Anacapri, Italy Friday, October 30, 2009

Yesterday, Sophia, Alex and I walked to the nearby salumeria (a small neighborhood grocery with a meat and cheese counter) and had three fresh sandwiches (panini) made. The Italians layer fresh tomato, mozarella and whatever else you desire (prociutto cotto or crudo, cooked or aged ham, salami, etc.) drizzle it with olive oil and sprinkle it with fresh herbs.

Provisioned with our picnic lunch, we took the bus to Grotta Azurra (the famous Blue Grotto), then walked back 100 meters to the beginning of il Sentiero dei Fortini -the stone strewn path along the western coast of the island, linking a series of small forts built by the British in the early 19th century to defend the island from the impending Napoleonic invasion. This coast is wilder and rougher than the eastern coast, with few houses, and low-growing weather beaten vegetation. The rock of the island is predominantly limestone, and the pitted holes in the rock face we saw as we hiked the coast attested to its porous quality. I was amazed to see amaryllis growing wild, as well as euphorbia, rosemary, unusual ferns, yucca and cacti. We hiked for four hours from the northwestern Punto dell' Acero to the lighthouse on the southwestern tip or Punta Carena. We had intended to watch the sunset from the lighthouse point, but after a cappucino at a bar overlooking the cove, we caught a bus back into Anacapri. We were physically tired in a satisfying way after a day on the windswept rocks in the warmth of the late fall sun.

The island, especially Anacapri because it is slightly more remote, is quickly depopulating as the tourist season draws to a close. We are practically alone in the Hotel Bussola, and when we go out in the evening to dinner, most restaurants are either nearly empty or already closed for the season. Last night, we found a cozy little restaurant tucked off the street at the end of a shrublined walkway. The owners obviously live upstairs, as the children came down to show Papa (the chef) and Mama (the waitress) their homework during the evening. The evenings are cool (even cold!) and autumnal, so I was hankering for a bowl of soup. I hadn't seen it on any of the menus, but I was certain that the locals must be preparing hearty soups at this time of the year. "C' è zuppa?" I asked the signora. "Si, c'è zuppa dei fagioli," she offered. She served the soup in a rustic clay bowl with small handles on the sides. Deliziosa! The white beans, tomato and spinach were heavily laced with garlic, and together with the country bread it made a most satisfying supper after our hike. Alex and Sophia have both developped a taste for a local dessert - torta caprese - a chocolate cake that is only lightly sweet but served with a generous dollop of heavy whipped cream.

(4;50 pm)

The sun is descending and there is a chill in the air. Dry leaves rustle about my feet as I sit on the blue tile terrace surrounded by Roman statuary. I met a man from Santo Domingo this afternoon who was selling ice cream in the center of Anacapri. He detected my Spanish when I tried to ask in Italian what type of fruit was in one of the flavors. He works here with his nephew during the tourist season, but will go home to Santo Domingo for the winter. He claims that it gets very cold here in Capri in the winter (at least for a Santo Domingan!), and of course there is no money to be made here until March when it begins to warm up and the tourists return. Judging from the large clumps of amaryllis I saw again today while hiking near Monte Solaro (the highest point on the island at 589 meters), it couldn't get too cold.

We took the chairlift to the peak to take in the panoramic view, then Alex and Sophia rode down, while I hiked down, detouring to see the little hermitage of Santa Maria at Cetrella. I was completely alone on the trail, and felt that this was as close as I might come in 2009 to discovering the island the way it would have looked in the late 1800's when Axel Munthe first came here as a young man. I startled birds from their hiding places, and when they flew off, the air was completely silent. I never would have imagined that I could find myself in such complete wilderness on the island of Capri. It was fantastic! Wild cyclamen were growing in clusters in the deep shade, and I even spotted them growing from a rock crevice. Capri is full of surprises...

A final comment on our stay in Anacapri...leading up to October 31, we saw many telltale signs of the approach of Halloween. I am amazed at how this typically American tradition seems to be catching on in Europe. It seems a bit odd, but I guess children everywhere love to dress up and receive candy, so that is the key to Halloween's universal appeal. On the tiny island of Capri on Halloween, we watched as little Italian ghosts, witches and devils went trick or treating in all the little shops in Anacapri. They would enter a shop and say: "Dolcetti proveddete!" which I think means something like "You will provide sweets!" Older Caprese ladies sat out on the steep narrow streets with plates covered with hand tatted lace doilies covering the treats they were handing out. It was quite a sight!

