Tag: europe

  • Misguided adventures in Flanders

    I was recently asked to write a piece about literally anything for a journalism class. I admit that this blog is turning into visitbelgium and I concede that I am powerless to do anything about it.

    First, I saw it on a map. Poperinge: it rolled off the tongue. I’d been in Hazebrouck for a couple of weeks at this point, and my confidence was ever improving. With a Gallic shrug, I resolved. Somehow, I would get to Poperinge.

    My small northern French village was well connected. I was only a brisk 10 minute walk away from the train station. From there, one could go to Paris but that wasn’t an option for me, since I wasn’t going to the train station. Outside was the bus stop. I had never seen the 61 departing and for that reason I didn’t believe it did.

    With its cartoon like headlights, the number 61 wouldn’t have looked out of place on CBeebies.  It possessed a certain elegance and as I walked on, I could almost feel its iron construction struggling to give me a nod and a wink.

    I asked the driver for a ticket to Poperinge. A greying man with a friendly face replied that it would be two euros and that I could pay only by card, on the scanner behind me.

    I noted that he didn’t pronounce it in the Gallic way I did; not with the guttural R one would usually associate with the French language, but a softer rolled version. His G was equally surprising; not soft, but harsh, an abrupt release of air that I don’t think either of us expected.

    We winded through the Flanders countryside and the vista was predictably wonderful. We rolled through seemingly empty villages and to keep myself company I imagined them coming to life on a Sunday afternoon. Without characters, I didn’t believe they existed. Like figurines on a model railway, I concluded they’d be added eventually.

    All of a sudden, the dress code turned grey and the roads and buildings were happy to oblige. All around were corrugated iron buildings which could’ve been industrial beehives, yet just as much entirely hollow polygons housing nothing.

    Shocked, I began to wonder what Poperinge was: a slight town with picturesque alleys, or an ambiguous sprawling jungle where I would struggle to find pleasure? I didn’t hold my breath when we finally entered the slight town I’d desired. We’d passed through many a pleasant village, none of which were my destination.

    I only shuffled out of my seat on the sound of the engine turning off; here I was, in Poperinge.

    I hadn’t questioned that I was in a picture postcard northern French town; that’s what everything was up here. Yet, inside the Spar shop I’d entered in search of a lunch time snack, not everything was as expected. The alcohol section was vast, which was far from unusual, but the garish colours of the bottles and cans was striking. A tower of red Jupiler cans stood ominously. The voices around me sounded foreign. Was the lager skyscraper affecting the room’s acoustics?

    At the checkout, I realised that they were speaking a language more like English than French. The realisation that they were speaking Flemish and that I was in Belgium hit me with a thrilling flood of realisation. On leaving the premises, I noticed what I hadn’t noticed before. In front of me was the Belgian flag.

    I took full advantage of my bizarre predicament and went in search of the sort of divine obscurities one finds on an accidental bus trip to Belgium. In a stationery shop, I purchased a Tin Tin ruler and made plans to return for the expensive staplers. The shop lady told me of all the places I should travel to and insisted on noting these recommendations on a nice piece of paper.

    Outside of the shop, I saw that a green space had been furnished with large photos of people on colourful backgrounds. The elections had been a few months earlier and the faces of the more moderate candidates were only just starting to fade. The harsher ends of the political spectrum had been, well, treated more harshly.

    Down the road, I found myself in a tiny bar which seemed only to serve Jupiler. I took a half pint and watched the Brugge game as two younger members of their fan club fought on the table beside me. I didn’t quite know where I was, and that was alright.

  • Tabacs

    It’s not like Stockport in Hazebrouck. There’s a market every week, the potatoes are dirty, you can go to the pub. And get a coffee. There are roundabouts, but not like at home; miniature, dye cast things with giants in the middle. The bricks are different and exist though the telegraph poles may, impose they do not.

    I lived in Hazebrouck as a language assistant for 9 months. On my final days there, I took a trip around my favourite places in an effort to capture them, capture the memories, the bizarre emotions felt towards otherwise average supermarkets and the illogic intrigue of foreign street furniture. A few days ago, I received the processed film from the photos I took that day, and realised that those photos would never be enough. The rush of feelings I felt living in a foreign country for the first time was complex, and viewing these photos is a stimulant now just as it was on arrival in Hazebrouck last October.

