Je ne poursuis pas mon chemin, disait-il souvent, c'est mon chemin qui me poursuit.

It is lunchtime in Brussels, and I am having a chèvre chaud in the Travel Arts Café at the Cercle des Voyageurs. This is appropriate, since I am currently en route to Beijing (by train), and can therefore legitimately consider myself a Voyageur.

Having exercised my democratic right by post, I have fled my native land while the system sorts itself out. Meanwhile I am travelling around the world in an attempt to discover experientially how it all fits together psychogeographically, and how I fit into it, if at all.

In my passport I have visas for Belarus, Russia, Mongolia, China, and Japan. I also have Canadian citizenship, a sister in Korea, and a brother in Canada, so it seems that I am well set up for a voyage.

In my concealed travel pouch I have rail tickets as far as Beijing:

Thalys to Cologne,

2-night sleeper 447 to Moscow,

5-night sleeper "Baikal" to Irkutsk,

overnight train 006 to Ulaan Baatar

overnight 004 to Beijing.

I set off from home yesterday morning, having spent most of the previous night packing. As I left home, I felt strongly that I was wrenching myself from my roots, and suspected that I may have been sharing some of the feelings that Neil Armstrong & co. felt as they lay in the top of Apollo 11 waiting for takeoff:

"What the GLOM am I doing? I'm going to... where?... Beijing??! / The Moon??! (delete as applicable), What do I want to go there for? I'm not ready for this!"

The thing to remember, of course, is that I am not yet anywhere near Beijing, physically or psychologically. And despite not yet feeling ready to be in Moscow (let alone Ulaan Baatar or Beijing), at each stage of the journey I will be ready for the next stage. Yesterday morning, I wasn't ready to be in Brussels, but I was ready to get on the train at Ludlow, and by the time I got to Shrewsbury I was ready to get on the train to London and pick up my visas before visiting Jo and Tom in Wood Green.

This morning, Jo sent me off with the leftover Pasta sauce and a "Gordon Brownie" (prepared for Tom's election night party, along with Scotch Cleggs, David Macaroons, and perhaps some Nick Tiffin or Caroline Licorice). Despite another early start, I was ready to pop down the Piccadilly line to St. Pancras and get on the Eurostar, and now, after a brief foray across some flat fields, here I am in Brussels!