Thursday, October 29 Anacapri, Italy

We arrived on time in Napoli and took a harrowing drive by taxi to the Molo Beverello (quay for departure to Capri, Ischia and Sorrento by hydrofoil). From my brief glimpse by night of the area around the central train station, Naples looked third-worldish with garbage overflowing, people gathered around an open fire on the sidewalk, and our taxi driver dodging motos and running red lights, passing on the right!

Night falls early here now due to daylight savings time which began last Saturday, and the fact that we are further east than in Brussels. By five o'clock the sun is already setting now. Capri is lovely and sunny with spectacular views in every direction. We made "the pilgrimage" to Axel Munthe's villa San Michele (www.sanmichele.org/indexEN.html) yesterday after breakfast, and I was enthralled by the beauty of its natural setting. The house itself was somewhat dark and uninviting, but the gardens carved out of the rocky premonitory provided an idyllic atmosphere for reflection and meditation. The San Michele chapel with its view over the Bay of Naples, guarded by the Egyptian sphinx from the time of Rameses II was the 'punto culminante.'

Vladi had to leave yesterday afternoon to return to Brussels, so Sophia and I accompanied him on the minibus that makes the twisting drive down the cliff from Anacapri to Capri. There we said goodbye and headed along a path that hugged the eastern edge of the island. The elegant villas here are envelopped in mantles of bouganvillea and ivy, and dotted with citrus and palms. The center of Capri has been dedicated to ultra chic and expensive designer boutiques producing an overall effect akin to an airport dutyfree zone. Once you move beyond this, however, the island's unique blend of Italian arquitectural elegance and natural beauty prevails.

We reached the view of gli Faraglioni, the massive rocks engulfed by the sea that were once part of the island. Following the via Pizzolungo, we glimpsed the modernistic Villa Malaparte, a long narrow red house built on barren rock and accessible only by a steep stairs twisting its way up the perpendicular wall face from the sea. The Italian author Curzio Malaparte had it built in the 1940's. We continued along the path through abundant vegetation, reaching the large Grotta di Matromania, a natural cave with Roman remains still crumbling, and the picturesque Arco Naturale which reminded me of Lexington, Virginia's Natural Bridge, except that on Capri the arch frames a beautiful window of azure blue. Everywhere you fix your gaze, the brilliant blue of sea and sky dazzles. When the sunlight strikes the water's surface it shimmers and sparkles like a mantle of diamonds.

Taormina, Sicily Tuesday, October 27

The warmth of the sun penetrates the clouds and fills me with a radiant languor. The view from our hotel room balcony is resplendent with Mediterranean sensuality - the shimmering sea, pungent pine and cyprus, shades of ocher rooftops and walls, punctuated by colorful flapping laundry. Mount Etna presides over the entire scene, now shrouded by clouds, then looming, snow capped over the rocky outcrops jutting across the landscape until they plunge into the coast.

Perched on the hillside between Taormina and the tiny hilltop town of Castelmola, I can observe the town's bustle from a bird's-eye view. A steady chiseling and pounding reaches my ears as men work at installing some new electrical lines on the façade of a stucco house. Cars purr up and down the winding street with the occasional whining of a moto.

Last night, just before dusk, Vladi and I climbed the steep footpath to Castelmola, a town built around a medieval fortress on a naturally fortified rock outcrop overlooking the bay of Taormina. Adjacent to Taormina is the resort of Giardini Naxos, once a sleepy fishing village, but reputedly the first Greek settlement in Sicily. The challenging climb was worth the effort when the path opened onto a tiled piazetta where men sat chatting on benches and narrow streets beckoned. We found the town's church and tiny municipal library on another charming square with a vista dropping straight to the sea. The door of the church was slightly ajar, and the light and voices from within announced that massa was in progress. On the door, a notice invited all parishoners to attend a special service welcoming the new Padre Tonini who was beginning his tenure on samedi il 24 di ottobre.

