from belgium

La Grandmere de Lyon
by detweiler on August 19, 2005 09:41PM (CEST)
I had breakfast with the grandma this morning. And dinner was just the two of us again. I thought about going out with a bunch of other students, but as I am still pretty jetlagged, I stayed in. Grandma fed me a big plate of pasta. And she made me finish it. With just a few bites left, I was done. The portion was intimidating, but grandma's words were encouragement enough: "Vous ne le finissez pas?" She didn't have to say it, I could hear her thinking about starving children accross the globe. I cleaned my plate pronto. Unfortunately, she was not satisfied. There was bread and a very large piece of cheese to follow. (Did I mention that I had accidentally dumped about two fistsful of cheese into my pasta? Because I did, ever so gracefully of course.) But how could I refuse the french grandmother who was offereing me (more) cheese? I'd rather risk the effects of too much of a good thing than commit such a sin. At this point, I was determined to keep up with this little lady who had so far eaten the same amount I had, but apparently was not getting the satiated signal as strongly as I. Next, she offered dessert. Mercy me, I can't do it.... but what's this? Prunes? Hmm, not quite appetizing, but probably not a bad idea at this point... After the feast we sat down to watch the weather forecast followed by the news. Then I waddled out for a walk to explore the neighborhood and give my digestion a pep talk. When I got back, grandma was watching a documentary show about the ships that go between London and Denmark. Interesting. I sat down to join her for a bit, and soon headed off to bed. It was a quality grandma evening, even if she's not actually my grandma.


Words of a Host Mom
by detweiler on October 13, 2005 03:55PM (CEST)
“Unfortunately Belgium is going to lose because they play so beautifully against those other lousy players”

A rundown of my incredible weekend with Barbara:
by detweiler on October 23, 2005 12:56PM (CEST)

It all started Friday evening when Barbara and I met in Brussels, after missing each other at the train station and then exchanging several emails about what to do about finding each other... Five or so hours later than originally planned, I found her waiting on my doorstep in the rain. The rain and doorstep part were not in the plan, but I think it set the tone for a rather…flexible weekend.

Saturday we went on a quick field trip with my lit. class, ate some hot-off-the-iron amazingly delicious waffles, horded away some Belgian chocolate and beer, caught a glimpse of mannequin pis all dressed up and surrounded by a cultish group of men who were also strangely clad, drinking beer, and singing (at him?) while periodically raising their glasses, and then, still wondering at the spectacle, hurried off to catch the 2:40 train to Paris.

When we arrived we obviously wanted to find a place to sleep. I thought I had responsibly reserved a place at the “Young and Happy” hostel online, but when we arrived we were not expected. They only had one bed, so we went on down the street. The Comfort Inn looked possible, until we saw their price listing, turned around, and headed straight back to the hostel to beg for a chance to occupy their floor. Better yet, they gave us each a two euro discount for the luggage room suite. Sweet.

That taken care of, we headed to the André Citroën Parc to go for a 12 euro hot-air balloon ride… according to my friend’s guide book. We found the park, which was locked up and surrounded by a moat. As described, in the middle of the park was a big blue and yellow balloon which for all I know really does cost only 12 euro to go up in. Unfortunately we could not get close enough to it to confirm this. Instead we went up to Montmartre and visited Sacre Coeur (one of my all-time favorite places and best at night). It was grand… except for a very pesky Italian portrait artist. You’ll have to ask Barbara about that.

When we got back to the hostel around midnight it was a party. Well, being the Latin Quarter, the whole neighborhood was a party. Barbara and I ate crepes and then got comfortable in our “room” (after moving all the luggage to one corner). People came and went, but for the most part it felt pretty private. We were pretty excited about it really. It felt like more like a slumber party than anything, we stayed up and talked for hours. We even thought about playing truth or dare… Meanwhile out front the DJ was going crazy with the Madonna. We listened to her until about two am when he finally got Madonnaed-out and briefly switched to Mexican music before calling it a night.

So then we got some sleep, but not that much because it gets a little chilly without blankets and sheets and because they started up again with the Mexican music at about seven. We just started laughing, which if you think about it is quite a nice way to start off the day. Never before have I started a day laughing at it, I would recommend it sometime.

