5 things I hate about you

Well, living in Belgium is fun, but it's not home. And often, it's the really small things that grate on you. In the interests of maintaining my sanity, here are the 5 things that really, really, make me blow my top.

5. Bakeries: In a country that has more bakeries per capita than any other country I have ever seen (and yes, this includes France), I can find baguettes, scones, pastries, mitraillettes, pistolets and loaves. Of course, as I general rule (except for baguettes), I don't eat any of those things. What I can't find are bagels. Or tortilla shells. Or hamburger buns. Or pizza shells. I mean, I can understand the tortilla shells, but what's with the complete lack of pizza shells? How am I supposed to make my pizza pie?

4. Banks: Note: nothing I write here detracts from the fact that Canadian banks are inefficient, lazy, evil corporations who are willing to charge you merely for walking through their doors. However, in terms of sheers evilness, Belgian banks have them beat hands downs. Not only do they open at 10 and close at 4, but they are closed for two hours during lunch. In other words, they are closed during the period where 90% of the people I know do their banking. If that wasn't evil enough:

Me: "I would like to cash in some travellers' cheques"
Teller: "I'm sorry, we don't do that at this branch"
Me: "But..., but..., I've been to this branch before, and they cashed in my travellers' cheques."
Teller: "Well, back in July, the bank's policy changed and we no longer cash people's travellers' cheques."
Me: "I came in September"
Teller: "Go away"

3. ATMs: Belgian ATMs are filled once a week, on Tuesdays, and then only with a fraction of the money that is necessary to last the week. On statistical analysis, ATMs are empty about 33% of the time. From a statistical point of view, this means that on occasion (especially on Sundays and Mondays), you will have to hit up three or four ATMs before you find one with money. Businesses do not have ATMs. Only banks have ATMs, and then, only occasionally, and sometimes, these ATMs will not be accessible unless the bank is open (see no. 4). Since on Sundays you must hit three or more ATMs to find one with money in it, there is a very real possibility that you will have to spend 2 or more hours, and cross three districts in order to get the money to pay for groceries.

2. Bureaucracy: As an exchange student, I want to set up the date for my oral exam with my professor so that I know when to purchase my return ticket to Canada. I dutifully go up to the professor at the end of the class and ask him whether we can schedule an oral exam. He tells me that he is not responsible for scheduling, and directs me to his teaching assistant. I e-mail the teaching assistant, and she tells me she doesn't have the authority to fix exam dates. She sends me to the secretary of the faculty of law. The secretary of the faculty of law tells me that there is a special secretary charged with fixing the exams dates of all the students. But she is on vacation for a week. The special secretary, upon finding out that I am an exchange student says that exchange students are outside her purview, and that I should talk to the secretary responsible for exchanges. The secretary responsible for exchanges says that she is very sorry, but she doesn't have the jurisdiction to fix my exam schedule, but if I talk to the professor, she's sure that he will be able to arrange something.

1. I lied. There are only four things that really, really annoy me about Belgium.

Things I like about Belgium:

5. Bakeries: they are both on my hate list and my love list. I hate the fact that I can't get bagels or pizza shells, but they sell incredible sandwiches for 3 euros.

4. Arab shops: There is a lot of hostility towards Arabs in Belgium. And in France. And in the Netherlands. I could never understand it. The Arab shops in my area are cheap (I buy 5 euro donair and chips on a regular basis), friendly, and actually open past 6 o'clock at night. If it weren't for them, I'd been starving, paying too much for groceries, and be forced to interact with actual Belgians. Plus, the Lebanese bakery down the street makes a Moroccan bread that can be used as a pizza shell in a pinch (of course, I don't tell the baker that).

3. Fries, mussels and beer: Hence the name of the site. There is a bistro near the university. First time I went, I bought a snack size portion of mussels with fries. Their "snack-size portion" was the equivalent of a full-meal for a healthy Canadian male.

2. Chocolate: I'm not a chocolate connaisseur. In fact, back home, I barely touch the stuff. Here, it's expensive, sure, but cheaper than Canada, and it's pretty cool when you are invited somewhere to buy some chocolates for the hostess.

1. Insane Belgians: Yup, I have to say that the highlight of my stay was going to Belgian TDs. A party where everyone dresses up in their worst clothes, goes to a hall that looks like a warehouse, and drinks to excess. But what really makes the TDs special is that the people drink half their beer, than throw it into the crowd, plastic cup and all. By the end of the evening, everyone is soaked in beer. Childish and immature, sure, but I have yet to discover a better way of blowing off steam.

Praha-hahaha

Whatcha gonna do when it's Christmastime in Europe and your family is in North America, getting together, singing carols, opening presents, and in general, hopelessly embarrassing each other? Well, I still had some family in Belgium (see "Un Souper de Famille") and of course, the friends I had made on exchange (who shall remain nameless unless they have sufficiently interesting stories in their own right to be posted) however, why spend Christmas with friends and family when you can spend it with complete strangers? OK, so it doesn't sound that great when put like that. However, I had wanderlust in my veins, and sufficient money in my account, so I bought a third class bus ticket to Prague (Praha to locals) and spent the 11 hours on the bus to get to the Czech Republic.

