Referendum maps

The EU Leave/Remain poll in Britian last Thursday resulted in a collection of interesting referendum maps – an excuse to revisit ideology and map-making

In last week’s entry I described the forthcoming British referendum on continued membership of the EU as a bit surreal. After the event, things have not become less surreal, and there’s little prospect they will do so in the near future. The traditional media as well as the more informal Internet-born media is awash with the aftermath. I have neither the knowledge and fighting spirit to want to take it up myself, nor have I the distance and emotional detachment to turn away and spend time with something completely different.

Maybe next week.

However, I need to find something to post here now.

This is a travel blog, so let’s revisit maps. As I wrote in my review of Judith Schalansky’s Pocket Atlas of Remote Islands, ‘all maps are ideological’. This came back to me again looking at the various referendum maps that the news media produced to chronicle voting on 23rd June. Compare these two, for example.

Referendum maps: Telegraph-Yougov maps for Referendum results

The Telegraph was, like most of the British print media, a supporter of the Leave side. This map underlines the strength of the vote for Leave, showing the final result in the 12 regions of the UK (and in Gibraltar). Also notice that, though Scotland is a large area for Remain, nine of the 10 areas of England and Wales are solid for Leave. The only exception is little London down in the south east corner.

[A couple of days after I published this I was re-reading and noticed that The Telegraph’s map colours Gibraltar red for Leave. This is false information. In fact Gibraltar voted overwhelmingly for Remain – 96% according to this article from elsewhere on The Telegraph’s website. I was travelling and unable to edit the page, but I’m putting it right now, on Monday 4th July.]

YouGov, an international internet-based market research firm is presumably attempting a degree of impartiality. Their map has greater nuances. The shading indicates the strength of the Leave and/or the Remain vote in each of the 382 voting districts of Britain. (I’m not sure why Northern Ireland is missing from this map. I fear it may be my fault in the editing.)

In the next referendum map, the BBC (which attempts to be impartial) chooses to show the 382 voting districts, but without the nuances of shading of the YouGov map. By choosing blue and yellow, they seem to have meant to reflect the colours of the EU flag. (I guess the choice of red and blue in The Telegraph’s map is supposed to remind people of the British flag.) The BBC’s yellow and blue caught the eye. The Twitter comment reproduced here (via The Sun) was not an isolated one.

Referendum maps: BBC-Twitter-Sun

I could go on, but there’s only one more of my collection of Referendum maps that I really want to share. Below is the map from the website of the pro-Remain newspaper The Guardian. The Guardian’s map was interactive – hover a cursor over a district and you could see the results after they had come in. However, as you can see, that was not the only special feature of the map.

The Guardian’s cartographers chose to distort the geographic representation of the UK to better represents the population of each of the 382 voting districts. You can easily identify the map as the UK, but compare it with the other more conventional referendum maps above. You’ll see at once how the weight of the population of Britain in London and the South East makes a huge difference. Especially compared with The Telegraph’s map, the phenomenal Remain vote in London is seen in its true proportions. Though also the swelling population of Leavers in the Midlands.

2016 EU Referendum - Guardian distorted Britain

Well, I could certainly write more, but I think that’s enough from me on this subject now. Back to more conventional Stops and Stories next week. I hope.

This article was written for the #Blogg52 challenge.

The coin toss

This week The UK is going to be making a coin toss on its future. The whole business strikes me as pointless, painful and more than a little surreal.

This week’s entry was going to be about Belgian surrealism and the artist René Ceci n’est pas une pipe Magritte. But I find myself choosing to hold that over because something that seems equally surreal is going on in Britain. You may have heard about Brexit?

Imagine a bright summer sky over a dark and sinister night-time forest, a forest lit only by the light of an incongruous streetlamp. Winds whip the branches about and the first drops of rain are splashing heavily on the dusty road. A querulous party of mismatched travellers are pushing forward, arguing loudly. Greece has been stealing money from Germany, though Greece says it was only taking what it was owed. Romania and Bulgaria have been going around begging from the others. Italy, Sweden and Hungary are complaining about having to carry Syria, Iraq and Eritrea on their backs. France blames Belgium for not being sufficiently security conscious and Belgium is in two minds about that. Several of the travellers are beginning to wonder if maybe they took a wrong turning back at Lisbon.

Suddenly one of the party, Britain, stops walking and cries out, “There’s a fork in the road!”

