tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11062939026953601112024-02-19T09:20:03.525-08:00Murmurs from the FoldsSarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14901040121871370656noreply@blogger.comBlogger98125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1106293902695360111.post-15292286240995734542011-07-26T09:04:00.000-07:002011-07-26T09:49:12.670-07:00Paris Cemeteries<div style="text-align: left;">A couple of weeks ago, we drove to Paris for the weekend. It's so close. I was the map reader that got us there, and I traced out the Arrondisements in a circle with my index finger while my husband drove. I never knew that they spiraled out from the center like that. I suppose I had never bothered to study a map of Paris before. </div><div><div><br /></div><div>We left our umbrellas in the car, stayed in the 20th and took the subway across the city and back again, had cocktails at the Place de la Bastille, found Victor Hugo's house, got caught in a downpour in the Latin Quarter. We stood in a phone booth (thank god Paris still has phone booths - perhaps they'll leave them as 20th century relics for future historians to point to) while the rain pelted the streets and finally decided to make a run for it, ending up at a little Algerian restaurant. We drank Algerian wine and spoke broken French. It was some of the best wine I've ever had.</div><div><br /></div><div>Mostly, we saw cemeteries. I know. There's the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, the Champs Elysee, and we passed our time among the dead. But it was cold and rainy, a fall weekend in the summer, perfect for cold stones and iron gates. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI1FN6rRXJu0vwFUH4jhNuYsM_eiDxmnXhiG_6j-lhTFJ4-bAammFWdQQ8VoZ86epJQhcxw6ehIqZclLEGTeOQKM1xTk21Tg0m3z__6GnoUzL-6B_gYB9FvycG9gcvNrqtSgya-aghEsA/s1600/IMG_5968.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI1FN6rRXJu0vwFUH4jhNuYsM_eiDxmnXhiG_6j-lhTFJ4-bAammFWdQQ8VoZ86epJQhcxw6ehIqZclLEGTeOQKM1xTk21Tg0m3z__6GnoUzL-6B_gYB9FvycG9gcvNrqtSgya-aghEsA/s320/IMG_5968.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633701389355589314" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " /></a><div style="text-align: center; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><i>Pere Lachaise</i></span></div></div><div style="text-align: center; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmIsce8BX1nhVPvda9egRWvlEI55gl8f5FLaD6zcSajhTgkhlw1yu_mLMtKBMZ3ZC2eHoS7ZgQ_6DUxBHEQkMyneXuqAiNWc5E4SHIO26l9YgVlucT7IpnTjWRDdJ-HUIVxlwvW8ZWaH0/s1600/IMG_5988.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmIsce8BX1nhVPvda9egRWvlEI55gl8f5FLaD6zcSajhTgkhlw1yu_mLMtKBMZ3ZC2eHoS7ZgQ_6DUxBHEQkMyneXuqAiNWc5E4SHIO26l9YgVlucT7IpnTjWRDdJ-HUIVxlwvW8ZWaH0/s320/IMG_5988.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633702054195539074" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " /></a><div><div style="text-align: center; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><i>With the Tour Montparnasse</i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><br /></i></span></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI1FN6rRXJu0vwFUH4jhNuYsM_eiDxmnXhiG_6j-lhTFJ4-bAammFWdQQ8VoZ86epJQhcxw6ehIqZclLEGTeOQKM1xTk21Tg0m3z__6GnoUzL-6B_gYB9FvycG9gcvNrqtSgya-aghEsA/s1600/IMG_5968.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a></div></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXVPmk0aNct83kacndCHyfyH_iPXeVZwws8ItbFmzUF3OpgLRWZqDjwE6Udc7sHmgk7ZpBXoGTDX1sCkLW8Ob78_edLpGkENmQaTX9qDoa2iLmzT0l4JUQ0hn6jD8GVWAbBWquvdtIxFU/s1600/IMG_5983.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXVPmk0aNct83kacndCHyfyH_iPXeVZwws8ItbFmzUF3OpgLRWZqDjwE6Udc7sHmgk7ZpBXoGTDX1sCkLW8Ob78_edLpGkENmQaTX9qDoa2iLmzT0l4JUQ0hn6jD8GVWAbBWquvdtIxFU/s320/IMG_5983.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633702727628037426" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span">Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir</span></i></div></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUiIBfXGGB5VXKnLza5EH8YtJvrzq3u0-pYIJAh1Zod4WS7mzm4HbJkM8E_obP6wNeM2puwZHYVOx9VPJOazGz06Z_Z34_pwEWsR-hgRjWRal2hzYQmmTXSSOFx5-ARi2ghsxXguMxyeQ/s1600/IMG_5992.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUiIBfXGGB5VXKnLza5EH8YtJvrzq3u0-pYIJAh1Zod4WS7mzm4HbJkM8E_obP6wNeM2puwZHYVOx9VPJOazGz06Z_Z34_pwEWsR-hgRjWRal2hzYQmmTXSSOFx5-ARi2ghsxXguMxyeQ/s320/IMG_5992.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633703107244838642" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px; " /></a><div style="text-align: center; "><i><span class="Apple-style-span">The ever-loved Gainsbourg</span></i></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></i></div>Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14901040121871370656noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1106293902695360111.post-36640911660494148042011-07-07T11:10:00.000-07:002011-07-07T14:01:14.036-07:00Charleroi<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnZatEtXrnIxbVSL0ZZKiZvhlQpsrkT_5llJGxEZp5_ehbZB4k_hPlzOExf3tCyd2kd2UUMTG4ntrOJCWinyNnUlh42jFQVeqfaKndZrr38ReW_bWEAHg6NkHd1YgqbOJoASREX93mvmI/s1600/Charleroi3.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUworWntf9lis9bT0x9WBG8zjG-arf1j_lsTpLEzNzjXWiiudEGfb6PLDc7Ey7njvvjShYX-NrzNdENK54EB1Fc0BKh8vRiorMTIwvmu7LIHjulPm8SeEdKUVRu-bKGP9VXgFlNYoK5qM/s1600/Charleroi2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUworWntf9lis9bT0x9WBG8zjG-arf1j_lsTpLEzNzjXWiiudEGfb6PLDc7Ey7njvvjShYX-NrzNdENK54EB1Fc0BKh8vRiorMTIwvmu7LIHjulPm8SeEdKUVRu-bKGP9VXgFlNYoK5qM/s320/Charleroi2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626715480054020994" /></a><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaDvuVvurRipwz0OH78z64rqnmGXGK8a3TOuYzzFVT7PAoM3dQhx2XuNhhljgk66iS8nzUCXnz6tjQuhMw1TMb06S2rSAKjW_gj7nJikxc34pTB6EhjK_cQkRJ70lZFLwRCuaJYqsRZZo/s320/Charleroi1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626715848996697890" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnZatEtXrnIxbVSL0ZZKiZvhlQpsrkT_5llJGxEZp5_ehbZB4k_hPlzOExf3tCyd2kd2UUMTG4ntrOJCWinyNnUlh42jFQVeqfaKndZrr38ReW_bWEAHg6NkHd1YgqbOJoASREX93mvmI/s320/Charleroi3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626715681998235490" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTeoOOiYzWnQ2ZRHqCfwrnVjm_vkVPPg79mcsfqo0NFfkbWOqNkKzl59ARdNRl7475plMCGJrUp8lwQsdWPC0q_wa7Ha9bLR1VJPngps8oSJnMm9kutAOV-C_Rdm5Lv6CEMaUK_rfU8W4/s320/Charleroi4.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626716088941413330" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div>My experiences in the south, French-speaking part of Belgium had been limited to lovely little towns in the Ardennes, picturesque locations in the mountains with colorful awnings and gelato places. Until a few weeks ago, most of the cities still remained a mystery. <div><br /></div><div>Ask any Belgian why they would want to visit Charleroi, and you will get an answer in the form of a question. <i>The airport? The photography museum? </i>It's no Paris. If anything, it's known as a former maiden of industry, now littered with factories, functioning and abandoned, and choked by its periphery of abandoned coal mines and slag heaps. To top it off, unemployment there is soaring.</div><div><br /></div><div><div>My friend suggested an <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/travel/2010/sep/25/charleroi-belgium-ugliest-city-world">Urban Safari of Charleroi</a> a couple of months ago, and I was game - it sounded like an interesting way to discover a city I would probably never venture into otherwise. Our first encounter with our rough-and-tumble tour guide was watching him roll cigarettes and throw nervous glances at my friend's pregnant belly. <i>You're pregnant? You can't do this. Are you sure you can do this? </i>She assured him she could. <i>You have to climb over fences. Run from the police, if need be. </i> I was starting to get nervous. </div><div><br /></div><div>The next four hours were indeed doable, but he assured us they were a bit toned down due to her situation. We went to a grand train station, built in Charleroi's hay day of coal wealth and since abandoned and never used. Entry may not have been quite legal, so we crawled through fences and walked along the tracks to make it inside. We went to a deteriorating coal hub on the outskirts of town and ate lunch on a blanket spread outside of the ruins. We walked along the city's waterways and saw functioning factories and graffiti-ed walls. We climbed a slag heap and looked out over the lackluster suburbs. Our tour guide spoke a broken, practically unintelligible version of English (as much as <a href="http://murmursfromthefolds.blogspot.com/2011/06/grammar-lessons.html">I don't mind grammar mistakes</a>, there's a certain point where understanding breaks apart), so I'm not sure I learned as much about the town as I could have. But I certainly found the scenery interesting.</div></div><div><br /></div><div>There were two film students there as well with a small portable camera, catching the spirit of the trip and asking questions every once in awhile. They pulled me aside when we stopped for a drink and asked me questions about why I had come. <i>Do you think</i>, their last question probed, <i>that this just reinforces stereotypes about the city?</i> I had to reflect for a minute. <i>Yes and no</i>, I said. <i>Is it any different than looking at other relics of a past age? And, all truth be told, without the tour I would probably have never visited the city. </i> I walked around the bar where we had stopped later, a humongous former factory that had been converted to not only serve drinks but show artwork. There were interesting pieces and displays everywhere you turned. I picked up a map that they were giving away with all kinds of interesting haunts flagged over its paths. I wish I could go back now and refine my answer. Because I think the tour isn't just about urban decay, it's also about the creative ways people are converting that decay into something interesting. <i>The graffiti we saw</i>, my friend asked before we headed to the train station, <i>that was a contest?</i> I hadn't caught that on the tour. He nodded, and I thought back. It made sense - it was really too good of a display to be anything but designed and developed.</div><div><br /></div><div>I still have the map of the city that I picked up in that raftered bar, and it offers really interesting suggestions. Perhaps I'll be back again. </div></div></div>Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14901040121871370656noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1106293902695360111.post-1331489491846620222011-06-23T11:49:00.000-07:002011-06-23T13:56:44.241-07:00Grammar LessonsI recently sat in on a talk by a language instructor, a confident and fiery teacher of Spanish who regaled the audience with interesting and hilarious tales of language learning. <i>To what extent</i>, she asked us, <i>do you have to be grammatically correct to be understood? </i>If someone asks in, say, a bar in the U.S.: <i>You has here things for eating?