‘I must be mad,’ I think to myself yet again as I submerge myself into Brussels traffic. 12 km becomes the equivalent of a trip into space as I run the gamut of emotions: frustration, regret, anger, panic, envy but mostly: resigned patience, the mark of a good expat! I know that this old guy who has just illegally pulled out in front of me is going to do something weird next, like make a u-turn in the busiest street in Brussels, and sure enough, he will and he does. A cyclist shouts at me because I have the audacity to spray my windscreen, he must have unexpectedly had his glasses or his face washed and was not happy. All I can say is if that’s the least that happens to him on a Brussels street, far out. Cyclists and pedestrians navigate the streets with impunity, so while keeping a look-out for jay-walkers who calmly step into the road while looking elsewhere, dodging trams which have priority, and buses that think they do, always checking for some driver who has priority from the right and willing to defend his right to use it (to death) and trying to keep out of taxi-only lanes, not driving on the pavement, is it any wonder some cyclist gets his face washed every now and then!
Brussels – fools rush in where angels fear to tread!