    My curiosity for the banal on European trips feels, in a way, peculiar. Hazebrouck is under 100 miles from Dover. Some would say that it’s not that different from your average Kent village. Why was everything so fascinating? Eventually, I realised that it was because I taught myself to be intrigued by things that aren’t really that intriguing: the paper on the menus, the way the weather is talked about, the perfection of the paving stones and the existence of a pavement at all. I’m sheepish to admit it, but I’m actually rather proud of that discovery. After all, none of the insights I’ll write below would exist without it. This isn’t meant to be a guide, or make sense in any sensible way. But, I do hope that you enjoy it. I will begin with the most important place.

    The tabacs

    The tabac is the place for controlled indulgement. It is in competion with la boulangerie for being the most essential part of a French town; while one can function without the other, it is much more desirable to have both. On offer are all the addictive pleasures a man can get; coffee, cigarettes, alcohol and gambling. Yet the tabac is far from a free for all. Though I couldn’t shake my habit of going to the bar of Café de Paris for the first few months, I eventually realised that this wasn’t the done thing. No, you sit down and wait; your destiny is in the hands of the waiter. Knowing this is strangely reassuring. Yet it is not always that simple; say you fancy a flutter. You may go to the bar, but you will invariably be ushered in the direction of the PMU terminal to the side. You may ask for a coffee as you place your bet, but make no mistake. Gambling won’t make the coffee arrive any quicker, for the bar is a complex operation, one of different universes which barely tolerate one another despite often being operated by the same person. Like the French state, it is designed to be resistant and unbreakable, not flexible to those who wish to bend the rules. To outsiders it may even look silly, but that is part of its charm.

    Gambling in the tabac is better than gambling anywhere else. Betting slips are available but the more common choice among todays gallic youth is to utilise the nifty Parisports app, instead taking a QR code up to the bar to be scanned. Once, I left my phone under the scanner as the barman conversed with a regular; he was rather bemused when he turned back to the screen, before him on the screen 500 identical accumulators. Hundreds, possibly thousands of euros worth of bizarrely assembled accumulators; had this man really such faith in his knowledge of the English Championship? Don’t leave the phone under the scanner for any longer than necessary, I would learn. I was told this on multiple occasions, but the gallic charm was never insistant, not in that way. “Ca arrive”, he would say (“it happens”). The bit about it really only happening to me was unsaid. I learnt eventually.

    A month into my time in Hazebrouck, I was doing my drying in the big tumble driers outside Super U (a supermarket), dipping into a huge bag of frites as they completed the final spin cycle (the clothes). Familiar with the unreliable nature of the Super U spinners, I was happy to be relieved from my bored snacking by the arrival of the owners and employees of the Super U tabac, having just closed up. “Ca va monsieur”, said a man in his early 30s. I explained that I was from Manchester, and a conversation about football inevitably ensued. Despite my still limited conversation durability and his extremely strong northern French twang, we muddled through. His mate, who didn’t work at the tabac, spawned in and began telling me about his ten fold accumulator, which appeared even more eclectic than the sorts I’d been placing at Cafe de Paris. The woman behind them, who I later found out was one of the owners, was as interested and jolly. Yet it was the betting man that convinced me. In a joyful cultural haze, I’d put all my eggs in one tabac sized basket. But as the winter months arrived in Hazebrouck, Cafe de Paris had a competitor.

