Final destination

I'm not one to compare things to the past, as I believe in always moving forwards and I have a very bad memory. But measured by previous years, 2022 has not had the most auspicious start.

Well, that's not true. The first six days were great, as we looked forward to the global supply chain finally disgorging our furniture in Brussels. The way they do things here is to deliver through the windows, using a sort-of crane with a platform to take everything up. It's very exciting, and we were getting all our long forgotten items that it turns our we never needed in the first place back.

And then the movers dropped a box on Hannah's head. I wasn't there at the time but apparently it fell off the truck onto her when they asked her to review some paperwork. I arrived 30 minutes later with Pete and our luggage to find blood seeping through her woolen hat as she sat dazed on a cardboard covered chair, and no one had called an ambulance!! 

I threw myself on the mercy of the Belgian emergency operator, explaining "francais n'est pas mon premier langue" and soon Hannah was blue-lighted away and received eight stitches...and thankfully nothing worse. She considers it an unfortunate accident, I consider it an eight-figure personal injury payout, but the victim wins that argument.

The window loading thing was done in two days, so we were enjoying a first night in our new place when Hannah stumbled down the bottom step of the stairs. "I'd better not do that again," she laughed. And then immediately did it again, and broke her ankle. 

This time we took an Uber so as not to embarrassingly get the same ambulance drivers, and after a few days in a cast it's "only" torn ligaments and ten weeks of physio. I've spent a lot of time in the USA telling people how great a national health service is and so far I've been proved right, thank you very much.

All this was a ruse, of course, so Hannah could sit in a chair while I carried and sorted everything we have ever owned. There are now pictures on the walls, and most books on bookshelves, and things in an airing cupboard. Pete got his second vaccination shot yesterday, and we were settling into a new, normal, comfortable routine.

Then we caught Covid! Mainly because Hannah had to do a routine test before her physio appointment. She and Pete have got it; I haven't tested, following the American model that if you don't ask you can't tell. I'm isolating with them anyway, for ten days, while I wonder if my aches and brain fog are not from schlepping furniture then drinking strong Belgian beer to unwind but possibly symptoms of "the spicy cough".

So...the only way is up? Luckily we have plenty of food and chocolate, a new batch of coffee beans from a local roastery, and I'm going to see if the nearby boulangerie delivers. My French has been expanding no end: bequilles (crutches), entorse (sprained), saignement (bleeding) etc.

As ever, our doors remain open to anyone who wants to come to visit our lovely new apartment in beautiful Brussels! But to avoid calamity, wait until we're not here.

Ooh, what a cool and crazy way of moving!

And then the ambulance men came to take Hannah away.

Where does all this stuff come from?

Ah, OK, that's what I need. You can stop unpacking now.

Later: the offending foot, lovingly wrapped with my Cub Scout first aid knowledge.

The hospital doing a slightly more professional job.

But you can't keep a good woman down, even when she should be sitting down. She regretted doing a little too much a little too soon, and is now taking it easier.

Daddy's painkillers.

Sadly I did not stock up on ALL OF THESE before Covid struck.

We did a little housewarming with Pete's fondue set (a much-asked-for Christmas pressie) and ready-made fondue trays you can get in the supermarket. Very European! Or very 1970s, you decide.

And then later still...nooooooo!

Ten days isolation. Pete: obviously devastated by the news.

All aboard the Vacci-Bus

It's tricky being of no fixed abode during a global pandemic. The NHS wants nothing to do with us (quite rightly) given we've been absent from their records for 13 years. Flying back to the US seems a little excessive, especially as the beer and chocolate is so much worse there. And Belgium is prioritising...well, the Belgians. If we were going to get a fast-becoming-necessary booster shot, it would have to be a solution as itinerant as us.

And luckily, Brussels has the Vacci-Bus.

I've dealt with a lot of bureaucracy in my life, and the trick is to politely find that one person in the vast lethargic infrastructure who can give you the tiny piece of information you need. Today, Hannah was the one who found it when she spoke to Brussels Coronavirus Call Center (Press 3 for English) and was told "Get to the Vacci-bus!"