With darkness descending, we headed back the way we had come, but were sidetracked by an alluring display of local wines. One bottle of amber-colored liquid was labeled Mandorla. The shopkeeper insisted that the four stars on the label assured us of the best quality in all of Sicily. She invited us to step in and have a taste. Inside the shop, her elderly mother sat wrapped in a sweater and complained of the cold. She must have thought that we foreigners (gli stranieri) were crazy in our sandals, skirt, and shorts. The sweet golden wine tasted of almonds, and we bought the largest bottle available. Before heading down the steep, now dark path, we took one last flight of steps upward to the ruined walls of the castle overlooking the sea. I tried to imagine the long ago inhabitants keeping watch as approaching ships brought the menace and terror of a fresh wave of invaders. At any rate, those unwelcome guests would have faced a daunting challenge as they attempted to scale the rock cliffs.

At the hotel, we met up again with a family we had met at breakfast who curiously mirrored our own. The father was Polish, his wife American (from Texas!) and their two children, a daughter and son, were 17 and 15 respectively. They live in southwestern France where their children attend local schools. They moved permanently to France in 2001 because the father was disenchanted with American society, and wanted his children to grow up and be educated in a different environment. What amazed me was that neither he nor his wife knew French before they embarked on this new episode of their lives! He designs software and had done very well financially during his twenty years in Texas, and decided that he could live anywhere he chose. His wife now runs a gite (a vacation home rental) they created on their property in the rural Dordogne by converting an old stone barn into three independent vacation houses. She beamed as she told me that sometimes while she is enjoying a glass of wine with her visitors, she reminds herself incredulously,"This is my job!"

A taxi delivered us today at noon to the fin de siecle train station at Giardini Taormina. Ornate iron grillwork adorned the walls and tiled waiting rooms lined with intricately carved wooden benches were marked Sala d'atentto di prima classe and segonda classe. Our train made the brief journey to the port at Messina where we were loaded onto a ferry to cross the narrow straits to the toe of Italy. While on the ferry, we descended from our train compartment (shared with a kind-faced, one-armed gentleman of a certain age with a quick draw on his mobile phone...Pronto...Si, noi veddiamo questa tarde...) to go up on deck and watch our boat approaching the mainland.

We are now rattling along again at a good pace, following the coast on our way to Naples. The sea is calm, the sky a bit cloudy out the lefthand window. On the right, I glimpse another castle and hilltop town perched above us. If all goes well, we will arrive in Napoli by 7:00 pm and get a taxi to the Mola Beverello (quay) in time to catch the last ferry to Capri.

S'il vous plait, Monsieur l'Inspecteur!

My intention was to write a new post each week, but life seems to get in the way of my best intentions...For example, today I spent part of my afternoon visiting the local police station (for the second time) in an attempt to file a formal complaint against a French online company. Remember that Vladi wanted to buy a special flatscreen television to which he could connect our computer and thus watch our DVDs on a larger screen? You may remember that we drove to Lille in France to check prices there, but in the end, he decided to order from a company he found online which appeared perfectly legitimate (but how can you tell?).

That was in September, and we still have not received the tv. I set out for our local police station on foot, passing the impressive International Deutch Schule (International German School) and a tiny International Montessori Preschool on the way. I spoke with two inspecteurs, one a friendly, smiling young Polish rookie who then deferred to his chef (boss), a less friendly, unsmiling Flemish officer who basically reproached me for stupidly buying online and then expecting the Belgian police to solve my problem. I could almost sympathize with his perspective, but at the same time I told myself, "Well, that's what you're here for - to help people solve their problems..." Outloud, I blamed my husband, saying that I wouldn't have ordered the tv online myself, but I am just trying to help him sort this out. "And where is your husband right now? he asked me sternly. "Au travail (at work)" I replied. The officer wanted to know where he worked, and when I indicated that Vladi worked at the Commission (The European Commission), the inspector's disdain was nearly palpable. In general, the commission employees are an irritation to local Belgians because of their special work status that provides them with enviable benefits like tax-free income, discounts on high-priced purchases such as cars, home furnishings, etc.

In the end, the Flemish officer called the company himself to ask about the status of our order, and was told that they had just received confirmation of our payment. (What a coincidence!) Obviously, a little phone call from the police didn't hurt. Vladi has been calling regularly for the past month and has always had the same reply: We cannot reimburse you until we have received confirmation of your payment." If, within 30 days of today, we still haven't been reimbursed as promised, only then will the police consider it a criminal act and proceed with filing the claim.