According to the Czech Museum of Communism, the Czech republic is a country that has come to grips with its Communist past and completed its transformation to a capitalist economy as the way of the future. As a general rule, I am skeptical as to what museums tell me, but the fact remains that the Czech Museum of Communism was inside a casino, with doormen and valet parking, so I guess I can trust this. As a matter of fact, Prague had about as many casinos as Seattle has Starbucks, which made me kind of leery about entering any of them. Who knows how regulated they were? I wouldn't want to lose my hard-earned money on a crooked blackjack game.

As usual, I was staying at the youth hostel. There were quite an eclectic bunch there over Christmas: Aussies (of course), Americans (one or two), Chileans, Argentinians, Brazilians, French and even a couple of Canadians. Consequently, most conversation took place in English, French or Spanish, and my services as a translator were in great demand. On the other hand, while I was a party to most conversations, I didn't participate in most, since I was too busy trying to remember what catarrho meant in English.

In short, I had a great time. A bunch of us went out to a bar on Christmas Eve. It was kind of depressing to see how many locals didn't have anywhere else to go on Christmas, but we made the most of it. To be precise, we made the most of the fact that beer retails at 1 euro a pint. I lasted until about 1, at which point the haze of smoke was far too much for my eyes, and returned to the hostel with two girls from Normandy.

We went out a couple of times all together. I organised a foray to the largest nightclub in Eastern Europe that was a smashing success. It was five floors of rockin' on with 3 separate nightclubs inside. One specialised in pop, the second in techno and the third in oldies. I was surprised how full the nightclub that specialised in oldies was, but I danced the night away to "Rockin' Robin" and "Rock around the Clock". Lest my reputation as a hipster suffer, I also spent quite some time on the techno level, but that was mostly because there was a cute Australian. I danced with her until her rather large, evil-looking boyfriend threatened to pound me, and then I beat a hasty retreat.

Prague was incredible. I did all the regular touristy things, the art gallery, the castle, the historic squares, the Christmas market, the Jewish ghetto tour. Overall, I have to signal a couple of things: most people spoke English, ATMs were plentiful (unlike in Belgium), food and gifts were extremely cheap (3 course meals at good restaurants for 5 euros) and everyone was extremely nice. It was a wonderful Christmas.

Folie a deux (roues)

The thing about waking up at 6 in the morning, is that you can raise your blinds and open your window and gaze down on an empty road, with all the shops closed. If you close your eyes and take a sniff, you will smell the bread and treats of the bakeries, the only shops already open and it will whet your appetite for a breakfast of croissants and baguettes. Yessirree, waking up at 6 in the morning is an experience, just like pulling nose hairs out with tweezers, which just goes to show that just because something is different, doesn't make it better.

This morning, I'm up at 6 because I have to be at Cinthia's house at 7. And the reason why I have to be at Cinthia's house at 7, is because we are going to Namur. By bicycle. Which serves to illustrate what I was writing earlier about different experiences.

For those of you whose knowledge of Belgian geography is limited, Namur is about a bazillion km south of Bruxelles. All right, that's a slight a exaggeration, it only seems like a bazillion, it is in fact, only about 100 km, which is, in itself, a rather imposing figure. Especially when one considers that the last time I mounted a bike was the summer of 2000, when I was working at the Museum of Science and Tech in Ottawa. However, my motto is "what the hey?" and thus, without a care in the world except for that slight feeling of foreboding I was unable to shake, I biked over to Cinthia's house, stopping at the bakery to buy myself some croissants ("biking food" as I like to call it).

I was a bit late at Cinthia's, so we left at 7.20 rather than 7. My first indication that I was completely out of my league was that Cinthia had brought her bike over from Montreal, while mine was a loaner from my roommate. Sense of foreboding grew just a little there.

The two of us set out through the Foret des Soignes, in what can only be described euphemistically, as pitch black. I was sensitive to this because while Cinthia was armed against possible spills with biking gloves and a helmet, all I had were a pair of cargo pants, a windbreaker, and a vague confidence that I hadn't had an accident in 4 years, so now would be a lousy time to start.

As we pedaled through the icy blackness, the only thing I could see was the rear of Cinthia's bike, which I fixated on for dear life. Cinthia commented on the fact that for a forest, the paths were awfully well kept, and there didn't seem to be any leaves or branches that would make our advance more difficult (not to say randomly perillous). I muttered some comment about the squirrels being paid by the city, all the while trying not to lose Cinthia, and more importantly, trying not to exhaust myself too early on our trip.