</i>, most likely they'll not only get a straight answer, they'll get one in fast-paced normal English that the bar tender won't even bother to cushion with simple vocabulary or more clear annunciation for an obvious second-language speaker. She shook her head and said <i>Teachers are the only ones who are obnoxious. They're the only ones who will say 'You can't say it that way!'</i> Her point settled in, and I've been going over it as I measure my progress with Dutch.<div><br /></div><div>When I go over the evidence, it occurs to me that most native speakers are actually very slow to judge someone's grammar as a second-language speaker. I have been in conversations with plenty of non-native speakers and I very rarely think <i>Wow, they said that all wrong. </i>I'm usually too busy combing for meaning, trying to get the gist, searching for an appropriate response. My H. will let me ramble on in Dutch and I finally turn to him upon composing a particularly daring sentence that could be very clever but is most likely just wrong. He nods more often than not, prompting me to continue with what I'm saying. I finally ask him flat out <i>Is that how you would say it?</i> And he has to think. He reflects. He has to take himself out of <i>what</i> I'm saying and put himself into the <i>how</i>, analyze the surface for cracks in grammar or misused vocabulary. I've begun to love these moments. The larger picture is, at least, recognizable. And isn't that the important thing? It is wonderful to find that someone has been listening to <i>what</i> you've been saying rather than <i>how </i>you have said it.</div><div><br /></div><div>And so I'm trying to cut myself some slack. My <a href="http://murmursfromthefolds.blogspot.com/2011/02/english-slippage.html">lofty notion of fluency</a> may have inflated over the years, but now, I am thinking about all kinds of past conversations. Conversations with U.S. foreigners, all those times I've said <i>No! Your English is really good! </i>when their confidence lagged <i>-</i> I always meant it. And conversations with native Dutch speakers who give me those same encouraging words. And I am contemplating graduating myself from <i>I speak a little Dutch</i> - to something<i> else</i>. </div>Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14901040121871370656noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1106293902695360111.post-30602143831886719892011-06-09T10:55:00.000-07:002011-06-09T11:17:28.523-07:00The Circus was in town<!--StartFragment-->This past weekend marked the second annual <a href="http://circusenco.be/">Leuven Circus</a>, a charming, home-grown affair whose organizers mine the local Circus school for participants.<span style=""> </span>There were performers who can balance expertly on stilts, women who can dance atop enormous moving balls, men who are masters at manipulating exceedingly large puppets.<span style=""> </span>There were trapeze artists and gymnasts and even a little wagon with a bug circus, a queue snaking out its door with wiggling children and their smiling parents.<span style=""> </span>There were fireworks, right above our heads, in time with the energetic sounds of a percussion band, De Shemayet, and night goblins who rode around lighting fires.<span style=""> </span>We could not have had better weather for it.<span style=""> </span>It was delightful. <p class="MsoNormal">For the opening, they brought in the professional Big Boy, a tight-rope walker who made it from one side of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ladeuzeplein">Ladeuzeplein</a> to the other, over the heads of a buzzing crowd, ending at the University Library steeple.<span style=""> </span>No less than 200 meters, and with, I’m sure, quite a wind, up there all alone.<span style=""> </span>In the introductory announcement, they laid all his cards on the table – <a href="http://www.meninfunambule.com/">Michel Menin</a>, in his mid-60’s.<span style=""> </span>He had done tight-rope walks more than 500 times, a true veteran.<span style=""> </span>H. leaned over later and commented - <span style="font-style: italic;">It makes it all a little more boring to say he’s an expert.</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic;">They should have told us he was an accountan who just discovered this new hobby after his retirement, and after he learned to manage his severe tremors, less than a year ago!</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>I did plenty of nail-biting anyway.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">My sister, at some point, wondered aloud if New York had anything like this – fun and cute, community-grown and community-oriented.<span style=""> </span>I smiled.<span style=""> </span>I don’t know, but it seems a bit unreplicable, even (or maybe especially) in the Big Apple.<span style=""> </span>Authentic to my small, charming home.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSrvOknCmQBT5e5TAyX_Wp3KPk2GcBQ1KdykID7yFi02ZG3Z6HPC7yBCv0OwYCR7Tf9D-BV_CFBLSUqqJrBtXTY0aG30KhaXE5qsjTeFaPg6m4OEWoJCMo03b2ADJjwnxdK8j6C5WNs2w/s1600/Circus1.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSrvOknCmQBT5e5TAyX_Wp3KPk2GcBQ1KdykID7yFi02ZG3Z6HPC7yBCv0OwYCR7Tf9D-BV_CFBLSUqqJrBtXTY0aG30KhaXE5qsjTeFaPg6m4OEWoJCMo03b2ADJjwnxdK8j6C5WNs2w/s320/Circus1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5616284298431221106" border="0" /></a></p><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi68igLgH0UwGA8-jyXZpPx9AZOuNdkt29pmwf5_sFU2FsPVV6VyxEIo5YFRCny0WnIRGor2-urbphvSJ9_3LE3K7UpXZoai9h8sIdVPswb7FqnyFP9mJyAMCkMkkY-0R1Y-g-GvlBMwso/s1600/Circus2.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi68igLgH0UwGA8-jyXZpPx9AZOuNdkt29pmwf5_sFU2FsPVV6VyxEIo5YFRCny0WnIRGor2-urbphvSJ9_3LE3K7UpXZoai9h8sIdVPswb7FqnyFP9mJyAMCkMkkY-0R1Y-g-GvlBMwso/s320/Circus2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5616284629261367666" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjieJGLfwudS8k_mBOnMvDFrSgzhaOySmsmbkOmK6wVu1LBIiLzOH9T8D5U29rjxf_SMDagiVmst5oEcjBtHx6eRYv8AXNhLp_7ioIvuU7IWyn2hLMgtrUR6WikDPSPpa-sh-keQF8tJqk/s1600/Circus4.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjieJGLfwudS8k_mBOnMvDFrSgzhaOySmsmbkOmK6wVu1LBIiLzOH9T8D5U29rjxf_SMDagiVmst5oEcjBtHx6eRYv8AXNhLp_7ioIvuU7IWyn2hLMgtrUR6WikDPSPpa-sh-keQF8tJqk/s320/Circus4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5616284792185712066" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><!--EndFragment-->Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14901040121871370656noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1106293902695360111.post-40263322597252939372011-06-03T15:27:00.000-07:002011-06-03T15:30:47.723-07:00Pitching Belgium<div>Several months ago, I was leafing through a brochure from a Marketing school here in Belgium (no, not for a degree, just because it was there and convenient in some waiting room or other before some interview or other). The brochure was pitching the school to foreigners and said something like: <i>Why choose Belgium? Belgium is centrally located in Europe - just a short train ride from Paris, London and Amsterdam! </i>Oh Belgium. You’re like the middle child in some incredibly elitist family. In London, you compete with a distinguished older brother who just loves to talk about how proper and interesting he is, and in Paris, a romantic day-dreamer of a beautiful younger sister always stealing away your friends. And let’s not even talk about Amsterdam. You don’t even get the label of wild child of the family.</div><div><br /></div><div>It is not a little bit twisted that this organization – a marketing school - chooses to pitch Belgium by saying that it’s incredibly easy to get the hell out of. And, I guess, that’s what people know about Beligum. This is what people said to me when I was moving here. <i> Oh! It’s right there in the middle, it’ll be so easy to travel around!</i></div><div><br /></div><div>I suppose they say this for lots of reasons, not just because Belgium might suffer from low self-esteem or an inferiority complex. It’s incredibly small, so traveling any kind of major distance really does mean getting out. It’s just a spatial certainty. Because it’s so small, the location is sometimes one of the only things foreigners know about it. And it really is an advantage here that it’s so easy to travel. I jetted up to London a couple of weeks ago, happily and without a second thought.</div><div><br /></div><div>My mother and sister are visiting now. We talked about going to Paris. Giverny in France. Luxembourg. Germany. Amsterdam. But, in the end, we decided to pass our time here, in Belgium. They have had to cast out on their own since I have been tied to the obligations of my job (and they have done beautifully well at exploring without guides), but a four-day weekend has given me a chance to enjoy the country I now call home. Walking around Antwerp yesterday, my stomach tumbled with the excitement of discovering new nooks and breathtaking areas once again. Sometimes the weekly grind distracts me from appreciating the amazing things that are easily within reach. Today, we stayed in Leuven, enjoyed good food and beautiful weather and ice cream on busy, bustling squares that only a charming Belgian city can offer. There is so much, so close to home.</div><div><br /></div>Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14901040121871370656noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1106293902695360111.post-5406631180770711192011-05-15T03:48:00.000-07:002011-05-15T03:55:31.480-07:00Poor trip planning (Part 2)<div>We arrived in Italy in the middle of the day, and parked at a rest-stop for a late lunch. Waiting in line for my Panini, my stomach started to turn. I knew absolutely no Italian whatsoever, besides a basic <i>bonjourno</i>, <i>prego</i> and <i>gratzi</i> (and don’t judge me for my spelling here - this post is about <i>not</i> knowing Italian). I couldn’t even count to ten. And here I was, Italian phrases unfurling around me at every direction. We didn’t even have a hotel reservation for that night.</div><div><br /></div><div>Perhaps I’m getting used to Flanders, where everyone and their mother speaks a bit of English, or perhaps it was just that we felt like we would pass through Italy so fleetingly that it really wouldn’t matter, but it had never occurred to me to be nervous about not speaking Italian. </div><div><br /></div><div>We got to Livorno, the port town where we would take the ferry the next day, and literally just drove around until we saw a couple of hotel signs. We stood in the dimly lit little entryway of an old-fashioned pensione, a plump woman asking us questions that we couldn’t answer. We held up our fingers. <i>One night. One.