Indeed, by mid-evening, as me and C tried to make our way to the centre to see the concert, it took us almost 40mins to walk somewhere that would normally take only 5. Almost every street off the main square was completely rammed with revellers.
The concert itself was bizarre to say the least. Rather than the DJ I thought we were getting, we had to make do with an old Belgian act (with an old codger for a frontman) from the 80s. Needless to say, we had never heard of them, and yes, they were pants. Making our way back home involved avoiding the steady flow (I kid you not) of piss that trickled down many of the side streets. But, as outdoor parties go, this one was great! Just a lot of people drinking a lot of alcohol, dancing, and enjoying themselves. And not the hint of aggression, or sinister atmosphere, that you'd expect to see and feel had this festival been going on in England at this time of day.
Saturday pretty much continued in this vein, complete with dodging the rather heavy downpours that fell in the afternoon. During the day, a service is held in the cathedral to mark the point at which St Waltrude's shrine is taken down from its altar, ready for the main procession the next day. To mark this occasion, in the evening a torch procession, starting from the train station, is lead through the city. We caught up with it once it had made its way out of the Grand Place. Following on behind the torches are various large groups of men (many topless) who run manically, stop for a moment, and then continue running like mad. I have no idea why this happens but it just does. With the aid of a local Belgian we know, we also had various local chants translated to us. One of them amusingly being directed at the outgoing PM: "Yves Leterme, enculé," which means something very rude indeed. Good to see even a festival can't bridge the north/south divide.
Sunday morning was an early start. Up and out by 9, round to our friends' flat for tea, croissants and cakes, where because of the great vantage point of their flat, we were able to look from their window and see a stage of the procession of St Waltrude's shrine below us. The shrine is the last thing to appear. Before this, there are various groups of people of all ages dressed in medieval frocks who slowly walk through the city, accompanied by music and applause from the crowds who line the streets. We even caught a glimpse of St George himself.
The next phase of the day is the horse and carriage, carrying the shrine, being pushed up the very steep hill adjacent to the cathedral, by several dozen men and women. This is supposed to be done seemlessly and in one go. If the carriage fails to be pushed up the hill, a great misfortune is supposed to fall on the people of Mons. And of course, legend has it that they failed this task in 1914 and 1940. And apparently in 1803 as well, so I read. Luckily for us, they succeeded!
All this time, the dragon waits patiently, perched up against the wall of the cathedral. Not the fiercest-looking dragon you've even seen it has to be said. In fact, quite lame looking. It looked like something that had been put together by a year 7 art class.
At this point, the dragon is then carried aloft and marched towards the Grand Place, with hundreds of people in tow. I decided to join the throng but could only get as far as the edge of the Grand Place, such was the size of the crowd. The square is literally heaving with tens of thousands of people, all waiting for the duel, or the lumeçon: St George, complete with weapons, 3 different guns, versus the papier-mâché dragon! You can barely see a thing, although there is a big screen for those with 20-20 vision.
The fight takes place in a specially constructed ring with a huge sand pit in the middle. On the perimeter, hundreds and hundreds of men wait, expectantly, ready to do their best in attempting to grab some (horse's) hair which forms part of the dragon's tail. The latter is then held in the air, slowly walked around the ring, and every now and again dangled above the heads of the group of topless, sweaty, men. They then fight, charge, wrestle, and do all they can to get hold of a hair from the dragon's tail which is meant to bring good luck.
This goes on for about 30mins and looks rather crazy to be honest. Inevitably, the dragon gets his comeuppance and is slayed/shot by St George, who succeeds after using his 3rd pistol, the other two traditionally failing to work.
Once this is over, the ring is left to the public to trawl through the sand, and disgarded garments of clothing (I saw t-shirts, socks, shoes), and find a hair for themselves. The rest of the day continues much as the previous two: more singing and dancing, and lots of drinking and eating.
It really was a wonderful experience. I had no idea really what to expect, but I enjoyed every minute of it. I love the way that many of the streets off the Grand Place turn into mini-discos, so you may have about a dozen different sounds coming from one street, with different groups gathered around their own gazebo. Now that I've seen it and know what to expect, I'll treat next year's doudou more as a local, and less as a tourist.