Two hours later, we were somewhere around La Hulpe. This is only notable because after biking up a large hill, we were now racing down it at a breakneck speed. Or rather, I was racing down it at a breakneck speed. Cinthia was wisely using her break to avoid going to fast. It was at this point that I tried to slow down just as I hit a slippery patch. I also accidentally hit the front brake rather than the rear brake. The natural, not to say inevitable effect was that my bicycle flipped over, and I was thrown free for a beautiful and horrible couple of instants of weightlessness.

A body in motion will tend to stay at motion until stopped. I have never in my life wished Newton more wrong than at that precise point when my body smashed into the asphalt at 15 km an hour. Some of you might remember that I wasn't wearing my helmet and may be wondering about the state of my head. Don't worry, my face broke my fall.

All in all, I was extra-ordinarily lucky when I was thrown clear of the bicycle. First off, that I was thrown clear at all and thus didn't have the frame of the bicycle land on my leg and possibly break it. Second, that my left hand hit the ground first and prevented more damage being done to the rest of my body. And third, that and the angle which I hit the ground, I didn't so much smash against the ground as scrape along the asphalt.

The upshot of the accident was that my windbreaker was in tatters from scraping along the asphalt, some of the skin on my left hand had been scraped off in the landing, and I had several small cuts on the left side of my face. My glasses had fallen off as well. Although the frame was bent out of shape, the lenses were still in one piece.

Cinthia was quite relieved that nothing was broken, and that I still move on my own. She started repairing the bike while I tried to find somewhere to clean up and fix my glasses. Fortunately, although we were out in the country, we were in that gentrified part of the country which is occupied by gentlemen farmers, rather than people who farm for a profession. In other words, I only had to walk about a block before I found someone who was at home, rather than several km.

I ended up at the house of an architect, who must have been about 60 and his wife. They were very kind to the bloody stranger they found on their doorstep, and allowed me to wash up. They even provided me with antiseptic and bandaids. In their zeal to ensure I was all right, they wrapped up my entire left arm with gauze so I couldn't move it. I also managed to get some pliers with which to straighten out my glasses.

Cinthia eventually joined us and I graciously accepted on behalf of both of us their invitation for a mid-morning tea. I felt it would be the height of poor breeding to take advantage of their first aid equipment and not stay for a little conversation. The two of us made quite a sight in the beautiful home of this elderly couple. There was Cinthia, still wearing her riding gloves and her helmet, and on the other chair, me, with my hand done up like a mummy and a bloody face.

We made small talk for about half an hour, and then, excused ourselves. After all, it was about 10h30, and we still had a long way to go to Namur. We continued on our trip, stopping periodically to ask for directions and once for lunch. The gauze on my left hand turned out to be a blessing in disguise, because it allowed me to diffuse the weight of my body over the handlebars over my entire hand, rather than merely where I was cut and bleeding.

By about 2 in the afternoon, I was ready to die. My shoulders ached from where my pack dug into them, my arms ached from being kept rigid for several hours, and most of all, I had an incredible pain in the ass from where the bicycle seat was trying to shove itself up where the sun doesn't shine. Oddly enough, the only part of my body that didn't hurt *too* much were my legs. Still, we kept going, with more frequent (and more desperately pathetic) breaks on my part, as I seized almost any opportunity to get off my bike and walk. The accident had damaged the bike a bit, and my roommate's 21-speed bike was now a 7-speed, which made my progress even more painful.

While at the beginning of the trip, I had admired tha scenary,and the chateaus along the way, now, my gaze was fixed either to the asphalt in front of me, scanning for holes, or to the rear of Cinthia's bike, which hour after hour seemed to be further and further ahead of mine.

We arrived in Namur at about 18h30, at which point my body was on the point of collapse. Though not in as bad shape as I was, Cinthia was glad to see the town as well, and promised to kiss the ground before the youth hostel we were staying at. After settling into the hostel, we went to a nice restaurant, ordered a decent dinner, and went to bed about 10 in the evening without having seen anything of Namur.

Surprisingly enough, I woke up the next day without too much pain. The thudding pain in my arm had gone down to a peaceful throbbing, and the cuts were already beginning to scab over. Apart from a tenderness on the seat of my pants, my legs, arms and shoulders weren't sore at all. All of which was for the best, because the first thing Cinthia and I did after breakfast, was climb to the top of the Citadel of Namur, on top of one of the highest hills in Belgium.

The tour was fun, and the area was quite deserted. From there, we went to downtown Namur and saw what there was to see, which wasn't much. In fact, everything was closed on Sundays. Accordingly, we found a small grocery, had lunch, and recuperated out bicycles from outside the hostel. Yup, at one, we ride!

Even getting on the bicycle was a painful experience for me. I had to wonder whether my body was somehow awkwardly constructed that all the weight seemed to end up on the seat of the bicycle, thus causing the soreness of my bottom. However, that was neither here nor there, because the two of us were riding 27 km down from Namur to Dinant.

