As I expected waffles turned out to be the most important part of the Belgian experience. They were followed closely by beer and the art nouveau architecture. I can't say they were amazing waffles. I don't know what sets one waffle apart from another but the mere fact that I got to have waffles was enough.
Naivety, however, did get the better of me once again: I just assumed they would have maple syrup. The Belgians seem to prepare their gauffres (waffles) in three ways: au natural, with powdered sugar on top, or covered in chocolate. The last option obviously proved to be the best. You could have it chaud ou froid, that is hot or cold. Hot came with the chocolate melted all over the top of the waffle making it difficult and messy to eat (pictures coming soon). Cold came with the melted chocolate settled on the top of the waffle. It wasn't as messy but nor was it as good.
My waffle experience took a positive turn on morning two when we found a restaurant that had "syrup du Canada." A celebratory trumpet sounded somewhere when I read that. Maple syrup. (Insert Jay Lane "Booyeah" here)
Random Notes:
1) There seemed to be a lot of people using canes in Belgium. When I say this I mean young to middle aged people that have some sort of leg affliction. I saw upwards of 15 perhaps while I was there. Proportionally that might not be a whole lot but in this day and age how often do you see seemingly young healthy people using walking canes?
2) I found out today that there are more Lebanese people in Brazil than in Lebanon.
3) I think the Smash Mouth song, "All Star" would make a great/funny Country/Western cover song. Sing some of the opening lines to yourself in a twangy accent.
"She was lookin' kind of dumb with her finger and her thumb in the shape of an L on her forehead."
4) I've seen several great movies lately and one stinker. From the names of the following actors & their movies see if you can figure out which one gets a negative review from me.
Casey Affleck-Gone Baby Gone
Tom Hanks-Charlie Wilson's War
Javier Bardem-No Country For Old Men
Norah Jones-My Blueberry Nights
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Friday, January 25, 2008
Bruges (and the continuing saga of the Euro-toilet)
As a port city Bruges was once one of the most important cities in Europe, not to mention one of the richest. Once the water dried up Bruges lost its access to the sea and thus its trade. Naturally the loss of its population and riches came next. Bruges became a ghost town. This also served to “preserve” the city and is now its lifeblood thanks to the millions of people who pass through Bruges each summer to gawk at the buildings and stroll along the canals.
After seeing Bruges for myself I can relate to Collin Farrell’s recent quip about the city in the trailer for his latest movie, “In Bruges.” Since my mother reads this I won’t be giving a verbatim quote but he intimated that things can be a bit boring in Bruges. This is true. There is a slower pace to the city, which I suspect plays into its stature as a city “stopped in time.” I don’t want this to be construed in a negative light. It is a picturesque city built for peaceful strolls. In the summertime you get to fight the crowds but enjoy the weather. In the winter you lose the crowds but gain large layers of clothing. I have to admit that the frigid weather was a bit of a distraction for me.
There seemed to be little to Bruges beyond the architecture and the quaint waterways. This much was later confirmed by a young citizen and business owner. My other fascination was the bikes. They were everywhere. Until I see Amsterdam, Bruges will remain the bike capital of Europe in my mind.
While we traveled through the cobblestone streets of Bruges in the freezing temperatures we came upon a manifestation of heaven on earth: Le Pain Quotidien. Somehow this Flemish establishment has perfected the art of baking, an art I had always associated with France. Despite her pride in French baking, I'm confident Morgane will attest to the veracity of my claims. It is impossible for me to break down pleasure into words so I’ll just tell you that if you are ever in Bruges get the Tarte au Chocolate at Le Pain Quotidien.
I often pose questions on here. They are rarely rhetorical and if someone has an explanation or answer for them, please let me know. The preceding is especially true for the following: Why are there no “free” toilets in Europe? My dad always told me that there was no such thing as a “free lunch” but as long as man has existed we’ve been able to get rid of those lunches for free. This has ceased to be true in Europe. I could understand it if with the money spent cleaner facilities were provided. However, they seem to be on par if not worse than those in the States. Is it to promote jobs, much like the New Jersey/Oregon laws forbidding citizens to pump their own gas? Is it because they know people will pay? Perhaps it is a true expression of capitalism in socialistic Europe? Answers are needed to ease my wandering mind.
