Dans les Champs de Flandres

In Flanders Field.
A delightfully kind Belgian family with a penchant for chocolate mousse were my parents' neighbors when they lived in Abuja, Nigeria. Enthused that I would be studying in Belgium, they sent me to visit their parents who live in Ipres (French) aka Ypres (Flemish), near Flanders Field. Ipres lies in the Flemish region of Belgium. Even though it is just a few minutes away from French speaking Brussels, the residents speak surprisingly little French. In fact, they seem to take pride in this inability. It was ironic to have come from an ocean away and be correcting the French of someone who could drive 20 minutes to be immersed in native French. My pride was certainly flattered. Most Flemish seem to know English better than French.

Anyways, back to Flanders Field. Remember how veterans distribute paper poppies on Veteran's Day? That tradition comes from the crimson poppies that blossomed in the fields of Flanders after WWI, a poignant reminder of the blood bath that occurred there. After hearing Belgians recount stories of the wars that have devastated their country it is no wonder they are so against war in general. Belgium is a small country with no natural barriers, making them an easy target and convenient meeting ground for more potent armies to collide. Although today it is securely affluent, war still lies near the front lines in the Belgian memory.













Sandbags from WWI remain just as they were.

Dans le Metro

In the Metro.
The beggars are there quite often. Today there is a woman, kneeling with a little toddler squirming on the mat beside her on the harsh concrete floor. She is of middle eastern descent and has a head covering folded over her forehead and around her temples, carefully concealing her dark hair. She wants money. That's why she's begging down here in the sour smelling metro. She knows just as well as the rest of us that we have money in our wallets and purses. She leans on one of the five pillars of Islam, hoping that one of us will stop and give alms. But no one is stopping. There is only the uninterrupted plod of shoes echoing down the underground corridor.

Slideshow

Here's a slideshow of trips to Switzerland, France, the Netherlands, and the UK (in reverse chronological order). I struggled paring the shots down so there more than a few pics there. Oh well.

Quel Choix!

What a choice! If only all of our decisions were as great as deciding to go to Martigny, Switzerland or Chamonix, France.

Deux Mots

Two Words: Mont Blanc.

Une Suite

A Sequel. It is a beautiful morning and everyone else is inside studying their Kierkegaard and Brunner but I've different plans. The great iron latch creaks but reveals no secrets as I slip through the crack and outside, outside of the shelter and into the elements.

Out here it is harsh but far from uninviting. The winter air gives a deep, frigid embrace. Thick flakes tumble down from a heavy sky and gather on the slopes of the chalet roofs. They look like sleep on the heavy lidded eyes of the chalet windows. Inside, weathered armchairs like the elbows of professor's wool sweaters cradle books and the thoughts inspired therein.

But Oh! Outside is glorious! I am breaking the "rules" by coming out here during study time but I don't care. Sometimes the beauty of nature can tell you just as much about God as a theologian. I doubt Schaeffer would care. A fellow student, an Aussie, is shoveling snow* and is startled by my appearance. "Is there a road that way?" I inquire, heedless of his astonishment that I am out during study hours. "Uh, yes." He responds, pausing, leaning on his shovel. I step around him and to the road that quickly diminishes to a footpath. It dips around a corner to the right and rises into the protection of a forest draped in snow.

Soft footfalls. Solitary steps.

As the snowy trail eased into the trees I can envision the late Francis and Edith Schaeffer walking up ahead on such a day as this. Francis would be wearing wool knickers and a loden sweater. Edith would have her dark hair gathered up and a knapsack with slices of her famous brown bread inside. As flakes drift down through the tree limbs above in winter's silence I can almost hear echoes of their conversation from so long ago. I wonder what they talked about when they went out for walks. L'Abri finances and students? Their enfant terrible** of a son Franky? The order of God's will? They had but ordinary voices. Yet their words were extraordinary.

The path angles steeply up through the woods, over a snow camouflaged creek and ends at the gate of a cemetery. That trail is really like a book, you know. The opening line drew me away from our sleepy existence to the exterior, a harsh place but closer to reality. With each step the enjoyment of cold, alpine air was like learning something new. Each thought was so pure that it frosted my insides. The climax came as the path ascended and the conclusion laid solemnly with the tombstones. After a few minutes of contemplation at the graves' gates I shiver and continue walking up the mountain. This story is not over.













