Saving daylight

We might not have even noticed that yesterday had an extra hour of light, if Brussels hadn't smiled and let the sun shine. We spent all afternoon at the park, strolling around in the fields and the woods, and enjoying that grassy, earthy smell of spring. In the open areas, we had to dodge about fifty games of soccer and their impromptu goal posts made out of sticks, or discarded coats, and hats. That's the thing about Brussels sun: when it comes, you can't ignore its call.

We went to the evening service at church, and for the first time, I saw the stained glass windows the way they are meant to be, every patch of glass a live coal of light.

Probably the best meal in the world

My disappearance over the last week is best explained by the fact that we had visitors, and while they where here I got to be a bona fide tourist. But to be honest, our tacit definition of "tourism" in Belgium was: waffles, beer, fries, chocolate, and other culinary delights. Granted, we had those things in various picturesque locations, including at the canal in Gent, or in a wood-paneled bar in Bruges, so we saw our share of sights, as proper tourists should.

Three meals in particular stand out:

Lunch in Gent actually caused us to miss out on the museums, so focused were we on finding the right food. (In our defense, the museums all closed ridiculously early, earlier than stated by the guidebook.) But it wasn't too great of a sacrifice, because in one little plaza we found all of the makings of a sunny outdoor lunch: in the cheese shop, we ordered substantial slices of extra-special Belgian cheese; in the bread shop, a spectacularly crusty baguette; and in the waffle shop, well, waffles. The sign proclaimed that they were "Probably the best in the world." Bravo for Belgian modesty; the slogan avoids false advertising (who has tried every waffle in the world?), and still lets you know that you're in for a good waffle.

Dinner in Bruges was a spectacular failure. I only mention it because it seems to be an inevitable experience, sooner or later, when traveling. You are hungry and in a touristy town. You don't want to spend loads of money. You ask a local, and the place he suggests is, upon finding the place and an inspection of the menu, too expensive. You wander around some more, and read menu after menu, of which the good ones all seem expensive. You finally find a place that perhaps might work, and tired of wandering around and making decisions, enter. The menu you receive after being seated doesn't have as many options as you remember seeing posted outside, and you order a pasta dish of some sort. The pasta takes nearly an hour to arrive. How difficult can pasta be? You convince yourself it will be worth the wait. When, at long last, the dishes arrive, it takes only one bite to realize that: 1. the vegetarian pasta you have ordered is made with a can of diced tomatoes and a barely discernible melange of sauteed veggies, 2. it is tasteless, and 3. you personally could have made something twice as good in half the time. You devour it anyway because you are starving after walking around all day. I don't mind publicizing the name of the place in case another traveler, unlike us, checks online for restaurant reviews. DON'T go to Simon Stevin/Poules Moules (the restaurant has two facades and two names but one interior; we should have realized that was a bad sign).

To banish bad memories, we had many other fantastic meals, including a couple that we made ourselves. But the showstopper was a farewell dinner on their last night here, all-you-can-eat tapas at Leonor.

I have been to Leonor some three or four times now, so I feel justified in making claims about their incredible food. Doesn't any proper restaurant critic visit several times and sample lots of the offerings? The tapas menu has been varied all of the times I've been there, but every time, EVERY dish is exquisite. Which is why we didn't tell them to stop bringing food until long after we were already stuffed and nearly unable to eat another bite. Each dish made us want to soldier on.

These tapas are not just dainty little finger foods or even small bite-sized portions; many of them could stand on their own and still be worth the 22 euros the whole thing costs. This is what we ate:

Manchego cheese and Spanish ham (the latter was up to M., since the rest of us are non-meat eaters)
Galician octopus and potato (deliciously doused in oil, sea salt and paprika)
Gambas in their shell
Clams in parsley butter sauce
Battered squid rings (chocos) (perfectly cooked; so often these are chewy and bland)
Calamari in a rich, dark sauce
Bacalao (cod) with squid ink and pesto (all the fish came in dinner-sized portions and was amazingly tender)
An egg, shrimp, mushroom and pepper scramble
Piquillo peppers (stuffed with cod) (one of my favorites)
Boquerones (a kind of anchovy)
A salad of baby greens with tuna empanaditas (filled with a tender, peppery sauce)
Spanish tortilla (potato and egg)
Lubina (sea bass) with apples and manzanilla sherry
Spicy potatoes in a chunky tomato sauce
Tuna steaks with tomato, rosemary, and passion fruit

Every time a new dish comes out, it seems unbelievable that it will be as good or better than the last, but it is. And notice how they hadn't even arrived at the meat courses yet? We did ask them to hold off on the meat as long as possible, since only one of us eats it, and there was more than enough to feed us abundantly.

So, if you are ever in Brussels, go to Leonor (at Porte de Halle). It doesn't look like much from outside, but I promise that you will eat well.

A happy Sunday, and haggling

The first best thing about yesterday was that it was actually sunny. As in warm sun and blue sky that lasts for more than five seconds. In fact, it lasted all day, and today promises to be more of the same. At last!

At church, the minister who gave the sermon had a very interesting accent, a quirky combination of French (with all the acCENTS on the wrong sylLAbles) and British. The thing that got me giggling was that every time he wanted to say the word "sinfulness," he tried to say what I think was "sinnerness," but it came out "silliness." So quite accidentally, the sermon's emphasis was on how we humans are just a big bunch of silly goofs, which is probably not far from the truth, come to think of it.

After church, we hit the Sunday markets at Jeu de Balle and Midi. The first is one big flea market, where you can find everything under the sun, from broken toys and random electronics components to antique furniture, vintage clothing and jewelry, ugly landscape paintings, old dishware, and all sorts of collectables. Everything is spread out on the cobblestones on top of blankets or furniture, and it is perfectly acceptable to haggle over prices. (What a great word, eh? Haggle!)

We saw some neat items that we were tempted to buy, such as a woodblock-engraved copy of Machiavelli's The Prince, a pile of opera scores, a package of matches from the 1930s, tiny colored cordial glasses, a collection of beautiful keys, and piles of old telegrams in Flemish with illustrated borders.

What we did buy: two earthenware pitchers in the Belgian style (blue swirls on a gray, glazed background), an antique glass cocktail shaker that I'll use to store cotton balls in the bathroom, and an adorable little brass bird. I'm most happy about the bird, because although it was an impulsive buy, it's already looking chirpy and making me happy.

After that, we headed over to the Midi market, where fruit and vegetables are sold at incredible prices if you get there as the market is closing. I got a big bag of clementines for a euro; half an hour later we passed the same stall and the guy was selling them for two bags a euro. The sellers stand up on top of the tables and hawk whole crates of vegetables for ridiculous prices. If we thought we could have used them before they go bad (and they usually are somewhat on the verge of spoiling), we could have gotten a crate of swiss chard or a crate of tomatoes for a euro. Everybody is offering pieces of their fruit for passers-by to try, and trying to get your attention in Arabic, French, Flemish, English, Spanish, Portuguese...

