2000 and heaven*

Canon PowerShot SD400
Sept. 2005 (New York City) - Dec. 2006 (Paris)

This is what's left of my faithful companion. It died earlier today in the hands of a thief in the metro. My hero Jay went after him, made him run down the stairs and into a wall. The knocked-out criminal opposed no resistance when Jay searched him, but in his fall, he'd broken the camera. Thank God the memory card was intact and we were able to salvage its last images. Here they are.


We spent the afternoon at Seb and JP's, drinking tea and enjoying their incredible sound system. Bach, Chopin, Gnarls Barkley, The Wiseguys, E.S.T., who knows what else. A round, perfect sound, filled the beautiful room with our favorite songs. The Princess pictured above and Y were there with us.


Shaking it.


Yeah they were.



I am feeling a bit sad. For my sweet godson, whose bursting appendix forced him to spend the night in the operating room. For the bruised hip and swollen ankle of the man who didn't think twice to kick some serious ass. For my camera, which I carried everywhere, ready to shoot anything that caught my eye. For the year that is just ending and was full of surprises, emotions and questions. Here's hoping 2007 will be the year of the "peace and quiet that we need to go back to work again."

There's a song that's playing as I'm writing. Found it on the soundtrack of François Ozon's 5x2. The movie itself is bad, but trying to resist Paolo Conte's voice is useless. Here's the scene.



Happy new year, everyone. Wherever you're celebrating. With all my love.

*Quoting YZ, who just told me she wanted to become a Dominatrix. Like, seriously. Not as a joke.

Fuckin' 31

Bunch of people gathering tonight for a counter-New Year's Eve operation, where we party with Champagne one day before the real date. And tomorrow, we're all staying in with veggie soup and foreign movies (by that I mean non-Hollywood cinema).*

Ah yeah. Paris and its cohorts of anti-establishment militants. We're so utterly cool.

The height of rebelliousness in France is feeling free to take it out on the immigrant ghettos when you're a white girl who always had a sheltered life. Which is probably the case of Anaïs. She's funny. So here's miss clown - for French speakers only, awfully sorry.



*Speaking of which, saw Yi Yi a couple of days ago. So sweet. Also saw Love Actually again and cried my eyes out with the images of London and that scene where the groom's best friend comes to the door and declares his love for the best friend's wife. I am a sentimental fool. Saw The Royal Tenenbaums and kept imitating the dialogues long after the movie was over. Saw Walk on Water, enticed by the rave reviews from all the most respectable publications in France. I urge you to avoid it at all cost. That it is about the ambiguous relationship between a hard-ass Israeli spy and the gay grandson of a nazi does not make it any good.

Headless chickens

I am not going to list the things I've done and the people I've seen in the past few days. But I do think it's the last time I come to Paris between Christmas and the New Year. A highlight, though. An afternoon at the Jardin d'Acclimatation in Paris, with very enthusiastic little girls (the ones from Savigny-les-Beaunes, visiting their grandparents at the "Capital" over the holidays).


Worth mentioning as well, lunch with my father, who was appalled and dismayed to hear that I'd chosen to write this blog in English.

One thing I learnt these days: you really, absolutely cannot please everyone.

Between the Bars

Christmas - done and over with. Lots of alcohol, food and music. I'm writing from a big house in a small town near Paris.


Some salsa-dancing last night after the opening of the gifts - a first for miss YZ, "the alien." Today, three mini-Spidermen were spreading fear and (mostly) exhaustion among very drunk adults. Some of them insisted on discussing obscure French cinema - Patrick De'fucking'waere was mentioned repeatedly - and showing off their knowledge of kangaroos in the most broken English imaginable, for the benefit of the Australian girl. Quite the French experience. She was gracious, and it all ended in a good laugh.


Lots of Madeleine Peyroux albums were exchanged. Her cover of Between the Bars was played. Here's a live version of the original, by Elliot Smith.

Time off

In Paris now. Running around trying to find the last Christmas presents. Just heard this for the first time. Happy holidays, everyone, this is Joanna Newsom.

In for good

I arrived at my new place at 8:00 this morning. The entire house was already awake. Eva and Avinash were waiting for their truck. They were moving out as I was moving in.