A chorus of “What? Where? Can’t see it. That’s not a fork.” (In various languages.)

not a forkBritain is adamant. Britain can see a fork. And a choice. Either carry on with the party or set out alone down this unexplored path that appears to lead – dubiously but invitingly – away from the main road.

By now everyone is pretty used to Britain digging in heels and holding them back. The British never want to do things together, or if they do, they want to be in charge. On the other hand Britain is one of the senior members of the group and seen by some as an important ally – someone worth having on your side when challenging the rest. So though there’s a lot of groaning and muttering, still the whole party stops and waits while Britain makes a coin toss. Heads or tails?

If this were one of Magritte’s paintings, the trees of the forest would be giant bowling pins or candlesticks, Britain would be striking out with a cricket bat and there might be a leatherback turtle floating ominously in the sky.

EU turtleOn Thursday, 23rd June – in two days as I write this – a lot of people in Great Britain will go to the polls. They are going to vote in a referendum to decide whether or not Britain should remain a member of the European Union.

The referendum offers a choice between Leave and Remain.

Early on there was a debate about language, about the inherent bias in more simple terms such as Yes and No. Put simply, to say Yes is to be positive, to say No, negative. Britain – well, Scotland – recently went through the trauma of a referendum on Scottish independence. The question was “Should Scotland be an independent country?” and the Yes side was supposed to have had an advantage (even though they lost).

Consequently, this time around, both sides of the Brexit debate wanted to be Yes. (“Yes, I want to stay in the EU” or “Yes I want to leave the EU”.) The choice of Remain or Leave avoids this problem.

coin tossActually, Stay or Go would also have worked. To my pleasure, BBC Radio 4 has been prefacing one of their recurring segments on the referendum with a snatch of The Clash singing “Should I stay or should I go?” (Punk rock! On Radio 4!! Another surreal moment. Things have changed since my young day… etc, etc.)

There have been one or two brighter moments like that. However, news out of Britain for the last few weeks has been dominated by a slanging match. The argument going on between the two sides. And by its consequences. In my little parable Belgium is in two minds (one French, the other Dutch), but Britain… Britain is suffering from multiple personality disorder. And it’s not pretty.

Many Brits are neither bigoted nor fearful, and many have other things on their minds than the referendum. At the same time there are clearly very many who are frightened about the future and frustrated, even angry, about the life they live nowadays. This is not the fault of the EU, or not principally the fault of the EU. It is the fault directly and indirectly of successive governments at Westminster. But Brussels has been the scapegoat for British politicians for most of the last 40 years so it’s no wonder the Leave campaign reach so easily for it now. And no wonder the Remain campaign is so lukewarm in their enthusiasm for the EU.

There may be good arguments on both sides, but you wouldn’t know it to listen to the daily drip-feed of claim and counter claim, lies and innuendo in the British media. The one side plays on people’s fears with stories of the horrors of EU membership and incredible tales of the joys of a Britain free and independent. The other side counters with stories that say, in effect, You think things are bad now? Just wait till you see how bad things will get when Britain’s on the outside and all on its own.

Not quite cricketFor many British people all this fear mongering seems to have boiled the issue down to one question. Immigration. The foreigner in our midst. Coming here to sponge off our social welfare, live off our taxes, steal our jobs. It’s the same racist story we remember from years back, from the last millennium. Haven’t we learned anything? Apparently not.

There is no logic in these arguments, nothing is real – until someone, responding to the cant and idle hatred stoked by the campaigns, picks up a knife and a gun and kills for it.

And when it’s all over, whatever the outcome, Leave or Remain, heads or tails, none of the fears, none of the animosity, none of the lies from both sides, none of it is just going to fade away.

If Remain wins there will be no easy path forward in unity and harmony. I cannot believe that the rancour in Britain that the referendum campaign has stirred up – especially within the Conservative Party – will be easily forgotten.

There will be no clean break either for Leave. The divorce will take months. Someone is going to have to painstakingly unpick Britain’s forty years of integration into the EU. In that time the climate of fear, frustration and disunity cultivated over the past few weeks will fester as “nothing seems to happen”. I don’t know what that will lead to, but further violence doesn’t seem impossible.

How sad it all is.

Better to contemplate the art of René Magritte perhaps… which we shall be doing next week.

The coin toss (apologies to Rene Magritte)

The illustrations come from various sources, manipulated with Gimp software. Acknowledgements and apologies to René Magritte whose The Secret Player and The Dominion of Light I’ve pastiched.

This article was written for the #Blogg52 challenge.

