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.