We thought it would be a nightmare. But my boxes were all in at 9:00. Theirs left at 11:00 or so. As I was unpacking, they kept stopping by, checking in on me, making sure I was doing ok. At one point, they got hungry, went to the bakery, returned with pains au chocolat and croissants and brought me some. Poor Eva seemed exhausted and a bit stressed. I said I'd love to have them over for dinner once we all settled in.

On my mailbox, I found a small Christmas card from the neighbors I haven't met yet, a Belgian couple. They were wishing me happy holidays and welcoming me to the place. I may well get used to this sweetness...

At 13:00, the electricity was finally connected. I'd made my bed, filled my closets with clothes and linen, taken out all the kitchenware, all the bottles of Chanel 5 had found their place in the bathroom. I was resting with my plush animals listening to Keith Jarrett, thinking I would probably be happy in this apartment.

I had to get back to work, so I left. I stopped in the fancy deli across the street, called Art(y)shock. As the guy was making me a honey and goat cheese sandwich, he told me a bit about the electro scene in Brussels. He mentioned the Dirty Dancing nights at the Mirano. He said that if I wanted to go, I should come see him, he'd give me passes. He says it's impossible to get in, unless you're a regular. So those might help.

It's sunny and I'm tired. Good tired. Tonight, I'm celebrating Virginie's wedding.

Here and there

"Overtalented" - Little Miss Allen.



A breath of fresh air. Christmas is around the corner, I'll be off to Paris on Saturday. In the meantime, I welcome the lightness.

"Above all, this man is an asshole" - from lil'sis. With subtitles.

And here's something else, with no thanks:

Internet addictions
Thursday, December 21, 2006

The Internet has given birth to a quirky range of addictions and maladies, the British weekly New Scientist notes in this week's issue.
They include: Ego-surfing: When you frequently check your name and reputation on the Internet. Blog streaking: "Revealing secrets or personal information online, which for everybody's sake would be bestkept private." Crackberry: "The curse of the modern executive - notbeing able to stop checking your BlackBerry, even at yourgrandmother's funeral." Google-stalking: Defined as "snooping onlineon old friends, colleagues or first dates." Cyberchondria: "A headacheand a peculiar rash at the same time? Extensive online research tells you it must be cancer." Photolurking: Flicking through a photo albumof someone you have never met. Wikipediholism: Excess devotion tocontributing to the online collaborative encyclopaedia Wikipedia.(Wikipedia even has a page where you can test whether you're an addict.) Cheesepodding: Downloading of a song "so cheesy that youcould cover it in plastic wrap and sell it at the deli counter."Cheesepodders are especially vulnerable to soft-rock favorites from the 1970s. AGENCE FRANCE-PRESSE

Ixelloise

Long, sunny day in Amsterdam. I was there for work today. Shame I didn't get to go sightseeing, there really is a lovely feel to that place. What I didn't realize was how far it is from Brussels. Not less than 2h30 by train...

On my way back, I was sitting in front of a couple of English yobs disguised as businessmen:
- I'd never realized Den Haag was actually The Hague."
- You serious? Oh, it's easy, mate. 'Den' is 'The' and 'Haag' is 'Hague.'"
- ..."
- Wot?"
- I'd figured that out by myself, thank you very much."
- ..."
- ..."
- You cunt."

I have a new bed. And a sofa. And shelves. My Ikea home in Ixelles. We met my Bolivian neighbor in the process, he helped us carry the heavy stuff. Great guy, very sweet, very well-traveled.

Ixelles is a cool area, in all senses of the word. you find galleries, great restaurants, an international atmosphere... There are good bookstores around, too. Candide is the one closest to my new place. It's big and bright and it's old school.






I was given this book as a present. I should aim at turning into a "relaxed, smiling Ixelloise." Point taken. I'll do my best.


Brussels itself is tiny. The city is composed of 17 "communes" - the equivalent of boroughs in London, I would guess. Ixelles is one of them. Postcode: 1050. The way it happens here, everyone has to register at the town hall. You show up with a couple of passport pictures, your renting contract and a proof of identity and you tell them you've just moved in. To make sure you're not lying, they send a cop over to your house. The cop checks if your name is on the mailbox or the doorbell, rings, makes sure you're you if you're there or leaves a note if you're not. You have to bring the note back to the police station. Once that's done, you officially become a proud resident of your commune.