Despite the united Europe that the EU proudly proclaims, in certain areas such as law inforcement, international cooperation is not always the name of the game. The police inspectors with whom I spoke were not optimistic about our claim reaching any further than the French border. The first officer I spoke with even recommended that we drive across the border to file our complaint directly with the French police!

I left the clean, modern offices of the police station (no suspects or criminals in sight; this station appeared to be more of a bureaucratic, paper-pushing terminal) with my problem unresolved, but with a certain satisfaction that I had been able to hold my ground in French with the somewhat gruff Belgian police. I have the officer's business card and the request that if all is resolved to please give them a call so that they can close the file....but, my friends, the case is not yet closed! To be continued...

Diana Krall Odyssey

Before the magic fades, I need to describe the experience of seeing and hearing jazz pianist Diana Krall live in concert Sunday evening in Brussels. I have been listening to her recordings for several years, and I have always enjoyed her sultry, breathy voice and romantic interpretations of old standards that I grew up listening to with my dad, a huge jazz and big band enthusiast with a fantastic singing voice which he never put to good use, due mostly to his alcohol addiction.

It all started with Vladi asking me if I wanted to travel to Paris to see Diana Krall perform at the Olympia. Did I ever! Unfortunately, by the time we had heard about the concert, the tickets were already sold out. Oh well, I thought. We will always find another excuse to go to Paris, and I can always have Diana all to myself in her recordings...On our previously-mentioned trip to Lille, I spotted posters advertising Krall's upcoming concert in that city. Maybe she'll come to Brussels too...Sure enough, I checked her Quiet Nights world tour schedule, and her extensive tour of Europe included a concert in Brussels on Sunday, September 27 at 8:00 pm at the Palais des Beaux-Arts. Vladi is not a big jazz fan, but was willing to go to please me...however, the date coincided with his planned trip to go to Bulgaria for a week where he is trying to conclude the sale of his mother's apartment. Of all times to plan your trip, Vladi!

I thought of my friend and former apartment mate, Lynn Vial Buendgen, and our Chicago days in the mid 1980's, checking out southside blues clubs...It would be great to see her and show her our house...maybe she would be willing to make the three-hour trip from her home in Koblenz, Germany to see an old friend and take in Diana Krall...Lynn arrived on Sunday morning, and after an afternoon of catching up, we gussied up and took the metro into central Brussels. Afraid that we had timed our arrival a bit too close, we found ourselves hoofing it in high heels for the two blocks to the theater, only to find that Belgian time is a bit more relaxed, and we arrived with a moment to catch our collective breath and find our balcony seats, which were quite good despite the last-minute ticket purchase.

Diana and her trio accompaniment (electric guitarist, drummer, and bass player) breezed out onto the stage and launched directly into their first set with gusto. When she finally spoke to the audience, Diana was humorous: (applause) "I only speak French while you are applauding in case I make any mistakes," she quipped (in English). She proceeded to get intimate with the crowd by admitting that she was really looking forward to seeing her twin sons (soon to turn three in December) and her husband (singer Elvis Costello) who were preparing to board a plane in two hours to join her after three weeks of being apart. She then introduced I've Grown Accustomed to His Face by saying that it reminded her of her husband, "but I don't want you to think about that while you are listening to this song," she cautioned. "You don't need to get all pumped up about it," she added with a dry sense of humor. "I'm Canadian, can you tell?" she asked the audience.

What amazed me about her concert performance was how exciting it was to be there listening and watching Krall on the piano, which is her obvious first musical love. Her singing is a real bonus, but she really loses herself in jazz improvisations at the keyboard. At one point, while rambling a bit in her banter with the audience, she confessed that she was stalling while trying to decide what to play next, and finally settling on I Love Being Here With You. Later on, she mentioned her friendship with her mentor, the late, great Rosemary Clooney, and started playing around on the piano with the tune Sisters famously sung by Clooney and Vera Ellen in the classic film White Christmas. As she tickled the keys, elaborating on the melody, Krall smiled over at her musicians and said, "I'll be with you in a moment!" She then deftly wrapped Sisters into So Nice. Clooney had no clear connection to what she was about to play, but she transitioned seamlessly, and it all worked!