After seeing Bruges for myself I can relate to Collin Farrell’s recent quip about the city in the trailer for his latest movie, “In Bruges.” Since my mother reads this I won’t be giving a verbatim quote but he intimated that things can be a bit boring in Bruges. This is true. There is a slower pace to the city, which I suspect plays into its stature as a city “stopped in time.” I don’t want this to be construed in a negative light. It is a picturesque city built for peaceful strolls. In the summertime you get to fight the crowds but enjoy the weather. In the winter you lose the crowds but gain large layers of clothing. I have to admit that the frigid weather was a bit of a distraction for me.
There seemed to be little to Bruges beyond the architecture and the quaint waterways. This much was later confirmed by a young citizen and business owner. My other fascination was the bikes. They were everywhere. Until I see Amsterdam, Bruges will remain the bike capital of Europe in my mind.
While we traveled through the cobblestone streets of Bruges in the freezing temperatures we came upon a manifestation of heaven on earth: Le Pain Quotidien. Somehow this Flemish establishment has perfected the art of baking, an art I had always associated with France. Despite her pride in French baking, I'm confident Morgane will attest to the veracity of my claims. It is impossible for me to break down pleasure into words so I’ll just tell you that if you are ever in Bruges get the Tarte au Chocolate at Le Pain Quotidien.
I often pose questions on here. They are rarely rhetorical and if someone has an explanation or answer for them, please let me know. The preceding is especially true for the following: Why are there no “free” toilets in Europe? My dad always told me that there was no such thing as a “free lunch” but as long as man has existed we’ve been able to get rid of those lunches for free. This has ceased to be true in Europe. I could understand it if with the money spent cleaner facilities were provided. However, they seem to be on par if not worse than those in the States. Is it to promote jobs, much like the New Jersey/Oregon laws forbidding citizens to pump their own gas? Is it because they know people will pay? Perhaps it is a true expression of capitalism in socialistic Europe? Answers are needed to ease my wandering mind.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Brussels, Sandwiches, and Orwell
Brussels
I spent most of my first day in Brussels in a tavern near La Grand-Place. There was a mix-up with Paypal and so instead of exploring the city, Morgane, Zoe, and I were stuck in a tavern trying to fix the situation. Since they have the French language background they got to do the talking and I got to sit around thinking about Belgian identity. At the risk of being pedantic (that’s for you Matty): Belgium is made of two ethnic groups divided along fairly distinct geographic lines. French is spoken in southern Belgium (Wallonia) and a Dutch dialect, Flemish, is spoken in northern Belgium (Flanders).
I asked Morgane if the French speaking Belgians were proud of their “French” heritage or felt any connection to the people at all. This turned out to be quite off the mark. Apparently there is a bit of a rivalry between the two—the Walloons are often the butt of French jokes. I found this quite amusing and wondered if this was true for the Dutch side of the equation too. Neither Morgane nor Zoe could proffer much of a definitive answer but I tend to assume it would be. This seems to be the natural order of the world—poking fun at those with which we have so much in common save one thing or another. Lord knows in growing up in Western Arkansas (and living in Texas) we tended to poke fun at the people from Oklahoma. If we discount the Sooner fans, there is little that separates the majority of us from the majority of “them.”
And yet isn’t it fitting that this country, divided between two cultures, the butt of certain jokes, and at times barely able to form a government for itself is the “capital” of Europe.
SANDWICH SOCIETY
Though much is made of our penchant for hamburgers America is a sandwich society. Of course there are sandwiches everywhere but nowhere is it engrained in the life of its people like the in the United States. Our lives are filled with sandwiches.