</i> The t.v. was blaring in the other room, and a little dog barked a couple of times. We surrendered our id’s much too readily, and let her copy the details down by hand in an old ledger before she handed us a key with a giant chain.</div><div><br /></div><div>The room was somehow incredibly romantic – large and sparsely furnished with a cold tile floor and a high ceiling. There was a picture of the Virgin Mary above the bed, and a Catholic cross right outside our door. We had a sink in the room, and the water was refreshingly cold.</div><div><br /></div><div>That night, we went out on the street, narrowed in on a couple that looked like they knew where they were going, and slipped into their restaurant behind them. We were embarrassed when the wait staff tried their best to give us details in English, only to go search out the one kid on staff who had apparently passed his English exams in school, or had bragged a bit sometime that his English wasn’t shabby. He was kind to us and served us a good, Italian meal accompanied by good, Italian wine, and he asked us questions eagerly about our travels. At the end of the night, we left a sizeable tip, even though it’s not the custom. Something for the care they took with a couple of unprepared tourists. It was a really lovely time, I suppose, partly because of the language barriers. Somehow, it was more romantic that way. But I must admit, once we made it to Corsica and were back on French-speaking soil, I felt a swell of relief.</div>Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14901040121871370656noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1106293902695360111.post-73083774285307924952011-05-08T11:24:00.000-07:002011-05-08T11:29:57.748-07:00Poor trip planning (Part 1)<div>We decided to go to Corsica before the new year. We told people we were going, and daydreamed about the trip. And then, for some reason, we did nothing. The week wholly snuck up on us, or honestly, perhaps we were just lazy. One month before H. brought home a guidebook that I did manage to thumb through. Three weeks before, we finally sat down and made a reservation for a ferry to take us and our car over to the island. Two weeks before, we still didn’t have a place to stay. It was one of those catch-22’s – we kept asking each other where we should stay, but the more research we did, the more possibilities there seemed to be, and the more difficult it was to decide. Finally (<i>finally!</i>) with a week left, H. e-mailed several places, and we found that our procrastination had actually paid off – it was still the off-season, plenty of places had availability, and we snagged an upgrade for a good price. </div><div><br /></div><div>I still wrung my hands a bit. <i>What about a hotel for the nights we’ll spend on the road?</i> I asked. <i>Roadside motels</i>, he said. Showing my ignorance – <i>But I had always stayed in sweet little, independently-owned bed and breakfasts or hostels in Europe! Do they even have road-side motels here?</i> Yes, yes they do- enough to make America’s trucker population proud. We cruised around the edges of Strasbourg the night we stopped and passed numerous possibilities in one go. <i>What about that place?</i> I asked. <i> So cheap! </i> When we couldn’t reach it because of the giant fence (it looked more secure than the American Embassy in Brussels), we circled around to the back for access. There, we found several –ahem -<i>ladies of the night</i> standing in short skirts and sequenced jackets, squinting suspiciously as we did an awkward U-turn in front of them. So, perhaps my on-the-road skills need to be honed a little for the European landscape. But still, we did quite well, and found a nice place to stop down the road. A place that didn't rent by the hour or protect themselves with giant fences. With clean rooms. And families. And free breakfast. Can you really ask for more?</div>Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14901040121871370656noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1106293902695360111.post-54459608712155930342011-05-01T09:14:00.001-07:002011-05-01T09:36:40.617-07:00Free samples, Belgian styleAs I've said before, I'm a sucker for free samples. Sometimes in Philly, I would pop in a Whole Foods or a Trader Joe's just to see what kinds of scrumptious little nibblets they had on offer that day. Cheese squares? Microwaveable meatballs? Free coffee? <span style="font-style: italic;"> Oh, I suppose I'll try it, if you insist.</span> <br /><br />It's the little things that make life here different...<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgka4ZbnImdhEmFahiSZxIEhAJhxKI_faIPi7UaLNEhY4oOYuPcOSrL0dK2OjlxpYrEl5mnX2tQj_QK8ZPDoVEtqLii7UcLPxMXzHWHc5uRqXkPv5mDAMS7u-ra9yBHIcLqHTrBC-sL0bo/s1600/IMG_5032.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgka4ZbnImdhEmFahiSZxIEhAJhxKI_faIPi7UaLNEhY4oOYuPcOSrL0dK2OjlxpYrEl5mnX2tQj_QK8ZPDoVEtqLii7UcLPxMXzHWHc5uRqXkPv5mDAMS7u-ra9yBHIcLqHTrBC-sL0bo/s320/IMG_5032.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5601785730129447362" border="0" /></a><br />A little wine tasting with your groceries?<span style="font-style: italic;"> Don't mind if I do.</span>Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14901040121871370656noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1106293902695360111.post-84247379010035487762011-04-27T12:59:00.000-07:002011-04-27T13:00:57.611-07:00The DriveWhen we were back in Philly, we drove to my hometown a couple of times, over the dreaded Pennsylvania turnpike and then through the hills and eventual flat of the Midwest. It always felt long. I’ve never been one for car trips, and the trip across the four or five states seemed to drag on forever.<br /><br />The U.S. is big. Huge. And it’s a driving country. I know people from Ohio who hop in their cars every winter and drive to Colorado for the skiing – practically in one sitting. People who have driven literally all alone from the California coast to Tennessee without so much as a shrug. People in Philly with a little place on the coast of North Carolina. Ten hours’ drive. For a long weekend. No problem.<br /><br />When H. proposed driving down to Corsica, my eyes got wide and I shook my head slowly. What? Drive? Are you serious? It must be, like, twenty hours. Through the entirety of France? That’s just not doable. It turns out, as Google maps showed me, it’s more than doable. It’s doable in a day. Well, friends, we did it. We left after work on Friday and drove to Strasbourg, then completed the trip the next day, between the mountains of Switzerland, heading down to Italy, through the rolling hills of Tuscany (if we squinted and waited for a part in the bushes, we could actually see the Leaning Tower of Pisa!), and finally to the port town of Livorno, where we (and our little two-door car) caught the ferry at 8 a.m. the next morning. And the drive, quite honestly, was beautiful. And <span style="font-style: italic;">doable</span>.<br /><br />Everyone talks about the differences in mentality when it comes to distances between Americans and Europeans, but the fact that southern France is reachable in a mere day still comes as a surprise – and strikes me as a romantic luxury. When we got back, our car dusty and ready for a break, H. nudged me and smiled. This opens up so many possibilities for travelling! he said. Prague is probably the same distance by car! He knows I’ve always wanted to visit Prague. And do you know? It’s even closer.Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14901040121871370656noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1106293902695360111.post-90187696688675741082011-04-25T11:53:00.000-07:002011-04-25T12:19:01.498-07:00CorsicaWe took the one week I have off before August and decided to do something big. H. was the one who suggested Corsica. <span style="font-style: italic;"> Mediterranean? Beachy? Warm and sunny? Gorgeous views? Yes, please.</span><p class="MsoNormal">We drove down – wasted no time and left on Friday after work. For some reason, as the ferry brought us into the port of Bastia on a spectacularly sunny day, the short boat ride over from the coast of Italy, I was surprised at how incredibly beautiful it was. The whole island is just one amazing landscape after another, a patchwork of very small mountain towns that seem to be built into the green landscape, cascade off the jagged cliffs and nestle themselves into the nooks of valleys.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Driving in Corsica is not for the faint at heart. The roads twist and turn around the edges of the mountains, and, if you go fast enough to keep up with the natives, you’re flung from one side of the car to the other over and over again until you stop resisting. But every turn, every bend and every passageway, offers views that will take your breath away.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">We went on two hikes while we were there, up and down the mountain ridges, explored hidden beaches where the water was so blue and so clear it makes you ache. The weather was not hot enough for bathing suits, but it was perfect, nonetheless, sunny and cloudless, with a breeze that kept the shady areas cool. And we did swim, once. We couldn’t stand not to, since we were there. We changed into our bathing suits the car and ran into the cold water. Goose bumpy and paddling to warm up. The tourist city of Calvi leaning over to us close by, rising off a mountain ridge, the color of sand, like the beach climbing vertical.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">It was a lovely, lovely vacation. The weather held out for us, and on our last day, after our final half-day hike was over, it started to rain. We left the island in fog and rain, and drove back to a surprisingly summery Belgium. For now, after such a wonderful week, I feel like the sunshine is following us.</p><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF50yCgS-W7vcDLy1CpI-Iotm_e_1lofsNu9DbUYF_PPnVMSLXw61Lu6OzjURqr83HpWm0jdCM_BdYE_Zm_2LShjg7AH_nsy_dsK88W3aZoXMmNBy_efk2G72dI3HwRNjQUkybgzOcl_k/s1600/IMG_5102.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF50yCgS-W7vcDLy1CpI-Iotm_e_1lofsNu9DbUYF_PPnVMSLXw61Lu6OzjURqr83HpWm0jdCM_BdYE_Zm_2LShjg7AH_nsy_dsK88W3aZoXMmNBy_efk2G72dI3HwRNjQUkybgzOcl_k/s320/IMG_5102.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599601131261784642" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Coming into Bastia from the ferry.</span></span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifT_9lf8R18GPtq28Bq4tuN8dY5DOYUm_czNqnNrXbQ9PgDMZnZWtQKMjRaa5-tRY4ZMHOeBRgx6c_0xc0R_oB_Wrftl619kYjvB7gE4aq-cQcnmv5FEQGr06NUJrqzvs-ZNYVSnebrjI/s1600/IMG_5122.