"Tomorrow, I'll be playing 'The Wheels on the Bus' and singing about little spiders..." she mused in an aside to the audience (one I'm not certain the international crowd completely comprehended). "That's just for me - my kids actually prefer Sheryl Crow," she joked. "Listen to me! I'm insufferable, going on about my kids," she reproached herself a moment later between songs. "But you have children, don't you? Or grandchildren? Or maybe you are children yourselves? I can't see you, but I know that you are out there." It was clear that her family was on her mind, and she was probably anxious for their impending reunion, yet she gave herself musically 100% to us, and it was a fantastic evening for as long as it lasted.

Like all wonderful moments, it seemed over all too soon, and she thanked us for being a great audience, saying that she had really enjoyed herself in Brussels, but...this was going to have to be the last song. The musicians then took their bows and departed the stage, leaving the audience clapping loudly in unison for more. They then returned without too much urging for an obviously planned encore of The Boy from Ipanema from Krall's recent bossa-nova-inspired release Quiet Nights, and a rendition of Every Time We Say Goodbye with a clear, this-is-it-guys message. Diana Krall was stunning in her aqua, full-skirted, v-necked gown and sparkling heels, but more than her appearance, it was her easy attitude of improvisation at the piano that enthralled us and made us crave more. The venue was intimate enough to leave you with the feeling that it was just (to borrow a song title) you, (+Diana Krall), the night, and the music!

Ik spreek een beetje Nederlands…

Where has the time gone?! I have been composing this entry in my head since Tuesday at lunchtime when I emerged from my first Dutch class inspired and exhilarated. Class is held once a week at de KAM, the civic center of Wezembeek-oppem. The building itself is very inviting, with whitewashed brick walls and steeply pitched roof arranged around a central courtyard. Vladi thinks it has the look of a monastery, but to me it has the feel of a European farm courtyard.

I arrived on foot just before 9:00 am when class starts, and had to stop in at the downstairs office to pay my tuition. I had enrolled myself the previous Friday, but didn’t have the 60 euros for the year-long course. The staff in the KAM office is kind, and speaks Nederlands (Dutch), but also speak French fluently. The class meets on the second floor, which has a timbered, open-beam ceiling, thus my feeling of being in a cozy barn loft. I must admit that I was slightly nervous, knowing that I was joining the course two weeks late, and wondering what the teacher and students would be like. I had imagined my classmates as immigrant workers, or their spouses, struggling to learn Dutch so that they could apply for work, or just do the shopping in their Dutch-speaking neighborhoods. Would I be the only one doing this for fun?

I walked in and took a seat next to a friendly-looking young woman. I introduced myself in French, and she told me that her name is Mahboubeh, and she is originally from Iran, but has been living in Belgium for some years. She kindly let me copy her notes from the previous lessons, and patiently explained the grammar covered. She also offered to let me share her book, since I still need to purchase one from the teacher. A number of other students arrived, of various ages, male and female, and decidedly not appearing to be struggling immigrants. When the teacher arrived, everyone greeted her with “Goedmorgen! (Good morning!) and Dag! (which means both hello, and goodbye – those ever practical Dutch!) Her name is Nadia, and she is probably about my age, with glasses and hair falling down over her shoulders. She wore a wide smile, and appeared animated and enthusiastic. The class was held for two hours and forty minutes, with a ten-minute break in the middle. Nadia speaks to us in Dutch, and then translates into English and French. Because I can understand the second two languages, I get to go over the material twice, which I hope will help to reinforce my understanding.

One of the highlights of my first class was getting to meet my classmates, about twenty in all, representing sixteen different nationalities! We went around the class, telling where we are from in Dutch: Uit welk land kom jij? Ik kom uit de Verenigde Staten. Those last three words are “the United States.” My classmates come from Belgium, the Congo, England, France, Germany, Iceland, Irak, Iran, Ireland, Japan, Luxemburg, Pakistan, the Philippines, Poland, and Russia. Apparently a man from Egypt is also enrolled but was not present. We also learned how to indicate what language(s) we speak, so I learned the words for Engels, Frans, Duits, Ests, Arabisch, Perzisch, Japans, Luxemburgs, Urdu, Filippijns, Pools, and Russisch.

