Frites vs. Jogging

The image accompanying this post should provide some indication as to how I might vote on this matter. Having temporarily given up on finding a gym (thank you to those who provided helpful suggestions), I've decided to take advantage of the not-yet-freezing weather and run outside every once in a while. I've even found the perfect spot to do so - les Étangs d'Ixelles, or the Ixelles Ponds, which I've decided to stick to after getting lost a couple of times in the Bois de la Cambre (which J has likened to a fairytale forest).

The only problem is that at the foot of the Ponds lies the prototype of a Belgian frites stand - elegantly simple, wonderfully fragrant, smoke coming out of a lead pipe chimney - and surrounded by many a happy Belgian eating frites (and mayonnaise) with a little wooden fork out of a paper cone. So, for each lap I barely manage to finish, I am once again reminded of how I should be eating frites instead of running. Not exactly motivating.

Also, it does not appear that Begians have ever heard of (or might need) the Atkins diet. Everywhere I go, I see people chomping away on a baguette or shoveling down frites. With nary an obese person in sight.

French Class

I started an intensive French course at l'Alliance Française on Monday. Although I have yet to experience anything on the level of, say, Me Talk Pretty One Day, I think the class has the potential, beyond improving my French, to prove quite entertaining.
For one, none of us speak French particularly well, but it's the only language we all have in common. The group includes a Brazilian psychologist, Italian swim instructor, and Vietnamese monk, as well as a Flemish woman who works for some kind of not-for-profit cultural concern. There's also a Russian and a Spaniard, along with a fairly hyperactive instructor named Angélique who is given to dramatic gesticulation and likes to accuse us of being low-energy.
(I must say, a Google image search for "french class" yields some silly finds. And at least I'm not in this class.) 

Hearting HEMA

I've found a rainy-day cure in Brussels - and it's a Dutch department/bargain store called HEMA. No matter what the weather might be, a visit to the store, which can best be described as an irresistible mix of American Target, Japanese Muji, and French Monoprix, always manages to cheer up the cheap-o, design-lovin' bargain hunter in me. (I promise I don't work for them, but the childhood spent in Holland may make me particularly susceptible.)

Stuffed in Strasbourg

I had the opportunity to spend most of last week in Strasbourg due to J's work. While he was hanging out with Sarko et al. in the European Parliament, I went shopping with Carla Bruni. Just kidding. Instead, I wandered about the city and checked out a few museums - some of which seemed quite morbidly obsessed with death. I also resisted the temptation to sit in a tea room and gorge myself on pastries the entire time. This task was made easier by the fact that during the day I was usually still full from the previous night's feast. Whether it was flammeküche, jambonneau (pig knuckle), a "salad" composed entirely of ham and cheese, beef tongue, or boudin noir, it was all delicious. To top it all off, we passed through both the Alsace wine region and Champagne on our way home (where, sans réservation, we were spurned by Veuve Clicquot like 2 guys without dates trying to hop a velvet rope in Manhattan).

Sorry for Asking

Sometimes I feel like a) I was just put here for some random Belgians' amusement; and b) I've wandered unawares into some kind of musical production. Par instance: yesterday I found myself sans STIB jumpcard (local equivalent of the Metrocard) near the Université Libre de Bruxelles (not to be confused with the other side of campus, which is called Vrije Universiteit Brussels. I'm not kidding). So I went into a pharmacy, because it was the only store I could see for blocks. I realized it was a long shot - I couldn't possibly claim they sell Metrocards at Duane Reade in New York, but I decided it was worth a try. (After all, they do sell them at press agents and the supermarket.)

As an aside, I've been told by some that one's chances of being caught without a STIB card are practically nil. This was a disclosure that left me feeling somewhat conflicted. On the one hand, I love public transportation (so much so that J has accused me of wanting to live atop the Port Authority and take "public transportation vacations" - not sure what either accusation means) and don't mind paying for it. But on the other hand, who wants to be a sucker?

So, back at the old pharmacie, I asked the nice lady behind the counter if I could buy a card for the tram. She could have just said no, or even laughed in my face in a pleasant or friendly way - which happens to me here all the time. (It also happened to J the other day, when he walked into an eating establishment and greeted them with bonsoir - in the middle of the day.)

Instead, she seemed to find my question so obtuse as to merit some kind of theatrical act. She proceeded to gaily call/sing to her colleague in the back room that "Madame is asking whether we sell cards for the tram . . ." (the audacity, I know.) Which prompted her fellow pharmacist - who was equally lovely and apple-cheeked - to reply in a singsong voice, "Mais non, why would we sell cards for the tram? Of course we do not!" At which point, I received the final decree from both pharmacists, in choral unison, "Madame, we do not sell cards for the tram. You must go to the librairie, of course!" (Maybe it was just that it was in French, but it was all vaguely reminiscent of the song in The Little Mermaid where the crab is being chased around the kitchen.)

Completely perplexed, I decided to walk home.

Macarons Luxembourgeois

Accompanied J on a work trip to Luxembourg City this past weekend. Although my overall impression of the postage-stamp-sized city was . . . average, I cannot get over the macarons at Wengé. The free wifi in Place d'Armes (as well as throughout the city) was also quite nice, not to mention the oursin and muscadet at Brasserie Guillaume. Finally, props to the Mudam (Musée d'Art Moderne Grand-Duc Jean), even though it was in between installations.