We went home and made a huge lunch with some of our purchases, and then spent the rest of the afternoon quiety reading. I got enthralled all over again about the idea of Dark Matter and Dark Energy (there was an article in the Sunday Times), and we listened to public radio as the late evening light streamed in through the bay windows.

It was a great start to the week, which promises to get even better. Although M. is in Strasbourg, two good friends are coming from Indiana and we'll be seeing the sights and cooking a lot. Saturday, we are having a housewarming party. Both of these things are putting me into a little bit of a tizzy, though, seeing as actual GUESTS are coming over! I had better tidy up.

Arms or legs?

Are octopus appendages more often called arms or legs?

In researching this question online, I found out that octopi have brains in their arms. They have a central brain system, but also mini brains in each arm that govern the action of that arm. The central brain sends a message, and then the little brain takes over to grab or feed or whatever. Cool, huh?

And, why, you might ask, am I researching octopus anatomy? Well, I am translating a medieval recipe for stuffed octopus, and the instructions include cutting off the "legs," chopping them up with herbs, spices and raisins, and stuffing them back into the cavity of the octopus body. Sounds delicious, right?

If you're in New York

Today's New York Times has an article about an exhibition at the Met of Catalan art from about 1888 to 1939, called "Barcelona and Modernity." I wish I could see the exhibition, but the article by itself is enjoyable and has a slideshow of some of the artworks on display.

In the article, Michael Kimmelman makes several nice points about Catalans and Barcelona: one is that there are many great Catalan artists that no one has ever heard of outside of Catalonia, and they deserve to be heard of. It reminds me of a talk here in Brussels that we heard a couple of summers ago, on the topic of international Catalan superstars like Gaudí, Picasso, and Carreras. Do they make people more aware of who Catalans are, or not? Does it promote Catalan culture if no one is even aware that they are Catalans?

I also enjoyed the description of Barcelona as a city where the great modernist trends were refracted and made into something unique. The sense of turmoil, both in the positive sense of artistic innovation, and in the negative sense of political unrest, is forefronted by Kimmelman. He opens with this quote, from the mayor of Barcelona in 1909:

“In Barcelona there is no need to prepare the revolution, simply because it is always ready. It leans out of the window on the street every day.”

One detail that I would like to adjust is about the famous café, Els Quatre Gats. Kimmelman says that "the 'four cats' in Catalan slang meant 'just a few guys.'" I object to the past tense there, because this is definitely still in use, as in: Was anyone at the show? Quatre gats--barely anyone.

Exegesis in blue and green

Do you ever find yourself wishing you were an artist? And by artist, I mean visual artist. I often wish I could pick up a pen, or a paintbrush, or a printer's block, and create beautiful, colorful images. I am so inspired by the webpage Etsy, which is an incredible marketplace for people to sell unique, handmade goods and artworks. I especially love some of the rustic woodblock prints and collages that I see there. I know I could just dive in and start making art, but I need to accumulate supplies, and besides, most of the time words suffice as my paintbrush. At least, they are more portable.

This also makes me think about the interaction of the visual arts and poetry. Last year, I taught a community center class on Poetry and Music, which was really fruitful for all of us, and personally productive. I found such a wealth of poetry on the subject of music, not to mention poetry that is itself inherently musical or written in musical forms (this last idea, in particular, is something I would like to pursue in my poems).

Poetry and the visual arts also has a long tradition. The technical term for a written description of a visual image is ekphrasis, from the Greek, meaning "speaking out" (ek=out, phrasis=speak); it's as if by re-drawing the image in words you are sending forth its inner essence. Or perhaps the other way around. In the best poetic examples of ekphrasis, I think, the poem is not a mere "description" of the poem, but considers it, reworks it, adds to it, is inspired by it.**

An example of ekphrasis that I love is Auden's poem on Breughel's painting of Icarus falling from the sky, called "Musée des Beaux Arts." The title alone makes it about more than just the one painting; and indeed, Auden begins with an invocation of all the "Old Masters" and their view of suffering as a small corner of life's dailiness. He only turns toward the Breughel painting at the end:

About suffering they were never wrong,
The Old Masters; how well, they understood
Its human position; how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.

In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

I'm undecided as to whether it is important to include the painting alongside the poem. Shouldn't the poem do the work of invoking the image? But at the same time, they interact in a nice counterpoint. I remember so clearly where I encountered them first, in a lovely poetry textbook called Western Wind. Would my view of the poem be different if I had never seen the painting? The original is, by the way, here in Brussels! The Beaux-Arts museum referred to in the title is right around the corner. I will have to go see it.

By the way, there is a William Carlos Williams poem on the same painting, and although in tone and form it is quite different from the Auden, the point is much the same. It would make a nice classroom exercise to consider the two poems together and identify what makes them different, naming the techniques.

Someday, I would love to write a book of poems and include my own artwork, or someone else's, and see how the visual and the verbal interact. This is, of course, not a new idea, but one I would like to try for myself. I would like to see that interaction go beyond "mere" description, into the non-representative territory—a territory already inhabited by music.

**Note to students googling the web for some paper ideas—or worse, some quotes to copy and paste and then pass off as your own—regarding the Auden poem or ekphrasis in general: forget about it. Your teacher will be able to tell that this was written by someone who is Not You, I promise. If you must copy and paste, do so honestly, and quote me following correct MLA style. Here, I’ll even give you an example. It's a little tricky since I never publish my last name on the site; normally, you would include the author's lastname/firstname, as the generic formula below indicates. Also, normally the URL would be between angle brackets, but it disappears if I do that...:

"Exegesis in blue and green." [Weblog entry.] Cant d'Ocell. 9 March 2007. (http://cantdocell.blogspot.com/2007/03/exegesis-in-blue-and-green.html). 1 January 2009.

Lastname, Firstname. "Title of individual blog entry." [Weblog entry.] Name of Weblog. Sponsoring organization (if any; such as a university, a publication, or a company). Date posted. (URL to permalink). Date accessed.

Public transportation planners, pay attention

Here are my gripes about the public transport system in Brussels. Apologies in advance for complaining.

•The city is humongous, but there are only two metro lines. For the center. One of them is a circle and one splits into A and B, just to make things more confusing. The bus lines often do not go where you need to go. (Barcelona: anywhere you need to go, the metro goes. There are seven or eight lines, plus three or four new tram lines. We never have to take the bus.)

•These metro lines are decorated in hideous seventies colors, the lines are marked in oranges and reds that are hard to tell apart, and all the trains are dirty. (Barcelona: trains are clean and often new, with bright rainbow colors designating each line so you are never in doubt which line you are on.)

•Metro, bus, and tram drivers seem trained to barrel as fast as they can and then brake like demons every five seconds so that their passengers get sloshed around and break a few bones. (Barcelona: trains and trams come gently to a stop and even elderly people can safely ride.)

•It's expensive. The ten-trip cards are only available at metro stations (which, as I've said, are only in the center), and if you run out and have to buy a ticket on the bus, it's two euros. (Barcelona: only 69 cents, and tickets available throughout the city.)

