Deep Doodoo

This blog entry has been straining to come out almost since our move to Belgium… I’ve tried to hold it in, but can’t any longer. I need sweet release. I need to talk about the Belgian approach to bodily evacuations.

The most immediately visible (and smellable?) aspect of the Belgians’ “quirky” notions about peepee and poopoo is the dog crap. It is all over the place. On any sidewalk in any part of the city, no matter how chichi, you will find a steaming mound of doodoo. It might be tiny, to match the itty bitty lap dogs the well-dressed, pearl-wearing matron carries in her arms (until she finds a suitable spot in the MIDDLE of the sidewalk to put little Fifi down), or it might be a massive mound the size of Kilimanjaro left by some slobbering Newfoundlander (dog, not person). The worst is the mid-sized pile because the consequences of stepping in it are much more severe than the almost cute nuggets left by the chihuahua-lhasa apso cross, andthe mid-level shit is also much easier to miss than the manure load left by the German Shepherd.

The city of Brussels has taken vigorous and effective action against this phenomenon. No, they haven’t instigated a strictly enforced system of fines (which is apparently what Paris did, and now the city is almost free of dogshit, although it still might be rife with bullshit – I mean, Gerard Depardieu as a sex symbol, who are they trying to kid?). No, Brussels has not adopted a PROVEN method to teach people to stoop and scoop, instead, they’ve accomadated their citizenry’s desire to avoid the consequences of actually owning a dog in the city, and have built dog toilets in all of the parks. These, my friends, are the most vile thing you’ve ever seen. They’re little wooden enclosures, about waist high, into which Brussellois release their dogs to release their bowels. This is fine in theory (I guess, although the poor dogs having to enter into that space) but the toilets are NEVER cleaned out, so walking by them (especially during the two days of consecutive warmth this summer) you are hit by a wall of the most revolting stench you have ever experienced in your life. The worst is if you’re jogging red-faced and sweaty, barely able to shuffle one foot in front of the other. You take an enormous gasp of sweet sweet oxygen into your lungs, only to inhale the kind of smell exuded from a gangrenous sumo wrestler’s armpit. Revolting.

Andrew and I quickly learned to avoid the toilets. It's trickier avoiding the piles of crap on the sidewalk. We've adopted a method, though, that's fairly effective. We stare fixedly at the sidewalk at all times. Fine, it means that we have seen comparatively little of the city we've lived in for an entire year, but at least we haven’t had to scrape crap from the bottom ridges of our shoes. It’s a trade-off I can live with.

I thought I had come to accept this aspect of life in Brussels as just one negative that is compensated by many wonderful things – nice people, amazing food, culture out the yinyang etc. That’s why I was feeling quite happy about returning to Brussels after my recent month-long visit to Canada. That is, until I picked up my luggage at the baggage carrousel and turning to go through customs, saw the BIGGEST pile of crap steaming on the FLOOR of the AIRPORT.

The floor. Of the airport.

The floor.

Of the airport.

Who does that? Who is so committed to never stooping and scooping that they just leave it there?!?!?

Whatever dog had left that little “Welcome to Brussels” gift was long gone and no staff was rushing to clean it up. I watched in fascination for a moment as the Belgians adeptly stepped around the pile, while the unsuspecting tourists came perilously close to experiencing the “real” Brussels before even leaving the airport.

Then I tugged on my luggage and walked to the customs area. Eyes firmly fixed on the floor in front of me.

Nowhere is safe.

Next week-- Part II: Adventures in urine!