This is it. My apartment is empty and there is an echo in the living room when I type. I closed the bills, took my name off the mailbox, threw some clothes in a couple of suitcases and handed my Belgian ID card back to the city of Ixelles. I am waiting for the expert to come and check how much damage I managed to do in the the 357 days that I called this place my own. In a few hours, I'll be in the Eurostar back to London and soon will begin to fret over the search for a new home, surrounded by people I love.
It was the shortest of years, it was the longest of years. There won't be anything to miss, with one notable exception: long, spumante-fuelled and zabaglione punctuated lunches at Luca's. The memories there, I can honestly say, were my only happy ones in Belgium.
I haven't decided what to do with this blog yet. I may just keep it and use it as a reminder that home is always where the heart is. Or I may re-title it and go on with my adventures in London.
In any case, this is another closed chapter. Adieu, but not without adding one of the most underrated of Jeff Buckley's songs.
Showing posts with label belgium. Show all posts
Showing posts with label belgium. Show all posts
Friday, December 14, 2007
Sunday, October 28, 2007
The demands of distance
This is an attempt to give an answer to those who are wondering and/or complaining about my long silences on this blog.
Sooner or later I'll be forced to change its title or simply drop it for good, as it's slowly losing its reason to exist. I've been working in London since the beginning of September and just got back this week. The signal's pretty clear. A definite return is imminent.
No, I've not warmed up to this lovely town. It was partly circumstantial, mostly deliberate. On top of having made no effort whatsoever to become acquainted with its people, customs or traditions, I was hardly ever here, traveling for work or... for work. I am simply not interested. At all. No, really. Unapologetically so, at the risk of upsetting all open-minded and relativists out there. Anything that will get me out of here, I will be grateful for. Time to put an end to this misery.
And so miserable and stranded I will be no longer. While this historical mistake of a country disintegrates, I will be preparing my return. Whether by an act of the corporate god or sheer self-determination, I am leaving and not looking back.
Belgians and Belgium lovers, I urge you to not take offense. This is me not making excuses and not pretending to feel otherwise. Brussels is perhaps a city with a gray, dull façade which hides a gem-like heart and, unlike London, doesn't throw itself at complete strangers with reckless abandon. As I said, maybe it's just me, maybe I like them easy. In any case... I'll soon be gone.
Before I do so, however, I'll be flying to Jordan on November 16th for a 10-day excursion in Ammam, Petra, and the Wadi Rum desert from the back of a horse.
More on this very soon.
Sooner or later I'll be forced to change its title or simply drop it for good, as it's slowly losing its reason to exist. I've been working in London since the beginning of September and just got back this week. The signal's pretty clear. A definite return is imminent.
No, I've not warmed up to this lovely town. It was partly circumstantial, mostly deliberate. On top of having made no effort whatsoever to become acquainted with its people, customs or traditions, I was hardly ever here, traveling for work or... for work. I am simply not interested. At all. No, really. Unapologetically so, at the risk of upsetting all open-minded and relativists out there. Anything that will get me out of here, I will be grateful for. Time to put an end to this misery.
And so miserable and stranded I will be no longer. While this historical mistake of a country disintegrates, I will be preparing my return. Whether by an act of the corporate god or sheer self-determination, I am leaving and not looking back.
Belgians and Belgium lovers, I urge you to not take offense. This is me not making excuses and not pretending to feel otherwise. Brussels is perhaps a city with a gray, dull façade which hides a gem-like heart and, unlike London, doesn't throw itself at complete strangers with reckless abandon. As I said, maybe it's just me, maybe I like them easy. In any case... I'll soon be gone.
Before I do so, however, I'll be flying to Jordan on November 16th for a 10-day excursion in Ammam, Petra, and the Wadi Rum desert from the back of a horse.
More on this very soon.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Bastille day in Gent
July 14, Bastille day. Train to Gent for the week-long festival. Music, beer, fries drowning in mayo. Miss Sly Stone at the Blue Note Festival. Miss Sean Lennon. Make it up with a tango class followed by a salsa class.
Admit that when it's sunny and you're drunk... And you're making new friends, you can have reasonable fun in Belgium.
Admit that when it's sunny and you're drunk... And you're making new friends, you can have reasonable fun in Belgium.
