KissandRide
IliveinBelgium.No,it’sok,reallyitis.Therearemanyhigh-speedconnectionsoutofthecountry,apointtheBelgiantouristboardemphasises,withimpressivepragmatism.Anyway,Ilikeit,sortof.Themedievalarchitecture,thechips,publictransport.ManythingscometomindwhenIthinkofBelgianpublictransport.There’sthetram’sinalienablerightofpriorityovereveryotherroaduser.Howwelaughaswewatchthetouristsjumpfree,outraged,cursingtheirchoiceofmini-breakdestination,asourricketyyellowheapofmetalspeedstowardsthem,ringingitstinnybell.Therearethebusbeerdrinkersat8amandthenthere’sthe“metro”,withits,erm,
eclectic
musicselection.There’ssomethingverypleasingaboutlisteningtotheDanceoftheSugarPlumFairyinaderelictgreycubeofastationfullofhobos,thescentofurineandwafflesfloatingheadilyinthewarmspringair.Recently,atchuckingouttimeattheEuropeanCommission(so,aboutmidday)themetrooperativeshavetakentoplayingtheCan-Cantofullplatformsofsombrebureaucrats,tryingtodiscussthefinerpointsoftheWorksDirective.Bestofall,though,isKiss&Ride.Kiss&Ride,whichrunsintheBrusselsMetrofreenewspaper,isBelgium’sMissedConnections:theforumwheresemi-literateBelgiancommutersposthaikuformpleasforloveintotheether.Itrarelydisappoints–it’sanamazingmixofromantic,bathetic,faintlyalarming.I’dloveitfortheplacenamesalone.I’vebeencollectingthemforafewmonthsandthesearemyfavourites.
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