Edith Cavell in Brussels

History is all around you in Brussels, still I was surprised one day to find myself walking along Rue Edith Cavell… and then I remembered.

Saint Joan and Edith Cavell

When I was at school, in the sixth form, I took part in a play. It was a production of George Bernard Shaw’s Saint Joan. The play is a dramatization of the trial of Joan of Arc. In Bernard Shaw’s play she is neither saint nor sinner, but “a great middle-class reformer.” (To quote TS Eliot, who disliked what Shaw had done with her).

The play was one of our prescribed texts for the final A-level examination in English. In the performance I played Peter Cauchon, Bishop of Beauvais (the second best part after Joan herself). It was a great experience and I still remember a couple of incidents associated with the production, but the one thing that has stayed with me from the printed text wasn’t actually in the play, but in Shaw’s Preface.

Edith Cavell Memorial, LondonBernard Shaw was more than a playwright, he was a thinker and an activist. He used his plays as campaign tools. He wrote the play and Preface to Saint Joan while involved in campaigning, in support of the National Council of Women of Great Britain and Ireland, to get the wording changed on a monument.

The monument in question was the memorial to Edith Cavell.

The Cavell memorial

The memorial, planned during the First World War, was unveiled in 1920 in London. It’s still there. It is at the beginning of Charing Cross Road when you turn up from Trafalgar Square, between the National Gallery and the Church of St Martins in the Fields. Standing in front of a stone monolith, sculpted in a Modernist style, is the larger than life figure of a woman in the uniform of a nurse. This is Edith Cavell. She’s standing on a plinth on which is engraved:

October 12

– the place and date of her execution by a German firing squad.

The monolith behind her, above her head, is inscribed Humanity. Above that is the conventional contemporary statement: For King and Country. On the back is a symbolic representation of a lion (Britain) crushing a serpent (Germany).

What the National Council of Women and Shaw were protesting was the way in which Edith Cavell had been hijacked. Hijacked by the establishment (King and Country) and used as propaganda to support the war effort. Used also to portray Germans as, well, serpents.

Who was Edith Cavell?

Edith Cavell PortraitEdith Cavell was an Englishwoman in occupied Belgium. As a nurse – in fact the matron of a school training nurses – she followed her calling. She made sure her hospital cared for anyone who came through the doors. At the beginning of the war, that meant local civilians and Belgian and German wounded. Later she cared for wounded soldiers of the Allied armies who found themselves caught behind German lines. She was also involved in the early stages of a network of Belgian resistance that found the men behind the lines of the Western Front, helped them east to Brussels and then, once they were recovered, smuggled them on to the relative safety of the neutral Netherlands.

The network, and her involvement with it, appears to have been a consequence of a domino effect of chance events. Agreeing to take care of one soldier led on to a second. Two soldiers led to ten, to fifteen, to twenty. Once these men were sufficiently recovered she was keen to see them move on and release their places for the next batch coming in. Some sort of system had to be developed for getting them through German occupied Belgium and across the frontier. The network was never centrally organised or carefully designed, growing organically. But once it came to the notice of the occupying power, they set out to expose it, roll it up and arrest everyone involved. In the end around 70 people went on trial. Edith Cavell, as the only Englishwoman involved, was painted by the authorities as the head and inspiration of the group.

Patriotism is not enough

At her trial she never denied helping “enemy soldiers” to escape capture, though she did say it was entirely the soldiers’ choice, once they had escaped, whether they chose to return to the front and fight on. But this – and spying – was what she was found guilty of. Under German law she was sentenced to death for treason and shot. To the Anglican chaplain of Brussels who administered her last Communion, she justified herself saying: Patriotism is not enough; I must have no hatred or bitterness for anyone.

These were the words Shaw and the National Council of Women wanted added to her monument. In 1924, the year after Saint Joan was first staged and the same year the play and its Preface were published, King and Country bowed to public pressure. The quote was added to the plinth beneath the date of her execution. (Although there was much loud protest in the media of the time. The National Council of Women and Bernard Shaw were branded as unpatriotic.)

History all around

Cavell tram stopHistory is all around you in Brussels. The city has a history that stretches back at least a couple of thousand years. But much of the ancient history is hidden behind more recent events. In particular, perhaps, the World Wars. There’s a whole district where streets are named for 1914-1918 battles – Paschendale and Ypres, Yser and Dixmude. And houses too. Just around the corner from where I live is Residence Joffre. This place isn’t named for the evil King of Game of Thrones, but for Joseph Joffre, first commander of the French army on the Western Front.