As part of the Doudou, the Friday night traditionally sees a free concert in the Grand Place, the Saturday is a day of drinking, eating, dancing, and the torch procession, and the Sunday (the most important day) is the procession of St Waltrude's shrine (she being the patron saint of the city), through the centre of the city, followed by the reenactment of the slaying of the dragon by St George. This St George figure seems to find himself as a lot of people's saviour.
It's one of the most well known and revered festivals in Belgium. Well, in Wallonia anyway. My first sight of 'doudou fever,' was the steady flow of cars into the city, gradually occupying any bit of pavement, road or grassy-bank they could find in which to park. I was certainly taken aback when I also saw several portable urinals lining many streets. I never in a million years thought I'd see those same, nasty, grey things in Mons, of all places. The last time I saw them was almost 7 months ago. On a Friday night in Bristol.
Apparently, Mons does turn in to one big public toilet over this weekend. Indeed, I can vouch for this. The walk around the centre on the Monday morning, a very warm Monday morning, wasn't pleasant: stale beer and sticky floors galore. The stench you'd associate with that of a music festival.
So, I wandered around Mons on the Friday afternoon to get a feel for what was going on. Lots of the bars, restaurants and cafés had erected their own mini-gazebos outside their premises. Many had hired their own DJs, some preferred to stick huge speakers outside with dance music playing. Almost every gazebo came complete with a food and drinks stool, selling anything from the usual pommes frites, to burgers, noodles or filled baguettes.
The restaurants and cafés that live in the Grand Place had put out special long benches in place of their usual tables and chairs. By early evening, the party spirit was up and running. Indeed, by mid-evening, as me and C tried to make our way to the centre to see the concert, it took us almost 40mins to walk somewhere that would normally take only 5. Almost every street off the main square was completely rammed with revellers.
The concert itself was bizarre to say the least. Rather than the DJ I thought we were getting, we had to make do with an old Belgian act (with an old codger for a frontman) from the 80s. Needless to say, we had never heard of them, and yes, they were pants. Making our way back home involved avoiding the steady flow (I kid you not) of piss that trickled down many of the side streets. But, as outdoor parties go, this one was great! Just a lot of people drinking a lot of alcohol, dancing, and enjoying themselves. And not the hint of aggression, or sinister atmosphere, that you'd expect to see and feel had this festival been going on in England at this time of day.
Saturday pretty much continued in this vein, complete with dodging the rather heavy downpours that fell in the afternoon. During the day, a service is held in the cathedral to mark the point at which St Waltrude's shrine is taken down from its altar, ready for the main procession the next day. To mark this occasion, in the evening a torch procession, starting from the train station, is lead through the city. We caught up with it once it had made its way out of the Grand Place. Following on behind the torches are various large groups of men (many topless) who run manically, stop for a moment, and then continue running like mad. I have no idea why this happens but it just does. With the aid of a local Belgian we know, we also had various local chants translated to us. One of them amusingly being directed at the outgoing PM: "Yves Leterme, enculé," which means something very rude indeed. Good to see even a festival can't bridge the north/south divide.
Sunday morning was an early start. Up and out by 9, round to our friends' flat for tea, croissants and cakes, where because of the great vantage point of their flat, we were able to look from their window and see a stage of the procession of St Waltrude's shrine below us. The shrine is the last thing to appear. Before this, there are various groups of people of all ages dressed in medieval frocks who slowly walk through the city, accompanied by music and applause from the crowds who line the streets. We even caught a glimpse of St George himself.
The next phase of the day is the horse and carriage, carrying the shrine, being pushed up the very steep hill adjacent to the cathedral, by several dozen men and women. This is supposed to be done seemlessly and in one go. If the carriage fails to be pushed up the hill, a great misfortune is supposed to fall on the people of Mons. And of course, legend has it that they failed this task in 1914 and 1940. And apparently in 1803 as well, so I read. Luckily for us, they succeeded!
All this time, the dragon waits patiently, perched up against the wall of the cathedral. Not the fiercest-looking dragon you've even seen it has to be said. In fact, quite lame looking. It looked like something that had been put together by a year 7 art class.