*At L'Abri students maintain the facility for half of the day and spend the other half in study. This not only helps keep the place running but also contributes to the practice of living in community. This Aussie was on his work shift - he had a legitimate reason for not studying!
** An enfant terrible is a "child whose inopportune remarks cause embarrassment or a person known for shocking remarks or outrageous behavior" (Merriam-Webster).

Une Balade Matinale à Huémoz

A morning walk in Huémoz, Switzerland.

Les Rêves

Dreams. It all began in that room. The one on the 3rd floor of Arend* with the tree outside the window that burst into magenta blossoms every spring. That day though, the one when it all began, the tree was but a twisted arm under a heavy load of snow.

The day was a dull one entrenched in the middle of winter and the thought of working on a research paper seemed too much to bear. So, I did what all college students do best: procrastinate. In doing so, my web browser stumbled across a most wondrous thing, catapulting me far from dorm rooms and grade point average scales to a world much more appealing. O, cry of rapture! A grin later, the discovery was put on my life goals list.

L'Abri, or The Shelter, as it is known in English, is a center of spiritual exploration begun by Francis and Edith Schaeffer that is housed in several chalets nestled in the Swiss Alps. Francis was a Christian theologian and philosopher and his wife was pretty amazing herself and one of my personal role models. They began L'Abri in order to address the questions of people they met who were searching for answers in the confusing modern world. They set out to give "honest answers to honest questions". The foundation of L'Abri is Christian and welcomes people from all faiths and traditions who seek ultimate truth. L'Abri is about living in community, individual study, group discussion, teaching, and stepping away for a while from societal distractions such as TV, iPods, cell phones, etc.. in order to hear what can be discerned from the quiet after the static is removed. Ultimately, L'Abri was founded in order for people to find out about God and then to know him at continually deeper levels.

Oh! To go! "Perhaps some day." I mused and went back to my paper.

Five years later... Here I am, standing in the dark after having just stumbled off of the bus on the edge of this teetering mountain road. Thick December snowflakes are the only source of light. But I know it is near. Just across the street and up that little driveway. L'Abri. Thank you, Lord!

*Arend was a dorm at my college.

"As Efficient as a ______ Train."

1.) This place is also known as the Confederation Helvetique.
2.) Official languages: Romansch, Italian, French, German
3.) John Calvin, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, and Francis Schaeffer produced significant work while residing in this country.
4.) The Red Cross was created by a man from here.
5.) This country is famed for its international neutrality.

C'est Genial!

It's awesome! This packet of kleenex demonstrates just one more reason why Europe is awesome. There are eight translations on this little package and English is at the near bottom (and it's UK English at that!)

Cantillon, C'est Bon

Cantillon, It's Good. If you know anything about Belgians you know that Belgians love Beer. No, not just any beer, but beer with a capital B. That capital B means that they take it very seriously and it is so deep in the Belgian psyche that they probably teach their children that the alphabet begins with "A" for appétit (appetite) and "B" for bière (beer). I cannot tell you how many times I saw people swigging beers in the metro or in the streets like they were cans of soda. "Oh, that isn't real beer" locals would dismissively remark when I commented on this. This "pretend beer" or "training beer", what have you, has a 5.2% alcohol content. That's above the American standard. Imagine what their "real" beer is like then!

Now, before you visualize Belgian drinkers as drunken frat boys or paunchy middle aged men at a backyard barbecue, think again. The Belgian drinker is discerning and proud of their vast selection. Each is carefully crafted and each one looked after. Every variety has a specific glass in which it is served and if for some reason you have forgotten which curving silhouette belongs to which brew, the logo is emblazoned on the side. Many beer-ologists, professional and self-appointed, consider Belgian beer to be the best in the world. How many variations are there of this stuff? Great question. Belgium claims the title for having the most extensive variety of beers in the world. That is pretty impressive, but even more impressive when you consider that the place is a twelfth the size of the state of Montana and has been demolished over the years by various countries including Germany, France, and the Netherlands. Perhaps that's why they drink so much...

My aunt Tamara has come to visit me for a bit so we thought it would be fun to go to a Belgian brewery. The Cantillon Brewery is a family run brewery and makes a very unique variety. They craft lambic beers, which means that they don't use any added yeast. How's that, you say? The beer is fermented by placing bags of the grain up in a dank attic for a spell and letting microbes that are specific to the Bruxelles/Brussels area inundate it. It is called Brettanomyces Bruxellensis. The air of the entire building is full of an aroma that reminds one of baited breath. It is rich and full, cool, slightly sweet from the process of fermentation, and with each full inhale you know that microbes are moving, acting, and creating a new thing. As you can imagine, learning about all of that beer worked up a thirst in us and soon we found ourselves waiting at the tasting bar with our very own baited breath. Much satisfied, we congratulated ourselves on learning that "A" is for appétit, "B" is for bière, and decided to quit the premises for the next letter of the alphabet. "C" must be for chocolat. The Belgians have the best alphabet ever.