    My first visit to le Connemara took place only a couple of days later, post big shop. As usual, I took the cafe allonge. Sticking out like a saw thumb at the end of the checkouts (imagine the Wetherspoons in a plush new airport terminal), le Connemara gave off this curious warmth. I think part of its cosiness came from its isolation; it was a bar exiled from the outside world. Despite its location within the bowels of one of France’s largest chain supermarkets, the majority of its customers, unlike me, hadn’t come in as an afterthought at the end of the big shop. And the lack of engagement from Super U workers indicated, at the very least, that this wasn’t a Morissons cafe concern. Though there was an outside door, opening out to the giant tumble driers, and from there wider society, it was only when the regulars made their exits that the outside door’s hinges were made to do any work. As I was sipping away at my cafe allonge and examining far too intentionally the ingredients of the day’s shopping, I realised that I was slowly but surely blending in to le Connemara and starting to fall for its optician size televisions and mysterious customers. When another regular would walk in, or just someone who looked like they could be, everyone would turn and say “bonjour”. By the third visit, I was getting the same treatment, sometimes along with a handshake. I began to bet on the horses on the corner tele, and my flatmate Allison, with her equine wisdom, would give me betting tips. In one of our final visits to the supermarket tabac (although, I acknowledge that this monica belies the true beauty of the place), the white wine sipping gentleman beside us enquired as to what an earth two anglophones were doing in a town like Hazebrouck. He revealed that he had himself immigrated from Argentina as a child, and although his criticism of the french working mindset and the benefits system urked my lefty brain, I didn’t really care because there was no doubt; I was in the connemara cast.

    I imagine that on my eventual return to France, I very well might have to start again as a tabac novice, and that the only way to return to my spring 2025 glory would be to go through the whole process again. Yet, I am honestly rather content with having achieved moderate tabac respectability just the once. Inevitably, I’ll try again on my study period, comforted by the knowledge that underdogs can work their way into the seemingly immovable anthropic furniture of the tabac. And, if I don’t succceed this time? Well, le connemara will outlast us all.

    My intention is to publish a couple more niche observational pieces on my time in Hazebrouck. If you fancy a bit of that, I think you can sign up for email alerts at the bottom of this page. In any case, cheers for getting this far!

  • Sam Fender and all the Geordies in Belgium

    I think I rather like the idea of running away.  Not in the sense of running away from anything in particular, since my small French provincial town would doubtless struggle in any sort of impassioned chase, but running towards something. A century ago, that something would have been a quayside, a tourist information building filled to the rafters with sundry train and bus timetables, lost and misguided young men feverishly exploring their contents in search of an undefinable aspiration. Today, however, running away is far easier.

    It was just gone two in the afternoon and the language assistance correspondence was seemingly never ending, one part down to my slow French typing speed and another part down to a rogue index finger. This rogue index finger which could not be stopped from manipulating the trackpad on its whims; emails, the BBC homepage, emails again, the French news! This rogue index finger was my very own lost vagabond, quivering at the sight of the various tabs of British telecommunications mail; indésirables, boîte de reception, fubar nightclub over 30s night, B&Q, shoes (in your basket, did you forget something?) etc’ etc’. 

    Within good time, however, this rogue index finger had found something far more valuable; Sam Fender at Forest National Brussels: tickets available. It turned out that amongst the pile of deceivingly personally addressed invites to lowland small town Scottish nightclubs and DIY mega store sales, was something far more appealing, far more tangible. It was barely believable; signing up to a waiting list for a sold out gig is a fool’s game. I had imagined the employees of Forest National gathered around an iMac monitor in their plush offices, reading out the names on this waiting list over a few bottles of Leffe. They would eventually get to Frank Baker, and, in a very Dutch way, would mischievously, joyfully cackle, and the intern would get out his pointy stick and gesture it in the direction of the A3 chart on the wall of a very obviously sold out Forest National arena. Yet, none of this had happened and I was off to watch Sam Fender in Brussels. There would be no ships involved, no ambiguous farewells to the village folk. This was running away in the modern era. 

    What felt like only a matter of hours later, I found myself navigating the station quarter of Brussels, which itself seemed to be experiencing the sort of identity crisis mulled over in Sam Fender’s music. The gigantesque Brussels Midi tower stood awkwardly in this confused little segment of the capital, a darts player in a suit and tie, a sausage in a tiramisu. Etc. Where, in this confused little segment, would one find a hostel? 