I have a looong way to go to be able to communicate in Dutch, but it was a great beginning, and I am already looking forward to my next class. Meanwhile, I have recopied all my notes, and practiced a bit, as well as listened to Dutch-speaking radio here in Belgium (which plays mostly English-speaking music.) Dag!

Le weekend...

Yesterday, Vladi and I were invited to join one of his Bulgarian friends and colleague, Ilian, on a road trip to Lille. Lille is just across the border in northern France, 118 km or 1 hour and 17 minutes by car, according to Google Map Quest. Well, it took us a bit longer, as we unknowingly cruised on by the highway sign indicating the direction for a town called Rijsl, an obscure place not mentioned on our Michelen (French) map. We finally stopped at a rest stop a few kilometers further along the A10, to discover that Rijsl is the Dutch word for Lille! (Now you may understand my desire to learn Dutch!)
No problem, we turned back and headed for the turnoff. Our main objective was to have fun and see Lille, though the pretext was that Vladi and Ilian wanted to check out the prices of flatscreen televisions in France. They were convinced that they would be significantly cheaper, as all electronics, and virtually all imported goods in Belgium are very expensive. Since Belgium is a small nation, that includes many everyday items. Take straight pins, for instance. I was shocked to have to pay 5 euros for a plastic box of common pins! Anyway, I am getting off the subject...back to Lille.

We arrived in Lille at midday to the pulse of a busy shopping Saturday in the center. Lille is a city with a population just over 1 million if you include the surrounding suburbs, and is a former major textile manufacturing center. It is the fourth largest city in France, after Paris, Lyon, and Marseilles. Today, it has a huge student population with over 110,000 students representing more than ten institutions of higher learning. We headed toward the zone piétone (pedestrian zone), that car-free (and therefore carefree) area found in every French city, large and small where people can walk freely without worrying about traffic. The guys were quickly disappointed to learn that the prices were not really cheaper, as was Petya, a young Bulgarian woman employed by the Bulgarian Ministry of Agriculture in Belgium, who had also come along to see Lille and shop for clothes.

Ilian has been to Lille before, and wanted us to experience the ambiance of Meert, one of the oldest cafés in France, and located on the Place Charles de Gaulle, named for the famous general, resistance fighter, and former French president who was born in Lille. Meert has been in the business of serving tea, coffee and pastries to genteel (and not so genteel!) customers since 1761. The glass-cased window lures you in with pastries that are elevated to the status of works of art. There is also a confectionery shop that looks as though it hasn't changed much since the 18th century. We enjoyed the refined grace of the chandeliered tearoom, though Vladi hardly fit the part in his t-shirt and shorts! Oh well! He ordered a decadent-looking chocolate confection that appeared to have a piece of liquid silver laminated on top... Ilian commented that it would blend well with his fillings...

We strolled through the central square, taking in the flavor of the city as many citizens and tourists alike mingled on the beautiful sunny afternoon. We came across a used book fair being held in the stunning courtyard of the Vieille Bourse (the Old Stock Exchange). Shouts were heard out in the big square, and we observed a large crowd of students, wearing personalized lab coats, holding hands, and many were linked together by knots tied at the edges of their coats. We were a bit puzzled. Were they on strike? They weren't carrying any protest signs, and they seemed to be in a very good mood. So, I asked a couple of them. "What are you guys doing?" "We are students from the École nationale supérieure d'arts et métiers (trade school) and we are having an outing," they responded with a smile. "What are you going to do now?" I asked. They hesitated, then said, "We don't really know, but keep watching and you will find out!" Vladi asked them if they were all male, and they said there were a few women, but only 10%.

Instead of watching to see what they would do next, we turned our attention to a more subdued group gathered in a circle next to the students, holding signs featuring individuals in various poses with their faces covered. The signs read: Sans papiers...ne plus vivre cachés (The undocumented...don't live in hiding anymore!) The group that was demonstrating for the rights of undocumented immigrants in France was the Ligue des droits de l'Homme and they were quoting Article 1 of the Universal Declaration of the Rights of Man of 1948: All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and in rights. They possess reason and a conscience and should behave towards one another in a spirit of fraternity.