Despite outer appearances I am a man of routine. I make lists of things I want to do. I close the lids of open Tupperware and shut the doors of open cabinets. There is a mechanism inside my head that tries to keep things in my life in order. Depending upon the situation these traits range anywhere from “blessings” to “annoyances” but often reside somewhere in the middle ground between “quirks” and “foibles.” Perhaps it is just because I am a man of routine but my meals, especially lunch, revolved around the sandwich. And as a result of my long running penchant for turkey sandwiches I might be biased in making this assertion for America but I believe it.
There are those who argue against the hamburger as a national dish and try to rally around the melting pot status of the United States. We’re too “large” or too “diverse” to have a national dish. Why not have a national dish as broad and varied as our inhabitants and geography? The sandwich is perfect—Gyro, Panini, BLT, California Club—It covers all the ground.
This might not be a ground breaking idea or sentiment but it’s out there now. As I spend my days eating a wide variety of dishes for lunch I often find myself longing for my simple sandwiches. And each time I am able to have a sandwich I am content in ways only the familiar friend can supply.
HOMAGE TO CATALONIA
My life has been filled with books. As I waited for the apartment versus paypal debacle to be sorted out I finished George Orwell’s Homage to Catalonia. I had enjoyed reading the book while I was in college (in fact it was one of the better books I was assigned to read while I was there) so when I saw it on the bookshelves in the apartment I was keen to revisit it.
The version I read in college was the “original” version. At some point after its initial publication Orwell decided upon some changes to the order of the chapters. So, when I read this “updated” version two chapters from the middle of the book that dealt largely with the overall political situation in detail were removed and placed at the end of the book as appendixes. The rearrangement of the chapters proved to be quite beneficial as it streamlined action creating a more cohesive narrative.
Now that you are bored with this inconsequential miscellany: I hesitate to divulge this but I’ve never read Animal Farm or 1984. Despite this embarrassing gap in my literary experience I love Orwell’s writing. He is refreshingly honest throughout the book, not only about what he sees but about himself as well. Despite the somewhat depressing nature of the situation, this honesty allows humor to pleasantly creep in along the edges. And for my money, the closing paragraph is one of the most sweepingly tender and prophetic passages penned.
I spent most of my first day in Brussels in a tavern near La Grand-Place. There was a mix-up with Paypal and so instead of exploring the city, Morgane, Zoe, and I were stuck in a tavern trying to fix the situation. Since they have the French language background they got to do the talking and I got to sit around thinking about Belgian identity. At the risk of being pedantic (that’s for you Matty): Belgium is made of two ethnic groups divided along fairly distinct geographic lines. French is spoken in southern Belgium (Wallonia) and a Dutch dialect, Flemish, is spoken in northern Belgium (Flanders).
I asked Morgane if the French speaking Belgians were proud of their “French” heritage or felt any connection to the people at all. This turned out to be quite off the mark. Apparently there is a bit of a rivalry between the two—the Walloons are often the butt of French jokes. I found this quite amusing and wondered if this was true for the Dutch side of the equation too. Neither Morgane nor Zoe could proffer much of a definitive answer but I tend to assume it would be. This seems to be the natural order of the world—poking fun at those with which we have so much in common save one thing or another. Lord knows in growing up in Western Arkansas (and living in Texas) we tended to poke fun at the people from Oklahoma. If we discount the Sooner fans, there is little that separates the majority of us from the majority of “them.”
And yet isn’t it fitting that this country, divided between two cultures, the butt of certain jokes, and at times barely able to form a government for itself is the “capital” of Europe.
SANDWICH SOCIETY
Though much is made of our penchant for hamburgers America is a sandwich society. Of course there are sandwiches everywhere but nowhere is it engrained in the life of its people like the in the United States. Our lives are filled with sandwiches.
Despite outer appearances I am a man of routine. I make lists of things I want to do. I close the lids of open Tupperware and shut the doors of open cabinets. There is a mechanism inside my head that tries to keep things in my life in order. Depending upon the situation these traits range anywhere from “blessings” to “annoyances” but often reside somewhere in the middle ground between “quirks” and “foibles.” Perhaps it is just because I am a man of routine but my meals, especially lunch, revolved around the sandwich. And as a result of my long running penchant for turkey sandwiches I might be biased in making this assertion for America but I believe it.