Me and Tamara at Hotel Metropol, a rather chic spot in Bruxelles.

Lundi, le 10 novembre, 2008

Monday, November 10, 2008. Journal entry.

"Barack Obama a gagné. Barack Obama won. I went to bed late last night and rolled out of bed and down the stairs at five in the morning to find out the results of the elections on the TV. It was obvious that Obama would win. I wasn't overjoyed nor was I angry. America voted and America voted for him. It was simply the voice of present day America. We'll see. Obama's rhetoric was moving and I want to join the chorus, "Yes We Can!" and "Change!" Yet somewhere in the base of my skull a thought pulsated, "What is IT that we CAN change?" Do we all agree as to what that IT is? And what is the result of this change we are so eager for?

The moment of the declaration of an African-American president was nothing short of incredible. Oh, just fifty years ago... How thrilling it is to be able to witness such a thing! Just think, the moment when I heard that America elected a black president I was seated in a little room in a Belgian home on the Avenue du Chant d'Oiseau. It was late in the evening in America and early in the morning here. It is one of those moments that I will never forget.

Obama, we shall see. The proof is in the pudding. "

Translated from the French :)


















A magazine stand featuring Barack Obama's image.

Paris Slide Show

Here's a slide show of two trips to Paris. Thanks for watching!

In Bruges

Ken: Coming up?
Ray: What's up there?
Ken: The view.
Ray: The view of what? The view of down here? I can see that down here.
Ken: Ray, you are about the worst tourist in the whole world.
Ray: Ken, I grew up in Dublin. I love Dublin. If I grew up on a farm, and was retarded, Bruges might impress me but I didn't, so it doesn't.

There is a movie called In Bruges with Brendan Gleeson, Colin Farrell, and Ralph Fiennes. In the above excerpt Gleeson plays Ken and Farrell plays Ray. It's a foul, excessively violent, and all around inappropriate movie but it is politically incorrect and does have some interesting themes. I personally liked the reoccurring references to the painter Hieronymus Bosch and his phantasmal paintings but anyways... It is mostly a movie I could never recommend but man, it certainly shows the town of Bruges well. There's nothing like watching a scene where a character falls to his gruesome death and recalling, "That's where I ate a Belgian waffle." Appetizing.

The basic low down on Bruges is that it was a bustling commerce town back in its medieval heyday. Much to the dismay of its inhabitants, the main river dried up. Having lost its life source Bruges became isolated and forgotten. No ships to ferry goods in and out = no money. After many years of abandonment the city was rediscovered for the very thing that had become its demise - its inability to stay connected with the rest of the world. Today Bruges is a gem of Belgium, proffering one of the most intact specimens of a medieval town to the modern tourist. Everyone that goes to Bruges loves it, except for Ray.

Jardin des Tuileries

Tuileries Gardens It is one of those nights. It's one of those beautiful Parisian evenings where the darkness sizzles with energy and amps up your senses, urging you to jump up and dash breathlessly through every backstreet, yet at the same time sit perfectly still to absorb every nerve tingling sensation.

Opting for the latter, this stone ledge seems just the place to savor everything. Perhaps it is a poor decision to sit alone under a dark tree in a even darker city park but I am still young enough to get away with naïveté (naivety). Every shape lies indigo on indigo; statues, park benches, stretches of grass. The light from the headlights of racing cars on the Rue de Rivoli flickers through the cast iron gate over my shoulder. A cool breeze filters through and makes the tree boughs restless.

What a night. The Louvre resides heavy and august on the left, all of its treasures weighing it down in mass, history, and significance. Just think, it is but a mere two minute walk to a treasure trove of chef d'oeuvres (masterpieces)! It is jam packed with masterpieces; works of art that have endured the test of time and reveal a timeless truth.

A timeless truth. A timeless truth?

I lift my chin and look all around. Above, the light from a tall rectangular window pierces through the silhouettes of two black trees. It startles the darkness.

A timeless truth? Almost without realizing it I have caught one. One like passing your hand through a beam of yellow light from a distant window on a dark, dark night. It is not something I will share with you, for I think it is really only meant for me. The realization is saddening but although painful it is very much worth the exchange. Don't get carried away, it is nothing so high as to do with the spiritual or any such thing. It is just a simple but influential truth.

