Another day in Brussels

**** WARNING - Kids and sensitive souls please refrain to read this post. The author is too fucking angry to even pretend to try and control the swearing. ****

Let's start with a little game: what can you buy for 180 euros? A return ticket to London in the Eurostar, if you're silly enough to buy it only a week in advance. 10 meals, with wine and dessert at Casa Italiana, this lovely family-owned restaurant on Archimède (amazing zabaglione). A complete outfit at Zara or Top-Shop. A very good pair of shoes. 2 iPod Shuffles and while we're at it, about 18 CDs and/or DVDs on sale.

I get off the tram with - who was it - Jay-Z playing at full blast in my iPod. Street is quiet, cars are waiting at the red light, I cross the street. CROSS the bleeding street. I'm all chilled and bouncy, trying hard not to dance to the beat. When I hear two voices loud enough for me to turn around and wonder what's happening. I see two cops, one with a bad moustache, the other with a bad accent, each double my size, shouting at the top of their lungs: "HEY!!! YOU BLIND???" A guy who looks like a student is watching the scene. He says wearily, loud enough for them to hear: "Aaah come on... She had her iPod on..."

The two motherfuckers run to me, demanding to see an identification document. I ask them why they want to see an identification document, the guy with the bad accent starts speaking to me in Flemish, as if he didn't just hear me speak French. Moustache-Face gets all smartassy on me, says "Well you're obviously deaf, but you're not blind, you're wearing your glasses, aren't you?" I reiterate: "Can someone please explain to me what is going on here?"

"The little guy was red," says Moustache-Face. "Excuse me?" The little guy. The little guy that tells pedestrians when they should walk, or not. The little guy at the red light. Was. RED.

- ID, please."
At this point, I'm laughing. I think it's a joke. I pull out my passport.
- No, I need your Belgian ID card."
- I don't have one," I say.
- Why not?" He asks.

Fuck this, I'm lying:
- Because I don't live here." ("You retarded piece of shit," I add, in my head).
- Oh no?"
- No."
- Fine. We'll check in the computer."
I call his bluff. I haven't bothered to register:
- Sure," I say. "Check in your computer."
Who wants to fucking register in this town anyway.

He browses through my passport, looks confused:
- Where's your address?"
- There. It says Paris, right there."
Flemish Moron butts in:
- So you cross the streets like this in Paris?"
- Of course she does."
He's going to be like that, huh. Fine:
- Yup. In Paris. And in London. In Madrid and New York as well."
Because you see, there is actual crime to fight in these cities.

The asshole was waiting for that:
- 180 euros. I need another ID."

I pull out my driving license. Address in Madrid. The man gives up:
- We'll send the fine to Paris."
- You do that."
And good luck getting paid.

That's what happens in Euro-Hick Town: 180 euros can also buy you the right to fucking jaywalk. The jackasses from the police force have no peace to keep, they are so bored all day, their dicks are so sore with all the wanking off they do, they'll fine... Jaywalkers.

As it turns out, though, I shouldn't even complain: Arrested, cuffed and jailed, the don caught jaywalking.