•All the lines close at midnight on weekends (even earlier on weekdays), and from 9 to 12 only a few busses/trams come by, so you have to wait up to thirty minutes in the cold and probably the rain since it's usually raining. (Barcelona: on weekends, open until 2 am, midnight on weekdays. The longest wait is 5 or 7 minutes.)

•The entrances and exits in every metro station are much more confusing than necessary, and signage is lacking in key points. (Barcelona: everything is clearly marked, with usually just two or three directions to choose from once you step off the train, and clear maps of the whole system and of the immediate area right in front of you.)

Thank you. In lieu of any real public transportation planner-type person who would pay attention, you, reader of this blog, have helped me let it all out.

I have a new name and it is bibi

Barcelona two weekends in a row is about as much as my travel-weary knees can take (my kneecaps fear and loathe the airplane seat crunch). Especially until our apartment there is renovated, because until then it means staying with the in-laws or the grandmother, and while I love them very much and am so grateful that they put us up and we enjoy our time with them, it means living out of our suitcases, and a certain lack of privacy. And being fed overmuch.

That said, the weather in Barcelona was absolutely gloooorious both weekends. Perfection, even. Neither hot nor cold. We got a little sunburned. As I write, it is pouring here in Brussels and has been raining on and off for the past two days. Ah, how the memory of Barcelona sustains me.

As usual, our time there was brimful with activities, because we're always trying to squeeze in visits with friends and time with our nieces, often scheduling lunch in one place then coffee in another then dinner in another. We got to eat tapas with my brother's great girlfriend, who is studying in Barcelona for a semester. We gathered a group of alumni from M's year in Bologne, and caught up on everyone's jobs in politics. We watched the Barça-Seville game with friends and their babies, and went to a fantastic concert by tenor Jaume Aragall with M's grandmother at the incredible modernist Palau de la Musica (Josep Carreras was in the audience; in Catalonia, Aragall is as important as Carreras, but is a lot more shy). We saw The Lives of Others (go see it! it's great!).

Our nieces dressed up in their cute ladybug carnival costumes, although the four-year-old insisted on being "Princesa Marieta, Reina del Bosc" (Princess Ladybug, Queen of the Forest), because all of her friends were dressed up as princesses this year. The costume was a conglomeration of ladybug wings, tulle skirt, antennae and crown, and heaven forbid if we messed up the name and called her "Marieta Princesa" or something. Also, the little one started saying my name, although it came out "Bibi," which is also what she calls her grandpa (from "avi"). As in, "Bibi, vina!" holding my hand and tugging me towards what she wants. Robin, come!

But besides all the "fun" stuff, two weekends ago, I also had the chance to attend a conference on translation that was held by the Institut d'Estudis Catalans, which was thought-provoking in regards to my own translations from Catalan. I heard about the first translations of Catalan to Hindi, and about the challenges of Hungarian, German, Slovenian, and Chinese translations. I talked to the woman who does the Slovenian translations, and am hoping that I'll be able to do some work for the website of the Catalan PEN club.

And then, that Saturday, we went to Sitges for a presentation by Paul Preston on international journalists and the Spanish Civil War. Several things you should understand: Sitges is a beeee-autiful seaside town about an hour from Barcelona, so it was a treat just to go there. Also, Paul Preston is one of the Top Dog Historians when it comes to the Spanish Civil War (he is British, from the London School of Economics, and he even gave the talk in Catalan!). Also, my thesis involves both literature and its interaction with journalism in various forms. So, all told, this was nerdily exciting for me. And, encouraged by my husband and father-in-law, I worked up the nerves to introduce myself afterwards during the champagne/mingling and asked a technical question about a somewhat obscure thirties writer he had referenced. This produced the desired effect, i.e., him taking an actual interest in my work instead of polite nodding, and we had a nice conversation in which he gave me some tips on archives to look into, asserted that most of the literary criticism on the topic is crap because it doesn't take the history into account, and that there is a lot of material out there to work with (I happen to agree on both accounts), and thus encouraged me to rigorously read the history. And he said I could e-mail him!

Actually, we were near to Sitges, in a town called Villafranca, because a close friend of M's parents had died, and we went to the viewing at the funeral home. The following (this past) weekend, we went to an informal ceremony for the scattering of his ashes at the top of the national park/mountain, Montseny. Both were sad, and moving, as funerals are. But because I had never met this man, in an odd way it was an experience of abstract emotions about loss and death, and was able to experience the moment more fully instead of being sideswiped by pain. Isn't that strange? It was the first time I had ever attended anything like it, in an outdoor setting, and it truly was beautiful. Sunshine, and long views of the Catalan landscape, and music: they played "Red River Valley" and "Gracias a la vida." I hesitate to write more, simply because he was a stranger to me, but in an odd way, hearing his friends and family speak of him made him known, a friend.

A girl, a boy, a castle: part II

I left the story at the moment where I had decided to fly to Barcelona to meet my now-husband.

Once the tickets were purchased I got increasingly nervous. My instinct was to trust him, but nagging doubts persisted. What if this guy turned out to be wacko? What if I was getting myself into a sticky situation? I brought along contact information of another woman who lived in Barcelona, who I had also met at the seminar. And I also told myself that if things went really wrong, I could always check into a hotel or hostel.

The day of departure finally arrived. During the flight into Barcelona, I could barely sit still and was so nervous I was shaking. I was starting to think that all of this had been a very, very bad idea. I was not the kind of girl to just rush off and recklessly fly to another country to meet a guy. I was the kind of girl who was supposed to have met a boy at church, or to have fallen in love with a school friend. My mental love life scenarios for the future had always involved an all-American boy who was, I don't know, maybe a musician or poet, most likely an English major. And here I was flying to meet an older Spanish boy (at the time, I didn't really know what Catalan meant) who was, of all things, in political science!

At the baggage claim, I gathered my things, then headed for the bathroom to brush my teeth and make sure I looked OK. I decided I looked scared, but there was nothing to do but to walk through the arrivals portal. And there he was, right ahead of me. He looked different than I remembered him, but nothing I could pinpoint. We gave each other a nervous peck on the cheek, and I was relieved that he started out by telling me that he had run into some friends at the airport, friends from his year in Bologne at the Johns Hopkins SAIS program.

Great! Neutral territory. Let's go meet the friends.

Then the most extraordinary thing happened. I was introduced to the friends, an Italian guy who had just flown in for a visit, and another guy from Barcelona, and as I was giving the Barcelona guy the standard two-cheek kiss, I exclaimed in surprise, "I know you!!"

It turns out, two summers prior, I had been at Taizé (a monastary that welcomes thousands of interfaith young people to participate in their life of prayer every summer) at the same time as this guy, and we had spoken to each other on several occasions, mostly because I had wanted to practice my Spanish, and also because he had been interested in a Polish girl who was in my group. He had been a long-term resident, even considering priesthood, while I had just been there for a week.

What an amazing moment, and for me a clear confirmation that all was going to be well. Unbeknownst to us, M and I had a friend in common, and THAT VERY friend was at the airport at the VERY moment that I was arriving for the first time to Barcelona. Unbelievable.