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifT_9lf8R18GPtq28Bq4tuN8dY5DOYUm_czNqnNrXbQ9PgDMZnZWtQKMjRaa5-tRY4ZMHOeBRgx6c_0xc0R_oB_Wrftl619kYjvB7gE4aq-cQcnmv5FEQGr06NUJrqzvs-ZNYVSnebrjI/s320/IMG_5122.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599601488464566002" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Bastia restaurant and a blue, blue sky</span></span>.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqer_d_oV-5M3iVC6j4Q7jx-PM75ZmpKHehn3PlJKG3mqv2FaPA67oGqYU5NJrKdhjr7kAnsuk2DMcEuM34q7-xLoLfaYndrxUNBq4dChqkGgX5qJqiNgCXIEE65qO7XNSAf1fY90ZyEM/s1600/IMG_5221.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqer_d_oV-5M3iVC6j4Q7jx-PM75ZmpKHehn3PlJKG3mqv2FaPA67oGqYU5NJrKdhjr7kAnsuk2DMcEuM34q7-xLoLfaYndrxUNBq4dChqkGgX5qJqiNgCXIEE65qO7XNSAf1fY90ZyEM/s320/IMG_5221.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599601873727846306" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">A private beach.</span></span><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijXLSZ84JmYxcFHTJPXZUGQmpUSoYLZfwOK65F-oP5YFryhppa7-qWvYThOrAwymZobhnnPDkDsNxXWD3HW9fSIVnMvQS0ADsoRN85tj8bAI3GHjnytsLIuDxGDhkMqfBvkRhb3icKMEA/s1600/IMG_5193.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijXLSZ84JmYxcFHTJPXZUGQmpUSoYLZfwOK65F-oP5YFryhppa7-qWvYThOrAwymZobhnnPDkDsNxXWD3HW9fSIVnMvQS0ADsoRN85tj8bAI3GHjnytsLIuDxGDhkMqfBvkRhb3icKMEA/s320/IMG_5193.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599602135017005842" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">A lovely cup of coffee.</span></span><br /></div><br /><!--EndFragment-->Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14901040121871370656noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1106293902695360111.post-86240193653909554992011-04-20T15:45:00.000-07:002011-04-21T12:27:29.635-07:00ExpatriatesLast weekend, I attended a shin-dig for a tried and true expat population. There was champagne and wine and beer, and we were seated at a table full of American couples (there were some Canadians in the mix, but damned if I couldn't tell the difference). Business men and their wives, relocated corporate managers and their trailing spouses. They laughed loudly. They slapped each other on the back and talked about sports. They teased each other and toasted their friends. If I closed my eyes, I could swear I was in the U.S. The man sitting next to us wrapped his knuckles on the table and told us about the crime rate in Brussels. He discussed Brussels politics with my husband, with interest. And at some point he gestured across the table to a petite, pretty brunette. <span style="font-style: italic;">My wife</span>, he said, <span style="font-style: italic;">is Italian</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;"> But she's become more American here in Belgium than she ever was in the states. </span>I looked at her friends, women who were perfectly quaffed for the evening out, women who spoke with the wide, standard accent of American English. They left me at one point at the table, alone with the men, a pack of them off to the bathroom to check their makeup and chat, and me sitting between my husband and the manager of a shipping company, a short man with a moustache, who cradled a Belgian beer. <span style="font-style: italic;">So how did you end up back in Belgium?</span> the man asked my husband. My H. opened his hands and replied: <span style="font-style: italic;">It was a mutual decision</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">She wanted to come. We both wanted to come.</span> The men laughed and shook their heads. <span style="font-style: italic;"> Just wait until she's away, and we'll get the real answer out of you! <span style="font-weight: bold;">She</span> followed <span style="font-weight: bold;">you</span>! That's what you gotta tell people!</span> Because, I suppose, that is what they tell people about their own wives. That's probably what their wives tell people, too.<br /><br />Later in the evening, after even more wine and beer, that same short, moustached man leaned over to us once again. <i>This country's great for expats</i>, he said.<i> </i><span style="font-style: italic;">We live in an expat neighborhood here. We have a great community. In fact, you're practically the first true Belgian we've met! </span><span>An expat neighborhood, I imagine, full of iron-gated houses and large, green gardens. They shake their heads </span><span>when they discuss Belgian bureaucracy, and speak loudly to the postal carriers to compensate for not knowing French or Dutch. And why should they learn, after all? For many of them, this is stop number four or five on an endless string of relocations, a fleeting arrangement that will surely fold in on itself if they make any drastic movements towards permanency. </span><br /><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span>The entire crowd was all very American, in fact -- a few other Western Europeans scattered in, those who know English well, Swedes and Dutch and Germans and, of course, the British. They are a tight group. I am endlessly lucky, I find myself thinking, that my native tongue is English. Had I been a Spanish speaker with weak English, or an Arabic speaker with a smattering of English, or a Persian speaker with decent English, my job would have been inaccessible to me.</span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div>The very next day I attended a party, a lovely little picnic on a lovely day with fresh watermelon and wine. There were French speakers and English speakers, and an invisible line drawn between them. I sat snug on the English side, and smiled shyly when a Francophone would make their way over for a brownie or a refill. I do know Belgians just by virtue of being married to one, and I do take part in their culture, at least on holidays and special occasions. But I enjoy life here partly because of this English crowd. I am comfortable with them, I don't struggle to express myself with them, and we cling together in some ways, people navigating a different terrain, but with things, very valuable things, things normally not even an issue, in common. </div><div><br /></div><div>I persist with Dutch and I must admit, being around those French speakers even for an afternoon made me anxious to get back to working on French. I take little, comfortable steps, and I certainly don't live in an expat neighborhood. I do feel like I put up something of a fight to challenge myself. Then again, the transition to life in Belgium has been smooth, and I know that's partially due to the English that's so accessible, the speakers, native and otherwise, who are scattered the globe over.</div>Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14901040121871370656noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1106293902695360111.post-69391282815163715592011-03-17T10:50:00.000-07:002011-03-21T13:39:42.824-07:00PackagingWhen we were in Philadelphia, we used to get humongous packages from my mother-in-law, gargantuan Pandora's boxes wrapped in brown paper and tied with string (I know, but they really were<i> tied up with string</i>), things that held the secrets of the universe. Opening them was like Christmas morning no matter when it was - they had chocolate bars and chocolate cookies, Turkish delight and gummy candies, magazines, clothes, coffees, soaps, shampoos, lotions, and always a sweet note tucked into it all greeting us both and offering a few words about daily life, this or that, who was doing what.<br /><div><br /></div><div>Now it's my mother's turn to send us things, and her packages are smaller, slivers that usually fit in our mailbox, padded envelopes or tiny boxes that hold a book or some magazines, newspaper clippings from my hometown, little explanatory notes written on scrap paper. She is quieter with her packages, but more frequent - just about once a week, sometimes twice, I open the mailbox to that hopeful little yellow envelope. She always slides our address in, too, printed neatly on an index card, just to make sure that there is no mistake, that it will reach us. As if upon seeing the envelope shredded and the contents spilled everywhere, some helpful stranger would tie up the lot with a rubber band, card on top, and carefully see it to our door. I love these little packages, I love their eccentricities (an article from the newspaper about someone I might have known in second grade, an Alumni magazine from my alma mater), and their understated, home-grown tone.</div><div><br /></div><div>Western Europe has, somewhere in the last ten years, been saturated with just about anything an American could want. I worried that there wouldn't be good peanut butter, but I've found some of the best here, faithfully next to the chocolate and Speculoos spread. Even Mexican food, while a bit different Belgian style, is possible. Cereal choices are abundant. My mother asks me sometimes what she should send, and then I sit and wrack my brain. An American measuring cup. That's handy. I once had her send a big vat of stove-top popcorn. That I haven't found. Boxes of couscous. These things don't seem to be at any grocery store I've been to. Then again, perhaps it's no accident that I've been looking in all the wrong places. She has a collection, I know, of little, personal things to send. All she needs is that last item, a single request for something compact and package-able, and it's on its way.</div>Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14901040121871370656noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1106293902695360111.post-2722956265317143402011-02-16T03:24:00.000-08:002011-02-21T09:54:36.744-08:00English slippage<div>As a good little English major in college, I was required to study how tricky language could be, how often the signifier just does not directly correlate to the signified (Ah, literary criticism. Be still my heart.). I could write a book by now on trying to learn another language, but that's for another day. This post is about English.</div><div><br /></div>I work in English. Most people here speak English. It's so pervasive - American t.v. and movies are so pervasive - that it feels almost obnoxious. Yet it's amazing to me, even here, where it seems <i>everywhere</i>, to find layers of the language that people aren't comfortable with. People who speak English eight hours a day for their jobs, people who have no trouble watching an American movie, will stare at me as a sentence, an expression, quickly slides off my tongue without a second thought. We speak so often in metaphors, folded into our speech patterns like spices in a dish, impossible to parse out, and mixed so thoroughly in with the watery stuff that you literally forget that they're there.