Over and out

This is it. My apartment is empty and there is an echo in the living room when I type. I closed the bills, took my name off the mailbox, threw some clothes in a couple of suitcases and handed my Belgian ID card back to the city of Ixelles. I am waiting for the expert to come and check how much damage I managed to do in the the 357 days that I called this place my own. In a few hours, I'll be in the Eurostar back to London and soon will begin to fret over the search for a new home, surrounded by people I love.

It was the shortest of years, it was the longest of years. There won't be anything to miss, with one notable exception: long, spumante-fuelled and zabaglione punctuated lunches at Luca's. The memories there, I can honestly say, were my only happy ones in Belgium.

I haven't decided what to do with this blog yet. I may just keep it and use it as a reminder that home is always where the heart is. Or I may re-title it and go on with my adventures in London.

In any case, this is another closed chapter. Adieu, but not without adding one of the most underrated of Jeff Buckley's songs.

Jeff Buckley - Last Goodbye
Uploaded by DeadSkin

The demands of distance

This is an attempt to give an answer to those who are wondering and/or complaining about my long silences on this blog.

Sooner or later I'll be forced to change its title or simply drop it for good, as it's slowly losing its reason to exist. I've been working in London since the beginning of September and just got back this week. The signal's pretty clear. A definite return is imminent.

No, I've not warmed up to this lovely town. It was partly circumstantial, mostly deliberate. On top of having made no effort whatsoever to become acquainted with its people, customs or traditions, I was hardly ever here, traveling for work or... for work. I am simply not interested. At all. No, really. Unapologetically so, at the risk of upsetting all open-minded and relativists out there. Anything that will get me out of here, I will be grateful for. Time to put an end to this misery.

And so miserable and stranded I will be no longer. While this historical mistake of a country disintegrates, I will be preparing my return. Whether by an act of the corporate god or sheer self-determination, I am leaving and not looking back.

Belgians and Belgium lovers, I urge you to not take offense. This is me not making excuses and not pretending to feel otherwise. Brussels is perhaps a city with a gray, dull façade which hides a gem-like heart and, unlike London, doesn't throw itself at complete strangers with reckless abandon. As I said, maybe it's just me, maybe I like them easy. In any case... I'll soon be gone.

Before I do so, however, I'll be flying to Jordan on November 16th for a 10-day excursion in Ammam, Petra, and the Wadi Rum desert from the back of a horse.

More on this very soon.

In the Eurostar

The press shelf at the entrance of coach 7 of the Saturday night Eurostar going to Brussels has just suffered the worst razzia in its history.


It started in the boarding area at Waterloo. I bought The Guardian and Mojo. The Guardian, well... because it's the Guardian. Mojo, because apart from being the best music magazine i ever came across, it has Dylan on the cover with a fine example of the countless wanky quotes he managed to deliver over the years: "I don't break the rules... Because there are no rules." Oh boy.


Then the Eurostar. Last week's Economist was sitting there, titling: "Why ethical shopping harms the world." Bastards. Questioning once again my entire value system. I haven't read their piece yet and I know exactly what's going to happen. First, I'm going to stop buying my favorite chocolate à l'orange, which is fairtrade, organic and absolutely delicious. I got so much shit for it, was called a bo-bo (bourgeois-bohême, something like a posh tree-hugger). Didn't stop the name-callers from devouring it, but eh. After this I'll get into a series of arguments with my French, left-wing, anti-globalization friends, who'll tell me I sold out, I have no soul, I've been brainwashed, so on and so forth. Ah hell. I'm tired already.

Anyway, my handbag was wide open and in went the magazine. So did this week's Economist, with something on Britain's failing transport system, so I can nod emphatically, get all indignant and feel like I still belong.

Though I never really read it when I was in London, I also grabbed today's Times, just for kicks. And as a preventive measure. You never know when nostalgia will hit and you'll start craving some witty British writing at night and in bed, when your eyes become too dry to bear another internet minute.

And then, just to compensate, French magazine Jalouse, a special edition on Asian coolness: fashion, design, cinema and other artsy fartsy stuff from Shanghai, Bangkok and Tokyo. Probably very insubstantial, but I still took it, for their effort. And mine.


No idea when I'll be back in London. So I guess anything will do.