Day 3: Europe 1, GJM 0

I will never understand how, in French-speaking countries, people seem to know immediately that I am English. I don’t wear a Union Jack shirt, a bowler hat or whistle the national anthem. OK, so I guess I am obviously northern European by appearance but why is it that waiters, shop keepers and ticket sellers automatically speak English to me?

Arriving at Brussels Midi railway station yesterday at 5.30pm, the first thing I needed was a shower and a nap. I needed to find a hotel. So I asked the guy at the metro ticket booth for ‘Un billett a Hotel de Monnaies.’

Before I had even finished my tiny sentence, he smiled disappointedly, shook his head slightly and said ‘Here you go… one ticket to Hotel de Monnaies.’ Then, speaking slowly, slightly louder than normal and using hand signals, he said, in near perfect English. ‘It’s TWO stops on the ORANGE line.’ I knew that. I might not be able to speak French very well, but I am not senile, nor hard of hearing and I can count.

At the hotel, the desk clerk looked like an extra in an Aussie soap. He was perfectly groomed, tall, with highlighted spiked hair and a gentle fake tan. He greeted me with ‘Bonsoir…’ and then, before I could reply, ‘Good evening. How are you, sir?’ I didn’t even bother asking for ‘une chambre pour une nuit.’ I just thanked him, paid for the room and heaved my bags into the lift, wondering if I will ever use my very limited French.

A few hours later, and I had no reason to insult the beautiful language. I had arranged to meet Fabiana, an ex-student who now has lived in Brussels for the last 18 months. She is Italian and is a true multi-linguist. In her early twenties, she worked as an au pair with a French family for three summers. She studied her MA in English and keeps her Spanish fluent by speaking it every day to her flat mate. After a stint working for the European Commission, she now works for a company that does copywriting for various EU-related bodies. As we sit down for paella al fresco, she mentions, almost as an aside, that she also speaks Portuguese.

The whole notion of nationality is redefined in Brussels and Fabiana is the personification of Europeaness. She sees herself as Italian but she does not have the classic Latin looks. She is very slightly built, her skin is relatively fair and her hair is light brown. If I had never met her before, I would guess that she was French.

Fabiana also objects to the expectations that Italian culture still places on women. She tells me that her family think she is selfish because she is putting her career first, outside of Italy. In her late twenties, she ought, they say, to be close to the family, married to a local man and building the next generation. ‘There is a big difference between what I am, and what my family expect me to be,’ she says. Her defiance is palpable.

It seems the family will never understand. She is intent on developing her career first, building solid financial and professional foundations before she thinks about marriage and nest building. And when this happens, it will be in a place that suits her and her partner. It will not necessarily be in Italy and it may not even be in Europe. In this respect, she is no different to any other modern woman, trying to satisfy her need for a fulfilling career while also leaving enough time to raise children while still relatively young.

As we walk back, waiters are beginning to clear the tables and stacking chairs from outside the countless restaurants around the Grand Place. Restaurant owners oversee the operation and alternate between shouting orders to their underlings and exchanging boisterous bonhomie with their neighbouring rivals. Some diners linger, having a final joke and drink before retiring for the evening. Every European language is audible. Rather embarrassingly, the English-speaking diners are the loudest and the most uncouth.

‘Can you imagine this in Cardiff?,’ I ask Fabiana. ‘Hundreds of street cafes, with people enjoying late night drinks without getting hideously drunk?’ She laughs at the ridiculousness of the concept. I then ask her what she misses about Cardiff. ‘Some of the people I met while I was there,’ she replies. ‘Anything else?,’ I enquire in the hope that there is something in British culture that is on a par with her broad European experiences. ‘Not really,’ she says.

We walk past the imposing Palace of Justice, encased in thousands of scaffolding poles, and I ask if she remembers the word she often used to describe British people on a night on the town. She stops for a moment, and ponders. ‘Ah yes…barbarians!’ This may seem a little harsh to patriotic Brits but, in contrast to night scenes across Europe, it is horribly accurate.

I try desperately to find a positive angle. All I can muster is a dig at a certain group of the British family. ‘Well, I think one of your predecessors had the right idea, Fabiana. Julius Cesar conquered our islands but he drew a line and built a wall at Scotland. Now they really are barbaric!’

We stop at a night shop for water and cigarettes. I ask for ‘Marlboro rouge, s'il vous plait?’ and the man behind the counter says: ‘That’s four euros forty, please.’ Fabiana giggles, the man smiles and I sheepishly hand over a ten euro note.