<div><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">We'll put that on the back-burner </span>I said a few days ago to a man who sometimes apologizes for his English. Blank look. No. Scratch that. <span style="font-style: italic;">We're putting the breaks...</span> Let's try to make it as simple as possible. <span style="font-style: italic;">We're putting this on hold...Stopping this for now...</span> <div><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">It'll snowball...</span> I might write, before deleting it and taking an extra minute - how else would I say it? <span style="font-style: italic;">It might become an issue...</span></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><span></span><i>We're trying to raise the bar...<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">I stifle to replace it, just in case of confusion, with: </span>We're trying to do better...</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>At this point, we're just going to play it by ear...<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">Oh dear. </span>See how the chips land... <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">And with this, readers, I'm stumped. How better to say it? </span>Improvise? React after we see the initial results? <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">Bleh. How boring. And those don't quite get at the meaning! </span><br /></i><br /></div><div>And then gradually, over the weeks, <i>everythin</i>g starts to feel slippery, <i>everything </i>seems questionable to me. Saying at a meeting<i> if anyone wants to throw out some ideas </i>might be mistaken for literally throwing them out, getting rid of them, as in what ideas are <i>not</i> good enough. Why is <i>let's go </i>imbued with action, getting something accomplished, whereas<i> let it go </i>- almost the same word sequence! - mean leaving something alone, holding off? And what about <i>holding off</i>, while we're on the subject?! It has almost the same meaning as <i>hold on, </i>but then there <i>is</i> a subtle difference there that's hard to put my finger on. <i>Put my finger on</i>!!</div><div><br /></div><div>There is so much in native speech that's hard to put your finger on.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm not saying that these things really get in the way of communicating at the office - they don't, and most people will catch their meaning easily, if they don't know it already, in the context. But it is interesting to me, as I become just a little bit more careful about the way I say things, how these slippery phrases, the ones that seem absurd if you really think about the word sequence, are sometimes the first thing that comes to mind. How difficult they can be to put a simpler definition to. And how restrained you feel in trying as best you can to make the signifier match as closely as possible to the signified. Because who wants to<i> improvise</i> when you can <i>play it by ear</i>?</div><div><br /></div><div>(Haven't I been writing blog posts? Surely I have. They must be around here somewhere. But I've looked for them - in between the couch cushions and under the bed, and have had no luck. Perhaps I left them on the train or carelessly strewn about the locker room at the gym. And so, I admit, weeks have been lost with no trace, no record here. I'm sorry. I'm going to try, without promises, but with a hearty, deep breath, to begin again.)<br /></div></div>Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14901040121871370656noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1106293902695360111.post-5541579531727843632011-01-16T08:31:00.000-08:002011-01-16T09:18:42.593-08:00Train troubleBefore I started work, H fretted over me having to take four trains every day, two there and two back withe a change-over in Brussels. I gave him a whimsical shrug. I didn't mind, I said. It seems romantic to take the train every day. I love trains, I love train rides. He looked at me incredulously, and then, after reflecting, mentioned that car rides were much more romantic to him than train trips. He had trains growing up, I had cars, and I guess in the end we both wanted what we didn't have.<div><br /></div><div>That was before. After just two weeks of commuting by train, I'm amending my opinion on the train system here for the much, much worse. In theory, when it works, it could work beautifully, and there are certainly moments when I find myself in a particularly quiet and uncrowded car, gliding along, watching the patches of green and red and gray fly by, and thinking to myself how <i>nice</i> this is. It feels cozy and safe and warm. But the train system here has proven itself to be a veritable mess. I took about two trains last week that were actually on time - that's two trains out of twenty trains I take per week. I'm not very good at math, but I'm sure that that's a pretty lousy record. This is only after I had two trains totally cancelled on me the week before. I reluctantly climbed into a cab and gave the address of my office building. Twice in one week. At twenty-five euros a pop. (It was either that or be almost an hour late for work in my first week. Perhaps I'm old-fashioned, but it seems to me there's only so many times you can call in and let them know your train was cancelled.) </div><div><br /></div><div>Recently, my husband picked up a pamphlet from the NMBS - the train system here in Belgium - with the title, roughly translated: <i>We thank you for your understanding and your trust</i>. It explains that in the last few years there has been a massive influx of people commuting by train on a regular basis. Expansions have been planned, construction has begun, and disruptions are an inevitable result. Delays. Cancellations. The panic-stricken faces of people scanning the announcement boards for alternatives to their interrupted course. The crowds in Brussels-North Station that are hurrying in mass unison, two minutes before their train leaves, from one track to another because a change in arrival was announced at the last minute. The people standing in the aisles during a rush-hour ride because, when a train is actually on course and on time, everyone better take it.</div><div><br /></div><div>This has apparently been the month with the worst train record in the history of Belgium. I can feel the ripples in the pond. When I get into that quiet train car where I can settle back, stick my nose into a good book and let the steady <i>whir</i> of the train relax me, I still hope I find the ride romantic. In the meantime, maybe I always underestimated car trips. Maybe I can borrow some of H's visions of the open road. The symbol of independent adulthood for over half a century. Sounds romantic enough. I will, at the very least, give her a good try.</div>Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14901040121871370656noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1106293902695360111.post-61112233933236359242011-01-05T12:29:00.000-08:002011-01-05T13:03:31.557-08:00WorkingI'm impressive in interviews. I've been to lots, I know the ropes, and I can knock the ball out of the park at any time. I wiggle my way around questions ("Because of my <i>extensive</i> experience unjamming photocopiers and refilling staplers..."), throw myself whole-heartedly into management speak ("Firstly, I think it's very important to <i>pre-plan</i> for the planning before you plan..."), and come across as the most easy-going person ever ("There was <i>nothing</i> I didn't love about my last job. God! I would have<i> married</i> it if I could have!"). <div><div><br /></div><div>I started a new job this week. It all happened very quickly - I submitted an application in early December and was interviewed two weeks later. They called within 24 hours and offered me the job. Because I'm just that good. They <i>knew</i> they couldn't live without me the moment I left the interview.</div><div><br /></div><div>Okay. The truth was they were slightly desperate (someone left last-minute), they didn't do a very good job of advertising the position, and it's quite possible that I was the only person who applied. </div></div><div><br /></div><div>And so, I'm a working woman again, in a slightly different field, but sitting behind a bigger desk than I had in Philadelphia (and I mean that quite literally - my desk is, for some reason, the size of sturdy six-seater dining room table). I feel silly now for all that stewing and hand-wringing I did over whether or not I would find something. All those hours after Dutch class I poured over job ad sites, more and more obscure as the time ticked away, feeling a restlessness slowly build into panic. </div><div><br /></div><div>And now, after all that, my time off seems so short. Not that I'm complaining. Because, as much as I joke, it really is nice to feel like I'm contributing to something again, to get up every morning and have somewhere to go, have things to do that people are depending on. One step closer to calling Belgium home. And for that, I have to say I'm thankful.</div>Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14901040121871370656noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1106293902695360111.post-20117423806150202672010-12-30T04:23:00.000-08:002010-12-30T13:52:47.481-08:00Heavy History<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7h2mm25SLCi_MjINCXJbV8_3S-FluQV2lhTBLaFN5PxiqPR1Mu2aw9iQrov5z9SVHo0e4_VCWvkwvyTPhL7KMLmfrf4Z9MX9_sKPBb-Xz2Eq2q4UZH6u3htkoIiDsEYjWQwomTuKnooE/s1600/IMG_4628.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7h2mm25SLCi_MjINCXJbV8_3S-FluQV2lhTBLaFN5PxiqPR1Mu2aw9iQrov5z9SVHo0e4_VCWvkwvyTPhL7KMLmfrf4Z9MX9_sKPBb-Xz2Eq2q4UZH6u3htkoIiDsEYjWQwomTuKnooE/s320/IMG_4628.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556595507519092498" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:78%;" >A holiday display at the Keulen train station of the city in ruins after World War II bombings. A manger scene was placed in the middle.</span><br /></div><br />When we were asking fellow travelers about what to see in Keulen, they would mention the Cathedral, the view of the river, the Christmas markets, the shopping district. And somewhere along the way, through the course of the conversation, they would casually mention the ambiance of the city as a whole: <i>Well, you know, because practically the entire city was destroyed during the Second World War, all the buildings are new. I mean, it's a great place to live, but if you want old Europe charm, you won't find it there.</i> Old Europe charm you might not find, but it's amazing to me how quickly such a city brought itself back after being reduced to rubble. That in itself, really, is something to see.