This Is How International Incidents Happen

As last weekend was my last full one in Brussels I decided to play tourist and see everything I wanted to before I left. While walking down a fairly major street, I was stopped by a smartly dressed couple in a tiny red car. I pulled the iPod earphones from my ears in time to hear them ask (in English, and then broken French) if I knew where a certain street was. I told them I spoke English and their faces lit up with relief. Unfortunately, I didn’t know where the place they were looking for—the Radisson—was. Instead, I pulled out my map and gave it to them. It was a free one I’d gotten from the tourist office and I needed to go there again anyway, so I could get a new one easily. They were so shocked at my kindness. The woman asked if I was American. I said I was Canadian, handed them my map, wished them luck and went on my way.

Feeling good about my good deed and a general sense of camaraderie with Americans, I kept walking down Rue de Loi. After living in Belgium for four months I’d yet to see the American Embassy and I wanted to see what it looked like (having seen the Embassy in Ottawa I wanted to compare) and I had been told it was close by. I was reminded of this when I passed a row of small pylons that looked similar to those outside the American Embassy in Ottawa. I looked up at the non-descript, white (and kind of small) building in front of me. Wouldn’t it be funny if this was the American Embassy? Well, it was. There was an empty flag pole in the front but lo and behold, the American flag was flying on the pole on the side of the building. Other than that, you would never have known it was an embassy. I’d looked down that street every day I walked home from work and never seen it. It perfectly blended into the street. Well done America! Here’s proof that your buildings aren’t all horrific eye sores! Having finally accomplished my task of finding the American embassy I snapped a few pictures (for pictorial evidence) and went on my merry way.

Half way down the street I looked up to see a Belgian policeman in front of me. Confused, I stopped abruptly. There was another one behind me and they both sounded quite winded. They had just chased me down the street, who wouldn’t be a bit peaked? “Bonjour,” I said nonchalantly. I knew exactly what they wanted. “Le camera mademoiselle.” They wanted to see the pictures I took of the Embassy. Sighing heavily at having been disturbed by this ridiculousness, I pulled out my camera and showed them the two pictures I took of the Embassy. “Ça suffit?” (Happy now?) I asked. No, they wanted me to delete them. Again, heaving another heavy sigh at this waste of time and violation of my rights, I deleted the pictures and then showed them my empty camera disk (I had just emptied the memory card before I left). The one in front of me did not look so sure, but I didn’t care. I knew I was being a bit over dramatic but I couldn't get over how ridiculous this was. Eventually, after looking at the blue screen of my camera for a while, he moved aside and I went on my way with a shake of the head and a “Merci beaucoup.”

As I walked on I marveled at my two completely different interactions with America that day.

p.s. Homeland Security, if you’re reading this (which you probably are), I promise they’re actually all gone. But kudos on the security.