Still, I was surprised after we moved here to find myself one day getting off a tram at Cavell, walking along Rue Edith Cavell and looking up to see the edifice of the hospital – Clinique Edith Cavell… and then I remembered.

In Edith Cavell’s footsteps

Clinique Edith CavellWe are going through a great many centenaries at present, and of course Edith Cavell’s was in October last year. At Brussels’ English bookshop (Waterstones) it was easy to get a copy of Diana Souhami’s biography, the most recent scholarly account of Cavell’s life. (Souhami’s book informs much of this article.) Reading it I was fascinated to discover how much I must have been walking around Brussels in Edith Cavell’s footsteps.

The four town houses knocked together that formed the original training school for nurses on Rue de la Culture are gone. They’ve been replaced by four matching houses built, I guess, in the thirties. The road is now Rue Franz Merjay, but it’s still is less than ten minutes stroll from the hospital on Rue Bruxelles. The hospital that was almost ready for her nurses to move into in the autumn of 1915. Rue Bruxelles is now Rue Edith Cavell and the hospital that bears her name is the same hospital, presumably much expanded.

Tir National - National firing rangeUp the road, on one of my morning promenades, is the Saint-Gilles prison where Edith Cavell spent the last ten weeks of her life, the last two in solitary confinement. Across town, fifteen stops from Cavell on the number 7 tram is the Tir National – the National firing range. Here Edith Cavell was executed that chilly October dawn.

Tir National

As I was preparing to write this article, it seemed appropriate to take myself to the Tir National. It’s the one place that’s a part of Edith Cavell’s story in Brussels that I hadn’t previously visited. Once the centre of an extensive military area – and taken over twice by German occupiers as a convenient place to carry out executions – the Tir National is now a built up suburb of town houses, blocks of flats and hotels. The area is also home to the Belgian national public broadcasters, the French RTBF and the Flemish VRT. A part of the firing range survives, converted into a cemetery for the dead – Enclos des fusillés. (Next door is the Media centre’s crèche.)

Memorial plaque at Enclos des fusillésThe Enclos des fusillés houses 365 graves – including at least some of the graves of the 35 people executed here during the First World War. The rest are for those killed here in 1940-1944. There is also a memorial housing the remains of Belgian victims of the concentration camps. As so many graveyards are, it’s a peaceful place now. At one end, the plaque that lists all the 1914-1918 dead rests against an earthen bank constructed to absorb bullets. Perhaps it is the very one against which Edith Cavell was shot. I sat on a bench and meditated a little on the dead and the vanity of national ambition. But I must have no hatred or bitterness for anyone.

It’s hard to live up to, but worth trying.

My thanks are due to Wikimedia Commons and the original photographers and uploaders for the picture of the Cavell Memorial in London and the portrait of Edith Cavell. Also to Diana Souhami for her excellent biography Edith Cavell: Nurse, Martyr, Heroine.

This is the homepage of the modern National Council of Women of Great Britain.

This article was written for the #Blogg52 challenge.

Taxes and loud English

Taxes and death – the two things of which we can be certain, but while it’s very unusual to die more than once, getting taxed twice for the same year… It’s enough to get you speaking in loud English.

Taxes - Belgian tax papersOne of the things which has made my life more involved recently has been the Belgian tax declaration forms that we got in the post a couple of weeks ago. The forms included my wife, but were addressed to me as the head of the household. (Belgium has a way to come yet on the road to equality.) Mrs SC, whose job is the reason we’re in Brussels, smiled sweetly and handed the forms back to me. “You can deal with this,” she said. “It’s addressed to you.”

Now, we’ve already paid our taxes in Sweden where we are still registered for tax purposes. We explained this to various officials on various occasions last year while we were applying for local identity cards. Obviously, though, we hadn’t explained it to the right people. Now I sit at the dining table with a series of forms and a thick (110 page) explanatory pamphlet in dense French. There’s also a covering letter signed by Johan Van Overtveldt, Ministre des Finances et la Lutte contre la Fraude fiscale. His title is about the only thing my French stretches to translate – Minister of Finance and the Fight against Tax Fraud.

Well, I can also make out that the deadline for returning the forms is 12th June and that there will be dire consequences for being late and fraudulent, but not much else. The forms and pamphlet are couched in what I take to be French bureaucratese. Not quite the French they taught in English schools 45 years ago (most of which I can’t remember anyway).