I coped with the pain the best I could. Realistically, that meant pedalling like a lunatic in the hopes of making the ride last less time. Fortunately, the path was straightforward and flat, which made this day's riding easier than yesterday's. Unfortunately, some of the way was paved with cobblestones.

Gritting my teeth and telling myself it would soon be over was the only way I coped with the cobblestones, or "Devil rocks" as I call them. Sure they're picturesque, but just try riding over them with a sore rear and see how much fun it is.

Apparently, according to Cinthia, the view along the Meuse river was beautiful and breathtaking. She even took pictures. I hustled and prayed for a speedy end. We completed the 25 km in two hours and a half, which is a personal best. Once in Dinant, I joyously leapt off my bike and swore never to get on it again (a vow broken later that evening when I had to ride it from the train station to my apartment). Cinthia and I went to go see the Citadel at Dinant, just so that we could compare the Dinant Citadel with the Namur Citadel. I like the Dinant one better, because it is higher up, but especially because it has a "funiculaire" (ski lift) to reach the top.

Afterwards, Cinthia and I went to a cafe where we ordered beer and reminisced about the trip. It took very little to reminisce, but that's OK, because we were both so exhausted we got drunk after one beer each and almost missed the train back.

But we didn't. We got on with our bicycles, and it took less than two hours to return to Belgium, for a total cost of 16 euros. Somehow, it felt like my victory over great distances was cheapened. However, I had measured myself against nature and come out on top. And much in the same way that the Belgians can boast "On a marché sur la lune", I can boast "Moi j'ai bicyclé jusqu'à Namur (et Dinant)" which may not be as catchy, but damn it, it's true!

So that is how I spent my weary weekend. As I write this, on Tuesday, my wounds have scabbed over, and my rear is still sore. It cost 40 euros to fix the bike. But, I can't help but feel that I had a great weekend, and that I would do it again, just not before I get those blasted nose hairs pulled out.

P.S. Remember my plan to bike across Africa? Well, that's kind of been put on hold.

I say "Aaahhh, Berlin!"

What a better way to celebrate the fall in Europe than a road trip to Berlin? Well, a cruise to the Mediterranean comes to mind, skiing in the Alps, and/or moving to the Caribbean come to mind, but a trip to Berlin was all that was organized by one of the student groups here in Bruxelles, so I packed my bags and left on a bus on Friday evening.

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Unfortunately, someone neglected to tell me that Berlin is rather further than it appears on the map, and so, 12 hours later, I arrived in a city that I fondly nicknamed "No, really, it's right next to Poland" (I'm lying, it wasn't all the fondly). At least I had a great group of people with me. Whereas many people go on exchange to meet people from different cultures and see strange new sights, I have gone on exchange to hang out with a bunch of Quebecois to drink beer and occasionally, cheap wine. Not that I'm complaining.

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Anyway, our small group of 40 students descended on the Reichstag on one rainy day, and waited for two hours in the rain to see a panorama of the city. Frankly, I was a little disappointed. I was hoping that there would be a tour of the Reichtag, maybe some discussion of its history. Instead, we got a view of a drizzly rather plain city. Afterwards, we wandered around the city for several hours, not so much sightseeing as trying to find the checkpoint Charlie museum. The museum itself was definitely worth the wait. It has expanded from a museum of memorabilia of the Berlin War, through art associated with the Wall to exhibitions on political movements resisting the Iron Curtain in Hungary, Czechoslovakia and Poland.

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That night, we went to a club at the Postdammerplatz, the so-called hottest techno club in Western Europe. I don't really enjoy techno, but I danced anyway. The club used to be the sight of a XIXth century bank, and if you consider that an unlikely location for a club, you should realize that the club was in the basement of the old bank, where the stone walls lent the club a suitably grim and gritty atmosphere, and the club had preserved the vaults of the bank, with the dancing taken place behind ancient iron bars. Overall, the effect was more dungeonesque than anything else.

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The next day, exasperated with the slow pace of sightseeing, four of us struck out on our own: Adrian, Amelie, Emilie and me. That morning we did a walking tour of the Third Reich, which was completely worthwhile, and in the afternoon we went to the Pergamon museum as well as doing a fair amount of city sight-seeing. We had dinner separately, and started the long bus ride back to Brussels.

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Note: The Belgian students here tend to take frosh week to extremes. I has currently been going on for a month, and the plan is for it to continue until mid-November. This of course means that as a general course, the students are always drunk. This was highlighted when we were going to the club on Saturday. Of the 40 of us, about 30 had decided to go to the club. On the walk to the metro station, we lost about 7 or 8 students, who were too drunk to continue and stopped for a break at the MacDonald's we passed. A further 7 were left on the metro platform when the leader of the group (who was as drunk as the rest) decided to play "run-and-jump-into-the-metro-just-before-the-door-closes-and-hope-it-goes-to-the-right-station". Our remaining group of 16 lost another two students who failed to get off the metro at the correct stop. By the time I had my first beer, at the café we stopped at before going to the club, we were down to 14 students. And by the time we got to the club, we had lost another two, who, quite understandably, felt that 1h00 was a bit late to be arriving at a club, especially when none of us had slept the night before.