Like a demented Anneka Rice, we ran through the streets of Brussels, following clues and seeking out Place Anneessens, where the Vacci-Bus was due to pull in at midday. We got there with three minutes to spare, and joined the ten senior citizens milling around. Suddenly, the bus appeared! Then we had to wait another 45 minutes for the police to arrive and unlock some barriers so it could reverse into the medieval square and prepare to jab us.

My GCSE French was (again) pushed to the limit by trying to discuss the minutiae of vaccine administration, but after flashing our passports and temporary Belgian Numéro d'Identification Sécurité Sociale I got a sticker with a number on it and was told to wait.

Another ten minutes passed before I was called inside. It was...a bus, with some sheets taped to the windows. "Errr. Pfizer. Booster." I said to the nurse, whose questions were far beyond my oral proficiency. I removed five layers of Northern Europe winter clothing, looked away as something was stuck in me, and then Hannah and I waited outside for the required 15 minutes. If that was actually a Pfizer booster, I'll be very relieved.

And...that's it! We're invincible, again, until the next variant comes along. There was hardly anyone at the Vacci-Bus, so if you're experiencing crashing healthcare websites come on over to Belgium and catch the Vacci-Bus like us! I'll buy you a beer and chocolate after, because health is about treating all the needs of a person.

Le Vacci-Bus est ici! Viens vite!!

Some slight trouble reversing. I hope the driver isn't the one giving the shots.

In French, you can get a vaccine chez vous! In Flemish, they naar je toe. I know which I'd prefer.

New England

No sooner had we arrived in Belgium than we left. One of the exciting things about being back in Europe is how close we are to England, so after a week getting used to "la vie Belges" we jumped on the Eurostar for the two-hour trip to London.

Sadly, while we returned to Europe, Britain has left it. Most political decisions have only an oblique effect on us hoi polloi, but as I stood in the long line to emigrate from Belgium before joining the next line to immigrate to the UK, all before even leaving Belgian soil, I again cursed the 51.89% of my country that voted to personally inconvenience me.

No matter - once on the train we were quickly surrounded by the verdant Belgian countryside and, after a quick stop in Lille, into the darkness of the Chunnel before emerging to grey skies and rain, and several Covid tests. We're spending the week pootling around the West Country and trying to get used to the strange experience of seeing family in real life for the first time in over two years. Unlike on Skype, I'm apparently expected to have trousers on when talking to people in person.

Welcome to England.

A happy Grandma.

Hey Mum, remember me? I used to be your favourite before Emily, Hannah, and the grandchildren came along.

Down in Weymouth, watching Hannah and Katharine shove 2p coins into the seaside arcade machines. It's like a vision of my retirement.

And it was someone's birthday while we were there!

Pete and God-sister Megan, enjoying a walk at an iron age hillfort. To be fair, the UK does iron age forts better than most.

And Bonfire Night! Nothing like a bit of Guy Fawkes when you're annoyed with politics.

New in town

There's a peculiar pleasure in walking around a city you've moved to literally hours ago and getting annoyed at all the tourists. "What are they doing here? Where do they come from? Why are they wandering around aimlessly taking photos?" I fumed as I wandered around aimlessly taking photos.

Our hotel is in the European Quarter, home of the parliament, where the business happens, the real Brussels. But ten minutes walk away is the Brussels of the postcards, of the ancient buildings, of the smelly crowds of visitors. I headed straight to the World Heritage site of the Grand Place to see if there was more to it than a boy having a wee.

I will admit, it's all very picturesque. After thirteen years in the States I consider anything built before the 1980s to be venerable and timeworn (like me) so the 15th Century townhall was nice to look at, as was the 12th Century church of St Nicholas beside it. The tiny, twisting cobbled streets are a welcome change from Houston's downtown freeways, although they are filled with tacky shops and bars catering to the tourist hoards. Ugh.

But after the unwashed masses have left, Brussels is having its own son et lumiere every night, where various artists have filled local landmarks with dazzling displays. We went tonight, and watched artificial fireflies dance while we stood underneath 20ft-high glowing flowers. Or maybe that was just a side effect of all the Belgian beer I've been drinking.

The royal palace. Wait, Belgium has a monarchy? Vive la révolution!

