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.