Okay, so this was my first officially frustrating day in Brussels.
My new scooter Leo has been sick for several days. I originally thought that he had a minor oil problem, changed the oil myself (a first for me), and tried to ride it again. No such luck; the evil red eye of oil death came back on. I don't drive anything that glares at me with red light, so I decided to leave it in the garage over the weekend (no one repairs anything in Europe on the weekends, let's get real) and to take it to the scooter doctor today. When you're unwilling to drive your bike because it's got an attitude problem/oil leak (in my world cars and bikes and computers are all personified because I think they are as unpredictable and difficult as people), taking your bike to the scooter doctor means walking it. Please note that this is not a bicycle bike, or even a cute little moped; it's a 100 cc scooter, which weighs quite a bit. And, of course, the scooter shop is uphill. So, 45 sweaty minutes later, I finally reached the shop, locked my scooter, and went inside with my Big Sad Southern Belle Eyes. (These usually work at the Volvo store at home).
No such luck. I knew I probably had a problem when I saw that the store basically only sold brand-new Vespas (read: only sold overpriced scooters to Eurocrats.) I had a bigger problem when I realized that I was the only one including the mechanic not in some form of suit. And when I told my tale of woe to the mechanic and he responded by laughing, I knew I had Big Problems. Apparently, asking him to even look at a Sym scooter was a deep insult and I should know that They Who Work On Vespas do not work on Syms, or anything coming from anywhere but Italy. Not even Hondas. Duh. Apparently.
After being informed that I was an idiot for buying Asian (yes, me, and every student at ULB, okay), and informing me that "I could sue the guy who sold me the scooter except no I'm foreign so forget that I'm screwed," I left. Usually tears work well with mechanics, but I refused to give High And Mighty Suit Mechanic the pleasure of letting him know he had made me upset/angry. It was a sore blow to my Big Sad Southern Belle Eyes, however. This is their first loss in the world of mechanics, oil, and unspecified dohickeys that make engines run.
I locked my bike up, ran off to tutor a French girl in English, and then came back to retrieve my bike. And that's when I noticed something: I have been longingly gazing at scooters since January, or maybe even before, when I decided that a scooter was the best way to get to my internship (it still is, provided said scooter does not glare at you with red eyes and spit oil at you when you try to make it feel better). Seeing a scooter made me simultaneously happy and jealous. Today everything had changed, however. Today, as I watched people riding scooters on the street while I wheeled my hamstrung scooter home, I felt like people do when watching slap-happy-in-love couples after they've just gone through a bad breakup. I resented every scooter-and-rider-couple on the road. I growled with every cute little rumbly acceleration. I shot angry eyes at every leather-clad rider swinging their leg easily over their perfect little bikes. I felt like informing each of them that their scooter, too, would probably deeply disappoint them before they knew it. "Just you wait," I wanted to say, "someday you'll wake up and your pretty little Vespa will be a nasty thing spitting oil at you and you'll be walking it home like a misbehaved preschooler."
Fortunately, the walk back home was downhill, which helped me calm down. A cathartic beer and several calls to AAA later, I am over my bitterness toward Leo and toward the rest of the Belgian scooter community. We can all still be friends. I'll still take Leo to a doctor (albeit one who's not elitist about scooter brands). Now that my arms feel a little less like over-stretched rubber bands, I can admit that while this whole scooter-being-sick thing is no fun, it's teaching me valuable lessons about vehicle ownership, about buying something used about which you know very little, and, potentially, about the grace-under-pressure necessary to be a real Southern belle. (Who knew that this grant would teach me such relevant Life Skills?)
You can't get this Southern girl down. I will ride again. And, hopefully, Leo will, too.
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