    Your Hostel, as in my hostel for the night, was just around the corner, which meant circling a good few roundabouts, but I was in Belgium so that felt oddly comforting. The man on reception, who seemed to be one of about two people who ran the place, had me make my payment for the bed, and then asked me to take a seat on the shabby couch just behind. It seemed he was getting a group of us together: the 5PM check in gang. So off we all went to our very grand and very large dorm (30 beds in all). In terms of hostel pals, the American couple had selected the geeky Frenchman with round glasses, and he’d obliged, in the subtle French way that French men tend to oblige. My remaining options all seemed to be lost souls with perplexed looks on their faces, as if searching for something their exceedingly large duck taped suitcases didn’t contain. Alas, I decided it was time to make my move. I would be back, but I had a meeting with a Geordie.

    After a heartful Moroccan meal, probably cheaper for my choice of sitting in the single occupancy terrace, with breathtaking views into the windows of the Midi tower, I took the tram up to Forest National. Unlike most similarly named establishments, which tend to take their name from the apparently beautiful really wild thing they replaced (take any English housing estate as an example), Forest National was undeceiving in its title. From my wooded viewpoint, I observed the Brussels suburbs as they dozed off into the evening. Adolescent cyclists tackled speed bumps with the tact of a land rover. Bees floated around in a manner that seemed Belgian but was perhaps mere placebo. It was going to be a good night.

    Inside, it was hard not to notice the dress code, strictly monotone. Some Belgians, and possibly a handful of French were scattered in among the Geordies. The Magpies, who of course had won their first domestic trophy in 70 years only three days prior, were jovial, but not ecstatic. No, it was a feeling of mutual content inside Forest National. Snippets of conversation with fellow NUFC clad travellers would take place as the night went on, but almost in hushed tones. The audacity of beating Liverpool in a cup final, of being in Brussels three days later, Jupiler in hand, CMAT about to take to the stage, was outrageous. The barman, who worked for free in return for gig tickets, had no idea who Sam Fender was and as far as he was concerned, Newcastle United would only be relevant if I could name a Belgian player to have graced the St James turf. I could’ve said Philippe Albert, but a mix of modesty and joyful amnesia made that impossible. Of course, we were all immensely proud, inebriated by life, but that was our secret. We all knew. 

    CMAT took to the stage and was tremendous, as always. In all honesty I can’t remember, even after consulting the streaming services, her setlist in the sort of minute details which would make commenting on it worthwhile, and concocting praise for the sake of it would do her an injustice. Regardless, give her a listen.

    A half an hour pause followed, and on came wor Sam to a jubilant rendition of Going Home. I’d like to imagine that the avian inhabitants of the nearby woodlands succumbed to Mark Knopfler’s genius in the manner of a sort of Geordie pied piper, but that’s something for Belgian spring watch to contend with. In any case, it cannot be understated how impressive a piece of work Sam’s new album is. Every track in there is blessed, or cursed with the ability to make you smile, laugh cry. And after listening to the album in full, you listen to the lyrics, and every line is considered. It is prose more than worth its melodic charm. Nostalgia’s Lie, Reign Me In, Little Bit Closer are all memorable from an album point of view. Yet it was TV Dinner and Something Heavy which stood out in Belgium. Just the lyrics of TV Dinner are deserving of some sort of reward, maybe a Carabao energy drink or something. We do all love Carabao now, after all. 

    I must’ve been one of the last to leave, taking it all in, as if in the away section of a European football match, locked in on Police orders, fascist hooligans outside the turnstiles. But there’d be no fascist hooligans, only friendly Belgians, as I walked the 90 minutes back to the centre of Brussels. At one point I came along a few Irish lads, all in black and white, equally as lost and stunned as I outside a huge Audi factory. As the clocks ticked slowly towards midnight, as trams surged into the capital’s suburbs behind us, our odd group had become an anomaly among the Muslims celebrating their Ramadan evening meal. Memories of that hallowed Sunday afternoon were eagerly bounced back and forth between us, vivid descriptions of Dan Burn heading in our first, Alex Isak volleying in our second, our journeys to Brussels and whether, standing outside this Audi mega factory, we were even still in Brussels. Talk of Sam Fender, People Watching, CMAT would inevitably come up at some point, but it hardly felt necessary. Because of this precise moment, everything was going to be alright.