The night is still beautiful. Time to stand, cross the street and walk back towards the apartment. I think I'll sleep well tonight.

My Kind of Math

Park + Raspberry tartlette = one happy girl!

Paris, Je T'Aime

Paris is hilarious. Paris is sophisticated and beautiful yet also so brusque and filthy. "I love Paris but not the Parisians" is a widely shared opinion.* Visitors who have had a good experience here would call the nation a paradox, those who've been burned by the infamous Gallic shrug**, that je ne sais quoi***, that expression of,"You're S.O.L. and I couldn't care less" would call it plain old hypocrisy.

However you want to slice your cheese you have to admit that this place is intriguing. Paris is chic yet tacky, modern and yet positively medieval in other aspects. You may have access to free education but that doesn't mean that your plumbing at home works. Attempting to be a vegetarian here would be tough. Being an animal rights activist would be even tougher considering that the nation's gourmet darling is foie gras (fat liver, literally), a product of force fed geese and ducks. (Yep, it tastes almost as good as it sounds.) Feminism? Well, if you feel up to overhauling the entire French language with its feminine, masculine, and non-gender words, go for it. Be forewarned however. The French have an entire academie of green coated intellectuals whose life's pursuit is to preserve the purity of the French language. Not only that, the members of the Academie Francaise are called "immortals". No joke.

France prides itself in its avant garde approach to new ideas and preens at the thought that the likes of Jean Paul Sartre and Picasso flourished here. However, the nation has deep race issues, especially towards North Africans. I have had lovely conversations with locals and I have been repulsed by creeps. Yes, it is part of human nature and city life, but in this case, it is Parisian style.

One moment you are thanking your lucky stars that you are in this City of Light, this pinnacle of civilization called Paris. The next, you have been hashed to pieces and feel worse than crotte (dog poop) on the sidewalk. Paris, I love you but you can sure be a pain in the cul.


*Don't worry. I've liked most of the Parisians I've met.
** The Gallic shrug will never exit your memory once you have witnessed it first hand. I don't know how they are able to shrug their shoulders up to their earlobes and simultaneously cock their head to one side and frown deeply. It must be in their DNA, probably the sequence right next to the one that keeps French women from getting fat.
*** Je ne sais quoi takes too long to explain in just a couple of words. It literally means "I don't know what" but in this circumstance it means "that extra something that you can't describe or quite put your finger on". It is often used to describe something charming, like perhaps a woman's mystery. In this case I am using it sarcastically. Who me? Sarcastic? Never.

Une de Mes Choses Preferees

(One of my favorite things) Oh wow! Why didn't anyone tell me how good the "Sound of Music" is? It was by sheer luck that I stumbled across it one night. I was tired but wanted to unwind before I conked out. "The Sound of Music?" I frowned as I perused the shelves at my host family's house. The last time I have watched that was... while I was still under four feet. Well, pourquoi pas (why not). Into the DVD player it went and I nestled in for a brainless wonder.

But Hello! The opening footage of the mountains is enough to get anyone's heart soaring and by the closing credits I longed to be Austrian and frolick around cooing "Eidelweiss".

My dad has indoctrinated me against musicals, this one in particular over the course of my upbringing by singing in a spooky tenor, "The hi-lls! Are al-iii-ve! (Run for your lives!)" This, as you may surmise, made it difficult for me to take this musical seriously.

Par hazard (by chance) this jewel of a film has been rediscovered with new eyes. Gorgeous scenery, dancing, pretty dresses, love intrigue and adventure. What more could a girl want? "I simply remember my favorite things..."

Au Revoir Maman!

Goodbye Mom!

Corrie Ten Boom

The Ten Boom's living room is still much like it was when Corrie lived there.
Today we went to see Corrie Ten Boom's house in Haarlem, Netherlands. She was an unassuming woman who never married and lived with her father who was a watchmaker. She saved the lives of countless Jews during the Nazi occupation and changed the lives of even more who have heard her story since. She and her family were hurled into concentration camps where the majority of them died. Nazi officers said to her 84yr old father, "Come, you are an old man and you should spend your last days in peace at home. Simply tell us that you will no longer help the Jews and we will let you go free." He refused, asserting, "It would be an honor to give my life for God's ancient people." He survived only 10 days in prison. Corrie survived the Ravensbruck concentration camp and began a world wide ministry. Despite the depravity she was a witness and victim to she embraced forgiveness saying, "There is no pit so deep that God's love is not deeper still." You should look up who she was. I could never begin to convey Corrie and what God did through her in any blog I write.

