A few years ago, I bought my very first smartphone. I was in my mid-forties at the time and had held off on getting one for quite a while for various reasons, but alas, the time had come to switch to modern times. 

As I was a bit insecure about it, I had asked a friend to join me to help me pick. With the help of my friend and a helpful shop assistant, I picked a smartphone I liked. Then came the time to transfer my SIM card.

Me: “My current phone is quite old, so I don’t think my current SIM card will fit in the new one.”

The assistant laughed and told me that they were quite used to such things, and he was sure the phone wasn’t that old.

I took out my seventeen-year-old Nokia. I will never forget the look of astonishment on his face. He treated my old phone like an archeological relic, very carefully removing the old SIM card so he could transfer the data to a new one.

My friend, who knows me and my quirks quite well, just about died laughing.

I am now quite happy with my smartphone and make good use of it. But at times, I still get a bit nostalgic for my relic of a phone. Loving my little Nokia was one of the reasons I waited so long to get a smartphone. It survived several falls, the battery lasted forever, and it served me very well over the years. It currently resides in a place of honour in my drawer.

In London, you have one card that can be used on public transport within the London area, regardless of kind of transport.

On the bus I take each morning are two young women who are clearly used to getting their way. They hug four seats and nurse hot drinks — open drink containers are not allowed — each day. They also have distinct English accents. Although in principle, passengers are required to show proof of payment, most people just get on the bus.

This morning is a bit different, as a control unit boards the bus. They close exits and check if you’ve paid your fare.

Controller: *In Dutch* “Tickets, please.”

Woman #1: *Looking very innocent* “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you had to pay for the bus in Belgium. Where I come from, you don’t need to.”

Me: “Strange. I’m pretty sure that last month in London, I had to pay for the bus.”

Woman #1: *Throwing me a look to shut me up* “Well, we only have tickets for the subway.”

Yes, she did have a ticket she had to validate upon boarding, valid for ten fares.

Controller: *In English* “It is the same ticket for the subway and the bus.”

Woman #2: “Oh, I’m sorry, we didn’t know. It is different in London. We will use it next time.”

Me: “Hmm. I’m pretty sure that I used the same ticket on the bus as well as on the subway in London.”

Both women glare at me, sending a clear message to butt out. I just smile, friendly.

Woman #1: “We are just here for a month and these tickets are expensive.”

Controller: “You can take a season ticket for a month and take as many trips as you like.”

Sadly, the controller let it slide this time and didn’t make them validate the ticket, either, as I’ve seen on other checks. On the plus side, I didn’t see them on this particular ride anymore.

I’m eating at a fast food place in Belgium. A couple next to me is discussing something in English. When it is their turn, the guy orders in Dutch, the local language.

Girl: “Did you just now order in Dutch?”

Guy: “Yes.”

Girl: “You’re an idiot; they all understand English here.”

The guy shrugged it off and I tried to process what I’d overheard.

I’m picking up my bike after scheduled maintenance.

Me: “Will I have to sell my soul to pay the bill, or can I get away with just a few organs?”

Mechanic: “It’s not that bad. Rip off your dealer and you’re set.”

With lockdown slowly relaxing, I’m able to visit the zoo again, albeit with restrictions; for instance, you need to reserve a time slot. I take one later in the day and happen to be at the sea lions just after they are being fed.

A few years ago, a blue heron — and a flock of seagulls — learned the sea lions’ teatime, as well, and as a protected species, got the occasional fish — not so the seagulls. Through the years, it took up permanent residence in the zoo — still a free bird, though — and, as such, got used to people but keeps its distance.

I am admiring it from fairly close, a one-meter-wide hedge between us, when I overhear some French-speaking visitors exclaim that it is a “perroquet de mer” or, literally, a sea parrot.

I’m telling this to a few friends a few days later.

Friend: “What? Is that even a thing?”

Out of curiosity, I do a Google search and immediately recognize the bird but cannot think of the name in Dutch, nor in English.

Me: “Well, yes, it turns out that it is a thing. It is a… a… Well, it is a penguin that isn’t a penguin.”

My friends got what I meant and had a good chuckle about it. It took another search to find that a “perroquet de mer” is a puffin which, incidentally, in Dutch, also has the word for parrot in its name.