Uninspired Signage in Brussels

I go to a DVD shop on Blvd Anspach called "Excellence" for no other reason that it's brilliant. Videoclubs are dying, it' s a fact and I stream the shit out of whatever I can but the fact is you can't find French movies with French subtitles free to stream online. I'm a firm believer that the only way to learn another language is to watch the movies in original version with sous-titre. Without that I'll never learn French and I'll have nothing to brag about when I finally drag myself back to Ireland. When everyone at home is going "Yeah well now I have a big fuck-off high definition TV that I can't afford that I watch X-Factor on, and everyone in my family has two cars each that we bought on credit" I can be like "Yeah well I speak French so Je m'en foo".

But the name, Excellence. I don't like it. I don't like it because its an unimaginative English name, chosen by a non-English speaker. It's uninspired and inoffensive, and though there are many worse, it's true (I recently returned from Greece where I saw a poster for a band called "Scum on your Face") I wish there was some way I could offer my services as a freelance consultant on such naming matters, for the Belgian commercial public. I would say "Mr. Dupont, I'm afraid the name you have chosen for your establishment is not cool. That will be 2,000 euros, please."

I always wished in india I could act as a freelance spelling consultant. These people are poor. One third of all of the poorest people in the world live in India. These businessmen (they are always men) fork out thousands of rupees for a sign for their shop, in colour with backlighting, and they hand a sketch of what they want to the sign-maker wallah and it says:

COOLDRINGS - COK, SPREET, FONTA, LIMONDRING

God Almighty, just ask someone first, dude.

Brussels Midi Festival - A Poor Show

Le Foire du Midi is a giant funfair right beside Gare du Midi train station that runs every year for a month or so at the end of summer. It's always busy and loud and seems to attract the have-nots of Brussels society. Also features the Belgian chav.

Do you know that Belgian chavs don't know about the Burberry thing? You would imagine that if chavs and skangers were universal, which they are, they would all know about the Burberry thing. Alas, no. My Belgian man told me that they are more into Fred Perry and I said "Yeah but what about the distinguishing pattern of a brand like Burberry? How would they identify each other?" He didn't get it.

I brought my mother to the Foire du Midi today. She clutched that handbag to her chest like it was sewn onto her. It's both frightening and saddening down there. People are quite poor, and it seems like that's where they go on holiday. Large families out in force, overweight with teeth missing and, saddest of all, not enough money to treat mental illness. There were lots of crazy people, and they all seemed to be on the Kriek. Lots of persons of the Muslim faith, also, dressed up to the nines and stuffing barbe du papa into their gobs. Kids screamed, once the little metal bar went "click" across their bellies and they realised they wanted to get off the ride, but it was too late. Sad life lessons being learned there.

There was vomit on the tarmac, dance music on the loudspeakers, gypsies behind counters. Large VCR players went dusty while toothless travellers urged people to try to win one by hooking small plastic ducks onto a fishing rod line.

Living here as a foreigner, it would be possible to live years without seeing Belgian poverty, right here in Brussels, as it really is. A short visit to Liege or Charleroi produces the same saddening result. Years ago wen I saw Charleroi listed as a (fucking) Ryanair destination, I thought it sounded romantic. Charles the King. So noble. So fairy tale. I imagined big castles and Brugge-esque belfries. On my first visit to the city, a drunk man grabbed my tit in the train station. I yelped and hid in the toilets until my lift arrived. What the fuck?

We didn't stay long at the funfair. I think my mother was intimidated by the tattoos and excess flab, and was in a hurry to go back to the postcard Brussels where everyone speaks English and has insurance.

Beware the Inquisitor

Shame is a big feature in Indian culture. So is asking foreigners intrusive questions.

For Indians, I am a walking, talking, cigarette-smoking puzzle. Where is my husband? Why don't I have one? Where are my kids? If this man is not my husband, clearly he is my brother. No? Boyfriend? Unfathomable. Not least of the puzzles I present to Indians is my insistence on wearing trousers like a man, or my preference for my hair in a short stylish crop, unheard of in a country where femininity is ass-length hair slathered in enough coconut oil to grease a wheel.