Well, it was Sunday, so we took a little stroll and attended mass at the neighborhood cathedral, Notre Dame. You may have heard of its flying buttresses. Sorry, I just wanted to say buttresses. Anyway, I would recommend that too. Well, we were on a roll and just couldn’t stop all the fun if we had wanted to. Lunch was ice cream so good we had to sit down and eat it in silence and a shared loaf of brioche (which probably deserve its own food group). We then meandered along the Seine, checking out old books and art prints, and made our way down to the Musée d’Orsay, which is an old train station. I had no idea… Well I’m an impressionist fan, so that was very enjoyable, also the most crowded museum I’ve ever been in.

Since museum-going is a very tiring business, we squeezed in some tea/cappuccino drinking and people watching on the Champs-Elysée before heading to dinner. Dinner was at Chez Papa where the salads are as good as they are big. Mmm, I will have to improvise a chez papa salad creation when I am doing my own cooking again.

Everything was going so well and we were in such good spirits that we underestimated the time it would take to swing by the hostel to get bags, where I could then bid Barbara farewell and dash off to the train station for the 7:55 back to Brussels. It could have also had something to do with the fact that we didn’t realize that this little sidetrack would involve three different metro lines, two separate tickets…and large crowds that make it like trying to skate through molasses. We realized that it would be tight when we left the restaurant, but no sweat…. Right?

Well once we figured out just how many transfers were involved, we realized that sprinting to the hostel to fetch stuff would be necessary. Since I was the one running late, we said our goodbyes at the metro and I was off…nothing like a little post-feast sprint to aid digestion…but wait, what’s this? Crap. I don’t usually come out on this side of the metro…where am I? where do I go? Ahhhh…

Fortunately there happened to be a knowledgeable-looking Asian man carrying a mattress walking by, so I asked him which way my street was. He pointed and I ran, through the Latin quarter I ran, dodging people, hair flying, generally looking like a crazy person… but then I got a little disoriented again, I was on the right street but not quite sure I was actually going the right direction. I stopped and asked a lady working a crepe stand if she knew which way the Young and Happy hostel was. Good, I was going the right way. Oh and there was Barbara, she’d caught up while I was getting more directions. We got to the hostel, I grabbed my bag, more frenzied goodbyes followed by more sprinting back to the metro.

I caught one straight off and made the appropriate changes. I’m sure I was an amusing or obnoxious sight during all of this, flushed and sweaty and giving frequent, compulsive glances at my watch and then at the map and back at my watch after every stop. The guy sitting across from me was certainly perplexed/annoyed/aloof. I doubt he would have accepted running late as a complete explanation for my behavior, but I had left the cool, calm, and collected traveler image behind long before his furtive glances started implying that I should cool it. What did I care if he thought I was nuts? So I kept obsessively checking my watch as if it would make me get there faster. It was going to be close, really close.

And it was. Once I reached the station I had no idea which platform I wanted. I played the flustered tourist card once again and asked a security guard…train, Brussels? Number 8, so I jumped on. But why was it empty? I jumped back off and ran over to another employee who was making fun of me for running as I approached him. Nothing like someone mocking you to inspire confidence that they will help. But to no avail, my train had just left. Sadness.

I went over to the desk and got my ticket changed for an hour later, no problem, no extra charge. Wow, I wish I would have known it was that easy a little earlier… But the metro drama was certainly a lively and memorable way to finish the weekend. So despite, or maybe really because of, all the madness, I had a very fine weekend with Barbara.