Friday, April 6, 2007
Spring artsiness
Apologies, people, for the random post in French. I came across this poem in L'Année Poétique 2007 (Poetic Year 2007), an anthology of francophone contemporary poetry which publisher Seghers is planning on putting together every year. While most of the efforts included in this volume left me sceptical and unimpressed (you wouldn't believe the amount pretentious, unoriginal crap) this one in particular, by poet Jean Pérol, had me reading out loud as I was walking in the street. French speakers, I hope you enjoyed as much as I did.
Thanks to those who sent me messages of support and empathy about the 180-euro fine. Thank you in particular to my Belgian colleague, Brussels-born and bred, now a permanent resident and unconditional lover of London town, for this inflammatory writ:
"J'avais oublié de te dire un truc à propos de la Belgique: la police la plus stupide et incompétente d'Europe. Peuplée de crétins finis, cette police a prouvé sa nullité en se montrant incapable d'arrêter Marc Dutroux malgré tous les indices, condamnant ainsi à mort deux fillettes prisonnières qui auraient pu être sauvées. La même police a laissé quelques années plus tard Dutroux s'échapper d'un fourgon, couvrant encore un peu plus la Belgique de ridicule."
(again, apologies for this rough translation -- "I'd forgotten to tell you one thing about Belgium: Europe's most stupid and incompetent police. Peopled by utter cretins, this police demonstrated its dimwitness by being incapable of arresting Marc Dutroux, in spite of all the evidence, thus sentencing to death two little girls that could have been saved. A few years later, that same police allowed Dutroux to escape from a van, ridiculing Belgium even more.")
On an unrelated note, my favorite Mungbean Muser compiled her favorite photographers in a very, very cool entry. Go on, take a look, you just might learn something.
And now, for some music (it had been a while, hadn't it)... A quick homage to cellist Mstislav Rostropovich, who on March 27th celebrated his 80th birthday:
In The Guardian's piece about him, a hilarious anecdote:
"Once, his younger daughter Olga, who was studying the cello, thought her father had gone out, and settled down to read when she should have been practising. Unfortunately for her, Slava returned unexpectedly. Furious, he picked up her cello, brandished it and started chasing her with it, telling her to stop so that he could kill her (a request that she not unreasonably chose to ignore). Eventually, she ran out of the house, but he kept after her - and goodness knows what would have happened had they not passed Shostakovich, who happened to be walking nearby. He pleaded with Slava to calm down, and order was eventually restored; but I'm sure Olga learned to practise more diligently after that - or at least to lock her door."
Happy Easter, Passover or whatever it is you like to celebrate.
Thanks to those who sent me messages of support and empathy about the 180-euro fine. Thank you in particular to my Belgian colleague, Brussels-born and bred, now a permanent resident and unconditional lover of London town, for this inflammatory writ:
"J'avais oublié de te dire un truc à propos de la Belgique: la police la plus stupide et incompétente d'Europe. Peuplée de crétins finis, cette police a prouvé sa nullité en se montrant incapable d'arrêter Marc Dutroux malgré tous les indices, condamnant ainsi à mort deux fillettes prisonnières qui auraient pu être sauvées. La même police a laissé quelques années plus tard Dutroux s'échapper d'un fourgon, couvrant encore un peu plus la Belgique de ridicule."
(again, apologies for this rough translation -- "I'd forgotten to tell you one thing about Belgium: Europe's most stupid and incompetent police. Peopled by utter cretins, this police demonstrated its dimwitness by being incapable of arresting Marc Dutroux, in spite of all the evidence, thus sentencing to death two little girls that could have been saved. A few years later, that same police allowed Dutroux to escape from a van, ridiculing Belgium even more.")
On an unrelated note, my favorite Mungbean Muser compiled her favorite photographers in a very, very cool entry. Go on, take a look, you just might learn something.