At this point, the dragon is then carried aloft and marched towards the Grand Place, with hundreds of people in tow. I decided to join the throng but could only get as far as the edge of the Grand Place, such was the size of the crowd. The square is literally heaving with tens of thousands of people, all waiting for the duel, or the lumeçon: St George, complete with weapons, 3 different guns, versus the papier-mâché dragon! You can barely see a thing, although there is a big screen for those with 20-20 vision.
The fight takes place in a specially constructed ring with a huge sand pit in the middle. On the perimeter, hundreds and hundreds of men wait, expectantly, ready to do their best in attempting to grab some (horse's) hair which forms part of the dragon's tail. The latter is then held in the air, slowly walked around the ring, and every now and again dangled above the heads of the group of topless, sweaty, men. They then fight, charge, wrestle, and do all they can to get hold of a hair from the dragon's tail which is meant to bring good luck.
This goes on for about 30mins and looks rather crazy to be honest. Inevitably, the dragon gets his comeuppance and is slayed/shot by St George, who succeeds after using his 3rd pistol, the other two traditionally failing to work.
Once this is over, the ring is left to the public to trawl through the sand, and disgarded garments of clothing (I saw t-shirts, socks, shoes), and find a hair for themselves. The rest of the day continues much as the previous two: more singing and dancing, and lots of drinking and eating.
It really was a wonderful experience. I had no idea really what to expect, but I enjoyed every minute of it. I love the way that many of the streets off the Grand Place turn into mini-discos, so you may have about a dozen different sounds coming from one street, with different groups gathered around their own gazebo. Now that I've seen it and know what to expect, I'll treat next year's doudou more as a local, and less as a tourist.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Thurs 27 May - Train Strike(ish)
Got caught up in an impromptu train strike on my way back from work this afternoon. Had heard mutterings from people as they got on at various stops and managed to work out that the train was terminating at Châtelet, still 40mins short of Mons. This was confirmed by the train manager who reassured us all that a bus would be waiting there, ready to take everyone onto Charleroi, the next stop. He lied. There was no bus. Or any intention of there being a bus.
I listened in on a conversation between someone and the guy working at the station's ticket office. La grève. Strike. Train drivers and staff had staged an unannounced strike, which had started over an hour ago. No one knew why, or for how long. The ticket office worker just greeted every enquiry with that great, stereotypical gallic shrug. The face, the eyebrows, all go up, the shoulders too, and the bottom lip sticks out. It means: "who knows." But, it could also mean: "I don't know, I don't really care, now leave me alone."
I ended up chatting to a couple of people at the station, asking them whether they had any idea how long these things last, and what I should do. They told me just to stay put for now as the whole network had come to a standstill. One of them was on his way to Paris for the French Open the next day. I found out that it's not just us Brits that jokingly take the view that, 'when he wins, he's Britain's Andy Murray, and when he loses, he's Scotland's Andy Murray.' The Walloons do it too. But, when talking about Kim Clijsters. When she wins, she's Belgium's Kim Clijsters, and when she loses, she's Flanders' Kim Clijsters. The same joke is used in the north about Justine Henin, I imagine.
Him, and his partner, also had a good moan about life in Wallonia. About how nothing works, there are always strikes for no reason, it's corrupt, and everyone is stuck at home all day living off state handouts. In fact, they were not the only people I've spoken to from this region who share this view. Two of the students I currently teach, and 2 or 3 before them, have similarly echoed this view. The common theme is envy and anger that Flanders is so far ahead of Wallonia, in virtually every way, and that there's very little good about living in Wallonia. At least two of my past students even told me they were actively looking for ways to emigrate as soon as possible.
I guess one glimmer of light is to be found in a news story which reports that actually last year more foreign businesses chose to invest their money and resources in Wallonia than Flanders.
A reason isn't given in the article, but I imagine it must be cheaper to set up projects in the south, although that must be offset by the excessive bureaucracy and tax burden.
I only ended up waiting just over an hour for the strike to end. Just before 4.30, everything was up and running as normal, as if nothing had happened. And I'm still none the wiser as to why the strike happened in the first place. Reading the Belgian press didn't shed much light on the matter either. That's 3 impromptu strikes since I've been here, I think. Not a patch on France, yet.