Obviously we are not supposed to complete these forms. Obviously! But how to find someone to explain this to?

It took a deal of trial and error.

Taxes: The Finance Tower - stepsIn the end, I went online to the home page of the Belgian Ministry of Finance and – bingo – there was a page in English. Of course the information was superficial and only directed at people who were actually making their declarations in Belgium, but there was a telephone number for further information.

Unfortunately – and typically in my experience – the number only led to a machine recording of three alternatives: Français, Nederlands, Deutsche – the three official languages of Belgium. I chose Français. In French I have at least a chance to understand when I’m offered the option of speaking to a human being. I got it right… on only the third attempt.

The young man who answered said he didn’t understand much English but we coped. His advice was to come to the tax office in the centre of town. I had to bring the forms plus my own and Mrs SC’s identity cards.

Taxes: The Finance TowerThe tax office turned out to be the offices of the mirror-windowed Ministry of Finance tower at Boulevard du Jardin Botanique 50.

There were two reception desks, one to the left and one to the right. Which to choose? There were no signs I could see that explained so I chose the queue to the left. I chose wrong. When I got to a receptionist, she looked tiredly at me. This had happened before.

As I stood in the queue at the other desk, I tried to work out what in all the sineage at the door indicated the correct queue. I still couldn’t see it.

At the end of the line another receptionist, also tired and quite irritated, told me to go back outside, down into the Metro and turn left. There was an “of course” hanging in her voice. Once again, no signs I could see that ought to have given me a clue.

Down in the Metro (Botanique) I found a subway that ran for several hundred metres right across beneath the main road. Along the entire length of the subway stretched a queue of people waiting patiently to get into the Finance Tower. Hundreds of people.

Tax-on-web is childsplayBehind the reception desk I’d just come from was an electronic screen I’d had the time to study. Two alternating adverts encouraged people to make their declaration online. The first showed a child at a keyboard with the slogan C’est un jeu d’enfant. (It’s child’s play.) The other showed two smiling young people – a man and a woman – and the slogan (in English – why?) that said: It’s so easy!

Yeah, right.

At the head of the long queue, there were a couple of quite pleasant but distinctly burly young men handing out numbered white tickets and overseeing the people allowed in. I spoke to one of them and after a bit of explaining, he told me to go right the way down the corridor till I found one of his colleague who was giving out pink tickets. I should explain my situation, get a pink ticket and bring it back. It was a long walk and the colleague was less than keen to help, but I talked at him in English and eventually he gave me a ticket to go away.

The pink ticket let me jump the queue and ride the escalator up to a huge reception hall in the Finance Tower. Here, hundreds of lucky ticket holders were sitting around clutching their white tickets, waiting for their queue number to come up. The pink tickets were shunted into another queue that eventually brought me to a clerk at a desk.

I explained my situation and he confessed that he’d only been working there for a week and didn’t really know how to help me. But his colleague – he indicated with his hand – she had been here for many years and she would know. So I stood to one side and waited for the colleague, and when she had finished with one pink ticket I quickly dodged in ahead of the next and explained my situation. Had I come to the right place?

“Yes,” she said. “You have, but unfortunately there’s nobody here who can help you today. You must come back on Wednesday. We open at 8 a.m.”

Taxes: The tax queue That was on Friday 27th May. On Wednesday 1st June I arrived in the subway at about 7.50 in the morning. The queue already stretched almost the whole length of the corridor. I joined the end of the queue and after a bit I was not at the end any more. I hadn’t moved forward; more and more people had arrived to join in behind me.

A little after 8 a.m. the queue started to move, which was hopeful. Then it stopped and I realised it wasn’t that people were being let in, that first movement, just the queue getting serious and drawing together because the Finance Ministry was starting work.

We stood still, almost still, for about half an hour. Then, very slowly, the queue start moving for real. After I’d been standing for a little over an hour I got within sight of the door. At that point some of the burly men came out with their jump-the-queue tickets. I caught the eye of one of these and went through the same procedure as before, arguing my case. He said something that sounded like the people I wanted to see wouldn’t be working today. That’s when I raised my voice and started repeating myself. Eventually he gave me a ticket.

Through the revolving door, up the escalator and once more into this cavernous waiting room. The special queue for the pink tickets was much shorter this time, but the young lady whose desk I reached was not keen to help. She wanted me to go back down to the main queue and get a proper white ticket and talk to someone else. So I carried on talking in English, my voice growing louder.

Does it ever work, talking loudly at people in English? On the basis of this experience I have to say, Yes.

