WARNING: ExpletivesA letter to the Mo-Fo who stole my bag on Tram 93 this evening...

Yo, you Mother Fucker (Mo-Fo)!

Who in the HELL do you think you are?! As I kindly helped a young mother climb into the tram with a stroller and a small baby, you took the friggin' opportunity to grab my bag as it slid from the safe nook of my shoulder to an exposed elbow.

And as for the rest of you who stood there gawking. Wasn't it OBVIOUS this was not a 'lovers quarrel' let alone a person that I knew. Struggling over a bag is not harmless tomfoolery.

And you, you friggin' half-wit tram conductor! When someone is blood-curdling-ly screaming 'Arretez! Arretez!' are you mildly curious?

But you - you sad excuse for cells and physical space. Again, I am compelled to ask (in vain):
WHO. DO. YOU. THINK. YOU. ARE?!

You were an expert that was clear. You planned your attack with great aplomb (mo-fo!) But if you would have fallen as you wriggled onto the step to make you get away, OR if the tram driver had stopped the tram I promise that I would have pummeled you with my backpack - complete with a bottle of wine in it. I would have made you so sorry that you would not live long enough to stop regretting that you tangled with me.

But you knew otherwise. You knew the tram conductor would ignore my yells for help. You knew that onlookers would be just that: onlookers. I hope your skills serve you well when you end up married to Mr. Big in the showers of the Slammer, The Pokey, The Big House. That's where you will end up eventually. You DO know that, don't you?

It was supposed to be a nice night. First the gym and then later to a friend's home for dinner. I wouldn't have taken my good and most precious handbag with me if I had a crystal ball to predict your freakin' existence on this planet, in this city, on this tram.

And I know what you did. Well first, you ruined a collector's Kate Spade bag, which for your information is fashion-sacrilege. You got the pen that my cartooning professor gave me. You got 50 bucks and good-for-fucking-you. Oh yeah, and you got my sweet phone. You bastard. And you better not have called whatever country your people come from. I will get the number and call them and tell them what a scumbag you are. I really hope you called your grandmother. The only relative who believes you haven't turned out to be a complete loser. Because I will tell her. I will hire a translator if I have to! You probably tossed the pen because you are too lazy to find the ink cartridges. You no doubt tossed the bag, which you ripped up anyway. And then you took MY PHONE to one of your loser cohorts to unblock.

And then I had to go to the police. The older officer, albeit nice enough, took his sweet time to let me call my mobile provider to block the sim card. And they were not interested in hearing that it took half an hour to get to a phone to block calls. They said, "They would try to remember" to monitor calls from 18:55 that evening. But you were already calling granny wishing her happy-whatever-in-your-country by then.

And now you know about me. Maybe you read the sms' I received. The ones by the guy who thought it was cute to be so explicit. And the ones I didn't send in response to that jerk who deserved to be dressed down. You know the hours I toiled on various writing projects. You can read the New York Times online with my login/password. You can change the passwords to my blogs and email addresses. You can't now of course but you could have. You are a piece of human garbage. And one day someone will tell you that. One day, someone you love, who you can't live without will gut you like a salmon. And I hope you think of me as you writhe in pain.

But overall I'm not that optimistic.

Now I have the insurance company to deal with. Un-surance is what they should be called. But more on that as the story continues...

My first farewell in Brussels

Goodbyes are inevitable. They are bittersweet. And they occur often in a city like Brussels.

I had been spared until now.

I met Dan first. It was March I had just been engaged as a sub-editor for a corporate magazine. Dan called it a glorified newsletter. I soon came to realize how right he was.

I met Tiia a few weeks later when they invited me to meet them for drinks at Roi du Belge.

The Spring and the Summer raced past and I didn't see much of them until, as fate would rear its ugly head, after they decided to return to Tarana. (aka Toronto for those not-in-the-know.)

What amazing people. And being 'slightly' older than them both I had this wonderful sense of being blessed with two marvelous and younger siblings.

Out of the blue I offered to throw them a farewell party. It went quite well. Well, except for a colleague who got way too drunk but that's the risk at parties.

In the end I am glad I hosted their farewell and perhaps for the selfish reason was that I hate good-byes and I wanted to make sure this one would be a hit.

But the world is small and we have plans. Big plans! We are going to meet up in (Oh!) Canada this summer. Right, people!?

And once you know wonderful people, who have made the kind of impression that Dan and Tiia have on me, geography cannot compete with feelings.

See you in the summer!

Beezoo,
Trish