I listened in on a conversation between someone and the guy working at the station's ticket office. La grève. Strike. Train drivers and staff had staged an unannounced strike, which had started over an hour ago. No one knew why, or for how long. The ticket office worker just greeted every enquiry with that great, stereotypical gallic shrug. The face, the eyebrows, all go up, the shoulders too, and the bottom lip sticks out. It means: "who knows." But, it could also mean: "I don't know, I don't really care, now leave me alone."
I ended up chatting to a couple of people at the station, asking them whether they had any idea how long these things last, and what I should do. They told me just to stay put for now as the whole network had come to a standstill. One of them was on his way to Paris for the French Open the next day. I found out that it's not just us Brits that jokingly take the view that, 'when he wins, he's Britain's Andy Murray, and when he loses, he's Scotland's Andy Murray.' The Walloons do it too. But, when talking about Kim Clijsters. When she wins, she's Belgium's Kim Clijsters, and when she loses, she's Flanders' Kim Clijsters. The same joke is used in the north about Justine Henin, I imagine.
Him, and his partner, also had a good moan about life in Wallonia. About how nothing works, there are always strikes for no reason, it's corrupt, and everyone is stuck at home all day living off state handouts. In fact, they were not the only people I've spoken to from this region who share this view. Two of the students I currently teach, and 2 or 3 before them, have similarly echoed this view. The common theme is envy and anger that Flanders is so far ahead of Wallonia, in virtually every way, and that there's very little good about living in Wallonia. At least two of my past students even told me they were actively looking for ways to emigrate as soon as possible.
I guess one glimmer of light is to be found in a news story which reports that actually last year more foreign businesses chose to invest their money and resources in Wallonia than Flanders.
A reason isn't given in the article, but I imagine it must be cheaper to set up projects in the south, although that must be offset by the excessive bureaucracy and tax burden.
I only ended up waiting just over an hour for the strike to end. Just before 4.30, everything was up and running as normal, as if nothing had happened. And I'm still none the wiser as to why the strike happened in the first place. Reading the Belgian press didn't shed much light on the matter either. That's 3 impromptu strikes since I've been here, I think. Not a patch on France, yet.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Sat 22 May - Namur
The place I always struggle to pronounce correctly. Now, I think of how we you say manure and it makes it a lot easier. If you're not from or live in Belgium you will have no idea what I'm talking about.
Spent the day here. A wonderfully warm late Spring's day. I found Wallonia's capital to be a very chic and stylish looking place. The main shopping street could have been any street in any British city, but the narrow, windy ones were a delight. Endless boutique shops and cafes, and the place generally looking a lot wealthier and smarter than Mons. Less dog crap on the pavements too. Ahh, the things I look out for!
Had a walk around the citadel too; one of its main attractions. It was okay. Nothing to write home about.
Definitely somewhere to return to, with a view to paying the museums and galleries a visit next time.
Spent the day here. A wonderfully warm late Spring's day. I found Wallonia's capital to be a very chic and stylish looking place. The main shopping street could have been any street in any British city, but the narrow, windy ones were a delight. Endless boutique shops and cafes, and the place generally looking a lot wealthier and smarter than Mons. Less dog crap on the pavements too. Ahh, the things I look out for!
Had a walk around the citadel too; one of its main attractions. It was okay. Nothing to write home about.
Definitely somewhere to return to, with a view to paying the museums and galleries a visit next time.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Fri 21 May
Found a few facts and figures relating to the Belgians whilst trawling through Le Metro, which has become my indispensable guide to all things going on in this country. That, and being very helpful at expanding my French vocab.
A study has found that about one in four Belgians smoke, with the habit increasing with age. Whereas around 25% of 15-24 year olds smoke, that figure rises to 33% for 45-54 year olds. Some of these figures do seem to vary according to which report you consult. It also suggest that Belgians are towards the lower end of the scale in terms of people who smoke in the EU, according to a European Commission study released last year which showed the Greeks to be Europe's biggest smokers at 42% (so when they're not busy rioting, they're busy smoking), with the Slovaks the lowest at 22%. We're on 28%, which is about 5 points higher than I thought we'd be, although the effects of the smoking ban may take a few more years to kick in.
