The craziest week of my life
Aka: how I landed in a foreign country with no idea of what I’m doing there and got into an argument with that UKIP MEP who was punched in the face by another UKIP MEP .
The craziest week of my life happened in the summer of 2017. The year before, Britain had left the EU, and we were all waiting to find out what this new-fangled Brexit thing really means; our prime minister at the time, Theresa May, very helpfully clarified that it means Brexit.
Setting the scene
At the time our story takes place, I had spent the better part of the year working comms and social media for a campaigning organisation supporting the rights of EU citizens in the UK and British citizens in the EU; which since 2016 had been entirely up in the air. As it happens, though, by the time the Craziest Week of my life started, I had just left that job, and started another one (not related to Brexit or political campaigning in any way); but I had promised to my former boss and team that I will stay involved as much as I can.
I was living in London, I had an upcoming deadline for my first project at the new job and had just scored tickets to Gogol Bordello in Brighton on the Thursday of that week.
Monday
The day starts off unassuming. I wake up, make coffee, put a meal in the slow cooker for the evening and start heading to work on the London Overground.
RING! RING! RING!
It’s my former boss, from the campaigning organisation.
“Hey, how would you like to go to Brussels on our delegation and talk to MEPs about the plight of EU citizens in the UK?”
“Ummm… yeah, sure… I can prepare for that, when would that be? “
“First thing Wednesday morning. You would have to leave tomorrow.”
Right. Right. What you need to do on the second week at your new job to look professional is to ask for annual leave with one day’s notice, when you have an upcoming deadline looming. On the other hand — YOLO. On the other other hand “YOLO is stupid and who the hell uses it unironically anyway?”.
So me being me, I went ahead and asked for time off. Well, one day off and one day of flexitime remote work, because I can work from the flight, the train and possibly the shower — and so help me God I will deliver that report on Friday. I am the efficiency fairy and can do everything I set my mind to.
I spend the rest of the day figuring out how to transfer my work files on a ratty tablet. And yeah, I never got to sit down to that slow cooker meal.
Tuesday
I throw in a backpack the one remotely professional-looking top and skirt I had that I thought would plausibly not get crumpled in a backpack and get on the train to Stansted Airport, furiously tapping on my tablet all the way. A massive heatwave is coming, so I’m wearing a flimsy summer dress, with a pink suit jacket on top, because that one WILL get crumpled in the backpack. I look like Legally Blonde.
The plan was for a colleague from the organisation and I to catch a flight to Karlsruhe, then a train to Strasbourg. I vaguely hear something on the radio about an accident on the way to Stansted Airport causing a massive traffic jam, but pay no mind to it. It was only when the flight landed that I realised I haven’t seen her around at all. No biggy, maybe she’s just taking a different route?
Welp, I’m in Germany now. Still no sign of Samia, my colleague. I learned a bit of German in high school, how hard can it be? Hey, I’m confident enough in German to buy a train ticket, find out that my train is leaving in five minutes, run like hell, board it, start a casual conversation about trains running late with my fellow passengers…. Wait, is this the train to Strasbourg???? IS IT? STRASBOURG ??????What do you mean — no train to Strasbourg from this station????? By this point, I’m expressing myself in a mix of broken German, English, French, Romanian swearing under my breath and the universal language of waving my hands around in panic.
Turns out — I was going in the right direction, I just needed to change at Appenweier, a village apparently known for its horseradish-growing. In the second train, I’m sitting next to two very stylish men, who make a bold fashion statement by pairing stuffy business blazers with shorts, sandals and backpacks just like mine: it’s the uniform of “I have stuff to do at the European Institutions and couldn’t be arsed to carry a suitcase”.
It’s 4 pm now and I’m in Strasbourg. On my own. Samia texts me: she missed her flight because of that traffic jam-causing accident near Stansted Airport. She’ll arrive first thing tomorrow morning.
The problem was: she knew where our hotel reservations were, who our contact in the EU Parliament was, whom we were meeting, what we were supposed to talk about, everything. I had NO IDEA. I was, as we say in Romanian, “leggings on the traveler”.
Cue frantic messages to my former boss : ROGER, I’M IN THE MIDDLE OF A FREAKIN' FOREIGN COUNTRY AND I HAVE NO BLOODY IDEA WHAT I’M DOING HERE, WHAT MY CHICKEN DID I GET MYSELF INTO?
With not much to do at that point, I did a bit of sightseeing, popped into a local pub, had a good ice cold beer and experienced the wonder called tarte flambée. Finally finding my accommodation, after 9 pm I get one more message:
-Our European Parliament contact, Julie Ward MEP, is asking if you want to meet for a quick drink, right now.
Well, boys and girls and nonbinary peeps, sleep is for sissies, right?
After a glass of Alsatian bubbly and a wonderful evening chatting with Julie, who is A SWEETIE AND A NATIONAL TREASURE, I went to sleep at 2 am.
Wednesday
Mercifully by 8 am the next day Samia made it to Strasbourg, so after a few strong cups of coffee we spent a full productive day in the European Parliament, talking to MEPs from different countries about our concerns. I got told off by a security guard for wandering without supervision. I got to meet Sophie In’t Veld and pose with her scarf.
The main point we were trying to raise awareness of was how the plans the British Government put in place at the time regarding the EU Settlement Scheme were inadequate: our delegation is part of the reason why EU citizens now never need to prove they held private health insurance while not working, and why we have the EUSS Family Permit Scheme.
When we finally sit down to lunch, we run into UKIP MEP Stephen Woolfe — who had been in the news some time before from getting into fisticuffs with another UKIP-er. While I’m merely trying to eat my lunch in peace, he proceeds to mansplain to us how all the issues we are concerned about are already well-addressed, we have nothing to worry about and “it’s all about the UK gravy train now, amirite?”. I get a splitting headache. My mum comments on my Facebook post to tell me I need to stop arguing with stupid people.
We hop in a taxi; turns out the same taxi had driven Nigel Farage some days ago, so we’re in great company. According to the driver, Farage is constantly looking over his shoulder for haters, because he thinks he is more interesting than he actually is.
We nearly missed our flight back and I spent most of the journey furiously catching up on work on my laptop.
Thursday
Yes, after a full day of work and a ton of coffee , I went to Gogol Bordello and had a great time . Sleep is sissies, right? Look, I am the efficiency fairy and can do everything I set my mind to! I am the efficiency fzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz… oops, I fell asleep on the bus on the way back and woke up in Croydon, ten stops away from where I needed to get off.
Friday
I deliver the report within the deadline, like a champ. I don’t think I want to see coffee ever again.
And what do I do on the Friday night after the week I had? Why, I go to a party, of course.
I can’t remember for sure what I’ve did on the weekend. My partner says that even God rests on a Sunday, but knowing me I probably spent it all in the kitchen cooking something fancy from scratch.