http://www.corrietenboom.com/history.htm

Backpacking and Such

Who ever would have guessed I would get to "backpack" Europe with my mom? Well, what do you know! There we were, packs on, wandering through an unfamiliar neighborhood in Haarlem (Netherlands) at night armed only with the word "apotheek" (pharmacy) when what we wanted to find was our hostel. Of all the words I could have retained of the Dutch language, "apotheek" was the only word that stuck. As for my mother, the words that came to mind were from high school Spanish. Que pasa? Brilliant.

However, that is just one of the many joys of exploring. You get plopped down in the middle of a new situation and you just have to deal. To convey our situation in the most apt of terms we were absolutely and utterly lost. No map, no familiarity, and as you already know, no language skills. So, we did what many travelers have done before us. We kept our feet moving and hoped that we would find someone, anyone who spoke our language.

This may be unnerving, even frightening, but in all actuality it is quite liberating. You reach that crux moment where you realize that you have no control over the situation. Once there you are able to use your eyes to perceive what you normally dismiss as irrelevant because it isn't part of your Plan. You begin to appreciate the stepped silhouettes of brick houses against an indigo night sky. It makes you think about architecture. Windows illuminate the darkness with vignettes of dutch evening life. This makes you think about cultures. You cross a quiet street punctuated by streams of light from evenly spaced lamp posts. Thus you consider existence. A subtle breeze rustles trees in the darkness. You ponder the unseen. The sound of footsteps, of yours and others, makes you think about souls. You get perspective.

That is the beauty of the voyage - you go beyond the controllable. The person who thinks that they can control what befalls them is foolish and well, bor-ing. The process of exploration delivers what you really need: the ability to consider what you may not take time to consider when you are in your own territory.

After a while things do get sorted out. A lady spotted us vagabonds and gave us directions in quasi-english on how to locate our hostel. We were way on the wrong side of town but oh well. We had a lovely walk and appreciated our bunks more by the time we finally fell into them than we would have had we taken the direct route. Perhaps that is why they call it "exploring" rather than "attaining".

London Diversion

Very Righteous

Ruthie (Friend from Nigeria who lives in Ireland and S. Africa now), Sophie (Friend from Nigeria who is a Dr. in this country), and my mom sitting in Bishop's chairs.

Ca M'Enerve

That bugs/annoys me. Somehow the Jane Austen entry hopped in the queue before the entry about my mom coming to visit and also the Hop Skip Jump entry. Just as wiley as that English doorman! So, the Jane Austen entry is supposed to go HERE, where this entry sits. Sorry for the mix up.

A Hop, a Skip, and a Jump

Mom and I are off to visit a friend of hers named Sophie that we knew from when we lived in Nigeria. Where are we going?

1. Get your "wellies", we may have rain.
2. Gordon Brown is the leader of the Labour Party and the Prime Minister.
3. The flag is also known as the Union Jack.
4. King Arthur, Lady Guenevere, Sir Lancelot and their ilk.

It's All in the Family.

My mom is coming to visit for a few weeks. Here we go!













Mom with her pet't dej' (breakfast)

Jane Austen

There are plenty of reasons to like Jane Austen. She and her works are witty and sharp, mature and insightful. She revealed peoples foibles to remind us of how we ought to love each other in our humanity. Her lack of pretension and wealth of vitality make us glad that we can be friends with her, even if it is only through her novels. However, regardless of how many times we read her writing or research her, she remains a delightful mystery.

It was due to these qualities and long lasting "friendship" that I was more than glad to stop by the Jane Austen house in Bath, England. Unfortunately, the house was just full of silly knick knacks and overpriced books. Bored, we decided to find amusement elsewhere. Our greatest diversion ended up sprouting from the least likely of sources: the door man.















Rotund in his waistcoat and breeches, he was the most mild mannered of gentlemen as he held the door open for us and welcomed us with a notable self-effacing Colin Firth-ness. However, as we left the premises he chucked the Colin Firth/Mr Darcy act like yesterday's fish and chips and transformed into something more Monty Python-esque. His antics started with subtlety and quickly went south, jumping around and being downright silly. I tried to picture him in one of Jane's carefully wrought novels but could not seem to place him. At all. He was like an Anglosaxon mime with the most ingenius facial expressions. Before we knew it we were all in stitches and were rolling down the boulevard like Elizabeth Bennett's little sisters on the loose. Jane, who knows what you would have made of this man but we found him to be quite enjoyable. Quite enjoyable indeed.