Yet more evidence (this time more than simply my anecdotal stuff) to back up my claims of 'rip-off Belgium,' are found in a joint Franco-Belgian study which concludes that the cost of food is on average 12% more expensive in Belgium compared to France. A food basket containing exactly the same items from the two countries will cost you €473.50 in France (that's some weekly shop), but will set you back €540.60 in Belgium. There are variations within the report of certain foods being cheaper in Belgium, but overall the picture is one that I've been boringly banging on about since I moved here.
And, staying with this theme, a European Commission report this week finds that Belgium has amongst the dearest mobile phone (le GSM as they're sometimes called here) tariffs in the EU. Only Luxembourg, Malta and the Netherlands pay more to use theirs.
And so to something different. Whilst browsing through my Metro this week I stumbled across a job advert for a number of posts at a hotel in Brussels. The whole advert had been written using some rather bad English, and I know it's cruel to laugh, especially when I'd love my French to be this 'bad,' but it did make me giggle. A lot. For example, the vacancies listed include: 'revenue manager,' 'floor supervisor' (whatever that is) and a 'mice coordinator.' Now, I'm not entirely sure what a 'mice coordinator' is. At first I thought they meant cleaner but they have also listed 'public cleaner' as an available post.
Maybe something to do with pest control, but aren't they usually linked to environmental health type agencies? Still, the advert asks you to: "Challenge yourself for Great Spirit at work...at a hotel that is away from the ordinary." And to reply, you are to, "jump on your mobile and compose 02 224..." I'm sure there are dozens of other gems in the Metro everyday, and I shall now be trying to look out for them.
I never understand why when foreign companies or galleries/museums, or governmental bodies, want to write something in English, they don't double-check things with a native English-speaker first. But then if they did, it'd take away my fun.
A study has found that about one in four Belgians smoke, with the habit increasing with age. Whereas around 25% of 15-24 year olds smoke, that figure rises to 33% for 45-54 year olds. Some of these figures do seem to vary according to which report you consult. It also suggest that Belgians are towards the lower end of the scale in terms of people who smoke in the EU, according to a European Commission study released last year which showed the Greeks to be Europe's biggest smokers at 42% (so when they're not busy rioting, they're busy smoking), with the Slovaks the lowest at 22%. We're on 28%, which is about 5 points higher than I thought we'd be, although the effects of the smoking ban may take a few more years to kick in.
Yet more evidence (this time more than simply my anecdotal stuff) to back up my claims of 'rip-off Belgium,' are found in a joint Franco-Belgian study which concludes that the cost of food is on average 12% more expensive in Belgium compared to France. A food basket containing exactly the same items from the two countries will cost you €473.50 in France (that's some weekly shop), but will set you back €540.60 in Belgium. There are variations within the report of certain foods being cheaper in Belgium, but overall the picture is one that I've been boringly banging on about since I moved here.
And, staying with this theme, a European Commission report this week finds that Belgium has amongst the dearest mobile phone (le GSM as they're sometimes called here) tariffs in the EU. Only Luxembourg, Malta and the Netherlands pay more to use theirs.
And so to something different. Whilst browsing through my Metro this week I stumbled across a job advert for a number of posts at a hotel in Brussels. The whole advert had been written using some rather bad English, and I know it's cruel to laugh, especially when I'd love my French to be this 'bad,' but it did make me giggle. A lot. For example, the vacancies listed include: 'revenue manager,' 'floor supervisor' (whatever that is) and a 'mice coordinator.' Now, I'm not entirely sure what a 'mice coordinator' is. At first I thought they meant cleaner but they have also listed 'public cleaner' as an available post.
Maybe something to do with pest control, but aren't they usually linked to environmental health type agencies? Still, the advert asks you to: "Challenge yourself for Great Spirit at work...at a hotel that is away from the ordinary." And to reply, you are to, "jump on your mobile and compose 02 224..." I'm sure there are dozens of other gems in the Metro everyday, and I shall now be trying to look out for them.
I never understand why when foreign companies or galleries/museums, or governmental bodies, want to write something in English, they don't double-check things with a native English-speaker first. But then if they did, it'd take away my fun.
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