And now, for some music (it had been a while, hadn't it)... A quick homage to cellist Mstislav Rostropovich, who on March 27th celebrated his 80th birthday:
In The Guardian's piece about him, a hilarious anecdote:
"Once, his younger daughter Olga, who was studying the cello, thought her father had gone out, and settled down to read when she should have been practising. Unfortunately for her, Slava returned unexpectedly. Furious, he picked up her cello, brandished it and started chasing her with it, telling her to stop so that he could kill her (a request that she not unreasonably chose to ignore). Eventually, she ran out of the house, but he kept after her - and goodness knows what would have happened had they not passed Shostakovich, who happened to be walking nearby. He pleaded with Slava to calm down, and order was eventually restored; but I'm sure Olga learned to practise more diligently after that - or at least to lock her door."
Happy Easter, Passover or whatever it is you like to celebrate.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Another day in Brussels
**** WARNING - Kids and sensitive souls please refrain to read this post. The author is too fucking angry to even pretend to try and control the swearing. ****
Let's start with a little game: what can you buy for 180 euros? A return ticket to London in the Eurostar, if you're silly enough to buy it only a week in advance. 10 meals, with wine and dessert at Casa Italiana, this lovely family-owned restaurant on Archimède (amazing zabaglione). A complete outfit at Zara or Top-Shop. A very good pair of shoes. 2 iPod Shuffles and while we're at it, about 18 CDs and/or DVDs on sale.
I get off the tram with - who was it - Jay-Z playing at full blast in my iPod. Street is quiet, cars are waiting at the red light, I cross the street. CROSS the bleeding street. I'm all chilled and bouncy, trying hard not to dance to the beat. When I hear two voices loud enough for me to turn around and wonder what's happening. I see two cops, one with a bad moustache, the other with a bad accent, each double my size, shouting at the top of their lungs: "HEY!!! YOU BLIND???" A guy who looks like a student is watching the scene. He says wearily, loud enough for them to hear: "Aaah come on... She had her iPod on..."
The two motherfuckers run to me, demanding to see an identification document. I ask them why they want to see an identification document, the guy with the bad accent starts speaking to me in Flemish, as if he didn't just hear me speak French. Moustache-Face gets all smartassy on me, says "Well you're obviously deaf, but you're not blind, you're wearing your glasses, aren't you?" I reiterate: "Can someone please explain to me what is going on here?"
"The little guy was red," says Moustache-Face. "Excuse me?" The little guy. The little guy that tells pedestrians when they should walk, or not. The little guy at the red light. Was. RED.
- ID, please."
At this point, I'm laughing. I think it's a joke. I pull out my passport.
- No, I need your Belgian ID card."
- I don't have one," I say.
- Why not?" He asks.
Fuck this, I'm lying:
- Because I don't live here." ("You retarded piece of shit," I add, in my head).
- Oh no?"
- No."
- Fine. We'll check in the computer."
I call his bluff. I haven't bothered to register:
- Sure," I say. "Check in your computer."
Who wants to fucking register in this town anyway.
He browses through my passport, looks confused:
- Where's your address?"
- There. It says Paris, right there."
Flemish Moron butts in:
- So you cross the streets like this in Paris?"
- Of course she does."
He's going to be like that, huh. Fine:
- Yup. In Paris. And in London. In Madrid and New York as well."
Because you see, there is actual crime to fight in these cities.
The asshole was waiting for that:
- 180 euros. I need another ID."
I pull out my driving license. Address in Madrid. The man gives up:
- We'll send the fine to Paris."
- You do that."
And good luck getting paid.
That's what happens in Euro-Hick Town: 180 euros can also buy you the right to fucking jaywalk. The jackasses from the police force have no peace to keep, they are so bored all day, their dicks are so sore with all the wanking off they do, they'll fine... Jaywalkers.
As it turns out, though, I shouldn't even complain: Arrested, cuffed and jailed, the don caught jaywalking.
Let's start with a little game: what can you buy for 180 euros? A return ticket to London in the Eurostar, if you're silly enough to buy it only a week in advance. 10 meals, with wine and dessert at Casa Italiana, this lovely family-owned restaurant on Archimède (amazing zabaglione). A complete outfit at Zara or Top-Shop. A very good pair of shoes. 2 iPod Shuffles and while we're at it, about 18 CDs and/or DVDs on sale.