He gave us a ride back to the city in his little car, and what I remember about that ride was the large dog that was our friend's family's pet: we were sitting in the back seat, and the friendly, hairy sheepdog, although sitting in the rear of the hatchback, draped his head between us and from time to time gave us a happy lick. I felt so reassured, and comfortable with M, and when he held my hand for the entire ride, I knew that everything was going to be OK.

Sure enough, the week was magical. M treated me like a princess, considerate in every way, and we got to know each other much better. He introduced me to Barcelona, and I fell in love with the city even as I was falling in love with him. His historian's eye showed me corners of the city in creative ways, and we strolled the streets and the beaches, ate tapas, and hung out with friends. I even met some of his family, but in a nicely low-key way, when we went to his parent's house just outside of the city. He had to work, so he would leave me with a metro card and the keys to his place, and I walked around Barcelona by myself, feeling immensely happy and wishing the week would never end.

It did, of course, but over the course of the following summer we were able to see each other quite a few more times; my brother and I stopped in Barcelona during our month-long backpacking trip in Europe, and M joined us in Berlin. And eventually, in September of that year, M flew to the US for the first time. Flew into New York, on September 10, 2001, to be exact. But that's another story...

[to be continued]

Karneval

I apologize for being so very behind on blogging...I left a "to be continued" thing on a previous post that I really should continue. And we've been in two whole different countries since then, and I want to tell you about it. And it is about to be March. I don't know if that is apropos, but it just seems indicative of how FAST everything is moving. I've been married for EIGHT months! I've been living in Belgium for SIX months! And it all still feels so new.

OK, first things first. Two weekends ago, the Sunday and Monday before Fat Tuesday and Ash Wednesday, we took a two-day trip with a couple of friends to Cologne, Germany, to whoop it up at Karneval! I had never been to any carnival celebration before, mostly because in the US it doesn't really exist unless you go to New Orleans. And my preconceived notions about carnival mostly came from pictures, involving the beads of New Orleans, the sparkly masks of Venice, and the feathers and skin in Rio.

Needless to say, Carnival in a cold country is bound to be a different animal. Also, I had imagined that there would be clearly defined boundaries between the participants in costume (the paraders and some locals) and the spectators not in costume (tourists and some locals). Boy, was I wrong. On Rose Monday, as it is called in Köln, I could probably have counted on one hand the number of people who weren't in costume. Including the four of us. M and our friend got scolded by a complete stranger for not wearing one.

And the costumes were incredibly charming and creative, often homemade, often groups of friends or family wearing the same costumes or variation on a theme. Like Halloween, but even better. Here's a group of people watching the parade, at a quiet moment:

Usually, everybody is screaming "karmelle!!!" and waving their hands in the air for the people on the floats to throw them candy or flowers. And they throw good candy! The take is almost as good as Halloween, especially if you work hard at it, lunging for flying sweets, and attracting the attention of the candy-throwers. They like to aim for someone so if you catch their eye... Our group carried an inverted umbrella for part of it, and got three big boxes of truffles! As in WHOLE boxes! As you can imagine, if you're not vigilant, this can be dangerous. M got pegged in the lip by a large chocolate bar, and it left a mark! Here's a picture of the candy-throwers:

The parades were very kid-friendly, and everyone was very friendly in general. Standing in the cold for hours (the parades go on and on) means you should be prepared, and people packed wagons full of food (and, of course, beer; these are Germans we're talking about). The man next to us offered us the cheese snacks they had brought, and despite our obvious touristy-ness (loud and clear, judging by our lack of costume), everybody was eager to tell us how great Karneval was, and thrilled that we were there. There is a huge amount of city pride, as a song and slogan attests, in the local dialect: "Mir all sind Kölle" (We are all Cologners).

The level of insider-ness and tradition, however, was clear. EVERYBODY knew the words to ALL of the songs that were ubiquitous in bars and in the parades. These are soupy, syrupy, oompah-oompah songs that are called "heart music," and as far as we could tell even the young people were cheerfully into them, singing along heartily. There are formulaic introductions to parades and when certain things are said, everybody yells "Alaaf!!!" I'm not sure what it means.


The parades were a wonderful mix of traditional costumes and horseback brigades, marchers in costume, cheerleaders, marching bands, kids and adults, and not overly elaborate floats, including one of Angela Merkel.

We stayed for two days and a night, and that was plenty. We didn't even drink that much compared to the locals, who apparently have unlimited tolerance for loud parades and lots of beer. You see the real diehards carrying beer glass holsters around their necks; all day long and all night long the party continues, for DAYS ON END! I don't know how they do it. I was ready to leave after two days. In those two days, our diet consisted largely of beer, candy, and street food; I don't think I ate anything remotely resembling a vegetable the whole time, unless you count fried potato pancakes with applesauce. This guy, pictured with our friend holding potato pancakes, apparently had an intravenous drip of beer:

We did manage to visit a couple of the classic pubs, where we got into the spirit of things, pounding on tables to the oompah music, and singing along when we could to the spontaneous eruption of patriotic songs. Our favorites were "Viva Colonia," because it was partially in Spanish, maybe, and "yadih yadih yadih yoh, yadih yoh, yadih yoh," because as you can tell, the words were a snap.

So, that was our trip to Cologne. Next time, I just need to remember to bring a costume.

As a parting shot, a group of bunny tough guys hanging out at a pub:

Roses, daisies, tulips, snapdragons

Normally I wouldn't post about the sappy details regarding the flowers my husband sent to me this morning, but this has more to do with our neighbor and my bumbling French than the flowers themselves.

While I was drinking my coffee this morning, I heard the cell phone buzz. A message! Just the phone company telling me our calling minutes were dwindling. But I also noticed that there was a missed call from an unfamiliar number, at 8:15 in the morning. I must have missed it while I was still sleeping. I called it.

"Bonjour something something something..."

"Bonjour. Vous m'avez téléphoné?" I give my name.

"Oui, something something fleurs something. Quelle est votre addresse?"

OH! It's a flower delivery guy! He's here to deliver flowers! I'm looking out the window, but see no floristy vans or cars.

I tell him our address, and understand that he tried to deliver the flowers at 8:15 in the MORNING. Who delivers flowers that early? Anyway, I explain that I'm here, and he can bring them now or anytime. I think I hear him say that he'll stop by this morning.

But wait: he's trying to tell me something, in slow patient French to this lady who understands less than his five-year-old daughter. He already delivered the flowers this morning!! But to whom?

"Un homme a la troisieme etage." A man on the third floor.

"Mai, ne c'est pas que les fleurs sont pour moi? Je n'ai pas les fleurs." But are the flowers for me? I don't have the flowers.

Yes, yes. I gave them to this man. [Has me repeat my name and address. Confirms that I am the rightful owner of the missing bouquet.]

"Bon, je parle avec mon voisin." OK, I'll talk to my neighbor.