Ah yes, that authentic churro and waffle experience.

A clock, with lots of bells. Probably significant, I don't know.

I have a feeling we're not in Texas anymore.

The townhall. Impressive, if you like that sort of thing.

I like this sort of thing!

One of the interesting details about the city is that these things litter the streets. There seems to be a dozen electric scooter companies offering deathtraps that you unlock via app and then dump wherever you arrive. It's...concerning.

Some bicycle-powered lights outside the EU Parliament.

Pete burning off at least half a pain au chocolat.

Nicely lit building.

Not at all terrifying.

Those flowers I told you about. Maybe they were real!

A field of artificial fireflies. Easier to keep in place than real ones, I imagine.

Illuminati.

In the manner to which I have become accustomed

Things are a lot nicer when someone else is paying, which is why I thoroughly enjoyed our flight to Brussels. And when you're as important as Hannah, they let you fly business class! I didn't even have to pay for drinks!!

Unfortunately the route was a three hour hop to Washington, DC followed by a scant seven-hour overnight flight to Belgium. I contemplated staying up, pressing the call button every ten minutes and asking for another glass of Baileys, but decided I needed to be on best form for immigration, so pulled on my complimentary United Airlines socks and slept.

My once powerful British Passport no longer lets me down the EU fast track lane but thankfully the queues were short and we were soon out and on solid European soil for the first time in...a very long time. Then it was a case of getting a Covid test; no small feat when you lack both a Belgian phone and the all-important European eID, "The Future of cross-border digital public services".

But somehow we managed it, and having been judged officially virus clean we wandered the city, which is a lot easier than Houston given they have pavements here. It's all just so European! Cars stop for you at pedestrian crossings, imposing ancient buildings line cobbled streets, and everyone smokes. In the US you get to kill yourself with a gun, whereas in Europe it's a cigarette. Hannah and I have started smoking just to fit in.

I've also been wheeling out my French, which has been going well. "At least you made the effort," the hotel receptionist told me when I requested a "chariot de baggage" for our suitcases. 

This morning I put Pete on the bus to his new school (I'm not crying) and Hannah jumped on a train to find Chevron's main office in Ghent. And as soon as I finish this Gauloises bleu, I'm off to Lidl.

Don't get used to this, sunshine.

Hannah's favourite part was the divider that she could raise to block me out.

Just the one Baileys then!

We did get to enjoy the swanky new Polaris Lounge in DC, where I tried to spot anyone famous. It's harder with masks on.

"So why did you want to move to Belgium?"

The EU Parliament...

...where Hannah will be spending much of her time talking about green energy policy. Green energy policy set by an oil company! What could go wrong?

Pete already rocking the classic Eastern European look.

Onto the morning school bus! An excellent place to finish homework, as I recall.

And I'm back in my happy place.

On the move

Finally, after sending to the embassy a pile of documents that put War and Peace to shame, we were judged to be of good enough character to move to Belgium. More fool them!

As soon as Hannah's work found out, the slo-mo bureaucratic process gave way to a feverish rush. Why wasn't she there yesterday? Movers were booked within minutes, and then it was time to send Pete to school with some Belgian goodies to hand out on his last day.

The movers arrived and were done in two days! I've found that it's always good to be specific when dealing with professionals: "I don't care about my wife and son," I told them. "Just make sure my piano and coffee machine get there undamaged."

They understood, but also informed me that my wife and son had to accompany me on the aircraft. After that revelation our tickets were booked, and our time left in Texas started to be measured in hours rather than months.

What better way to spend those hours than drinking? As we can't export any booze, we threw a Take-Your-Own-Bottle pizza party on the driveway for all of our wonderful neighbours. They did us proud, and vodka, gin, whisky, etc. disappeared, including one bottle of red wine that smashed, leaving a nice purple stain on the concrete for whoever rents our house to deal with.

How easily do all worldly possessions pack to nothing!

Poor child, eating donut.

All this was once Hannah's clothes.

Pete enjoying a couple of nights in a Houston hotel as our furniture departs.

Farewell to H-town.

Next door's cat Phillio (a regular visitor) being somewhat confused.

Then Hannah's speakeasy opened in the garage, and I don't remember much after that.