Thanksgiving in Brussels

It's Thanksgiving in Brussels, and all around the world (actually, just in Canada) families are coming together, and squabbling and making up, and cooking lots and lots of food. What can I say, I have a soft spot for family life, or maybe I just love to eat (cf. Heren und Herring) so, in the absence of my real family (enjoying a turkey in Washington DC), I assembled a ragtag bunch of misfits (aka my fellow exchange students) for a typical, traditional Thanksgiving dinner.

Apparently, most people don't have the warm memories and Thanksgiving cheer that I do, because among those friends who could attend, none ever celebrated Thanksgiving. Apparently, it's an Anglo thing. But at least they humored me (especially since I was making most of the grub) and we managed to create a decent Thanksgiving meal regardless (of course, this was achieved by liberal consumption of wine).

In addition to 4 students from Quebec, there were three Scottish exchange students, a Japanese exchange student, my roommate, his girlfriend and me. Preparing the food took me three hours, and that was with the very amiable help of my two assistant chefs, Amelie and Cinthia, who cracked walnuts while I sliced in diced. I couldn't find a turkey, so instead, I prepared three chickens. Our meal thus consisted of three chickens, stuffing (which I'm still eating, one week after the fact), cranberry sauce, two types of salad, potatoes and apple crumble. Plus the wine. There was lots and lots of wine. Not that I'm complaining, as it made my chickens seem a lot better than they were.

So, that's it for Thanksgiving. I still haven't planned what to do for Christmas, but you can bet it will be big, bold, and will not involve cooking for three hours and then cleaning up for three hours. I'm thinking of waterskiing.

Heren und Herring (Leiden)

I just spent this past weekend visiting Leiden in the Netherlands. Actually, I had intended to visit Leiden and see Joy, but, given that Leiden is a small town, similar to Sackville, NB, but with windmills, I ended up visiting Joy and seeing Leiden (and even then, only an a background to whatever we were doing). Unfortunately, though a record of my conversations of Joy would be of narrow interest to a few people (academics of Canadian culture at the beginning of the 21st century come to mind), I must concede that although we had frank discussions about such taboo subjects as sex, death, suicide and Belgian chocolates, the world at large, and my audience in particular, would probably be more interested in any hapless adventures that I might have had (the more painful and humiliating the better) than discussing my Zeitgeist. For those who are in fact interested in both our meandering conversations on existence and bizarre comical mishaps, might I suggest renting one of the videos by the delightful Woody Allan?

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So, to summarize, the weekend consisted mostly of our talking and I had a best time I've had in a while (at least a week! See "Un souper en famille"). Despite that, there was quite a bit going on during my visit to Leiden. It was the hutspot (pronounced "chutzpah") a festival extending from one end to the other of Leiden celebrating a gluttonous orphan. Actually, it celebrated the lifting of the Siege of Leiden after a hard winter, when the overflowing of the river caused the Spanish troops to withdraw (the Dutch call it "a great victory", the Spanish call it "bloody cheating"; or at least they would, if they spoke with an English accent). I'm pretty sure a gluttonous orphan was involved somehow, but I was pretty drunk when was told. Maybe the victorious Dutch ate him, I don't know. Which just goes to show you that history is written by the victors, not by the poor cannibalized gluttonous orphans.

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For the party, Leiden was transformed overnight from a small, sleepy little town to a small, sleepy little town with a large carnival in the middle of it. However, everyone loves the carnival, even people, who shall remain nameless, and who refused to go on the merry-go-round with me (This means you!!!). Hanging out around the carnival was fun in itself, and the roads were thronging with people watching the sights, buying cotton candy and beer at the stands, and going on rides.

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Joy and I partook in many of the traditional hutspot festivities. We ate broiled beef with mashed potatoes and cabbage. I bought stroopwafels from a sidewalk vendor because I thought the name was funny. Mmmmm......stroopwafels.... I even bought a raw herring from the herring man (or herring heren as they are called in Dutch) and tossed back my head and ate it. Of course, afterwards I felt vaguely like a seal. It didn't help that Joy asked me to balance a ball on my nose.

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Later on, we passed a sidewalk vendor selling small decorative tomatoes. My, these customs are getting weird, I thought. But I bought some anyway and we shared them among all the people out (Joy, Iyla, Tim, Oscar and a couple of guys whose name I can't pronounce). The people smiled when I gave them the tomatoes, took a friendly bite out of them and gagged when they realized the tomatoes weren't edible. And I laughed and ate one as well. Because we were laid back, and it was the Netherlands and it was hutspot. Because the Netherlands is just the sort of laid back place where you can laugh and then cannibalize a poor gluttonous orphan.