I hadn't seen my Belgian friend Virginie in a year. She got married last November and we met up last night for dinner. She chose Jaloa. Wild mushroom cappuccino, roasted scallops in cauliflower cream with a hint of truffle, tender piece of baby boar and last, but not least, a slice of pineapple with chocolate fondant, vanilla ice-cream and mint leaves (by the way, just FYI, vanilla and mint are an amazing combination - don't know why I never thought of that). We ordered a great Burgundy to go with it, from Savigny-les-Beaunes - a wink to little Chloe, 9, and baby sister Emma, 7, who are growing up in that same village. Lovely meal, great service, cute place. Winner of the San Pellegrino Fashion Food 2005 prize, whatever that is, and listed among the Jeunes Restaurateurs d'Europe. I'm thinking this is good.

My friend's obsessed with sardines. She keeps asking me whether I already ate some. Here's to her - my first can. They were delish.

Geography

Funny story - you know how the Brits and the Yanks supposedly suck at geography? Here's what Reuters reports today:

It's US vs UK in online geography battle

By Lars Paronen

TORONTO, Dec 14 (Reuters Life!) - North Americans fed up with being ribbed over their geographical incompetence are trying to get even -- pitting their skills against Britain in a transatlantic geography quiz.

Two geography enthusiasts from opposite sides of the Atlantic Ocean designed the 2006 Geography Cup after numerous surveys highlighted the geographical ignorance of both Americans and Britons.

(...)

Open to anyone in the United States and UK, the online quiz gives contestants two minutes to place 13 randomly selected countries on an interactive political map.

(...)

"There is definitely a sense in the UK that Americans are pretty poor in geography," he said, confident that by the end of the contest the British team would come out tops -- and help focus more attention on the world map.

Since the quiz started on November 14 -- it ends on December 31 -- more than 18,000 people have gone online to put their geography knowledge to the test - and the two teams are neck-and-neck.

(...)

Notice how this was written by a guy in Toronto. Sitting on the sidelines, watching the massacre. Canadians.

Today is Ikea day. I'm buying a new bed.

Before I go, here's something Mexican worth lending an attentive ear to. No thank yous, as agreed.

Home

One or two years ago, my friend Damien Poulain gave me this postcard he'd designed himself. I had it at work, in London, never really thought about it. Then my boxes arrived in Brussels. I undid them on Wednesday and pinned the card at my new desk. It just made sense. I felt bleak.


Today, Brussels is rainy and I found a place. I love it. I love the area and I love the owners. She's from Spain, he was born in Uganda, raised in the U.K., in an Indian family. When we talk, it's an awful mix of French, English and Spanish. They own the entire house, redid the interior themselves, it's very tasteful. They told me they'd liked me, too. The neighbor is both American and Bolivian. He became their friend. Once we signed the contract, which we did over tea at their place, Avinash went downstairs and put my name on the mailbox.


I have a home in Brussels.

In praise of geeks

"Never trust a computer you can't throw out the window."

And that, my friends, is exactly why I love my MacBook*. Then again, Steve Wozniak is the one who said it. And he also said: "I didn't think I'd ever have a girlfriend or a wife -- I was one of those. Engineering was everything to me."

If you own it, you're cool, I always say.

This is from the sis: find out which songs were number 1 on the day of your birth. Mine were Pink Floyd's Another Brick in the Wall in France and Blondie's Atomic in the U.K. Not bad.

Friday morning treat:

* Here's to Alex - without whom I'd have never been able to brag about my Mac.

Hoax

They'd been preparing it for two years. They fooled 89 percent of the viewers. The hoax of the century in Belgium. Here's the story:

http://media.guardian.co.uk/site/story/0,,1972573,00.html


And for the French speakers, here's what happened:


RTBF Belgique Sécession
Uploaded by Raed

Easy one

Found near Parvis St Gilles. Mustn't have been easy everyday.

Compass found

There's one notable thing about Brussels. People here are as relaxed as they are bureaucratic. Strangely enough, this makes for an interesting combination. The amount of administrative documentation required to work with and around the EU institutions is insane, but everything is so organized, systemized, people are so helpful and nice, you don't even feel it. I haven't queued for more than 5 minutes, not once. Then again, I didn't see it all, did I.

But they are quite chilled. The Australians* of Europe, said a colleague of mine, Australian himself. That crossed my mind.