Or SOMEthing like that, because I was starting to get nervous and I don't really remember what I said except for the "voisin" part. My neighbor has my flowers!

So I go knock on his door. There is radio music BLASTing from inside. I knock louder. I continue to knock. I hear him cough. I knock again. No answer.

Unsure what to do, I go down to the street and ring his bell. (Which--this is ALL MY FAULT--has our name on it. I had mixed up the bells when I put the label with our name on it. I switch the names.) No answer.

I come back up and knock again. Still no answer, but a few more coughs. Is he sick? Can't hear me?

I'm starting to get teary. What if our neighbor has stolen the beautiful flowers my dear husband has sent to me and is deliberately not answering the door so that he can hoard them for himself?

I go back to our apartment, and write a note that looks something like this, in bad, rushed French:

"Bonjour monsieur,
C'est possible que vous avez des fleurs qui sont pour moi? Je suis la voisine à la côté, et j'ai téléphoné le floriste, qui m'a dit que il a donné les fleurs à quelqu'un à la troisieme etage. Si c'est vous, vous me pouvez donner les fleurs? Merci beaucoup."

I knock again (no answer), try to stick the note under his door, which doesn't work, and then leave it on the door handle.

Some ten minutes later, I hear his door creak open. He IS there. Another minute, and there is a soft knock on our door. I run to the door and open it, to a huge bouquet lying on the ground, his door swiftly closing, and an overpowering whiff of cigarette smoke (that explains the coughing).

I shout "MERCI!" to his door, and gratefully collect my flowers.

I have a sweet husband. We have an odd neighbor.

A boy, a girl, a castle

Disclaimer: it's Valentine's Day today, so I'm allowed to be mushy.

Ironically, although this might have been the first year of our nearly six-year relationship that we would have been together on the holiday, the Mr. is in Strasbourg this week and won't be here until Thursday. Not that it's so terribly important, because I'm as fed up as anyone with the whole overabundance of red and hearts (although Brussels is nicely low-key on the subject). But it's still nice to have a day for recognizing the importance of love (and loved ones) in our lives, and a day that prompts us to tell each other just that. And to eat chocolate.

So I thought it would be a good time to get down on paper (as it were) the story of how I met the Mister. This story is what some of my friends at the time called "a real life fairy tale." You know, in the end it's just a boy and a girl who love each other (eew, am I quoting a Julia Roberts movie?), but some of the elements--a castle, the Mediterranean, midnight by the lake, lost and found letters, even 9/11--have a fairy tale flavor.

It was March of 2001, and I was working in Salzburg as an intern at a place that puts on week-long seminars for participants from around the world on a variety of topics (arts, sciences, education, politics...). It's unlike any other seminar-type place, though, because everyone stays on site at a luxurious Austrian castle overlooking a lake with a view of the Monchsberg. There's a pub in the basement where the real bonding happens, a gilded dining hall, and every participant ("fellow") and lecturer ("faculty") comes away with a list of forty new best friends.

I suppose you can see where this is going. I was an intern, and I remember putting together the "welcome" bulletin board for that week's European Democracy session with everybody's photos and, as I usually did, noting who were the Spaniards (so I could practice my Spanish). This curly-haired guy, however, caught my attention from the first. Although he remembers that I passed out the programs at the very first lecture and that he said hello in German (thinking I was Austrian), I don't remember that moment.

Instead, I remember hanging out in the Bierstube (and pouring beers, as was also sort of part of our job description as interns) one evening during the week, and talking to some Russian dude. But out of the corner of my eye I saw the curly-haired Spanish guy and saw him approach. I don't remember what we said at the first, but I do remember that was when he found out I spoke Spanish, and that the Russian dude was forced to drift away in the face of our jabbering away (and blatant ignoring of him). That night, we stayed in the Bierstube talking until the wee hours of the morning. About what, I only remember vaguely: archeology (he had studied and worked as an archeologist), Spanish vocabulary, and opera (his favorite was Lucia di Lammermoor).

The following nights, more of the same. The night before the last day of the session, I attended a lecture and lingered afterwards, deliberately started a conversation with one of the other Spanish fellows in hopes that my curly-haired fellow would come find us. And find us he did. We spent another night not wanting to leave each other's side. I remember I tripped back to my room and could barely fall asleep.

It was the night of the farewell banquet, where everyone gets dolled up, and I was wearing my best velvet dress. As I walked towards the sweeping staircase between the cocktail reception and the dining hall, there he was, coming in the opposite direction. He said "Qué tal?" and I didn't know what to say, because of regular shyness compounded by language. "Bien?" he said, and I nodded. I found out later he had deliberately turned around and walked towards me in hopes of sitting at the same table. As an employee, however, I held back with the others until all the participants had been seated, and only then joined a table. The table I joined? Was his, of course, but with a cushion of some other people between us.

After the banquet, there was a dance, and when he finally found me sitting in a corner, we got up to go downstairs to the Bierstube, which we thought would be quiet while everyone was dancing upstairs. But someone else had had the same idea: a cadre of Russian fellows had brought their personal supply of vodka down to the Bierstube, and a large woman with smeary lipstick and a strange knit checkerboard skirt suit was drunkenly warbling Russian at the top of her lungs. We sat there and watched this bizarre scene, aware that in a few short hours, his early-morning flight would depart. I think we even played ping pong, not knowing what else to do.

Eventually, everybody else came down to the Bierstube to continue the party, and we danced. We danced like we had never danced before, and never since. It was kind of Spanishy music, and it was the sort of thing where everybody else stopped dancing and watched us: he took my hands, and told me just to look at him, and the music took hold and I followed his lead. Normally, I would have been dying of embarrasment to dance in front of others, but in that moment, the others hardly existed. Later, someone (a co-worker, I think) told me that he had never seen anything like it.

The night went on, others continued dancing, and we went outside, where the weather was frosty, and sat on a bench overlooking the lake. The lake was ringed with lights, sending a magical glow towards us, with mist coming off the warmer water in the cold air. We kissed and were quiet, at a loss for words. Then, without warning, I got up and ran away. Yes, RAN, as in full speed towards the buildings and my room. I didn't even know why. I didn't say good night, I just ran. Before he knew what I was doing, I was gone.

In retrospect, I think it was a combination of things. I didn't want to say goodbye. I thought that the most likely scenario was that I was falling for a typical Latin lothario, a guy to whom I was just a little fling. For me, all of this was a Very Big Deal, really the first time I had ever experienced something like it. And it was just this inexperience that made my right brain tell my left brain that this instinctive trust was risky. I was sure that he would depart for Barcelona and that would be the end of that. So in order to not have to say farewell, in order to avoid facing any false hopes, I ran.

And sure enough, I didn't hear from him after he left early the next morning. I consoled myself, thinking he didn't have my contact information. Maybe my logical brain was right and he had already forgotten about me. But two days later I discovered, nearly simultaneously, that he had written profusely to my unchecked non-work e-mail account (an address had been published, unremembered by me, in the session facebook), AND that he had left a handwritten letter the very morning he had departed. It had been in my mailbox the whole time, hidden under a pile of work mail. Enclosed in the letter was a calling card. He wanted me to call. He wanted me to come to Barcelona.