I get off the tram with - who was it - Jay-Z playing at full blast in my iPod. Street is quiet, cars are waiting at the red light, I cross the street. CROSS the bleeding street. I'm all chilled and bouncy, trying hard not to dance to the beat. When I hear two voices loud enough for me to turn around and wonder what's happening. I see two cops, one with a bad moustache, the other with a bad accent, each double my size, shouting at the top of their lungs: "HEY!!! YOU BLIND???" A guy who looks like a student is watching the scene. He says wearily, loud enough for them to hear: "Aaah come on... She had her iPod on..."
The two motherfuckers run to me, demanding to see an identification document. I ask them why they want to see an identification document, the guy with the bad accent starts speaking to me in Flemish, as if he didn't just hear me speak French. Moustache-Face gets all smartassy on me, says "Well you're obviously deaf, but you're not blind, you're wearing your glasses, aren't you?" I reiterate: "Can someone please explain to me what is going on here?"
"The little guy was red," says Moustache-Face. "Excuse me?" The little guy. The little guy that tells pedestrians when they should walk, or not. The little guy at the red light. Was. RED.
- ID, please."
At this point, I'm laughing. I think it's a joke. I pull out my passport.
- No, I need your Belgian ID card."
- I don't have one," I say.
- Why not?" He asks.
Fuck this, I'm lying:
- Because I don't live here." ("You retarded piece of shit," I add, in my head).
- Oh no?"
- No."
- Fine. We'll check in the computer."
I call his bluff. I haven't bothered to register:
- Sure," I say. "Check in your computer."
Who wants to fucking register in this town anyway.
He browses through my passport, looks confused:
- Where's your address?"
- There. It says Paris, right there."
Flemish Moron butts in:
- So you cross the streets like this in Paris?"
- Of course she does."
He's going to be like that, huh. Fine:
- Yup. In Paris. And in London. In Madrid and New York as well."
Because you see, there is actual crime to fight in these cities.
The asshole was waiting for that:
- 180 euros. I need another ID."
I pull out my driving license. Address in Madrid. The man gives up:
- We'll send the fine to Paris."
- You do that."
And good luck getting paid.
That's what happens in Euro-Hick Town: 180 euros can also buy you the right to fucking jaywalk. The jackasses from the police force have no peace to keep, they are so bored all day, their dicks are so sore with all the wanking off they do, they'll fine... Jaywalkers.
As it turns out, though, I shouldn't even complain: Arrested, cuffed and jailed, the don caught jaywalking.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Black and whiteys - part II
Quick follow-up on my previous post about Wouter Van Bellingen, 34, the deputy-mayor of St Niklaas (who now has his own wikipedia entry), who refused to let him marry them because he's, erm...
Young Wouter with his adoptive family.
Black. Ooh.
March 21st is the international day against racism. The mass-wedding will be taking place next Wednesday. 3 couples times 100 have already registered. Expatica reports.
Young Wouter with his adoptive family.
Tuesday, February 6, 2007
B&W
There's a town in Flanders called Sint Niklaas. It seems like a nice enough place for kids to grow up and grown-ups to live and work. Interesting fact, though: 11 of the 39 seats of the city council are held by the far-right party, Vlaams Belang - some anti-immigration organization (and I would love to give you more details, except I don't speak Flemish and apparently, their stuff is exclusively targeted at Flemish-speaking Flemings, which in a country like Belgium, is, erm... quite eloquent). 11 out of 39, that's a tad more than 28 percent. Respectable score.
But, you know, to hell with contradictions. The mayor of this town is a Socialist, who was elected along with a list of deputies and other aides. Among whom a man called Wouter Van Bellingen. The guy grew up in the region, adopted, like his siblings, by a local family. Elected fair and square by the people of Sint Niklaas. So now he's an "Echevin", as they call them in the old schoolness that characterizes the Belgian version of French, a deputy-mayor.
Here, like in France, all couples have to stop by city hall to get married. And part of Mr. Van Bellingen's responsibilities is to perform weddings.
To the point. Three couples refused to have him as a registrar. Why, you ask? Simple. He's black. More precisely, he is the first black man elected in Flanders.
He's had to deal with quite a bit of shit in his life. He has colorful anecdotes, such as that time where he went after a lady who'd forgotten her purse in the train and she didn't know whether to tip him, and another man told her: "you're lucky, usually they go home with it." Or these people in the street who make monkey noises when they see him.