There are those who argue against the hamburger as a national dish and try to rally around the melting pot status of the United States. We’re too “large” or too “diverse” to have a national dish. Why not have a national dish as broad and varied as our inhabitants and geography? The sandwich is perfect—Gyro, Panini, BLT, California Club—It covers all the ground.
This might not be a ground breaking idea or sentiment but it’s out there now. As I spend my days eating a wide variety of dishes for lunch I often find myself longing for my simple sandwiches. And each time I am able to have a sandwich I am content in ways only the familiar friend can supply.
HOMAGE TO CATALONIA
My life has been filled with books. As I waited for the apartment versus paypal debacle to be sorted out I finished George Orwell’s Homage to Catalonia. I had enjoyed reading the book while I was in college (in fact it was one of the better books I was assigned to read while I was there) so when I saw it on the bookshelves in the apartment I was keen to revisit it.
The version I read in college was the “original” version. At some point after its initial publication Orwell decided upon some changes to the order of the chapters. So, when I read this “updated” version two chapters from the middle of the book that dealt largely with the overall political situation in detail were removed and placed at the end of the book as appendixes. The rearrangement of the chapters proved to be quite beneficial as it streamlined action creating a more cohesive narrative.
Now that you are bored with this inconsequential miscellany: I hesitate to divulge this but I’ve never read Animal Farm or 1984. Despite this embarrassing gap in my literary experience I love Orwell’s writing. He is refreshingly honest throughout the book, not only about what he sees but about himself as well. Despite the somewhat depressing nature of the situation, this honesty allows humor to pleasantly creep in along the edges. And for my money, the closing paragraph is one of the most sweepingly tender and prophetic passages penned.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Off to Belgium
I had an epiphany just the other day. I feel ridiculous for saying this but it never occurred to me that Belgium was going to have waffles. When it finally did hit me I was ecstatic.
My conversation with a very bewildered Morgane went something like this:
"they have waffles!"
"what?"
"In Belgium! They have waffles!"
"What? So?"
"I'm going to eat waffles everyday!"
I felt like the donkey on Shrek: "And in the mornin' I'm makin' waffles!"
So, for those that haven't figured it out--Zoe, Morgane, and I are going to be spending a couple of days in Brussels.
Before I run out the door, here are a few pictures from the other day. Two waiting in line for the Paris in Colors exhibit and one walking near Chatelet.
My conversation with a very bewildered Morgane went something like this:
"they have waffles!"
"what?"
"In Belgium! They have waffles!"
"What? So?"
"I'm going to eat waffles everyday!"
I felt like the donkey on Shrek: "And in the mornin' I'm makin' waffles!"
So, for those that haven't figured it out--Zoe, Morgane, and I are going to be spending a couple of days in Brussels.
Before I run out the door, here are a few pictures from the other day. Two waiting in line for the Paris in Colors exhibit and one walking near Chatelet.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
On Language
Mr. Webster defines the word "reproach" as an expression of rebuke or disapproval. It seems to have largely disappeared from common or day-to-day English yet I've heard it more here in France than just about any other English word. I'm basing this fact largely on the commonality of the French word "reproche" from which our own word derives. So, when they (French) need a word or phrase in English for where they would use the word "reproche" en Francais, they naturally use "reproach."
This struck me the other day as a fairly underutilized word in the English language. Instead of saying "he reproached me" a more superfluous and not entirely accurate "he got mad at me" would be used or perhaps the slightly more accurate yet just as superfluous "he got on to me." Perhaps I am being selective in my memory but I rarely hear (or have heard) the word "reproach" come out of a native English speaker's mouth. This isn't an "outrage" to me; I don't want to lead a petition to resurrect "reproach." It is just interesting how a person's perception of a "reproach" is that off an attack ("He got mad at me") when in reality there was just disapproval. The vagaries of language intrigue me.