Indians don't stare at me, or gaze or gawp. They consider me, the white skinned blue eyed puzzle, as I saunter, unmarried down the street, shins blazing, cigarette hanging from my un-ringed fingers, looking for all the world like marriage and kids and what mom and dad think don't even graze the outer limits of my consciousness. Which they don't.

And how do they know all this about me? How do they know that I have a car and a string of boyfriends, a crappy salary and divorced parents? Because they ask.

In India, personal details such as age, marital status are public property. You may be asked by a total stranger on a train how many kids you have. An answer in the negative may produce quizzical looks and downright disapproving shifts sideways away from you along your shared blue plastic Indian Railways seat.

On my first visit to India, I was on a train with a boyfriend. Apart from not sharing nationality, he wasn't even white, like me. Such an odd situation threw my fellow passengers into a frenzy of confusion. The look on my neighbour's face when I told him of our arrangement reminded me of a computer crashing. I could see his brain going 'control alt delete' as he tried to digest the information he had so nosily requested. Subsequent visits to this beautiful country have found me more prepared, and previous unsavory opinions of my lifestyle have firmly wedged a 7 euro faux wedding ring on the correct finger.

Taking this cue, I have done my fair share of nosing around. Learning about another culture by talking to locals is a mind opening exercise in self improvement.

When I was in Tamil Nadu, I stayed in a small guesthouse on the beach. The owner was a friendly, aged frenchwoman, and she had a team of local helpers. One of them, Govinda, was the cook. A beautiful woman of 26, she ate with us some nights, and with her broken english followed our conversations and smiled demurely at everyone throughout the meal. One night, I asked her if she was married. Her smile disappeared, and she shook her head and looked away. My question had evidently upset her.

Govinda has a physical defect. Her feet turn outwards, like a mermaids fins, and she has difficulty walking. When she got to marrying age, the defect caused problems in her parents' ability to find a match. As is the tradition in conservative india, especially among the lower caste fisherman colony to which she belongs, if the older sister isn't married, it can cause a problem for the younger sisters. It was imperative that a groom, any groom, be found. Her father was approached by a local man, and a deal was reached. The man's son was willing. The son was praised as a hard worker, a great son, an excellent match.

A dowry was demanded. Govinda figured out pretty soon that the man to whom she had been betrothed was far from her ideal match. For the sake of her sisters, and her family's name, she had agreed to marry him. She planned to stay married for three years, the legal amount of time you must wait before filing for divorce. Doomed before she even began, Govinda made plans for her wedding.

Three days before the wedding ceremony, the tsunami struck south India, destroying thousands of kilometers of coast. The wave brought destruction and misery, swept away people, houses, boats, livelihoods. It also swept away all of the gold, jewels, and money that Govinda's family had managed to save for her dowry. As she clung desperately to a coconut tree, trying to keep her head above water, Govinda wondered of she should just let go. She thought it would be the most noble thing to do. How could her family ever replace the valuables for her dowry that had been taken by the great wave? But she clung on.

Govinda is now married. Her husband, who regularly beats her, turns out to be neither a hard-worker nor a nice guy. She is ashamed, humiliated, and unable to go back to her family because its unacceptable. I know this because our french host gives her a couch to sleep on when the abuse gets really bad.

This was the story that lurked behind my apparently safe question. Every time I saw Govinda after that, she wouldn't smile at me. She stayed silent through meals and the pleasantries stopped.

My question unleashed a wave of misery of its own. My inquisitiveness brought shame to her deep brown, unlined face. It made me realize why I was such a puzzle to these people. They needed to figure out why my unorthodox admissions didn't bring a huge barrage of shame tumbling down on me. That I can swing my hips around India in apparent sin is beyond them. Beware the inquisitor...