Why did the columnist cross the road?
Not to get to the other side, because I didn’t want to get to the other side, but because a motorist gallantly stopped to let me cross.
When I first came here decades ago, legend had it that if a Belgian-registered car stops at a pedestrian crossing it’s either broken down or run out of petrol.
Coming from Britain, where motorists have always been genetically modified to slam on their brakes when approaching any zebra crossing that has anyone standing within a mile of it, this was an important cautionary tale.
In the UK – I’m generalising and exaggerating here – you still only have to think about crossing a road and, like magic, entire streets of traffic screech to a halt in readiness. It remains a matter of national pride that car and pedestrian never occupy any part of a pedestrian crossing at the same time.
Here, the poor walker has always faced a very one-sided gladiatorial contest when stepping onto the broad white road stripes which, in principle, denote a brief moment of superiority in the right-of-way battle against relentless traffic.
Politesse oblige
Things have certainly changed a lot in Belgium, but I still wouldn’t assume, as many of my expat acquaintances do, that he or she who strides without hesitation onto the crossing while glaring at the oncoming cars will emerge alive and well on the other side.
So, these days, when a Belgian driver actually volunteers to stop, even misguidedly, it would be churlish to respond by refusing to cross the road just because I had no intention of going in that direction.
Where I was going was along the pavement towards a road junction with the intention of following the pavement round a corner and into the next street. Only if I had walked straight on would I confront the pedestrian crossing straddling the main road, but I wasn’t doing that.
In fact, I hadn’t even reached the turning point in the pavement when I noticed the car approaching along the main road and beginning to slow down. That, in itself, was enough to draw my attention, and then I saw that the driver was looking across at me and gesturing in a manner that can only be described as breaking new ground for the pedestrian/motorist interface in this country: he was inviting him to cross the road.
My instinct was to acknowledge this politesse by smiling while shaking my head and making a slightly premature shift of direction to demonstrate to the driver that I was staying on this side of the road.
But then I thought of all the times, as a driver, that I’ve been annoyed when people milling about near pedestrian crossings don’t cross when you’ve stopped especially for them.
I realised that if I ignored this motorist’s kind offer, he would never slow down for a pedestrian again.
And on behalf of Belgium’s pedestrians, of whom I am increasingly frequently one, I couldn’t let that happen.
Pedestrian crossing in Brussels. Credit: Belga / Nicolas Maeterlinck
I crossed the road, smiling and nodding thanks in the direction of my Good Samaritan motorist, who smiled back at me.
My problem was what to do when I reached the other side of the road. Turning round to retrace my steps wasn’t immediately an option, because the Samaritan had only progressed a short distance beyond the crossing and it would hurt his feelings if he looked in his rear-view mirror and saw me scurrying back to where I came from.
So I continued walking in the wrong direction waiting for the Samaritan to disappear from view. And then the main road traffic ground to a halt: my Samaritan could, if he wanted to, follow my progress.
Not knowing how soon the traffic would start moving again, enabling the Samaritan to bugger off, I changed tack. I came to a halt and tried to look like someone changing their mind about where to go – which actually is what I was doing. I checked in the bag I was carrying, hoping the Samaritan was clocking this performance and realising that this poor person had to turn back, probably because I’d left my wallet at home.
I turned, brow furrowed, and retraced my steps, and by the time I was back at the pedestrian crossing the traffic and the Samaritan had moved out of sight, and I was free to get on with my life.
Except…
I couldn’t get back across the crossing for what seemed a lifetime because the bloody traffic wouldn’t stop. So much for progress.
Stupide is as stupide does
Here’s another tale from the pavement. One day my other half was striding towards a very familiar pedestrian crossing in our area of Brussels.
The streets were empty of traffic at a junction where there were clear sightlines for hundreds of yards in every direction. As she reached the curb the lights happened to be in favour of motorists, and there was the usual obligatory red figure up to indicate to pedestrians to wait to cross. Pausing only to appreciate the total silence hanging over a normally busy thoroughfare, she crossed the street, aware that her perception of the prevailing safety requirements was vastly superior to that of the little red figure.
Once serenely and safely on the other side, she was nobbled by a policeman who happened to be hovering nearby. He said it was illegal to upset the little red man by crossing the road before his little green counterpart was lit up.
She pointed out, very politely by her own account, that the entire area was totally devoid of vehicular movement of any kind and that she was therefore exercising her right as a human to override the little red lit-up figure on this occasion because she knew the situation better than he did (I made that last bit up).
The policeman said it was illegal to make a rational judgement in defiance of the little red lit-up figure, and that my other half had to go back to where she came from on the other side of the street and stand there until the little green man was lit himself up, not once, but twice. And then she could continue her journey.
A road safety group called the crossing where the accident occurred one of the most dangerous for pedestrians, 2019. Credit: Sarah Stierch
Suggestions that the policeman was not dealing with a five-year-old and that the whole thing was “stupide “were greeted with an offer to be taken to the nearest police station to “discuss just how stupide the matter is”.
The alternative was to retrace her steps and wait for two rounds of the lit-up green man, “so that you do not profit from your crime.”
(She wisely avoided prolonging the issue by asking the officer why it seems to be okay for cyclists and kids on scooters, using their own judgement, to routinely ignore red lights on main roads when the going looks clear, seemingly without penalty.)
Both parties in these exchanges were polite and calm, and my other half decided to take up the officer’s kind suggestion of going back and glaring at the little green figure for what seemed like an eternity.
She has no recollection now of whether the cop kept his beady eyes on her as she served her time on the kerb or whether by then he had already scurried away, chuckling to himself, doubtless intent on nobbling another walker for overtaking on a pedestrian crossing.
So next time you’re in your car, seething because you’ve been pulled over for a routine insurance check while some electrified trottinette tearaway whizzes past doing impressive but lethal two-wheel pirouettes in front of a passing bus, take a breath and remember that you are not alone. Somewhere, not far away, an unmotorised pedestrian is probably being breathalysed for exceeding eight kilometres an hour in a built-up area.