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Anyway, the morning that I left, there were fireworks, and songs, in particular the Dutch national anthem ("The hiiiilllls are alive....with the sound of ...... wait a second, my editor has just informed me that this song is not the Dutch national anthem. It is, in fact, the Austrian national anthem). Anyway, they were singing cheery songs. They were also waiting outside City Hall for their free hutspot herring.

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As I left Leiden on that early, misty morning, I reflected on all I had learned on my trip to Leiden. Yes, toothpaste will not wash out the taste of herring from your mouth.

Un souper de famille

Shortly after I had found my apartment, but before I moved in, I received a call from my uncle Marco Jonckheer. Technically, he's not my uncle, he's my grandmother's cousin's son, but after experimenting with several greetings (Marco, M. Jonckheer, Cousin Marco) I settled on Oncle Marco as a proper greeting for 70+ year old relation. He called and invited me to Antwerp that afternoon. He and his wife, Tante Poussette (I had resolved to apply my convention indiscriminately to all members of my Belgian family) had recently returned from Brittany and they were going to Antwerp to have dinner with their children and grandchildren and invited me to come along. I quickly accepted, and they came to pick me up at a metro stop outside of Bruxelles on their way to Antwerp from Asse.

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Fortunately for me, my grandmother had the foresight to be descended from a Francophone family (which meant that I could spend the evening participating in the conversation, rather than smiling and nodding) so the trip was quite pleasant. Before arriving at my cousin Tyl's house, we went into Antwerp to visit the house that my great-great-grandfather had built in the art deco style in a fashionable area in Antwerp. Unfortunately, we couldn't remember the number of the house, but we got an eye-full of the best Flemish architecture.

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We arrived at cousin Tyl's house with about 150 oysters. Tyl and I went to the back room to shuck the oysters. This brought back memories of home and New Year's to me, which was sweet, but I'm still a lousy shucker and so pretty soon, Cousin Tyl had shucked the double of my oysters. At least I succeeded in not skewering myself with the oyster knife, though I would have been well attended if I had, owing to the fact that Marco, Tyl and Cousin Carine are all doctors, and that Nephew Jop is in med school.

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After the shucking, I met the rest of the family, my cousin Carine (Tyl's sister), Tyl's wife, and my various nephews and niece. There was Catherine and David, and then Jop, Jim and Jan, which I think was needlessly confusing to inflict on a poor foreigner.

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The dinner was a huge success. The 11 of us sat at a long table which was just sufficiently large to fit all of us. In addition to the oysters, there were several different types of bread (including one which was home-baked) and many, many cheeses and lots of wine as well. The conversation was mostly about medecine, but once the topic turned to evolution, I got in some good quotes by Stephen Jay Gould and swore up and down to read Richard Dawkins.

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After dinner, Jim, who is a jazz pianist (he had shown us his studio earlier) gave us an impromptu concert with his cousin David. Overall, it was an absolutely incredible evening. I hope I get invited again.

Life in Brussels

I wanted to bring you all up to date how my search for an apartment is going. So far, it is not going well. It has reached the point where I am considering the possibility of seducing someone, moving in with them, and then breaking up with them in January when it's time for me to go home. And when that's a possibility, you know you are pretty far gone.

While waiting, I am in transit. Very much so. It's a very nice transit lounge (extremely nice transit lounge), because my parents' friends are living it up in Brussels, and they are 10 minutes walk away from the Faculty, and there are four servants. But still, it's not a place I can call my own. And the bathroom is so space age and complicated I'm afraid to enter there.

When one is in transit, you can't really enjoy yourself. I feel like I'm in a sort of dream that I can't wake up from. I go through the motions, go to classes, try to find an apartment day after day, but any spare time (and there is a lot when you are waiting) is taken up reading, or watching TV. I'm still reading Jane Jacobs, though I picked up Nabokov's Lolita as well, and I'm about halfway through that. I'm also reading Belgium for Beginners, a small tome that kind of makes me thankful that Canadian constitutional theory, for all its many, many shortcomings, isn't quite as messed up as the Belgian constitution.

This Sunday, after spending several hours on the house computer trying to find housing and just generally surfing around, I was feeling more numb and out of it than usual. Since Brussels had decreed it a no-car day, I decided to take advantage of this fact and go for a walk.

Figures, a no-car day and I almost get run over by a bicycle. Because I crossed the street without looking both ways. Because it is a no-car day.

I decided to go walking to the place Flagey, the hip, trendy, avant-garde neighbourhood of Brussels. Apparently, no one told the construction crew that this was an extremely hip, trendy, avant-garde area, because the entire square which is the centrepiece of the area had been dug up and pulverised by construction crews. So, between the dirt, the dust in the air and the unattractive road crews in their orange blazers and hard hats, the atmosphere was enough to make anyone's latte go sour.