Fly on the Wall
by detweiler on September 14, 2005 05:43PM (CEST)
I had a strange experience yesterday. I was sitting, waiting for class to start when two of my professors ran into each other at the end of the hallway and started talking. About me. Ok, that’s awkward because obviously they don’t see that I’m right there (even though I am the only other person in this rather short hallway). It was one of those fly-on-the-wall moments that you imagine, but don’t think actually exist. I was there first, but I was eves dropping. What was I supposed to do, join in? “Oh yeah, Erin is a little strange, but once you get to know her, she’s really crazy…” Leave? Right, like I could do that discreetly. Or would pass up an opportunity like this. What are the chances of this happening, and me not being discovered? Because I wasn’t. It was like a scene from a movie. As one professor walked out she walked half backwards to keep talking, thus completely excluding me from her field of vision as she passed by. I sort of wonder if she caught on too late and played it off like she never saw me. I don’t know though, it was pretty slick. And the other prof only knows me by name, so that was smooth sailing. If you’re itching to know the content of their exchange, I’m sorry. I feel your pain, but I'm not actually going to tell you.


TGIStrike!
by detweiler on October 13, 2005 03:49PM (CEST)
A major Belgian trade union announced a strike for Friday, meaning …well no one was really sure what to expect. Some people said there would be no transportation, some said there would be a tram or a bus now and again. Maybe a few metros running… At any rate, bring a map is what my host family said. Confusing, yes, but at least they gave fair warning. If you can’t make it to work on time, or at all, no worries. That ‘s life in Belgium. So Friday morning I went down into the metro station to attempt the commute, expecting long delays or perhaps no transportation at all. What happened instead? I caught a train in short order, not even packed. Excellent. They can make their point without paralyzing the city.

Nope. Apparently that is the point. I found out the hard way that they get you to work on time and then leave you there to figure out an alternative way home. I guess that’s what happens when your are stupid enough to go to work on a strike day. And with no more trams, buses, or metros running, alternative means walking. Taxis? Please, taxis are for pansies. And I am not a pansy, so I set out on foot…an hour and twenty minutes later I had nothing to show for the winding, tangled kilometers I had traipsed except for the sweat that was, um, percolating through my clothing (hope that doesn’t ruin your next cup of coffee…). I was basically where I started. Definitely forgot my map at home, and obviously the angle-of-the-sun navigation technique was not working for me, not that I could actually see the sun… Damn those socialists. Go on strike if you going to do it, what is this half-striking crap? They were to blame for my course-plotting woes.

I was mad, but eventually I found and (this is key) successfully read a street-corner map. It was actually my third attempt at such a map, but this was the first one to work properly. I was oriented. I was actually homeward bound. Progress at last. And I was setting a furiously good pace. From downtown I cut through the modern EU sector and then on through a big park with a big triumphal arch. Triumph indeed, I was going to make it home before dark. Yeah! Take that, unionists. I was taking the metro, above ground. Walking, walking, walking…this went on for some time, hours, days, I don’t know, time became irrelevant. The scenery was certainly plentiful; it’s amazing how you miss in underground transit. Some of the nicest areas in fact.

I think the endorphins kicking in had something to do with this revelation. I wasn’t really upset, in fact I realized that I should be thanking the strikers for giving me a reason to get out and see …well the entirety of the Brussels. The smell of fall was in the air, the streets were lined with crispy-leafed trees. There were fountains and bicycles and cafes and people in the streets… By golly, Brussels was beautiful.

But alas this new and blissful euphoria was interrupted by the grumblings of my feet. When I looked at my watch at nearly seven the sun was already diminishing. My mental to-do list for the day was also quickly fading. Two goals remained: get home, solve hunger. To distract myself in the meantime, I started talking. …I wonder if I will ever really grasp degrees Celsius, that’s a nice house, I wonder if it’s art nouveau, hmm, must be ten in the morning at home and only their second week of school, I guess that means UCF is tonight, I wonder what kind of tree that is, maybe Lisa would know, she would stop and dissect its fruit, or she might saw off a branch and take it home, gosh, what would my host family say, good thing she’s coming when all the plants are dormant… Somewhere along the way I transitioned into French and slightly deeper reflections on the sens de la vie.

One French stream of consciousness and six theoretical metro stops later, eureka! I was home (just three stops shy of the end of the line). It was dusk and I hadn’t even gotten lost (unless you really want to count that first part…). Once through the door, I shed my shoes and tottered my way over to the kitchen where my host mom had left dinner waiting… Food. It was probably the best meal she’s ever made. It was a full, though not entirely productive day. It was memorable though and perhaps a little character building.