Snowy/Milou

Walking around the East Village, I have been spotting at least a couple of fine real-life specimens of Tintin's constant companion Snowy (Milou in French, ? in Dutch). This inspired me to look up Snowy's breed, which turns out to be the wire fox terrier. While I would love to get a dog once we arrive in Brussels, wire fox terriers do not appear to make the best pets. Wikipedia observes that "Among the less desirable traits of all fox terriers are their energy, digging, stalking and chasing of other animals, and yelping bark."

My best bet may be to learn fun facts about Snowy instead. More from wikipedia:

Basics: "[He] is Tintin's four-legged companion who travels everywhere with him. The bond between the dog and Tintin is deeper than life, and they have saved each other from perilous situations many times."

Linguistic and paranormal abilities: "With a few exceptions, Snowy never speaks (although he is regularly seen thinking in human words), since he is 'only a dog' . . . . Snowy often adds to the story in many interesting ways. For instance, Snowy is the only character in Flight 714 to remember that he was abducted by aliens."

Alcoholic tendencies: "Like Captain Haddock, Snowy is fond of Loch Lomond brand scotch whisky, and his occasional bouts of drinking tend to get him into trouble, as does his acute arachnophobia."

Evolution of the character: "The character of Snowy . . . was most dramatically affected by the introduction of Captain Haddock in The Crab with the Golden Claws. Before Haddock's appearance, Snowy was the source of dry and cynical side-commentary, which balanced out Tintin's constantly positive, optimistic perspective. When Haddock entered the series, the Captain took over the role of the cynic, and Snowy gradually shifted into a more light-hearted role, serving to create comic relief by chasing the Marlinspike cat . . . , drinking the Captain's whisky, etc."

Ode to the Redhead

There's nothing like leaving a city, not to mention the City, to make you appreciate its charms. I've spent years grumbling about my block's annoyances, including cat-size rats, a condemned corner building that endangers the lives of pedestrians, a drunk singing neighbor permanently perched on the stoop, and no less than 4 different waste management companies that make the nightly rounds.

It never hurt, though, that Momofuku Ssam was just a stone's throw away. Before David Chang became a total rock star, we (4 close friends, J, and I) were lucky enough to celebrate New Year's over some delightful pork butt - with maybe 4 other diners. We actually worried about the sustainability of the restaurant and its insistence on making extra-tasty Chipotle wraps during the day. How things have changed.

It wasn't until the Redhead moved into the old Detour that we had a canteen again. Chef Meg Grace heads up the venture and has spent time at the Modern, as well as Brennan's, in New Orleans, which means she turns out food that soothes my Chinese Southern soul. I've enjoyed most of the menu, although my favorites include the One-Eyed Caesar Salad and Pan-Seared Trout, and the Ginger Snap off the drinks menu. SE: New York has a full review and some delectable pictures.

Smurfs #2

I never really thought I would start a blog - let alone a blog containing not one, but two (and counting?) posts about Smurfs. It's just that moving to Belgium is bringing up a treasure trove of childhood memories.

The other day, I was researching the difference between transformers and converters, which I still can't say I completely understand. But then I recalled learning at least one part of the lesson the hard way, back in the day.

We had just moved into our new house in Roosendaal, the Netherlands. I must've been about 9 or 10 years old. Even though I was a girl, my room was decorated according to a (not-atypical in Euroland) red-and-white Formula One theme, straight out of the Ikea catalogue. I think the prior inhabitant, a boy, had slept in a racecar bed. Nevertheless, I loved my room and did not yet resent my parents for being Chinese and uninterested in ameloriating or personalizing interiors.

One day, I decided to play a record on my Smurfs turntable, which had been carefully shipped from the U.S. I had watched my parents use the converter with their grown-up devices, and figured it would allow me to do the same. Unfortunately, shortly after plugging it in, the record player began to emit smoke before basically exploding in my red-and-white room.

Lesson learned: Do not use converters on appliances better served by transformers. And identify which is which.

Dr. Windmill

One of the challenges of moving to a new country - especially if a work visa is to be obtained in the process - is having to jump through various hoops. Some of these are tedious; others, colorful and odious, among other things. So far, one of the more pleasant ones has been to meet and be examined (in some fashion) by a certain Dr. Windmill.

Dr. W and his wife operate out of a one-bedroom apartment in Midtown East and are the lucky recipients of referrals from the Belgian and other francophone embassies. They also appear to service francophone expats on an ongoing basis.

I had been warned by J that Dr. W may not exactly be politically correct. Among other things, he had recommended to J at the conclusion of his visit that he might want to lose some weight, because he is "a lee-ttle chubby." (Let's just establish that this is not the case.)

So, it was with some trepidation that I entered Dr. W's office. No comments were made about my portliness. He did, however, ask me a number of seemingly irrelevant questions surrounding my ethnicity, including my favorite, "But where are you from?" after I made it known that my nationality is American and I was born in Texas. (In all fairness, I don't look the part.)

The clinical conversation then progressed to the topic of venereal disease. After asking me a couple of questions, he volunteered that I would not believe the varietals of STDs - and "bad behavior" from which these might result - that he regularly encounters in his practice. I sadly admit I tried to egg him on. At which point, he reconsidered: "I could not possibly tell such a nice young woman such terr-eeble things."

Although I can't recall with complete certainty, I believe he also took my blood pressure.

The Gray Lady Weighs In

This article is now a couple of days old - which is significantly younger than my last update - but worth a quick reference.

Highlights include:
The German newspaper Die Tageszeitung a few days ago called Belgium the “most successful ‘failed state’ of all time.”
Okay, but I imagine with significantly less bloodshed than most.

“A Flemish friend,” Mr. Dannemark [an editor at Le Castor Astral, a French-language publisher, who prints translations of Flemish writers] said, “put it to me this way: ‘Flanders has nothing in common with Holland except language, and the Flemish and Walloons have everything in common except language.’ But there’s almost no communication between the two communities, except through rock music, which everybody sings in English, and sports, which transcend everything.”
Thank god for soccer and rock 'n roll . . . but what about waffles and mussels?

The only (sort of) good news is that, apparently, speaking English is viewed as non-hostile by all parties.