<div><br /></div><div>History, as in a series of events that happened before the lifetime of you and everyone you know, as in lectures about dead people that school children are forced to listen to with their eyes half-closed, is certainly experienced differently across the world, and I think the time of the Second World War, and the decades leading up to it, are gradually becoming real <i>history</i> in the U.S. </div><div><br /></div><div>My Great Uncle was an American soldier. He died about seven or eight years ago. I knew him only as a distant relative, someone I saw every few years growing up. He spent his entire life totally silent on his time at war until the very last year of his life, when he suddenly started pulling out boxes and dumping the contents on the living room floor - German helmets, swastika arm bands, photographs depicting things so horrific that even holding the small gray images seemed like an act with the weight of lives behind it. As a teenager, I didn't know these things were apart of our family at all. It is stunning to me beyond words that this simple mid-western family man carried this with him silently for so long, and that he still recalled even the <i>objects</i> of this life chapter with such heavy distinctness that he would come back to them, like a frantic last confession, before he passed away.</div><div><br /></div><div>But I tell this not to pull at your heart strings, only to relay the potency of seeing past events not as history, but as something urgent and real and affecting. I am among the last of the generations that will know people who were apart of that time, and when I was a child, we often would lean over desks and compare family histories too eagerly - <i>I know someone who had one grandfather that was an American soldier, and the other was a German soldier, and they were stationed at the same place!... I know someone who knows someone who was a survivor of the Holocaust!...</i>We may have been flippant at the time, but we were at least interested in our own connections. <i> </i>If my children are educated in the U.S., I imagine with a touch of apprehension that their eyes will droop a bit more when the lessons of the Second World War begin. They will have fewer living stories to fuel a different reaction.</div><div><br /></div><div>In Europe, though, I'm school children even of the next generation will feel that history more personally. Particularly, of course, in Germany, the relics of war are still evolving (we visited a Gestapo house in Keulen, notes of the victims who were tortured there still etched on the walls), and the cities themselves, at least, are still testifying to thick and heavy memories (the newness of most of the city contrasted to the Cathedral, which began construction in the 13th Century, resonated with me). Perhaps some Germans are ready to move on, and I'm sure the daily lives of those who live in Keulen aren't affected at all. But as an outsider, especially coming from elsewhere in Europe, I still see a potent history etched in Germany's landscapes. Even in cities and economies that are thriving. And that is, I would think, both a burden and a blessing.</div>Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14901040121871370656noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1106293902695360111.post-10952944759729697032010-12-24T07:07:00.001-08:002010-12-24T07:28:54.057-08:00A white Christmas<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicogWVn8_sqp2cgAJeYHU87X5XvtC_eju3wABvRYBhz-TAoC3bgypfJ06Lb8oa_h6631eC4aOTq4jOMrIJUeJcob2XQTa6ZW4IqhReecM9I5zfgXSGlqoh8eKAwH96zhrdXqaAKN30NwA/s1600/IMG_4770.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicogWVn8_sqp2cgAJeYHU87X5XvtC_eju3wABvRYBhz-TAoC3bgypfJ06Lb8oa_h6631eC4aOTq4jOMrIJUeJcob2XQTa6ZW4IqhReecM9I5zfgXSGlqoh8eKAwH96zhrdXqaAKN30NwA/s320/IMG_4770.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5554268952755892354" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">The Leuven University Library looking lovely in the snow.</span></span><br /></div><br />It began to snow in the evening last night, what started as a light sprinkling and steadily built momentum. It's about the sixth time that it's snowed here during the last two months, but this one was heavier and closer to Christmas, so it was that much more special. We have ventured out, last night and today, to see the frosted buildings, the snowball fights, the kids screaching with delight as they pummel down the shallow hills on sleds, and the frustrated students who are yanking their wheeled suitcases through the stuff to make it home for Christmas Eve dinner.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8ahksUFhVTEsG487VZYoBk9rnsuD514x1doodrlttB7ZIHNml2CSMOpdxLFXu28vVyZlFkG8cGvDKjsqQFmlcAa5UPofU-nsJgl51VFoknNR16yOAiE95iyiSuamGjbyMZ1FCp544eNo/s1600/IMG_4850.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8ahksUFhVTEsG487VZYoBk9rnsuD514x1doodrlttB7ZIHNml2CSMOpdxLFXu28vVyZlFkG8cGvDKjsqQFmlcAa5UPofU-nsJgl51VFoknNR16yOAiE95iyiSuamGjbyMZ1FCp544eNo/s320/IMG_4850.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5554270481659627458" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Leuven City Hall snowed up.</span></span><br /></div><br />We slept in the living room rather than up in our attic bedroom so that we could watch the accumulation during the night. I woke up several times and peered out the window to see whether it was still falling. It didn't stop until this morning, and I woke up feeling warm and cozy on a beautiful Christmas Eve.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMHQyfSvMuDfTRRkWLwwo0o7ea0IzQySQLCPc9Ia7SNr6Fn8yngxVz8ABEZMZsp_aooB3PSZ6ZopI5Z5IZrxmPoXytn0J_b8-puUMFRXch4pBydU9nOGjUDEDW82YwIoGYTZ-Qrudz5t4/s1600/IMG_4812.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMHQyfSvMuDfTRRkWLwwo0o7ea0IzQySQLCPc9Ia7SNr6Fn8yngxVz8ABEZMZsp_aooB3PSZ6ZopI5Z5IZrxmPoXytn0J_b8-puUMFRXch4pBydU9nOGjUDEDW82YwIoGYTZ-Qrudz5t4/s320/IMG_4812.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5554270798276394674" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Tredging through the park on Christmas Eve.</span><br /></span></div><br />Merry Christmas, everyone!Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14901040121871370656noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1106293902695360111.post-50018756704617328052010-12-22T08:03:00.000-08:002010-12-22T10:53:49.371-08:00Fantasy Christmas Markets<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi39SUtfL-AwvG_zuYYRwzTLbBb8jKAVMfHCkJf5BKkrrtGYwSWi5vxjTqnnm2OUraI4bxmcJ2pf9il3uAm1SzXY3AYZzivOCqlBIdT5w_k2WlDO73irZKuS-gYipPLWdxzLFj23Cu-7Bs/s1600/IMG_4668.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi39SUtfL-AwvG_zuYYRwzTLbBb8jKAVMfHCkJf5BKkrrtGYwSWi5vxjTqnnm2OUraI4bxmcJ2pf9il3uAm1SzXY3AYZzivOCqlBIdT5w_k2WlDO73irZKuS-gYipPLWdxzLFj23Cu-7Bs/s320/IMG_4668.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553577543567072114" border="0" /></a>Christmas markets make the holiday in Europe really wonderful. Roaming around, eyeing sweets and toys and pretty little crafts, drinking steamy hot cocoas or ciders or - for those who really want to feel the warmth - wine, add a cozy glow to Christmas that I've never quite found on public ground in the U.S. In short, I love Christmas markets, even the busy ones where you get elbowed and have to squeeze your way through the crowds, and this year, with the snows we've had, it seems to double the Christmas cheer.<br /><br />I'm technically not supposed to leave Belgium until my visa is settled. It would have been tempting to go to Keuln, Germany this weekend since they are known for having one of the best Christmas markets in Europe, and it is a mere hour and a half by train (and travelling by train requires no passport-stamping). But, of course, instead of leaving Belgium, I stayed home and went to the Leuven Christmas markets:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRUEoEos4dcWf7YCX4pq_lKKeiFYrcXOdrqQCYK3bAYhBGhTChMeRFHxYuYZ3MKdCIVl4JiSVWomeWkzSP0aR0VDk27rq0uh7jD1uGOe7qDMaZvxvK0DG5uthWlzoftaq7pYgXU5hjBhM/s1600/IMG_4541.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRUEoEos4dcWf7YCX4pq_lKKeiFYrcXOdrqQCYK3bAYhBGhTChMeRFHxYuYZ3MKdCIVl4JiSVWomeWkzSP0aR0VDk27rq0uh7jD1uGOe7qDMaZvxvK0DG5uthWlzoftaq7pYgXU5hjBhM/s320/IMG_4541.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553576999042772066" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgVTVKUdTKtl2zeqX2rqXbiTUmpLjJS3NpZBeXeCzh5hyaSpThdKId4Y01peTS_QFJl1Ya8FoCe26IqxiYcK6NmsVb-lniuNshq2yKMoQs9E5yGHBMCnvaZQkkmbygGDg6oBLxZNFxqb4/s1600/IMG_4538.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgVTVKUdTKtl2zeqX2rqXbiTUmpLjJS3NpZBeXeCzh5hyaSpThdKId4Y01peTS_QFJl1Ya8FoCe26IqxiYcK6NmsVb-lniuNshq2yKMoQs9E5yGHBMCnvaZQkkmbygGDg6oBLxZNFxqb4/s320/IMG_4538.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553576588110863426" border="0" /></a><br />If I had been to Keuln, I might tell you that the Christmas markets made the Leuven market, sweet as it is, look like cardboard boxes held up by broom sticks (there are, by the way, five markets in Keuln). The booths in Keuln would have been elaborate fairy-tale gingerbread houses, complete with colorful characters and a soft glow that made you feel warm, even in the freezing snow:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwjKAj3yDrJlh9XZMi1OI4NxygooEmQde3mC7afIzqz2aVXtJV3B45Y79budCCDNLBckYPWFiaUlJxkTi1iIi_KwM-GCTZS4HNtkM-O0z6NaqptEUgu_FzD9hHMtw8xq6_0DO18rt9lcU/s1600/IMG_4684.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwjKAj3yDrJlh9XZMi1OI4NxygooEmQde3mC7afIzqz2aVXtJV3B45Y79budCCDNLBckYPWFiaUlJxkTi1iIi_KwM-GCTZS4HNtkM-O0z6NaqptEUgu_FzD9hHMtw8xq6_0DO18rt9lcU/s320/IMG_4684.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553577688695344994" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpWhmuNJT6GVqW92UF4vA5dTlUkj2Q3-CtrK3B4PNN-7djOM10g5HKMaIoRrMj3FfDmU9JTqgBHhEK_U0zgSXOZJ5nN6OrmJbciXvXOnvQ5-__iikyKNBiTQQkd3GQP4VCZYJLjdfs1sE/s1600/IMG_4715.JPG"><br /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLSs4BPIyv7ctjeyVavhENNhvmEiyj-msIzxIFQ4-skyJXBjyGFcg173WvTdq4xNcnTZ4Riu26QutkuYhTNmDk2SWFO53AI4aoWJqqgc22nLqp2FxDQE3DE-WqmUegtXZZa21WgvjBV0s/s1600/IMG_4720.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLSs4BPIyv7ctjeyVavhENNhvmEiyj-msIzxIFQ4-skyJXBjyGFcg173WvTdq4xNcnTZ4Riu26QutkuYhTNmDk2SWFO53AI4aoWJqqgc22nLqp2FxDQE3DE-WqmUegtXZZa21WgvjBV0s/s320/IMG_4720.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553578203636133426" border="0" /></a>And, if I had been to Keuln, I might tell you that I circled at least one of the markets about four times in hopes of sampling sweet butter cookies, still warm and just crispy enough to melt when you bit into them, and spice cookies and cakes, reminiscent of the Speculoos cookies here. And chocolate. Chocolate coconut cookies, chocolate-covered fruits, chocolate for chocolate's sake. I didn't have any sauerkraut or bratwurst, but choices of it there were aplenty.