Arrival in Brussels, after a suitably horrible flight, was eventful. At the border to Brussillian lands I was asked to accompany a police officer to a back room after my passport was scrutinized at length. I was then informed in somewhat broken english that I had 3 days left on my schengen visa before I risk capture by roving bands of passport chekering police and I had to go with the be-bearded officer to phone to call my travel agent in Australia (which would have been closed at the time) to change my flight out of the EU to a more suitable time.
After managing to convince the simple fellow of my intentions to leave post haste he decided not to inform the immigration office of my predicament, which has since been allieviated by going to Morocco, where arabic keyboqrds make mockery of my spelling skillz, ramadan makes eating a game of hide and seek (i seek an open restaurant, which despite their size, hide very well) and awesome sights come in spades.
I keep this short dear readers as I must be off to scrounge for food before embarking south, towards the grand and famed sahara where there will be camels and, assuming global warming has not played its hand again, sand in simply silly amounts.
No comments:
Post a Comment