You'd think he'd let that bring him down. I know it would me. I'd get angry and throw a dozen tantrums (I would, I have, I swear, got witnesses). No. His response? Performing a mass-wedding ceremony on March 21st, the Day Against Racism. See how they like it.
I haven't seen much about that. Expatica, Le Monde, some TV station in New Zealand... Picked that up from AFP and Reuters. It depresses me.
But you see, it's snowing tonight. Big-ass flakes. My lovely neighbor Erick cooked a hot prawn curry and got me drunk on half a bottle of white Italian wine. And that, I like. So I'm going to bed. A wide, tired smile on my face.
With tree-hugging, hippy, Scandinavian love (and thanks to the sis):
But, you know, to hell with contradictions. The mayor of this town is a Socialist, who was elected along with a list of deputies and other aides. Among whom a man called Wouter Van Bellingen. The guy grew up in the region, adopted, like his siblings, by a local family. Elected fair and square by the people of Sint Niklaas. So now he's an "Echevin", as they call them in the old schoolness that characterizes the Belgian version of French, a deputy-mayor.
Here, like in France, all couples have to stop by city hall to get married. And part of Mr. Van Bellingen's responsibilities is to perform weddings.
To the point. Three couples refused to have him as a registrar. Why, you ask? Simple. He's black. More precisely, he is the first black man elected in Flanders.
He's had to deal with quite a bit of shit in his life. He has colorful anecdotes, such as that time where he went after a lady who'd forgotten her purse in the train and she didn't know whether to tip him, and another man told her: "you're lucky, usually they go home with it." Or these people in the street who make monkey noises when they see him.
You'd think he'd let that bring him down. I know it would me. I'd get angry and throw a dozen tantrums (I would, I have, I swear, got witnesses). No. His response? Performing a mass-wedding ceremony on March 21st, the Day Against Racism. See how they like it.
I haven't seen much about that. Expatica, Le Monde, some TV station in New Zealand... Picked that up from AFP and Reuters. It depresses me.
But you see, it's snowing tonight. Big-ass flakes. My lovely neighbor Erick cooked a hot prawn curry and got me drunk on half a bottle of white Italian wine. And that, I like. So I'm going to bed. A wide, tired smile on my face.
With tree-hugging, hippy, Scandinavian love (and thanks to the sis):
Sunday, January 21, 2007
A ray of sun
Following up on Mr. Cool's complaint, here's making up for the three days without an update. Two posts in only a couple of hours... Man, I hope you're happy.
Also, I want to point out that I am back in action. The PowerShot 400 is dead, long live the Ixus 60. Because the blog must go on and I can't do without my images.
As it appears, Le Pain Quotidien isn't the only (or the closest, or the best) breakfast place in my neighborhood. There's a little shop with foggy windows on Place Brugmann which deceptively calls itself "boulangerie." But step inside and you will see one huge wooden table surrounded by a bunch of smaller ones. You'll hear German, English, Spanish, Italian, as well as French (with both French and Belgian accents) and Flemish. All of this with the added value of it not being part of a chain - I am a bo-bo (remember those? The new dandies?), so shoot me.
It must've been around ten this morning when I stopped there. I only meant to get a bit of bread and I ended up sitting down for tea, orange juice and a pain au chocolat, while I read a book purchased earlier at Candide, the multilingual bookstore. It was lovely.
This English guy and I wanted to get the Sunday Times or the Observer or something ("Sil voo play, le Sunday Times?"), but the international newspapers distributors were on strike today (huh...?). So i spent a few minutes browsing through the Francophone books. Found this one, which poses an interesting question:
(Whatever happened to French writers?) Yeah, that I would LOVE to find out. Too self-absorbed, maybe? So desperate to write something new without renouncing the classic standards they become repetitive and boring? Who the hell knows. I refused to get all worked up on a sunny Sunday morning, so I placed it back on the shelf. I walked out with The Concubine's Monologue, a 21-page rant about love, lust, passion and unhappiness. Amusing, at best.
And this is all from me tonight. Happy week, people.
Also, I want to point out that I am back in action. The PowerShot 400 is dead, long live the Ixus 60. Because the blog must go on and I can't do without my images.