So, I went on a tangent (this message aside). Two blocks away from Flagey, I was in the heart of the Portuguese district. There were barbecues out in front of the cafes and the brasseries. Pretty soon, I heard the sounds of a protest. Never being someone to give up a chance to gawk at people being sprayed with tear gas, I went. I was vaguely disappointed to discover that it was not a protest, but a celebration. Sure, there was one guy with a fair trade T-shirt on, but I think that was more of a coincidence than anything else.

The paraders were celebrating the day of the dead. The centrepiece of the celebration was a 20-foot tall skeleton with bulging eyes, flanked by several people on stilts. One of the men on stilts, who seemed to be the ringmaster, sported a Dali mustache and was dressed as Death. Another was a juggler, judging by the three pins she held, but she alternated actual juggling with glasses of port as she teetered unsteadily on her stilts.

The parade also comprised several revellers dressed in trashbags colourfully spray-painted, a woman wearing a tutu and a man in a suit walking a fish. The parade was closed by a little man driving a go-cart gleefully who seemed to take a perverse pleasure in colliding with the ankles of the person in front of him. All around, there were children, on the bicycles, accompanying the group and there number swelled as the parade swept down the street.

Most of the revellers seemed to have some sort of musical instrument. In many cases it was trash lids banged together, although one of the revellers had two cowbells to a length of pipe and periodically hit them with a stick. There were a couple of tambourines, and the woman with a tutu (who seemed related to the man with the Dali mustache) was playing an oboe.

The procession wound its way down Flagey place, and ended up at the Abbey at one end of the square. The Abbey seemed the only building untouched by the renovations that were taking place along the main part of the square. The procession stopped at a man. I was unsure whether the man had been accompanying the procession or whether he had been there all along waiting for them to arrive. At any rate, he was a stocky man, with dark skin. I revised my assesment of the neighbourhood and decided that it could be Brazilian rather than Portuguese.

I couldn't see the man's face. It was covered by a large wicker mask. The mask had a grotesque face painted on it, with a mouth slit cut into the wicker. The woman in the tutu walked up to the grotesque, gesturing for quiet. Rather gradually, silence spread through the crowd, which was remarkable in itself, as the crowd, by this time, consisted mostly of children between the ages of 10 and 14, as well as some curious onlookers. The woman in the tutu reached inside the mask's mouth, and pulled out the beginning of a roll of paper. She then handed it to the person next to her, and he pulled on the paper. The paper stretched out and rolled and extended, as it passed from hand to hand, until, by my reckoning, it had reached the end of the procession about a block away. The other end remained in the grotesque's mouth. The whole effect of the experience was entirely surreal, and given my earlier feeling of lack of substantivity, I felt even more as if I were in a dream-like world.

The paper had small, neat cursive writing on it. It was in French, but the paper passed by so quickly I was unable to decipher most of it. It was something about invoking something, and the portions that were intelligible alternated with bits that were onatomatopaiaic sounds. There was also something about silence.
At this point, I tore myself away from the spectacle. It was almost dinner and it would never do to be late. I quickly took the path back to my apartment. The day had ended, and cars once again took over the streets. I kept to the sidewalks. The last thing I needed was a message about silence. I get that enough already.
Well, I don't quite know what was the purpose of that little story, Vreugde, but it was nonetheless interesting, and I hope you enjoyed it. I also rented a movie tonight called "Le cout de la vie". It was quite good and it got me thinking a bit.

Rub-a-dub-Dublin (and Galway)

Well, it only took three posts, and I'm already out of witty comments to make about the cities that I'm visiting. It's unfortunate, I'm losing my touch. I guess I'll just have to stick to what I actually saw and leave the flights of fancy to a minimum.

Actually, given that I've been here a week, I've seen quite a bit. In the interests of cutting down on reading time, (and incidentally, my writing time), I'll use the example of two days ago as typical of my experiences in visiting Dublin (and most other cities, as a matter of fact).

Typically, my day starts around 9 in the morning. As much as I would like to sleep in, when sharing a dorm with 16 other people it is the earliest riser that sets the pace for others, not the latest. Accordingly, I quickly showered and changed, and set out in my best tourist gear: khaki shorts revealing hairy legs, plaid cotton short sleeved shirt, mocassins (just because), water bottle, Canon "Sure shot" 80, and tattered copy of "Let's Go: Britain and Ireland" (bought for the pictures, as I'm definitely not going to read on my vacation).

I headed up O'Connell st., the main shopping artery of Dublin, until I reached Parnell Sq. Parnell Sq. had a nice statue to Parnell, an Irish "patriot" (called something different in Britain). They also had a memorial garden to other patriots that had died, which was quite nice. I went to the Irish writer's museum, where I looked at displays on many Irish writers, Swift, Shaw, Joyce, Beckett etc. They also had a nice Zen garden, but it looked slightly neglected, after the tour, I left.