Overwhelmed, I didn't respond right away. I remember agonizing over what to say to him. I felt that as much as we had talked during the previous week, there was still so much he didn't know about me, or I about him. Did we share the same religious faith? Importance of family? Is he in this for the short haul or the long haul?

After writing that message and sending it, I thought that I would never hear from him again. That he would consider this all too intense, that these questions would send him away. But the opposite happened. He wrote back nearly immediately, reassuring my doubts, affirming that his fundamental beliefs squared with mine, and continuing to want to see me as soon as possible.

At this point we began to talk on the telephone, and I would regularly return to the office after dark (as I had no phone in my room) to talk to him for long stretches at a time. And always he would ask when I would come to Barcelona. Finally, knowing that with this act I was potentially changing my life, I bought tickets to fly to Barcelona for Easter week.

{to be continued}

Le nouveau appartement

This is our new living room! I am so happy with this apartment that I just may never leave. I am a homebody to begin with, so the combination of a place that suits me and has space and non-moldy air just might mean they have to toss me from the windows to get me out of here.

Or food. I think food might possibly entice me to leave. Tonight I plan to make the mushroom soup (since I have leftover funghi from last night's mushroom risotto) but I'm going to have to make the arduous journey down the stairs and across the street to buy soy or sour cream, lemon, and onion. And some crusty bread.

One thing that is incredibly pleasant about this apartment (having just spent half a year going to the laundromat) is that we have a washer/dryer. BUT: why must they make European washing machines so incredibly confusing and so incredibly slow? Why did washing a load of laundry in Indiana take less than a half hour and drying not much longer, whereas here, washing is nearly an hour and drying, sometimes twice that? I do realize that this machine is supposed to run on the electricity it would take to power a lightbulb or something, but still.

The buttons are mysterious and apparently meant to be pressed in arcane combinations in order to get what you want. Just give me a temperature dial and a clothing type dial and I'm happy. This? Is crazy. The manual is in every language but English and Spanish, so my afternoon leisure reading has been deciphering the mysterious button codes in French. I suspect that even if I understood all the French, there is no doofus-proof step-by-step explanation for what to press when. Instead, there are long descriptions and complicated charts of all the possible kinds of laundry that you would ever want to wash and which buttons you might be able to push--or not--in those situations.

The numbers: are they times or degrees? The swirly symbol: spinning or rinsing or drying? What's the difference between the line in a triangle and the line in a circle? Two lines in a rectangle? My time in the laundromat by our old place has given me a basic familiarity with the codes, but it still seems that one must be an initiate in a secret society in order to unlock the path to clean clothing and linens.

I can't do laundry into the wee hours of the morning because tomorrow I have to get up extra early so as to allow time for the new half-hour long walk to French class. I can't say that I'm terribly upset about that on-foot commute, though, because it gives me an excuse to stroll past several preferred shops, including an English-language bookstore with a nice selection of world literature, the macaron place, and a store called Dille & Kamille, which is full of charming and affordable Flemish housewares. And guess what? I have a legitimate excuse to go there, because we need stuff like a bath mat and toothbrush holder. Because, did I mention? We moved!

[Update: title change. A French apartment is of the male persuasion, I just realized.]

Moving Day

8 am: Wake up, stumble down the itty bitty stairs for the last time, and see that it's snowing! For the first time this winter, the snow is sticking to the ribs of the city. Feel so happy that I don't care that it's 8 am and that this might affect plans for the whole moving thing.

9 am: After a happy snowy walk to French class, am conjugating verbs--the new teacher is walking around checking our chops. By the way, the new prof is awesome! This has nothing to do with moving day.

12 pm: Back home after French class, I stare worredly at the modest pile of boxes that we have accumulated over the past two days. Wonder if we are really moving today. Snow is melting.

1 pm: After having desultorily packed a few boxes, I make a lunch trying to use up whatever heavy canned or jarred objects we have in our shelves. This involves kidney beans, capers, and tuna fish. I continue meanwhile to pack whatever fits into the few boxes that I have at hand. Look! The plates fits perfectly in the Brita pitcher box!

2 pm: The Mister arrives for lunch. Realize the plates are packed. We eat lunch from bowls. We still have not rented or reserved any sort of moving vehicle. Wonder if we are really moving today. Decide it's not the end of the world if we have to wait until the weekend.

3 pm: Pack most of contents of wardrobes into suitcases, and throw bathroom soaps and shampoos and things into plastic bags. Decide we have too many bottles of shampoo.

4 pm: Undergo a futon-wrapping exercise that involves wrapping an entire, very heavy mattress in a big sheet of plastic and lots of packing tape. Am proud of self.

5 pm: M comes home just after Polish neighbor rings at door. Polish neighbor has been hired to help us move. We like him very much, especially after he stopped being drunk and sketchy all the time. M has gotten tip from co-worker regarding Taxi Vert, a truck service that works like a taxi (and tip was suggested by moi! as he was leaving from lunch I said "ask about Taxi Vert!). M calls Taxi Vert.

5:15: Taxi Vert number 1 arrives. Driver comes into apartment and says No Way José. But in French. He has a very small taxi vert. We need a very big one. He will send a big one.

5:16: I am throwing the entire contents of my desk into whatever containers I can locate. I find myself putting the following inside of a baseball hat (a free gift from the inn where we honeymooned): two decks of cards, four coasters, a pair of goggles, the keys to our apartment in Barcelona, two boxes of matches, and two half-used tealights. (I know because I just looked. These things are still inside of said baseball cap.)

5:20: Taxi Vert number 2 arrives. This is a humongous truck, complete with driver, into which will fit all of our worldly belongings. It even has an elevator! It is raining. I guess we really are moving today!

5:30: I am throwing the rest of our clothing into random piles and bags so as to empty the furniture, because M and the Polish neighbor and the Spanish neighbor and the Taxi Vert driver are taking furniture away as quickly as I can clear it of random items. The house is emptying more quickly than I had thought possible.

6 pm: There is still tons of room in the Taxi Vert, so everybody is grabbing anything they can find. I have to yell at them not to take piles of clothing that are still not packaged in any form whatsoever, and the computer bag and my purse and the broken stuff that's going to be thrown away.

6:30: I am in the Polish neighbor's tiny car. He doesn't know how to get to our new house, but we ride off into the city. I manage to direct him there and not get hit by a tram car. I like talking with the Polish neighbor, because his French is as bad as mine.

7 pm: Almost everything is out of the moving van. The vestibule is filled with our stuff. I am embarrassed about our random belongings and bags of shampoo sitting there. While the boys unload the van, I have started to carry things up to the fourth floor (third floor in European, but let's not fool ourselves). I am already huffing and puffing and sweating and trudging.

7:15: I meet a new neighbor. He says he is quite new as well. He has a dog who is very fat with short legs and is climbing up the stairs slower than I am. I am relieved to have an excuse to climb more slowly.