Coincidentally enough, eight hours after writing this and without my prompting, McCall expressed her amazement at the ability of her non-native friends' ability to always use the exactly right English word for the situation/sentence when she or other native speakers would have used a, in her words, "more casual or laid-back expression." This of course spurred me to think of the situation in the opposite light: as a "student" of French. I'm being to taught the proper word(s)(just as they were taught for English) so it seems logical to have the precisely correct wording in situations, whereas the native French speaker might slough off with something casual or off the cuff.
And now, with all this examined/said I will conclude with the fact that I'm going to start peppering my speech with "reproach." Maybe I will start that petition.
This struck me the other day as a fairly underutilized word in the English language. Instead of saying "he reproached me" a more superfluous and not entirely accurate "he got mad at me" would be used or perhaps the slightly more accurate yet just as superfluous "he got on to me." Perhaps I am being selective in my memory but I rarely hear (or have heard) the word "reproach" come out of a native English speaker's mouth. This isn't an "outrage" to me; I don't want to lead a petition to resurrect "reproach." It is just interesting how a person's perception of a "reproach" is that off an attack ("He got mad at me") when in reality there was just disapproval. The vagaries of language intrigue me.
Coincidentally enough, eight hours after writing this and without my prompting, McCall expressed her amazement at the ability of her non-native friends' ability to always use the exactly right English word for the situation/sentence when she or other native speakers would have used a, in her words, "more casual or laid-back expression." This of course spurred me to think of the situation in the opposite light: as a "student" of French. I'm being to taught the proper word(s)(just as they were taught for English) so it seems logical to have the precisely correct wording in situations, whereas the native French speaker might slough off with something casual or off the cuff.
And now, with all this examined/said I will conclude with the fact that I'm going to start peppering my speech with "reproach." Maybe I will start that petition.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Conceptions of Europe
After having noticed that I've read several books on Europe since my arrival, Morgane asked me what my conception of Europe was before I first came this past summer. Furthermore, she wanted to know if it has changed and how. This troubled me. Not the questions themselves but the fact that I couldn't rightly recall what image I had in my head for Europe. The questions themselves, like the answers are elusive. As cognitive beings we are constantly forming and reforming thoughts, constantly remolding conceptions of the world around us as well as those of the larger world--even the unknown parts--through the books we read, the websites we check, the TV we watch.
It's interesting to look back on oneself in the past, to examine the ideas and conceptions we once had. Embarrassingly enough I had the conception of Poland being strikingly similar to that of Siberia, which is to say a frozen expanse of tundra (and that, as I was to learn, proved to be a double fallacy since Siberia has a varied geography).
So, the fact that I've been unable to ascertain what my overall conception of Europe once was is fairly frustrating. The best analogy I can conjure is that of a haircut. I've found on occasion that I've been unable to visualize what a friend's hair looked like after a somewhat drastic cut--say shoulder length to shaved head. I know that I know what they once looked like yet I'm unable to truly visualize it. And that is where I am today--struggling to remember what my image of Europe once was instead of what it is now.
It's interesting to look back on oneself in the past, to examine the ideas and conceptions we once had. Embarrassingly enough I had the conception of Poland being strikingly similar to that of Siberia, which is to say a frozen expanse of tundra (and that, as I was to learn, proved to be a double fallacy since Siberia has a varied geography).
So, the fact that I've been unable to ascertain what my overall conception of Europe once was is fairly frustrating. The best analogy I can conjure is that of a haircut. I've found on occasion that I've been unable to visualize what a friend's hair looked like after a somewhat drastic cut--say shoulder length to shaved head. I know that I know what they once looked like yet I'm unable to truly visualize it. And that is where I am today--struggling to remember what my image of Europe once was instead of what it is now.
Friday, January 18, 2008
The Things I Have to See
It's become rather apparent that I have desires to see "odd" things. In all likelihood you won't find these places in guidebooks. But that doesn't change my need to see them and the most recent instances could not be further apart from one another.