Though I did meet the most stressed out of Brusselians tonight. The efficient real estate agent Emmanuel. We saw two places. One near Place Brugman, epicenter of the expat neighborhood, in a beautiful old house. Wooden floors, high ceilings, original mouldings... All the sidewalks are paved. The present tenant is leaving it to move in with his girlfriend and was sorry to go, gave me a good feeling. The second was a gigantic place near the University, across the street from the Ixelles cemetery. We then went for a beer - Orval, one of the five beers produced by trappist monks - in bar Le Tavernier not too far from there. A fun place, with live music from time to time.

Emmanuel adores his Brussels. Knows it inside out. He calls it a sleeping beauty, quiet at first sight, with quite a lot going on below the surface. He recommended moving around during the week, change neighborhoods to appreciate the atmosphere of the town. The University, Châtelain, Flagey, among other areas. For lunch, brunch and the best all-you-can-eat buffet (35 euros a person include as much lobster as you can stuff down your throat), the Conrad Hotel (where I was lucky enough to stay last October for work). La Bécasse, one of the oldest restaurants in the University area, he said. La Quincaillerie, former hardware store, a great place to take your parents near Châtelain. Le Macaron, on Châtelain, for some private time with someone.

For clubbing, he mentioned Fuse (excellent sound in a dodgy area, take care when you leave at 5am, but they might not let you in with sneakers). Mirano Continental - for regulars, near Madou. I know this is where they hold the Dirty Dancing nights. Galerie Louise, in the lower ground level of the shopping center. Too posh, but great music.

But "Brussels is a village", he added. For fashion and for partying without being recognized (he was married twice, has two teenage kids and we suspect that he's gay), go to Antwerp. Noted.

Seeing him tomorrow again for a cosy little place near Brugman.

Something to read before I go.

* Talking about Australia, here's a bit of Melbourne cool. From Y.

In the Eurostar

The press shelf at the entrance of coach 7 of the Saturday night Eurostar going to Brussels has just suffered the worst razzia in its history.


It started in the boarding area at Waterloo. I bought The Guardian and Mojo. The Guardian, well... because it's the Guardian. Mojo, because apart from being the best music magazine i ever came across, it has Dylan on the cover with a fine example of the countless wanky quotes he managed to deliver over the years: "I don't break the rules... Because there are no rules." Oh boy.


Then the Eurostar. Last week's Economist was sitting there, titling: "Why ethical shopping harms the world." Bastards. Questioning once again my entire value system. I haven't read their piece yet and I know exactly what's going to happen. First, I'm going to stop buying my favorite chocolate à l'orange, which is fairtrade, organic and absolutely delicious. I got so much shit for it, was called a bo-bo (bourgeois-bohême, something like a posh tree-hugger). Didn't stop the name-callers from devouring it, but eh. After this I'll get into a series of arguments with my French, left-wing, anti-globalization friends, who'll tell me I sold out, I have no soul, I've been brainwashed, so on and so forth. Ah hell. I'm tired already.

Anyway, my handbag was wide open and in went the magazine. So did this week's Economist, with something on Britain's failing transport system, so I can nod emphatically, get all indignant and feel like I still belong.

Though I never really read it when I was in London, I also grabbed today's Times, just for kicks. And as a preventive measure. You never know when nostalgia will hit and you'll start craving some witty British writing at night and in bed, when your eyes become too dry to bear another internet minute.

And then, just to compensate, French magazine Jalouse, a special edition on Asian coolness: fashion, design, cinema and other artsy fartsy stuff from Shanghai, Bangkok and Tokyo. Probably very insubstantial, but I still took it, for their effort. And mine.


No idea when I'll be back in London. So I guess anything will do.

Broad Daylight

Gabriel Rios.

Warming up

The place I'm staying at while I find my own:


Stairs and wooden floors.


Not surprisingly, duplexes are a popular thing here. Seem like the practical thing to do in the tall, narrow, 1900 houses.


My girl Chiqui gives advice worth following. Listening to her, I paid a visit to Mr. Marcolini this evening. "The sex shop of chocolate shops," said J. True. The black carpet on the stairs reminded me of Agent Provocateur. It's pure visual pleasure. Haven't tasted any of it yet, but it's promising.

Sablons is a lovely area. Small, paved streets, adorable restaurants, antique shops, art galleries and unaffordable rent. Walking past Louise avenue towards Porte de Namur, the neighborhood is posh, but it does make you want to spend a couple hundred more euros a month. Had dinner at L'Ultime Atome (see what they did?), place Ernest Solvay. Great food - excellent tarte tatin. Kind of loud. Shame for the music - I don't know who on earth still thinks Manu Chao is cool. I did a quick search on Google, looks like the NY Times mentioned it a while ago.