7:30: We are happy that we have a Polish neighbor, because he is carrying some really heavy things by himself all the way up the stairs. M and him together carry the really really heavy things and I have to NOT look because I am convinced something is going to tip over and cause a scene of great carnage.

7:45: We are all sweating a lot. We are moving. I find myself becoming very familiar with the stains on every step of the stairs. My favorite is the one that means I am almost to the top. I am glad it is not August.

8 pm: All of our things are, miraculously, inside of our new apartment! We thank the Polish neighbor profusely and pay him a lot extra and say goodbye. We have Moved!

Obikaybe

That's what Dr. Cliff Huxtable would say to his scalliwag kids, and I guess it has entered my brain as a catchphrase of sorts, through osmosis during all those years of watching the Cosby Show. It's a nice way to get down to business, serious and lighthearted at the same time.

Obikaybe.

We're moving! I knew this before, of course, and so did you, but this week is a week of action. Last night we went to our new place (dragging random bags of things on public transportation, as I predicted we would) and moved some furniture around, and basically just tried it on for size now that it's ready for us to arrive. Today will be a day of collecting boxes, and filling them up, and we may even go to the new place to spend the night.

Moving is exciting for several reasons, but one of the reasons I like it best is that you get to arrange everything, to find just the right place for objects to live. I like unpacking suitcases and putting away clean dishes for the same reason: it's all about putting things in their places. Everything gets to be organized, you see. Forgive me if my tidy side is making too much of an appearance.

Obikaybe.

We were in Barcelona this weekend, and had a lovely time with the Mister's family. The best part was arriving; Barcelona, the place in and of itself, makes me unaccountably happy. M's father picked us up from the airport, and as we had to pick something up in the city before heading to the outskirts, we made our way through a succession of neighborhoods to avoid the beltway traffic. I just watched the streets unfold, charmed to pieces by the happy bustle and stroll of so many people. At seven pm, everybody and their brother is out, just for the sake of being out, and all of the stores are open and beckoning. In contrast, if you drove through the outlying neighborhoods of Brussels at seven pm, you might think that the plague had suddenly struck everybody dead.

But, as my new French teacher said today (started a new semester! taking a morning class! fulfilling new year's resolution to get up earlier!), Brussels is a city that requires you to suss out its secrets (er, but she said it in French). In Barcelona, everything is at your feet begging for you in warm, glowy colors. Here, you have to nibble away at the rocky gray surface before finding its chocolate--or perhaps beer-flavored--center.

I think I just mixed a lot of metaphors, but I need to go pack some boxes, so we're going to have to live with it.

Obikaybe.

Nephew and nieces update

My sister must have read my intense transatlantic mindwaves and sent some new photos of my nephew. In one, he is watching the snow fall outside the window with his dad, and they have their hands up and fingers outstretched, imitating the snowflakes falling from the sky. Imagine being a one-year-old looking at snow! This crazy stuff in the air! His big eyes and awed smile say it all.

This week, while M was on the phone with his mother, both of the nieces got on the phone. The older, in her best grown-up four-year-old voice, asked about our new apartment as though they were having tea and she had heard a rumor from one of the other society ladies about it.

The younger, during her turn, stayed silent as M called her name and said "hola!" But, when his mother got back on, she asked, "what did you say to her?" Because as soon as the gooberbaby got off the phone, she started wiggling her bottom and doing a little happy dance.

Sigh. Miss the nephew and nieces. Note to self: must live nearer to nephew and nieces. If not all at once, at least on a time-share program.

Putting my movie critic hat on

A pseudo-review of two movies recently seen, one with the Mister this weekend, and the other this evening with an old Salzburg friend who has recently moved to Brussels and with whom it is really really awesome to reconnect. We followed the movie with a meal at the charming little Moroccan place around the corner, and couldn't stop talking...finally we had to make ourselves leave because it is possible that the waiter was waiting to go home himself.

Anyway:

In the "Highly Recommended" category, "Little Miss Sunshine." I am probably the last person in the whole WORLD to see this movie, because I think it has been playing for ages already in the States and here ('cuz they equal the whole world, duh), but it was SO good that I actually found myself crying and laughing at the same time. The actors, including the guy from the Office, Greg Kinnear, and Toni Collette, are all solid, every one. The little girl who plays Olive, a children's beauty pageant contestant, is convincingly winsome, as is the guy who plays her brother. The best thing about the movie is the ending. I was quite certain that somehow Olive would be made to triumph over all the big hair/fake smile contestants and win the hearts of all the judges by her genuine talent. Or, that she would not win the contest but that she would have some heart-to-heart with her family about how winning isn't that important, after all. A message something along these lines comes through, but in an amusingly unexpected way. It's not a half-hour television sitcome wrap-up, at least.

In the "Not so Recommended" category, "The Holiday." I thought it might be redeemed by the fact that Kate Winslett is one of the leads, but in this double-couple romantic comedy, I was more touched by a side story, an old guy receiving a Hollywood lifetime achievement award, than anything said by the couples. In the Cameron Diaz/Jude Law pairing, nothing came off as genuine amore at all. In the Kate Winslett/Jack Black pairing, Kate Winslett came off as light years older due to the adolescent jokes of the latter. And she wasn't very convincing in the portion of the movie where she was meant to be wallowing in self-pity, because she's way too self-possessed for that.

The thing that really got to me was a schtick about how the Cameron Diaz character has an inability to cry (this is indicated in the opening scenes of the movie, when she tearlessly breaks up with her boyfriend, and throughout, as she attempts to make herself cry, which is supposed to be funny but is not). The Jude Law sensitive-widower-with-cute-children guy, however, is a real weeper (this by his own admission, never actually crying onscreen). I think there is an attempt to break gender codes that say the girl is weepy and the boy is stoic. But what, of course, is the whole goal of the movie? To make Cameron Diaz cry. To show that she's really a girl who has a heart. Or in other words, that she's really a girl. And, as I said, Jude Law never actually cries, and only once appears saddish.

This reminds me of some of the scholarly work done on nineteenth-century sentimental novels: as critics have pointed out, the novels are all about inducing tears in the reader. Everyone cries in these books, tears and weepage and fluids everywhere, men included. (Think Uncle Tom's Cabin, if you've read it.) If I remember correctly, it's meant to cause proper fellow-feeling and bind society together and clearly demark the right and the wrong, the belonging and the not-belonging. Writers like Poe and Whitman do some interesting things with these tropes of tears and fluids, as well. But back to the movie: it's interesting (and blatantly manipulative) how we're supposed to find an emotional release in the release of Cameron Diaz's tears. It fits in quite well with the whole tears and sentiment thing, except in this case it is very gendered indeed. And when she runs back into Jude Law's arms (see, I wasn't even wrapped up in the movie enough to remember the characters' names), it's just, well, kind of slow and boring, and is the one time in the movie that he is supposed to have been crying. But isn't.

Now I am going to take my movie critic hat off. It had a feather in it, and was a little bit itchy.

