Some of the graffiti here is great. I wish I’d been able to get pictures of it.

After my dinner but before my dessert, I roamed through an open mall called Prince something. I saw a friendly and ambitious cat who rubbed up against me and said hello briefly but got right back to his business of treasure hunting. That’s all, for now. The full set of Brussels pictures is here.

On that note, I decided to take the train to Belgium today. I took the high-speed Eurostar from London’s Waterloo station. The check-in agent remarked on the hour of sunshine we’d just had, as if God had worked some kind of miracle. After passing through security and informing the immigrations officer that I was headed for Brussels, he offered a skeptical glance and stamped my passport.

After boarding the train, I lasted about ten minutes in my assigned seat; I found myself sharing a small 4-top with three French guys who were well-intended but blissfully unaware of those around them. What was especially interesting is that everyone stuck to their assigned seats despite there being entire cars of empty seats. I decided to pick up and relocate to another car – partially in hopes of getting a better view, but also to quench my American urge for a little more space. I settled into a pair of seats against the window in a nearly empty car.

The English countryside out through Canterbury and Dover was gorgeous and strangely regal – rolling green pastures with several small villages that seemed to have been built around the ancient stone churches set in their center. Then it was time to leave…

The concept of the Eurotunnel was exciting enough to make up for the rather obvious fact that it offered little in the way of sensory stimulation.

When we entered France, it was evident that while we were under the Channel, the landscape had drawn in a giant breath and puffed out its chest. Lush vegetation and vast swaths of farmland were dotted with fat, fluffy sheep and punctuated by inexplicable ditches of latte-colored water. More towns with enormous stone churches in the middle. Most of the homes were stone or brick with roofs that looked copper in color, but as if they’d be soft to the touch. There were odd batches of trees that stood together, leafless, tall and narrow like islands of splintering matchsticks. Were they firs? The cows and horses roamed comfortably but seemed to congregate in groups, as if to mimick the towns that sat below them. The vegetation has such a secure grip on this place that it’s even crawling up the sides of the homes and farming equipment as if to remind everyone who is the ultimate farmer.

One odd sight breaking it all up was a small, dimly lit campground filled with RVs, trailers and Mercedes cars. Across the street one farmstand trailer had its awning open, and under it a purple neon light called out to the campers across the way.

It was just after six o’clock, and as if a tornado were looming, the sky quickly lost its brightness to the night as we zipped into Belgium at 200 miles per hour. The next mission of this traveler: to find out if what they say about Belgian chocolate and biscuits is true.

I did get a few shots during the rain-breaks and managed to keep my camera mostly dry. I know they’re kinda touristy shots but there are a couple funky ones. I think I am headed out of here in the next day or so.

I went to DJ Magazine’s annual awards bash, and was less than impressed. That’s what happens, I guess, when you’re not on the cool list.

[A Flickr usage note: the browsing features show the smaller versions of the image. To see the full image, click the "all sizes" chicklet above the image.]

I took the Tube over from the airport to my hotel. Then, and the few other times I rode it yesterday, I found it to be the polar opposite of the T in Boston. Clean trains, on schedule, highly informative placards, maps and schedules, friendly cheerful staff – all the things one would expect from a decent, well-thought-out system of public transport. There are a few cities in the US where I have found this as well, but I couldn’t help drawing the dramatic contrast with Boston.

Getting out of the Tube and hitting the streets, one rather silly but vital thing was that I needed a quick bit of pedestrian-deprogramming. Now, it’s obvious that the whole driving-on-the-other-side-of-the road thing is a challenge for the American driver, but I didn’t anticipate the challenge it would pose to me as pedestrian. I’m pretty hardwired to look left first before stepping into the street, then check for traffic on my right as I’ve started to enter the roadway. Obviously, that’s a wonderful way to get hit around here. I swear I’ve got it down now.

I am weak for sweets and one of the first things I saw in the mall above the Tube stop were four or five shops hawking doughnuts the size of roadhouse burgers. I managed to escape unharmed.