They pointed out that France was not exactly living up to its theoretical ideal in actual practice. They accused the government of hunting down these illegals, denouncing them, imprisoning them and sending them back to their home countries, often to dangerous or intolerable circumstances. This argument will sound familiar to most Americans, and has been a point of debate in French politics for years.
Overall, our quick trip to Lille was a revelation. For some reason, I had always assumed that Lille was a big industrial city with little charm. My assumption was ill-founded. By the way, I forgot to mention another very famous French citizen native to Lille from whose research we have all benefited: Louis Pasteur was from Lille, and his Institut Pasteur was founded there. FYI: Pasteur was the inventor of the pasteurisation process, a micro-biologist and pioneer of vaccines. A bientôt!

If a plane crashes at Brussels Airport, it will be in my backyard...

Bienvenue à mon blogue! This will not be earth-shattering stuff, but a running commentary of anecdotal observations and narrative of my life in Belgium as an "expatriate" American. Our daughter Sophia and I arrived here on August 26, 2009 to join my husband, Vladimir and son Alex who have already been working and studying in Brussels for one year. The pretext for our move is Vladimir's employment with the European Commission in the sector known as SANCO, dealing with public health and safety issues within the European Union. My job? So far, I am chief cook and bottle washer, head gardener, la femme de mènage, French tutor, litter pan cleaner, etc. You get the picture...

Since I am new to blogging, I have a few tricks to learn, and I need to start carrying my camera around (much to my chagrin) so that I can illustrate my blahblahblah with some actual photos.

Friday, September 11, 2009

It has been seventeen days since Sophia and I (and Samora, our cat!) arrived in Belgium, and we are beginning to settle into our routines here. Since I am not working outside the home at this point, I have to create my routine, as without some sense of order and purpose, I would end up sitting around in my bathrobe all day, eating bonbons...(which could get serious in a country famous for producing Godiva!)
Our rented house is red brick, built in the 1950's, and has a sizable yard which is mostly grass. We need to invest in a mower, as the little hand push mower I sent from the U.S. isn't quite up to the task. For my gardening friends, we do have two large lilacs, a huge rhododendron, and the most fantastic lavender-blue colored hydrangea hedge (yes! I said hedge!) I have ever seen, let alone dreamed of possessing...
We can walk ten to fifteen minutes to the nearest metro station, Stockel, which connects us by public transport to the rest of Brussels. There is also a tram stop down the street which takes the rider into the center of Stockel. Stockel is like a little town unto itself, where all the necessities of life can be taken care of. I have to admit that I have only ventured into central Brussels a handful of times since arriving, as we have mostly been busy here at home trying to get our household in order.
And what does the attention-grabbing title refer to, you are wondering? We live in proximity of the Brussels airport at Zaventem, and jets fly over frequently. The other day, I was sitting on our patio, eating breakfast al fresco, when a jet loomed over so close I thought it was going to land in our backyard! From your perspective, though, this proximity has a certain charm, as the ride from the airport to your lodgings when you come to visit will be blissfully brief! Lately, though, for some odd reason, people have taken a fancy to traveling in and out of Brussels late at night, and we have heard jets as late as one am....
My big accomplishment today (other than setting up this blog) was walking to the KAM (cultural center) in nearby Wezembeek-oppem and signing up for a beginning Dutch class. I start next Tuesday at 9:00 am! I'll have some catching up to do, as the course started two weeks ago, but since they only meet once a week, I think I can handle it. Belgium is a bilingual country, divided linguistically into the northern Flemish-speaking half, and the southern French-speaking half. Brussels itself is linguistically divided, and though our neighbors on Schoneluchtlaan (Avenue Bel Air) seem to be mostly French-speaking, when I cross the highway to Wezembeek-oppem (a cute little blink-of-the-eye town), everyone there speaks Flemish (a.k.a. Dutch, known as neerlandais in French). Curiously, I have always wanted to learn Dutch since I was a little girl, and my father would recite a Christmas rhyme in Dutch that he had learned from his mother. My paternal grandmother, Pauline Sophia DeKorte, emigrated to America when she was seven years old from her birthplace, Goes, Netherlands. Now I have a chance to learn some Dutch, and I hope that I will be able to eventually read some of the books and documents I have collected about Goes and Zeeland.