As it appears, Le Pain Quotidien isn't the only (or the closest, or the best) breakfast place in my neighborhood. There's a little shop with foggy windows on Place Brugmann which deceptively calls itself "boulangerie." But step inside and you will see one huge wooden table surrounded by a bunch of smaller ones. You'll hear German, English, Spanish, Italian, as well as French (with both French and Belgian accents) and Flemish. All of this with the added value of it not being part of a chain - I am a bo-bo (remember those? The new dandies?), so shoot me.
It must've been around ten this morning when I stopped there. I only meant to get a bit of bread and I ended up sitting down for tea, orange juice and a pain au chocolat, while I read a book purchased earlier at Candide, the multilingual bookstore. It was lovely.
This English guy and I wanted to get the Sunday Times or the Observer or something ("Sil voo play, le Sunday Times?"), but the international newspapers distributors were on strike today (huh...?). So i spent a few minutes browsing through the Francophone books. Found this one, which poses an interesting question:
(Whatever happened to French writers?) Yeah, that I would LOVE to find out. Too self-absorbed, maybe? So desperate to write something new without renouncing the classic standards they become repetitive and boring? Who the hell knows. I refused to get all worked up on a sunny Sunday morning, so I placed it back on the shelf. I walked out with The Concubine's Monologue, a 21-page rant about love, lust, passion and unhappiness. Amusing, at best.
And this is all from me tonight. Happy week, people.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Hopes up
Yesterday, as I was browsing through The Flyer, the Guardian's travel section newsletter, I found this thing that listed the top-10 European flea markets. Turns out three of them are in Belgium. Not that I'm particularly big on flea markets, but there's something reassuring about getting validation from a foreign newspaper. I can't say that I'm surprised: everywhere I look, it's decoration and antique shops. The Belgians like their interiors fancy.
More pragmatically, my living room is in dire need of tables... Coffee, dining, corner tables. I'm on a table frenzy. I want to put tables everywhere. Different styles, colors and sizes, wood, metal, mosaic. So I can cover them with cute things and throw my papers and handbags and scarves around, desperately look for my left shoe under every piece of really pretty furniture and be über late for work. Place du Jeu de Balle it is, then.
I gave The Bulletin another try. The "Web Guru" did well this week - did he hear my complaint? Made me discover this really cool - yet conceptual: practical people, start running - site that "scans through millions of pages (blogs) searching out keywords relating only to feelings." Kind of useless, but incredible: We Feel Fine. Good job, Guru.
Last but not least... I saw in the New York Times this review of a book written by Calvin Trillin, about his dead wife, Alice. I'd never heard of the man, but it intrigued me. So I found the complete story: "She was, as Roger Wilkins later wrote, so very pretty, but that wasn’t the first thing that struck me about her; it might have come as much as two or three seconds later. My first impression was that she looked more alive than anyone I’d ever seen." And this, my friends, is probably the most wonderful compliment a woman could ever hope to get.
Jovanotti, old(ish) but fun:
More pragmatically, my living room is in dire need of tables... Coffee, dining, corner tables. I'm on a table frenzy. I want to put tables everywhere. Different styles, colors and sizes, wood, metal, mosaic. So I can cover them with cute things and throw my papers and handbags and scarves around, desperately look for my left shoe under every piece of really pretty furniture and be über late for work. Place du Jeu de Balle it is, then.
I gave The Bulletin another try. The "Web Guru" did well this week - did he hear my complaint? Made me discover this really cool - yet conceptual: practical people, start running - site that "scans through millions of pages (blogs) searching out keywords relating only to feelings." Kind of useless, but incredible: We Feel Fine. Good job, Guru.
Last but not least... I saw in the New York Times this review of a book written by Calvin Trillin, about his dead wife, Alice. I'd never heard of the man, but it intrigued me. So I found the complete story: "She was, as Roger Wilkins later wrote, so very pretty, but that wasn’t the first thing that struck me about her; it might have come as much as two or three seconds later. My first impression was that she looked more alive than anyone I’d ever seen." And this, my friends, is probably the most wonderful compliment a woman could ever hope to get.
Jovanotti, old(ish) but fun:
Thursday, December 14, 2006
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
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
Friday, December 8, 2006
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