I left with a vague feeling of unease, and I desire to take up my previous passion for writing. As I walked along Parnell St, I turned over in my mind a couple of novella plots that I hadn't had the opportunity to develop, and resolved to work on them when I had the chance. Fortunately, this resolution lasted only until my next stop, the Jameson Distillery tour.

I hadn't had breakfast, and only a light dinner the night before, so I came out of the tour, and ensuing whiskey-tasting a bit unsteadily, and with a bottle of Jameson I had bought at the museum store (note, to date, this is the only item I have bought at any museum store on my trip). I turned from spirituous matters to spiritual ones, and after a light lunch at a delicatessan, I arrived at St. Patrick's Cathedral on the south bank of the Liffey. Actually, I had been aiming for Christ Church cathedral, somewhat to the north, but had gotten slightly lost on the way, and reasoned that one cathedral was as good as another.

After the cathedral, I tried once again to get to Christ church. I found it, but masses were just beginning, so I had to postpone my visit for another day (or be condemned to go to church). Instead, I went to Dublin castle, which is a bit of a misnomer. A better name would be the Dublin Happy Time Fun Palace, and so much has been destroyed and remodelled over the years, that the structure resembles a palace the way a camel resembles a horse. But still, it houses the state rooms of the Irish republic, and I got a free tour, so I'm not complaining too loudly.

From the Castle, I wandered around for a bit until I stumbled upon the Chester Beatty Library, which had an excellent exhibits on Iranian steel, world religions and Orientalia, so I stayed there until it closed. I hung out in the gardens of the castle for a bit, and then headed out to dinner.

I had dinner at the Hard Rock Cafe, but only because I had a coupon for 5 euros off a main course. I went, and even with the 5 euros off, it was the most expensive meal I've had in Europe. And all I ordered was the pasta.
I had bought a pass to the Dublin "Working class heroes festival" which was basically a bunch of garage bands from across Ireland playing all sorts of music. The pass was 22 euros and the festival went on for 3 days. I went every night and enjoyed myself immensely. That night, I went with a German girl from the hostel whom I had told about the festival and we had a great time. The festival took place in the Temple Bar, which is the most active district of Dublin, with pubs, clubs and people out for a good time.

So far, Dublin is the city in which I've had the most fun while in Europe, perhaps because it reminds me a bit of Montreal, with lots of pedestrian walkways and many fun-loving people.

The next day, I went to Galway. On the three-hour trip over, I could see why the Irish hostellers I met in Edinburgh recommended that I leave Dublin to see the "true" Ireland. Loads of rolling hills, greenery and quaint houses and sheep all over the place as I bussed through. That being said, I was rather glad that I had the protective barrier of the bus to shield me from all that quaint excentricity. Otherwise, I might have caught something and started thinking wholesome thoughts and talking with a weird accent or something. I arrived in Galway at 1:30.

Galway was....nice. It had a nice pedestrian mall, and sufficient people to be a decent place to live. While I was there, I admired the scenery, and went wading in the Atlantic Ocean. I even went on their "Long Walk" and admired the Spanish arch. That being said, after that, there wasn't a hell of a whole lot to do, so I caught a movie in the Omniplex and had dinner in a traditional pub before catching the 7h30 bus back to Dublin.
That's all, and I'm heading for Brussels on the 9th. I'll be posting from there now.

Bel*RUN*fast

Belfast is the capital of Northern Ireland, and a city that has been long divided between Protestants and Catholics. Though in the past this has erupted in sectarian violence, since the Good Friday Accord, an uneasy peace reigns over the city. That being said, a climate of repressed hostility still exists and when crossing the city one is acutely aware that saying the wrong word, or a misinterpreted look, could result in assault or robbery. Or maybe this was because I was walking through the slums of Belfast trying to reach my hostel. At 10:30 at night. Carrying my 60 lb knapsack on my back and my money, passport and travelers' checks on me. Needless to say, I was a little bit jumpy.

To this day, I believe that the only reason I wasn't mugged was tht after my 10 hour trip, dressed in my raggedy windbreaker, wearing clothes that hadn't been pressed since I had left Montreal a week and a half before, and clutching a rather dogeared copy of "Let's go: Britain and Ireland" to my chest, I looked sufficiently pathetic that any potential muggers decided I wasn't worth the effort. It also helped that I only ran into five people on my walking trip, one of which was passed out, and two of the others which were engaged in a drug deal.

To arrive in Belfast, I had taken the bus from Edinburgh to the town of Stranraer, when I had taken a three hour ferry ride to Belfast. The ferry ride was enjoyable, except for the fact that the ferry was enclosed, so you couldn't really enjoy the salt air and the sea mist.

I spent the night at the hostel, and left at 10 the next morning on the bus to Dublin. Overall, there wasn't that much in Belfast that looked worthwhile, and I had seen most of it the previous night on my trek from the Docks through the majority of the city down to the hostel (which was on the complete other side of town).