Now, Chiqui, I'll have to explore this thing about people partying in a cemetery. And visit the comic bookstore you're mentioning.

Turning in now. The cab will pick me up at 6:15. I'm taking the Eurostar back to London. No, I'm not giving up already. I'll be back on Saturday.

Brand new day-to-day

On my way to work, at 08:10am this morning:


The EU Commission... From behind:

A pro

Overslept today and even so, was 2 minutes early at work. This is good. Thinking Brussels' tininess is gonna help me catch up on my sleep.

Bruss-hell

The Metro in Brussels is 30 years old. Visually, you can tell. The trains themselves are badly lit and I wish someone did something about the color-scheme.

The stations are not a pretty sight, though they did try to art some of them up. I'm staying near Hankar while I find my own place. An enormous mural was painted in 1970 by Roger Somville with the help of a couple of friends. Called it "Our Time":


The platforms are very long and at night, the trains seldom come with more than two or three coaches. For some reason, this reminds me of a futuristic novel written in the fifties. Who knows what they were trying to do.


The pleasant surprise was that it's musical. And it's not bad selection of songs, either. I heard Bob Dylan's Like a Rolling Stone at the Arts-Loi stop (Kunst-Wet in Flemish - yes... okay...) earlier today, which I took as a sign that maybe things wouldn't be so awful.


I read a while ago that they used music to soothe tormented souls and so reduce criminality in some places. I can't see how this could be the case here. Brusselians seem to be tranquil people. If anything, they could use some energizing. I came here for a few days in October, to meet my new co-workers. I hadn't been here two hours that three people had told me to slow down. That worried me.

My first weekend here as a resident is ending. I took off at lunchtime on Saturday for a walk around town. I am not depressed, but it's not for lack of being exposed to potentially suicidal thought-inducing visions. The weather is cold and rainy. I made a couple of wrong turns and found myself in some freakishly empty streets. If Chaussée d'Ixelles and Flagey are hotspots here, then I'm thinking what they call a quiet area would be what we, hyper-urbanites, call cemeteries.


From time to time, you come across funny little details. Here's hoping this was intentional: "Robin Fernand Vokaer, sculptor, slept here (a lot)."


Brussels is definitely not what you call a beautiful city. Get off at Gare Centrale on a Sunday at noon, for instance, you'll find yourself alone and surrounded by enormous government buildings that look like they were built for some megalomaniac ruler in the 70's.

But I'm being a spoiled Londoner. To be fair, I did find a couple of cool comic bookstores: Espace BD, a small, neat place with an exhibition space in the back, with original drawings by a couple of artists. And Le Dépôt, which is apparently part of a chain. Lots of second hand comics, classified by collection rather than by publisher. Both have a decent amount of mangas, which is great. The erotic sections in both were also very good, giving the phrase "graphic novel" its whole meaning.

The cold and the rain got to me. After queuing for 20 minutes at the only ATM available on this very commercial street, I took a break in a small café called A l'Opposé du Contraire, facing Le Dépôt.

I guess it could've been worse.

Day 1

After almost three years in London, I was sent to Brussels for work.


Years of traveling, never found a place like London. Felt at home in five minutes, on my first holiday there, in May 2003. Within two hours, I knew I'd move there, so I did, 10 months later. I really thought that would be it. Sunbathing at Primrose Hill. Partying in the East. Working in the City. Hiking in Hampstead Heath. Exploring the West, why not. I was happy. I loved it. I was going to stay there five, ten years. Maybe never leave.


Small and boring town this one. In June this year, I came to visit an old friend, who is completely in love with Brussels. Spent two warm, sunny days here with him in his big, tastefully decorated apartment. Streets full of people, night out at Maman's, tasty French fries, great waffles... It seemed ok.


It did! They had 40-year-old skateboarders.


They had shops for the ladies.


They had illiterate rebels.

It'd be fine. So long as it didn't last more than a weekend. Felt like I was breathing again when the train got to Waterloo. The Northern line. Thank God. The silent weirdos. Finally. Home, sweet home.


So not sure why I accepted, but since I'm here, the plan is to make the most of it. Slow down, maybe. Get a huge and indecently cheap place. Find out what's interesting and compile it in here. Try and not hate the experience.

That'll teach me.