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZibSLQsbur0PPC2pTvd-zy_56ph2EzKGsGZUm0J3DeZD2IOuSsYmNJ1Ns-rCAVvrNkdNnjOWqek886qznhYV4ZA1rLrrRSUqnBXSvd9AUTIs5GOPnSzlIaHDqlThDSJcSqq-WCs1JEYI/s1600/IMG_4687.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZibSLQsbur0PPC2pTvd-zy_56ph2EzKGsGZUm0J3DeZD2IOuSsYmNJ1Ns-rCAVvrNkdNnjOWqek886qznhYV4ZA1rLrrRSUqnBXSvd9AUTIs5GOPnSzlIaHDqlThDSJcSqq-WCs1JEYI/s320/IMG_4687.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553577899802860546" border="0" /></a>And I might have told you that, in the shadow of Keuln's remarkable, breath-taking Cathedral that resides right in the heart of the city, made the markets that much more special:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQQPdf4t9NgnpR4sJS1n7E9pgchSdFbDATsLoHzZ9Mz2kkR2oEn6dBjcrp7qlfFVfvD3kf_bV1MSxz8pHQIq7cIxV6cdCwv-VzaubRjSz9P1HB3t55DrXwBVubMidgqZziUzJHbmvfO2o/s1600/IMG_4698.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQQPdf4t9NgnpR4sJS1n7E9pgchSdFbDATsLoHzZ9Mz2kkR2oEn6dBjcrp7qlfFVfvD3kf_bV1MSxz8pHQIq7cIxV6cdCwv-VzaubRjSz9P1HB3t55DrXwBVubMidgqZziUzJHbmvfO2o/s320/IMG_4698.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553577999011054274" border="0" /></a>But of course, I wasn't there (and you can't prove that I was!!), so I guess I wouldn't know.Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14901040121871370656noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1106293902695360111.post-32899169043549816322010-12-15T12:17:00.000-08:002010-12-15T13:15:24.994-08:00The snack cabinet<div style="text-align: left;">I was recently walking through the Leuven Christmas market with a friend, and I grabbed a free chocolate - one of the last truffles that was balancing delicately on an offering plate at the front of a booth selling candy. I thought I was justified. I wasn't going to buy anything that day, but I had bought a bag full of those very same truffles the day before to send home in a Christmas package to my state-side family. My friend gave me a suspicious look and said "I think you're addicted with chocolate."</div><br />Chocolate maybe not, but sweets, definitely. Since coming to Belgium, our snack cabinets have changed, little by little, adapting to the local culture. Tonight I was searching around for something -<i> anything</i> - to eat that wasn't a spreadable treat or a crunchy cookie, and I realized that we were woefully low on...well...anything that wasn't laced with sugar. Sure, there's fruit, but if you're not in the mood for sweets, a tangerine doesn't quite fit the bill. I found some old crushed walnuts I used in a Thanksgiving recipe and munched on them.<br /><div><br /></div><div>And so, readers, I give you our snack cabinet - one of the most accessible cabinets in the kitchen:</div><div><br /></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6eItYeFwKK42ghdub5NgJrL8h-lDyBJS1TtdmDsppzHNEeJXzUP8ZFI2Srq__cB1PaTekJFLSpNvTRz0Di7vsjIu47xZCJi3jm9RUOnBP0PI-8KXirhNFjxtYlVKL2rqZNNaA6nLPB6k/s320/Cabinet.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551019604638895186" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 185px; " /></div><div><br /></div><div>Yes, those are two jars of Speculoos spread (different brands!...and for those of you who aren't in Belgium, that would be a delicious, graham-cracker-y (or maybe gingery) sugared spice spread that's delicious on...well...anything). Two chocolate bars (one milk and one dark, because you HAVE to have a choice of both!), a jar of Nutella (and hidden coyishly behind this first jar is a locally-made version of the same thing), peanut butter (okay not too sweet of a spread, but a spread nonetheless), and to top it off, Christmas cookies at the far right. Oh, and don't forget the actual sugar, good for recipes or on plain yoghurt, in the white and red carton (makes it easy to pour!).</div><div><br /></div><div>Your teeth may be throbbing with sympathy pains right now, but in my defense, I overbought sweets to send home for the holidays. That's right, some of this represents surplus that would have gone to my family if the box had just been big enough. I was only, let's say, prepared and diligent about my Christmas shopping. After all, the holidays come but once a year and what better time to explore the rich tastes of Belgium? I'll start with the milk chocolate please, and work my way back.</div>Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14901040121871370656noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1106293902695360111.post-6358720357192750162010-12-09T10:06:00.000-08:002010-12-09T12:35:42.177-08:00Belgian kissing<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal">Living in another culture provides endless, uncontrollable swerves into embarrassing situations, and the formality of greeting someone for the first (or second, or third) time, someone you don’t know, someone you hope to build a relationship with (a cousin-in-law, perhaps, or a friend of a friend), offers up the perfect slippery slope down into the depths of the kind of outsider-humiliation that only the most socially graceful can avoid. And if you’re especially <a href="http://murmursfromthefolds.blogspot.com/2010/03/who-are-you-again.html">socially awkward like I am</a>, the humiliation can just keep coming.</p><p class="MsoNormal">In the U.S., this is problem enough. After not seeing a classmate for ten years, do you offer them a hug? A firm handshake? An elbow bump? But here, the awkwardness is taken to a whole new level.</p><p class="MsoNormal">The famous bisous of the French (two kisses – one on each cheek) are manifest in other cultures all over Europe in various forms. Here in Belgium, I always learned that it was three kisses – left cheek, right cheek, then left again. But the rule is fraught with exceptions. If you’ve seen someone recently, it’s just one kiss. If you know them very well, it’s one kiss. Sometimes there are more Frenchy-types who stick to two kisses (leaving me hanging in the air awkwardly with my lips pressed together like I’m ready to lipstick up). Sometimes you kiss on first meeting someone, but in more formal situations, sometimes you don’t.</p><p class="MsoNormal">My first embarrassing experience with bisous was, of course, in France, those many (seven…wow) years ago. An American friend of mine introduced me to a neighbor, and when she leaned in for a greeting, I literally arched my spine back like a kid trying to avoid a spoonful of spinach. She had thick glasses. For some reason I thought she was just very near-sighted. You know, coming in for a closer look. (I know, that’s a weird assumption. Made sense in my head at the time.) Let me tell you, my friends who were present for that little gem had a hay day with it.</p><p class="MsoNormal">I haven’t learned my lesson. I met a group of people out for dinner a few weeks ago, and gave a firm handshake to everyone in the party in a fashion that I apparently don’t think twice about. Until another girl showed up. Kisses all around. Ah yes, I reminded myself. The funny thing is, it hadn’t even occurred to me to go in for a bisous-style greeting. At the end of the night, while a couple of the other females of the party were getting their cheeks slathered in kisses, everyone turned to me and…waved. Awkwardly. As in: <i>Uh…we’re guessing you object to the bisous? You’re not used to it? We don’t know, but anyway, we’ll be avoiding </i><i><b>that</b></i><i> landmine for the time being.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal">Since then, I’ve gradually proved myself a bisous-er in the crowd, and the akwardness is slowly waning. Very slowly waning. And I’m learning, sometimes it’s better to go in and give it all you got. At the very least, I can use my outsider status as an excuse. And, at most, I’ll have a good laugh at myself.</p><p></p> <!--EndFragment-->Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14901040121871370656noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1106293902695360111.post-24837647688537651372010-11-30T08:56:00.000-08:002010-11-30T09:34:41.029-08:00Exploring Brussels<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUhESg96OR9p_xM3wvA5ZFq7wdhVkiHixGPMlMX9BePmesOGnosEBOW1AUr39jwoz44Bz_lzTl7UvInvXJz63e8KLRzeYAsQfzvVTbxFuGusKV9A0y7zbqXTQIuW8RNANrnKVvGXh_5Ls/s1600/Various2010+586.JPG"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNqd4hGSQzhgP2-G0M4jbbvg3DnyR3jrPYSlUAGDUH-1_uHerYNr7OIITYDrNMYh_yLbtaYnwmDjvNasifH2glhffIZ1lNVL_EdPKaxfAomEx2g2EaZBzEQVyI7pOdzbggMdNXoktWrkg/s1600/Various2010+580.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNqd4hGSQzhgP2-G0M4jbbvg3DnyR3jrPYSlUAGDUH-1_uHerYNr7OIITYDrNMYh_yLbtaYnwmDjvNasifH2glhffIZ1lNVL_EdPKaxfAomEx2g2EaZBzEQVyI7pOdzbggMdNXoktWrkg/s320/Various2010+580.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545395068952263826" border="0" /></a>When we first began talking about moving to Belgium, there was a time that I was rooting adamently and passionately for living in Brussels. There, I was sure, I would be able to carve a niche out in the expat community, I would feel like I was living more of a cosmopolitan life, and I would, most likely, find an easy commute to a job in the city.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs6qzsDHRwdMMlGk5bO9EuHJs5ljopdfz3LPQOB7HhiQpXiv0E9vEVYg6Ae-eO717WNp0Vfi9BYB9WJjqVYOP7v0U71N38kEwp5EiJIz2DeEsILWX0Nn_FRPzhixNEIUmOc4U5dG9T2qQ/s1600/Various2010+572.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs6qzsDHRwdMMlGk5bO9EuHJs5ljopdfz3LPQOB7HhiQpXiv0E9vEVYg6Ae-eO717WNp0Vfi9BYB9WJjqVYOP7v0U71N38kEwp5EiJIz2DeEsILWX0Nn_FRPzhixNEIUmOc4U5dG9T2qQ/s320/Various2010+572.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545396704861449698" border="0" /></a>We, of course, didn't end up there, but we're close enough sometimes to feel the city's tugs and nudges. I have been to Brussels several times since we settled in Leuven, for various errands. We spent a weekend there a couple of weeks ago, after the last of my Dutch Level 2 test, and we walked from the north to the south in one go on Sunday morning, through dreary skies and bustling markets. I came away feeling like I knew the city just a little bit better. It's a city that has a lot in common with my former home - Philadelphia, with a brooding center that will also take your breath away with its monstrous, elaborate, and yet lonely architecture. Brussels, I feel, has that same personality, a monumental but serious beauty, one who will let you admire all you want, but will give you the cold shoulder if you try to snuggle up too close.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCPdeAPLCCgW2mFU-Xd6DLsMzdVUiE2ua5JnQTtrhpDyj-rm9JiJ6EN6Q_tQ0dBQ-8JkniPKR1wLUzHO7RXFkXEAL3U3OsB73BWcip34bQxwM0bBWtnpb9z_51F0YrRdwKBELT0Ro1EIA/s1600/Various2010+573.