Boxes and bags

It is nearly February 1st, and that means that we are about to become two-timers on our rent money. For a half a month, we'll be in apartment limbo, living in this one but starting to pay rent on the new one.

Next week, we'll start the move to the new place, but it doesn't seem real yet because not a single box has been packed. Where do we begin? I have a worried feeling that we will just end up throwing things into boxes and bags and carting it onto public transportation like a bag lady and a bag mister who just happen to have a bunch of extra boxes and bags, but can't bear to part with any of them and so are wandering around on city busses with their beloved boxes and bags. We might start singing "Feed the birds, tuppence a bag," because we like that song and because we're raggedy like the pigeon lady and also because it has the word "bag" in it.

The last time I packed, I sold most of my stuff in a yard sale in the front lawn of the House of Love, and then fit the rest of it into the back of my dad's minivan for the drive to Vermont. The same will not be happening this time around because 1. we have no minivan, and 2. we have more stuff than is going to fit in a minivan. Also, 3. there is no yard in which to sell things. (Is Europe averse to yard sales? The whole idea seems quite alien in the European context, even in places where there are lawns. Spreading your stuff in front of your house? to SELL? to blatantly attempt to make money by the display and sale of your private things? I think not.)

And also, this weekend we'll be in Barcelona, and Brussels will become but a distant memory, as it tends to do when we head for the mediterranean climes.

When we come back we will have a big treat awaiting for us, which is all of the stuff that is not yet packed into move-worthy receptacles.

So, it is February. And there is some packing to do.

Extra, extra, read all about it

So, this morning the Mr. left for Naples, where he will be speaking for five hours (FIVE hours!!) on the subject of Turkey's accession to the EU. This is one of the reasons HE works at the Parliament and not ME. I don't know if I could talk about anything for five hours straight, even books.

Sans the Mr., I am planning to work much, and perhaps start packing some boxes. First I need to get boxes. Oh, and also I would like to make something to eat that is tasty.

Also, I am going to avoid the internet, because it is currently crawling at a dying-in-the-desert-without-water pace. I can't figure out how it is that we download 1 G of stuff, which is our limit (are there limits in the US? I feel outraged by the whole limits thing), after which we are bumped down to a pitiful crawl. All I do is download a few songs (mostly the free ones from iTunes because I'm cheap like that and also haven't found a place here that sells iTunes cards...any suggestions?) and my e-mails. Is it possible that I reach 1 gigabyte with just that? 1 gigabyte, as I found out through googling because I don't know these things offhand, is over 1,000 megabytes. A thousand! Surely it would take longer than a month to reach that. Someone who is tech savvy, please advise.

Besides these clearly headline-worthy bits of information, I have nothing to report. So I will direct your attention instead, to some actual recent headlines.

*A girl was found in the Cambodian jungle who, sensationalists are claiming, has lived in the wild for eighteen years (her parents claim to recognize the scars of a daughter who disappeared that long ago). She doesn't seem to speak any recognizable language, and refuses to wear clothes. Yet, strangely enough, her hair is short and was when they found her...hmmm.

*Several EU states boycotted the meeting held in Madrid to discuss the EU constitution. Basically, scuppered again.

*In Sunday's New York Times, there is an excellent article by Michael Pollan about food, and what he calls "nutritionism," basically an overly strong faith in scientific findings about our food. One of his most interesting points is that even if they can tell us about one nutrient that is in an avocado, there is still exponentially more that we don't know about how it interacts with other nutrients in that very food, and the nutrients in the foods that we eat it with. Science tends to look at things in isolation. So his advice is simple: "Eat food [as opposed to processed pseudo-foods]. Not too much. Mostly plants." Amen.
Link to the article.

*The Doomsday Clock is now at 11:55 pm.

*Which probably has something to do with the fact that a whole bunch of scientists got together to tell us what we already knew--that global warming exists, and that furthermore, it's going faster than we thought. The ice in the Arctic is likely to melt entirely over the summers of the near future. (Both of these last items are from today's Times.)

Happy Tuesday! Go eat whole food, and don't make any greenhouse gasses if you can help it. For the sake of sea-level citizens everywhere.

Heh, heh, heh; or, hein, hein, hein*

This is a post about being funny (or not).

I'm not really a funny person, especially when it comes to making jokes on the fly, especially with large groups of people, and especially people I don't know very well. My jokes in any case tend to be of the punny variety, and I am often too slow on the ball to sneak in something when it's the right moment. Much better at written verbal wit: I'm dorky like that. (By the way, this is not the same thing as not having a sense of humor. I love laughing at other people's funniness. Especially of the punny, ironic, slapstick, and deadpan varieties.)

But things get drastically worse when speaking in another language. Even when I find something funny, and try to explain it, the joke falls flat. Flat as Nebraska. Often, the thing that I find funny has to do with a word that in the other language sounds like (or looks like) something in English that is funny. (*Example: the subject line of this post. I think--according to my limited French--that "hein" is the French equivalent of "heh." And that is funny. It just is.) But this sort of thing is often not very funny for other people, evidently.

So I was immensely, inordinately proud of myself the other night when I made a group of Catalan friends laugh. I was emboldened to explain, in Catalan, why the city name "Antwerp" was funny to me. I told them that it sounds like the English word "twerp," which means, roughly, "un petit gilipollas," or to untranslate what I was mentally translating, "a little idiot." Fortunately, everybody found this quite as amusing as I did, but of course what was funny to them was the translation of the word "twerp," not the fact that Antwerp contains that word, which is what I found funny. Still, it was funny. I was funny!

Another interesting aspect of this question is the different sense of what is funny that happens when I am speaking English, but with a group of non-native English speakers. I can use words to comic effect that I anticipate will be funny to them, even though with native English speakers it would not be funny in the slightest. Here's an example. Last week, when we met our new landlord, who is a Belgian/Iranian doctor, we were speaking English with him and the girl who is living there now. I explained the fact that we're keeping her things for a while by saying, "We are babysitting her furniture for a month or so." While this isn't particularly funny, I knew that for a non-native speaker the juxtaposition of "to babysit" and "furniture" might be surprising. And, indeed, it got a laugh, and in response, our new landlord said that he hoped the furniture didn't "cry too much."

As for French, I think it is going to be a long, long time before I can be funny in that trippy tongue. I had my end-of-semester oral exam today, and I was totally unprepared because in the end the prof just asked me to talk about me! Imagine that. I had prepared to talk about Julie, Benoit and Pascal, the lovable characters in our class language video. Yeah, you know the types.

I think I did OK, muddling my way through an explanation of my studies, my thesis, what I'm doing in Brussels and so on. I'll know Wednesday if I passed (I'm certain I did; no matter how bad my passé composé was, I don't think it merits a failure, and I know the written exam was fine), and next week, the new class starts. Fortunately for me, I wasn't required to be funny.

And in retrospect, I apologize for this post, because is there anything less funny than talking about what is funny? And now I've gone and written the word "funny" so many times that it's starting to take on that weird abstractness words get when you say them over and over and over...

Correction: turns out that "hein" means "eh" more than "heh." My bad.