Why I won't be returning to Belgium anytime soon or Would forever be too long

I am back. I had not much to say but I was struck by an almost twenty year old memory and story that I thought I would share. It was one of those surreal moments in life that was both potentially scary, yet as it was occurring I kept thinking how great a story it would be.

I was in Europe and it was the summer of 1986. Yes, the year that Chernobyl blew and the US bombed Libya (they showed them by planting a bomb in a PanAm flight over Scotland). It was late May. I started in Amsterdam but found my route south to be difficult because of train strikes in both Belgium and France. I was determined to get to Paris, but found myself "stranded" in Brussels, Belgium when I was able to finally arrive due to the Belgian train strike. On the Friday, I arrived on the Thursday, I found out that there was no longer a Belgian train strike so I could take the night train south to Paris that night. Great, I would go to Brugge for the day, which was cool and then came back to the mid station (there are three in Brussels, a north, south and mid). I would catch my train to Paris from the South station.

I was hanging around the mid station, trying to get rid of my Belgian Francs, as I had no intention of returning, at least anytime soon. I tried to give them to some people with mohawk hairstyles of varying colors but they would not take them. I could not figure out why. I mean what is the world coming to when punk rockers will not accept an unsolicited handout from a foreigner?

My train was not leaving until around two in the morning, so by about ten I headed to the south station and figured that I would just sit and read at the station. I got there and found a seat. I put my feet up on my backpack and pulled out my book of the moment (Prizzi's Honor, in fact I had enough time to finish it.) There was basically nobody in the station at this time. I check my watch and see that it is getting near midnight. I notice that this guy, he was a bit dishevelled and swarthy, not in a good way either, walk in and sort of scope out the scene. Of course, the scene consisted of me and maybe a few others who were not sitting alone. Anyway, the guy decides to sit down......and wouldn't you know it, with a ton of empty seats, he sits beside me.

I am thinking that I got here first and maybe if I ignore his presence he will get the hint and shove off. Boy, am I a moron! He sits in silence, which I was enjoying, for a few minutes. He then says something to me in French. In my infinite wisdom I answer back in French, "Je ne comprend pas." which means I do not understand. I hoped that would be it, but again, I was wrong. A few more minutes of silence and he says in English, "You are English?". I should have said, "No shit, Sherlock!" but meekly said "yeah".

Again, he is not getting the hint. I was here first and my body language was saying "get the fuck away from me". He continues to try to engage me in chit chat. Of course, I don't do chit chat least of all with strange Belgian men, strange Belgian women would be another story because there is the opportunity for sex there.

Anyway, he is either persistent or just not getting the hint. Then he said those three words I least wanted to hear "I LIKE BOYS!". Hello, or should I just get up and wave, saying, "Drive safely, folks, I am outta here!". At that moment, I saw the humor and wished that the whole scene was being filmed as the scene went from merely annoying to surreal, strange and funny. It was an out of body experience for me at that point. I wanted to laugh my head off at that moment. I mean picture yourself sitting beside a strange, swarthy, and seriously unattractive Belgian dude (he was anywhere from 30-60 years old but what do I know) who has now revealed to you that he "likes boys".

I then look at him and say,"That's nice. I do not." I was torn as to my course of action--get up and move away, but I was there first so it was MY territory, or refuse to be roused from my territory. I chose the later course. He did not get the reply. He continues to talk to me, trying to talk me into going to bed with him (I presume a bed, but it could have been a back alley or his car and my suddenly sodomized and lifeless body being tossed in the nearest river afterward, not even a kiss goodbye, the bastard!). Anyway, he keeps pitching "You going to Paris?" "The train is not running tonight." "I will pay you". This goes on for another fifteen minutes before he offers to "pay" me.

I never did negotiate a price. The Belgian fucker, or would be David Fucker or at least sodomizer, would not take the hint. At that point, I figure this territorial thing really is not working. I get up, grab my pack and yell, "Fuck You!" to him so that other five or so people in the station could hear. I go elsewhere and I have no idea or care where he went. I hung around and caught my train out of Belgium never to return again.

I mean I could go back as I have a potential boyfriend waiting for me. Of course, given the time that has passed, I figure he is dead, which is okay. "I like boys" how funny is that to hear, especially if you are a male and it refers to you. I should have been flattered but I could not deal with the thought of my father having to fly to Brussels to claim the body of his dead, freshly sodomized son. In fact, that thought did not occur to me then. I am just plain too stupid to see those risks as being anything but remote.

It was a funny story and you had to be there, but I really do wish you were. Ciao.