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCPdeAPLCCgW2mFU-Xd6DLsMzdVUiE2ua5JnQTtrhpDyj-rm9JiJ6EN6Q_tQ0dBQ-8JkniPKR1wLUzHO7RXFkXEAL3U3OsB73BWcip34bQxwM0bBWtnpb9z_51F0YrRdwKBELT0Ro1EIA/s320/Various2010+573.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545396271077330226" border="0" /></a><br />A city with its shoulders clenched a bit, built for deep-cutting winds and dreary rains. Or perhaps it's because I've never been there on a sunny day. Either way, I guess I prefer my cities with this kind of personality. Like feeling a city's flexed muscles. Its pose should be unwavering.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEvipQpypD1KEMl-Q9_wmHKRwSRp-qBesO33_hRXqst6XqO7ksa-OUra2wP_65iOFGArcKr4t9jddXFNfK4WQ8Rldlcivzmse7J2czYpTWowAfXI1fAepk2W4Kjkb2UH4VA7WX5aPKq3U/s1600/Various2010+591.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEvipQpypD1KEMl-Q9_wmHKRwSRp-qBesO33_hRXqst6XqO7ksa-OUra2wP_65iOFGArcKr4t9jddXFNfK4WQ8Rldlcivzmse7J2czYpTWowAfXI1fAepk2W4Kjkb2UH4VA7WX5aPKq3U/s320/Various2010+591.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545395828944280866" border="0" /></a>Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14901040121871370656noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1106293902695360111.post-35661248657630933692010-11-25T01:45:00.000-08:002010-11-25T01:47:34.957-08:00PassedJust a quick update: I passed, with pretty good marks. Level three starts Monday! Whew!Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14901040121871370656noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1106293902695360111.post-82267292337802422352010-11-23T02:07:00.000-08:002010-11-23T08:45:15.561-08:00Exams for beginnersI <i>promise</i> pictures in the next post (or maybe the one after that...heh heh), but I just had to write about this first...<div><br /></div><div>Last Thursday and Friday, I took my first Dutch final exams. I always knew that the educational systems in the U.S. and Belgium were different, but one week of intense studying and a few panic-stricken days of threatening all kinds of crazy nonsense if I didn't pass, I sympathize much more with the Belgian student situation than I did before. This doesn't exclusively have to do with the cultural difference, it also has to do with my own personal background - I was an English major in college, and as all English majors will testify, nine times out of ten the "final" is a clean, double-spaced ten-page paper, typed out over late nights of thinking and analyzing and drafting and thesis-making in your pajamas, at your pc, spicing things up with some nuggets of delicious research after spending a few solitary hours in the library stacks followed by meticulous footnoting. My papers were things of beauty, my friends, and "exams" (the type where you sit down for two hours without any props or booster texts to help you along the way) weren't even a glint in my eye most semesters. And that's the way I liked it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Here, it's not just that I've changed what I'm studying (I will admit that there is something to be said for testing language students). It's that all those little homework assignments, all those writing tasks and vocabulary activities count for naught. We even took tests to keep us on track with the curriculum - they mean nothing in the face of the final exam. Even showing up to class on time and on a regular basis (which I did -- perfect attendance, I might add!) only means that you can hope (hope!) all the class anecdotes, all that time put in will give you a head's up during the exams. </div><div><br /></div><div>In the U.S., all this work during the semester would give you accumulating credit for your final grade. Lots of it.</div><div><br /></div><div>For this exam there were exactly four hours and ten minutes (albeit, broken up over two days) reserved for me to prove myself worthy of moving on to Dutch level three. And even after I felt ready with the material, I was still incredibly nervous: What if something terrible goes wrong? What if you wear the wrong sweater and your back itches through the entire four hours and you can't concentrate? What if your stomach is suddenly not behaving? What if, ten minutes into the exam, you suddenly have to pee so bad you can barely hold it, but they refuse to let you out of the exam room? All nightmares of a novice test-taker. </div><div><br /></div><div>Oh yeah, and as a former English major, I will also say that memorizing stuff is <i>hard</i>.</div><div><br /></div><div>I took the exam, and thankfully, little interrupted my concentration besides a slight draft in the room and a few squeaky chairs here and there. I'll find out tomorrow if I passed or failed. So stay tuned...</div>Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14901040121871370656noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1106293902695360111.post-39018277441062008102010-11-13T09:00:00.000-08:002010-11-13T09:04:27.150-08:00Styling up<div>Everybody knows that coming to Europe means learning to tie a scarf in about 40 different ways, to fit any outfit and any occasion. I know of two, but don’t challenge me to a scarf-off with those two, because you’d be scrambling to gather your little threads off the floor at the end, my friend. I’ve <i>mastered</i> them. </div><div><br /></div><div>A fashionista I have never been. But here in Belgium, I am both blessed and cursed with a family-in-law filled with women who are, as they say in Dutch, <i>modieus</i>. It’s not so much that they are interested in fashion as they are careful about looking quietly stylish, with just a touch of elegance, at all times. Imagine my surprise the first time I bounded down the steps in Belgium, ready for a day of site-seeing with H’s family, in a t-shirt with my alma mater splashed loudly across the chest, shorts and sneaks (of course, what else for a day on your feet??), only to be greeted by his sister. In a skirt. And high heels. Boy was my American face red. </div><div><br /></div><div>But, as they say, when in Rome…Here in Belgium, I’ve begun to make an effort, at least most of the time, to dress nicer on a daily basis. As in, not just for nights out and special occasions. Of course, I wore high heels at my former job all the time, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t slip them off at the end of the day and throw on some flats to get me home. The less time I spend in them, the better – that was my motto. But here, I was lucky enough to find some very comfortable high-heels that I’m actually wearing to walk around town. In the daytime! By myself! Admittedly, the first time I wore them I shifted my weight wrong and the heel toppled in a ridiculous jolt to the side of my foot about eight times in the two hours I was out. (Then I debated whether looking decent was worth the humiliation of not being able to walk right in high heels on uneven cobblestone streets. I decided begrudgingly that it was.) It’s getting better. My average now is maybe two times of slight tripping per day. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, my resolution is quickly evolving into results, and I feel good about that. Not so good as to drop my habit of slipping into my pajama pants and a comfortable sweatshirt the moment I get home for the day, but at least I look decent in public. And perhaps in the next few months I’ll even try a third scarf-tying technique. Not to get ahead of myself, but you never know. I just might be ready for it.</div><div><br /></div>Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14901040121871370656noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1106293902695360111.post-40234735239698818132010-11-05T10:04:00.000-07:002010-11-05T10:11:03.241-07:00Time away<div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>When I was a junior in high school, I was accepted into a summer academic program, a sort of overnight camp for nerdy types, and my parents dropped me off and left me hours away from the house I grew up in. It felt huge. I spent six weeks living in a college dormitory and attending a class on African literature (of which I remember very little, so don’t ask), and by the fourth week, it felt like an adrenaline rush to the finish line, a tight-rope walk to when I could be home again. I still vividly remember, after getting home, standing upstairs in the hallway that led from my parents’ room to mine, running my hands over an old quilt that they hung on the back of a chair, and feeling like I could relax, like there was something in me that had stayed tightly wound for all those days and hours that could finally unravel a little bit. </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>It’s funny how, as you get older, big gobs of time feel so much less epic, and not much more than a drop in an expansive ocean. Six weeks now rushes by in the blink of an eye. We’ve been here for about one blink, and there have only been one or two fleeting pangs of homesickness. Home over the past ten years has been divided between so many places – my hometown, my college town, Philadelphia – but I’m lucky to be far enough away from the entire expanse of my country that I get to miss it all, in one fell swoop, every now and then. Technology makes it so easy to keep in touch with the people I’m close to, and to <i>see</i> them, so that most of the time I don’t feel so far away. But every once in awhile, something sets my head reeling just for a moment. Seeing pets over the camera is one of them. You can’t chat with pets, and when my sister’s cat makes her way into the camera’s view, I feel the distance a little bit more. When my mother’s dog looks pitifully at the talking computer that seems to know his name (before he scrambles away – he’s the sweetest dog, but he’s incredibly cowardly), I feel like tearing up, just for a second. </div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I was a frequenter of independent coffee shops first and foremost in the States, and I only ever went to Starbucks because I was desperate (and it was the absolute only place to get a warm drink in the independent-business-wasteland of a neighborhood where my job was located in Philadelphia), so when I saw that big, round, green and white glow during a recent trip to Antwerp, I was surprised at how jelly-legged I suddenly felt. It was a cold and overcast day, so I sat and had an Earl Grey tea. The smell evoked something vague and desperate, no specific time and no specific place, not even specific faces. But it was something melancholy that made me think carefully about where I was, and, just for a minute, reminded me both cruelly and sweetly of where I was not.</div><div><br /></div>Sarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14901040121871370656noreply@blogger.com7