“Follow me,” she said.

Taxes: The Finance Tower and Metro entranceShe took me through to another queue in another corridor and left me to talk to a calm, older man. I explained again. In the middle of this, he moved his hand, palm down, and I realised I was still shouting. I dropped my voice and he nodded approvingly, looked at my ID card, tapped away at his computer keyboard a little and said, “Now, everything is all right.”

I was confused and asked if there was a receipt. “No receipt.” So I thanked him and went back out into the main reception hall where I had to sit down. My knees were weak.

I took out my phone and sent a text message to Mrs SC that all was well. But then I had the sudden horrible feeling that perhaps he’d only fixed it for me. After all he hadn’t asked to see her ID card. So I went back to his desk and caught his eye and when he finished with the person he was talking to I asked if he had also included my wife. “Of course. She is your wife. You are on the same form. Do not worry. Everything is all right.”

I thanked him once again and finally let myself leave the building.

I don’t like the English abroad, who wander around talking loudly at the natives, apparently convinced that incomprehension of English is really a form of deafness. I really don’t like that… but it’s humbling – even a bit humiliating – to realise, if I’m stressed, that I do it too. On the other hand, it worked. I’m not sure what conclusion to draw from that.

Of course I couldn’t find one of those “It’s so easy” ads to photograph for this, but eventually I found the “It’s child’s play” ad in a Belgian TV (RTBF) news video clip. So that’s where that comes from.

This article was written for the #Blogg52 challenge.

Open day at the EU Commission

An open day at the European Commission? How exciting! No? Oh come on, try at least to show a little enthusiasm!

After more than a year as a Brussels resident, it was high time to visit one of the centres of EU power in this, Europe’s capital (three weeks a month). High time not least because, judging by the noises coming out of Britain, it may be my last year as a British and an EU citizen.

Every year in May, Europe celebrates. There’s something for (more or less) everyone this month: the Second World War came to an end on 8th May 1945 (9th May if you are east of Berlin); the Council of Europe was founded in 1949 by the Treaty of London and celebrates that event every May 5th; and the EU celebrates on May 9th because that was the date of the Schuman Declaration in 1950, regarded as the seed of the European Union.

Europe will not be made all at once, or according to a single plan. It will be built through concrete achievements which first create a de facto solidarity. The coming together of the nations of Europe requires the elimination of the age-old opposition of France and Germany.

Robert Schuman, then French Foreign Minister

The celebrations spread through the month. This year the Headquarters of the European Commission in the Berlaymont building at the Schumann roundabout here in Brussels held a family fun open day last Saturday. (It wasn’t in fact billed as “family fun”, just as an “open day”, but there were definitely families there, and many seemed to be having fun.)

Personally I found it a curious mix of the genuinely interesting, quite entertaining and deadly boring. Many of the Directorates-General and Service sections of the Commission were represented, but it was clear which had put thought and effort into what they were doing there. The stalls run by everyone connected to science and languages had crowds of visitors and eager participants. Some of the other stalls were staffed by people whose enthusiasm and ability to connect with the general public was lukewarm at best.

There should be more of these events (with engaged organisers), and they should be taking place in schools and public forums across the EU on a weekly basis. Perhaps if that had been happening in the UK the last 40 years we wouldn’t be where we now are. Or at least the British public would be better able to make an informed decision. As it is, most of the propaganda I hear from both sides of the Brexit debate at present seems bloated, ignorant and designed to prey on fear.

But let us not dwell on the negative. Here are some photos from Saturday’s open day.

EU Open Day: Computer coding for visitors
Computer coding for visitors
EU Open Day: Our environmental future Europe
Our environmental future Europe
EU Open Day: In the Schumann Conference Room
In the Schuman Conference Room simultaneous translators show off their stuff
The author - a serious selfie in the Schuman Conference Room
The author – a serious selfie
EU Open Day: Families together in the Schumann Conference Room
Families together in the Schuman Conference Room
EU open day: Panorama in the atrium
Open day panorama in the atrium of the Berlaymont building
What would make you leave your home country?
What would make you leave your home country? The stickers say: Job, Study, War, Love, Curiosity, Putin, Chavez…
EU Open Day: Camera bank
This camera bank was presented by EU Research and Innovation
In front of the cameras
You got a white coat and some green fluid in a test tube and then stood in front of the cameras…
…and they took a photo and turned it into a 180 degree animation.

This article was written for the #Blogg52 challenge.