Lui

Him. Today we went up all those steps. The creaking boards were so narrow and steep that I was forced to walk sideways, knees knocking. A barren gloom rendered the rooms a desperate space as though to remind us that there was no place for words up here in the Annex.

It has been a long time since I read her diary and to be honest, much of it has been forgotten. One thing that was clear, even then, Anne Frank was much more insightful and mature at thirteen than many of us so called adults. At thirteen my diary was filled with descriptions of cute boys and favorite songs. Her father desired so dearly that she might have such a childhood but it wasn't to be. What would a father do in order to protect? What would he endure in the hope to give his child a chance to live?

Otto Frank. What about him? First of all, he put his family into hiding. Then they were caught, then separated, then killed. All of them except for him, who did the unimaginable and survived Auschwitz. There was a haunting photo of him in the house that is now a museum. He wore a somber suit over his tall frame with resolution in his hands and sadness in his eyes. A sharply cut profile accentuated his pain and every angle spoke of dark suffering beyond description. He did everything within his power to protect his family. He must have pleaded God for a miracle a million times. He lost everything and everyone he cared about save for his own life. Did he find it as cruel irony? Did he shake his fist at God, crying out for justice or an equal grace? Even if he finally came to terms with what happened to his family and his people, what did he say when he saw that racism, hate crimes, genocide, and even Nazism still remained? It must be so heavy for a Father. I could think of no answers for him and I wanted to weep.

Amsterdam, Netherlands

Et

And. Where to now?

1. You can't get a cup of joe in the coffeeshops here but you can get a bowl of mary jane.
2. They have lots and lots and lots of bicycles here.
3. This is a very politically and socially liberal country.
4. Like gouda? Like tulips? Come here.

Comme Toujours

(As Always) Old people in love are the tops.

L'Autre Sœur

Let's face it. Bruxelles is Paris's plain sister. Paris is gorgeous, charming, capricious, and gets all the guys. If Bruxelles tried to bat her eyes and imitate that famous French pout she would only appear ridiculous. Bruxelles is smart though, she fully understands this and has moved on.

She has embraced her awkwardness and has thus developed a decent sense of humor and lack of pretension that Paris sometimes opts to forgo. Her coming to terms has even earned its own moniker; Bruxellisation. This phenomenon represents the tolerance of putting something very beautiful next to something downright hideous. Often this translates into an Art Nouveau gem of a building with rich historical context affronted with an architectural monstrosity next to it that seems to have taken its stylistic cues from the bleakest interpretations of Communism.

This uniqueness is not limited to brick and mortar. Last year a journalist asked the candidate for prime minister to sing the national anthem in French. He was originally a Flemish speaker but being a generous Belgian type he obliged. "Allons enfants de la Patrie Le jour de gloire est arrivé !" (Arise children of the fatherland, the day of glory has arrived!) Unfortunately, his goodwill was forgotten when it quickly became apparent that he was singing the la Marseillaise - the FRENCH anthem. Apologies, Monsieur Leterme but it's la Brabaconne.

Rather than cringe shamefully, Bruxelles shrugs, gives a little chuckle, and gets on with it. This very same Monsieur Leterme did in fact become the prime minister. Perhaps she doesn't mind this because she already answers to a host of names including Bruxelles (French), Brussel (Flemish), and Brussels (English). She knows that her politics are a bit odd. She doesn't sweat the small stuff. Bruxelles isn't ashamed to admit that she enjoys fries (double-fried to boot), throws back robust beers, eats golden crusted waffles in the street, savors kilos upon kilo of rich dark chocolate every year without remorse, and owns that she actually does like brussel sprouts. What a place. Perhaps it is her down to earth personality and willingness to suffer foreigners butchering her language at the local DelHaize (a supermarket) or at la poste (post office) that has drawn so many foreign people to reside in her country. In a phrase, Bruxelles is incredibly facile à vivre (easygoing, easy to live with).

*L'Autre Sœur means The Other Sister*

Tant Pis

Too bad, oh well. So, certain friends ( I won't name who but they might include my esteemed landlord and neighbor with a cat named Hoover) have exhorted me to post another blog. Yes, I have been slow but oh well. Dear aforementioned friends: here is your blog. As for the rest of you that are nice enough to read my blogs, I will get a real entry up soon. Much love, k.