A quick note on currency… there’s something weird that goes on in your head as one who thinks in US$ when perceiving prices here. Since things are denominated and priced very similarly, it feels pretty easy. But even when you know consciously that it’s roughly two bucks per pound, subconsciously it’s a little harder to absorb how expensive everything is when you see on your menu that the tuna sandwich is “10″ and the latte is “4″. Sounds fairly reasonable, right? Part of the problem is the serious weakness of US dollars, and as a debtor nation we have ourselves to blame. But part of it is London’s sky-high prices. Anyway, it’s pretty hard to imagine how working-class people make it work here. And I know I’m sounding pathetically American here, but the whole concept of “change” being worth much more than a buck is something new, too.

After checking my bags at the hotel I wandered around the city for much of the day. I was ravenously hungry and stopped into a funky-looking place for breakfast. I generally don’t like my omelettes the color of French Toast, and it turned out to be decent food but excruciatingly bad service.

I didn’t have much of a clue where I was headed, but mother luck was on my side, as I ended up in Westminster. First, I stumbled across the changing of the Queen’s Life Guard – then toured the thousand-year old Westminster Abbey, which blew me away in its scope and detail. I emerged from the Abbey to find myself standing below Big Ben just as it sung out at high noon – then wandered around Parliament, down to the river, where the view was quite nice. I then made my way back in the direction I came, passing one end of a tightly locked-down Downing Street, vaguely disappointed that I couldn’t see anything, when the gates opened and a motorcade that I assumed to be that of the Prime Minister came up the boulevard and passed me to enter Downing. A touch of action, sure – but what most impressed me were the motorbike cops on these gorgeous white-and-blue BMWs who were steering with one arm while holding up their other hand “stop,” blowing whistles, avoiding various obstacles as they whizzed down the wrong side of the road to hold traffic back for the motorcade. If I tried to do that I would land on my face.

Then, heading back for the hotel to get ready for my evening, I saw a guy in the Tube station playing a guitar. He wasn’t great but he was seriously enthusiastic, and it wasn’t until I was up close, dropping some change into his guitar case that I noticed he was strumming with half an arm – he sortof had the guitar pick wedged into his elbow-meat and was strumming along. Bravo, dude.

I had lunch at one of those conveyor-belt sushi places I’d heard of but never found in the states. Surprisingly, I really enjoyed it.

Then it was off to a couple social engagements with friends – a coffee with a journalist pal at The Wolseley, and then drinks and dinner with another friend at the very warm and enjoyable Electric House.

I’ll probably try to take a few pictures today or tomorrow, we shall see. By the end of the week I’m either going to take the chunnel-train to Brussels or fly to Amsterdam. Maybe I’ll decide by a flip of one of those damn four-dollar coins.

What happened in London is a tragedy and a horror I’d wish on no one. It’s very likely a result of islamic militants spreading an ideology to which I am vehemently opposed.

After the London incident, the “alert level” in Boston’s subway system was raised to orange (or maybe tangerine – I always get those shades mixed up) with great fanfare and a hurried press conference from the Governor. I checked my color chart magnet on the fridge and orange means “dress for sun”, so I put on cargo shorts and a silky soft Boss t-shirt and headed downtown. Wandering in and out of the Copley station, from what I could tell this basically means more cops standing around. How, exactly, is this making any difference whatsoever, except in my tax bill?

Then, on the way back, I heard Hillary Clinton carrying on about how the President had “cut $50 million from the budget destined to protect our railways”. Senator, could you at least wait for Londoners to finish dredging the corpses out of Piccadilly before you start on the pork and the politics? Get off my fucking radio.

I disagree with how Bush has handled basically all of this, but I certainly don’t accept the Washington assumption that your dedication to solving a problem is measured by how much of my money you throw at it.

And not to pick on the Londoners, but why all the bomb-sniffing dogs now? The bombs already went off, guys. Where were these dogs a few days ago? Something tells me they weren’t checking tube trains.

This is not a conflict of money nor of armament. It is a conflict of social and political ideology. Bombs and bored cops and an infinity of taxpayer dollars will not solve it.