Jose Bove was on a hunger strike here in Paris. He is an alter-globalizationist, a fierce critic of genetically modified foods, and a general pest to the establishment. He catapulted himself into the global spotlight back in 1999 by invading and dismantling a McDonalds franchise in Millau. He was on the hunger strike to get the French government to get a one-year ban on the use of genetically modified crops. I'm not sure what piqued my interest. I suppose I just wanted to see the spectacle. Once I've got my mind set on seeing something I become fixated. Sadly the hunger strike started the day we left for Portugal and ended the Friday we got back when the government gave in to his demands.
The other instance is Charles Dickens Square. Before the other day when I noticed it on the map, I didn't know such a place existed. Now that I do I just want to see what it's like. I could try to make the argument that it's because I love his writing so much, that David Copperfield is one of my favorite books. Both of those statements are truthful but what does all that have to do with this square in Paris? Rien du tout as they'd say here. Nothing at all. Something unknown, something embedded in my mind spurred me to the desire to know, and that has been the overarching premise that has determined most of my life, it has determined who I am.
I've been able to control this insatiable desire to know where propriety deems it necessary but it doesn't disappear. It's lurking around the corner, waiting to pounce on the next thing that passes in front of my nose. Predictably the urge struck me again yesterday. I had went out to meet Zoe & Morgane for lunch after their business meeting this morning. Following our lunch at L'as du Falafel, we ventured over to Hotel de Ville and waited outside in the cold for 30 minutes to see the Paris in Colors photo exhibit. The exhibit housed works spanning the Lumiere brothers to Martin Parr. It was interesting to see not what changed but what hasn't. Other than the color tones there wasn't much to distinguish between 1926 and 1996. Naturally there were obvious things like the clothes and cars but the essential elements of Paris, the buildings, were the same today as they were yesterday. And tucked within the photos of this exhibit there was a shot of Passage du Caire just off the Rue d'Alexandrie that caught my eye and it the latest in a succession of "odd" things I want to see. I've resigned myself to the fact that in all likelihood the neighborhood has changed and the "magic" of the photo has been lost but I still have to see it for myself.
Jose Bove was on a hunger strike here in Paris. He is an alter-globalizationist, a fierce critic of genetically modified foods, and a general pest to the establishment. He catapulted himself into the global spotlight back in 1999 by invading and dismantling a McDonalds franchise in Millau. He was on the hunger strike to get the French government to get a one-year ban on the use of genetically modified crops. I'm not sure what piqued my interest. I suppose I just wanted to see the spectacle. Once I've got my mind set on seeing something I become fixated. Sadly the hunger strike started the day we left for Portugal and ended the Friday we got back when the government gave in to his demands.
The other instance is Charles Dickens Square. Before the other day when I noticed it on the map, I didn't know such a place existed. Now that I do I just want to see what it's like. I could try to make the argument that it's because I love his writing so much, that David Copperfield is one of my favorite books. Both of those statements are truthful but what does all that have to do with this square in Paris? Rien du tout as they'd say here. Nothing at all. Something unknown, something embedded in my mind spurred me to the desire to know, and that has been the overarching premise that has determined most of my life, it has determined who I am.
I've been able to control this insatiable desire to know where propriety deems it necessary but it doesn't disappear. It's lurking around the corner, waiting to pounce on the next thing that passes in front of my nose. Predictably the urge struck me again yesterday. I had went out to meet Zoe & Morgane for lunch after their business meeting this morning. Following our lunch at L'as du Falafel, we ventured over to Hotel de Ville and waited outside in the cold for 30 minutes to see the Paris in Colors photo exhibit. The exhibit housed works spanning the Lumiere brothers to Martin Parr. It was interesting to see not what changed but what hasn't. Other than the color tones there wasn't much to distinguish between 1926 and 1996. Naturally there were obvious things like the clothes and cars but the essential elements of Paris, the buildings, were the same today as they were yesterday. And tucked within the photos of this exhibit there was a shot of Passage du Caire just off the Rue d'Alexandrie that caught my eye and it the latest in a succession of "odd" things I want to see. I've resigned myself to the fact that in all likelihood the neighborhood has changed and the "magic" of the photo has been lost but I still have to see it for myself.
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