London to Brussels

Wow, would probably sum up in a word our trip from London to Brussels on the high speed Eurostar. From point to point was just two hours. Three-hundred kilometres per hour sounds fast but in actuality is even faster. The scenery moves bloody quickly.
The trip out of England was almost quicker than our trip from New Cross to St Pancras Station, London. Maybe the trip to St Pancras station seemed so much longer because of the weight in our packs - and the fact we stood almost the entire way. After days of walking they now feel as though they’re lead-lined. The way they sap energy makes one feel a little slow, as if they’ve had a big dose of the malleable metal as a child. On our red London bus we quickly learned to sway and shift our weight to compensate for our load and the motion of the bus. Perhaps it could be the next training technique for surfers or pro mountain bikers. It was certainly a good workout. Indeed I was desperate to be rid of the bags for a couple of hours until the Eurostar departed. But the long line at the baggage drop off discouraged us both and pushed my patience to the limit. Instead we sought some chairs and after walking past several rows of people and baggage taking up more than their share I asked one woman to move - nicely of course. There I left Alysia with the bags and set out for the Post Office at the same time hoping to clear my mind. Across the road I pushed my way into the heavy hot air of the convenience store-cum-post office. Unlike home the postal service doesn’t make money from retail sales so I handed over a couple of Pounds for a tube to post our oil painting home. To make the most of this opportunity I first made my way back to Alysia. I hoped to stash a few other trinkets in the cardboard tube-to-home.
“Can you just open you’re bag and get the souvenirs out,” I said.
After some fiddling with the lock the answer was: “No”.
Somehow the combination had changed.
“No problem,” I said, “I’ll break that piece of flimsy rubbish when we get to Brussels”.
But, Alysia being Alysia, this would not do and she set out breaking the code. 000, 001, 002 and on she went.
“Don’t just stand there and watch,” she said.
Defeated, I went back to the post office and sent the tube to Haley.
Mission complete I walked back to the station with the curious Cornish pastry and with a very sweet coffee thanks to the one (extra big) sugar deposited into it. I wish I hadn’t tipped the cashier now. I expected the worst , to find Alysia sobbing quietly but there she sat as calm as could be. In fact she was now more bothered that I had been gone so long. And had taken the chance to stuff my face. She’d cracked it. Cracked it like in The Italian Job, she said. She’d gone through almost every possible combination to find that it was 719. Her original combination was 161.
“My finger’s a bit sore,” she said.
No doubt I thought.
Hurtling toward France on our way to Brussels we could finally relax. Getting to stations and on transport is quite testing and tiring. So after just two hours we were doubly relieved to be in Brussels and were equally happy to hand over seven euro to be ejected on our host’s doorstep in central, central Brussels. And after some more stairs we were shaking hands with Mark. After hosting people ourselves this was our first time surfing and we we’re keen to make a good impression. I could see the quiet uncertainty that I had harboured each time we hosted. But it quickly evaporated and we talked like friends from a past life or something. We grabbed some Mexican food and learned some more about one another. Dessert was a walk to the Grand Place - a cobble-stoned square surrounded by gothic buildings built in the 17th century - which was food for the soul. A short walk away we found Maneken Pis, which is just like it sounds: a small boy statue taking a piss. Our Dutch born and raised host informs us it was built during quite a conservative time - any bigger than this little boy would have been too erotic. Next to the peeing boy was one of many tourist-geared waffle shops. These golden-hued treats were heaped with strawberries, bananas, chocolate and cream. Or just Nutella or icing sugar, as the locals eat them. Being the chocolate capital of… the world (kudos Clarkson for dramatic emphasis) we could not help but notice the sweet smell of pralines wafting out of the numerous store fronts. But the beer was calling louder and Mark was determined to introduce Alysia to one of the sweetest brews known to man. Into Delerium we strolled with its 27 beers on tap - 2004 in total were available over the counter - it could be heaven. Off the menu I chose a blonde which tipped the scales at a hefty 10 per cent alcohol content. Alysia was loaded up with a cherry beer of some eight per cent. Mark had one of his favoured monk-brewed beers. Our host was happily becoming more Dutch with every sip, I felt, in a good way of course. We talked history and he admitted he was proud of his heritage if not patriotic. Fair enough too. While not happy about his nation’s past treatment of Indonesia the Dutch have been quite entrepreneurial in the truest capitalist spirit.
Back up the four (possibly five) flights of stairs we were ensconced in Mark’s rented loft. It is an amazing space with natural timber floors and contrasting white walls and built-in furniture. Above our heads was the mezzanine where he slept. Quite spacious and not cheap at 1200 euros a month, he eventually told us. Still I found it an inspiring space and for Mark it’s only a few hundred meters to work with Belgium’s national phone network, where he was engineering a software solution I still can’t quite grasp. Something to do with up selling services including subscription television. Having drawn the blinds on the attic windows we eased ourselves onto our inflatable ensemble for a well earned night’s sleep.
- Sam (July 29)