It's Not Okay

I must admit I was intrigued when I read the outsize praise received by (the now Man Booker-snubbed) Netherland. The book was written by Joseph O'Neill, an author born to Turkish and Irish parents who attended school in the Netherlands and currently lives in New York. Being born to Chinese parents in Texas, raised in the Netherlands, and living in New York at the time, I wondered if I would experience any kind of natural affinity.

The short answer was yes and no. Descriptions of a biking-heavy Dutch adolescence rang familiar, but I didn't really enjoy or identify with the book's eventual dénouement. One scene, though, that stayed with me was the one in which the protagonist and his (ex-) wife leave a London dinner party prematurely because of a comment one of the guests (or was it the host?) makes regarding 9/11.

Which brings me to what's not okay. Notice to Europeans dealing with Americans, particularly those who lived in New York at the time: It's not okay to suggest that we deserved 9/11, that we may have brought it upon ourselves in the first place. It's not okay to comment that perhaps Americans should view 9/11 as an incident in which they received some "useful feedback" from the rest of the world. The latter, in fact, is exactly the argument that was presented to me in a job interview the other day.

I agree that many atrocities take place around the world on a daily basis that suffer the fate of the proverbial tree that falls in the woods. I also agree that the lamentable actions of our outgoing administration have not helped us make any friends - particularly in this context. And yet these are no excuses for trivializing what happened in New York on September 11, 2001.

A Visit to the Post Office = Brunch at Prune?

One thing I'm going to have to get used to here is the pace of daily life. In the US, I'm the one who asks for coffee, dessert and the check. Call it impatience or efficiency - but it's not going to work here.

For instance, I paid a visit to the post office yesterday. My first visit had already been comical enough, with me not understanding which button on the machine to push and finally being helped by a lovely old man who had undoubtedly been watching my cluelessness with no small degree of amusement.

Armed with my new knowledge, I strode in confidently yesterday . . . only to find a large number of fellow postal patrons sitting around like it was the DMV - camping out, reading, smoking, picknicking . . . .

I decided to take a ticket anyway, even if just to exercise my newly learned skill. But the number on my ticket was so much higher than the one on the screen that I decided to go to run some errands instead. A few errands and a pilates class later, I remembered that I still had my ticket from the post office. About two hours had passed. I decided to give it a shot. I only had to wait a few minutes until my number got called. While it worked out this time, I have absolutely no idea how real Belgians live their daily lives.

Strike!

There may be no better example than the general strike on Monday (to protest high prices and a general decline in pouvoir d'achat) to illustrate the animosity between Flamands and Walloons.

We had been warned to keep food supplies on hand, as many stores might be closed. However, about half the stores in Brussels remained open - provided the majority of the employees were Flemish-speaking*. Apparently, the Flamands did not agree that there was much to protest and certainly did not want to get caught supporting an initiative they viewed as largely Wallonian in origin.

*Information provided by a new friends in Brussels, a category that is actually beginning to exist. Yay!

Sending Shouts Out to People I Miss

1. Every time I stub my toe, trip, or destroy my shoe (and if you're me, it's often), on the omnipresent cobblestone streets here, I think of Noa. (And I'm not even wearing stilettos!)

2. My li'l sis's work blog has kicked off. Check it out. She's creative and stuff. And I joined the waiting list for a Chevy Volt, being the America-proud eco-dork-living-abroad that I am.

Day of Rest . . . and Other Misunderstandings

Those who know me are aware of the fact that I sometimes have "encounters" with people I run into in daily life. So it goes without saying that I have to be particularly careful to keep my emotions (especially unfounded ones) in check when a colossal linguistic or cultural (or both: culti-linguistic? lingo-cultural?) misunderstanding lurks around every corner.

Last Saturday, J received a little chastisement when he asked in perfectly polite, well-accented French whether the newsstand would be open the following day - Sunday. Granted, the likely answer was no, since most shops are closed here on Sundays, and even on weekday evenings past 6:30PM. But since it was a newsstand, and those things called newspapers tend to be churned out even on Sunday, it seemed worth asking.

Unfortunately, the saleswoman was not amused, wagged her finger at J, and retorted, "Monsieur, you should know that Sunday is a day of rest."

I then made the mistake of asking her if she had the Michelin guide for Belgium. She proceeded to yell at her husband, who was upstairs, to ask. The husband, who seemed quite good-natured, then came downstairs and began to disassemble the bookshelves blocking the window display - it turned out he had only one copy left.

As J and I were regretting having set foot into this Agence Presse in the first place, the woman - who I now began to realize could potentially benefit from a psychiatric intervention - stared at me and asked pointedly, "What do you want it for? To consult it?" At least, that's what I thought she asked in French. This seemed a rather strange question, so I just nodded my head. To which she replied explosively: "And you are asking my husband to dismantle the store? Just so you can consult the guide?"

I explained as politely as I could that I wanted to buy the guide in order to consult it and that I would never ask her inexplicably sweet husband to dismantle the store for no reason. I also wanted to tell her - but decided against it - that in some religions, Saturday is the day of rest.

Chasing Uni

Thanks, Livia, for sharing this delightful posting on one of my favorite foods, sea urchin. Can't wait to go to Italy . . . . In the mean time, will have to locate a raw bar that features oursin - the adorable French name for uni - which (I believe) means "little bear."

Working Out Is Hard to Do

I hardly enjoy working out as much as, say, J does. And yet the incessant ingestion of frites, baguette sandwiches, and beer suggests that I should probably at least consider starting some semblance of a workout regimen.

The only problem is that it's not so easy to find a gym in Brussels. J and I went to check out Passage Fitness on Charleroi and were assaulted by a pandering, hyper-aggressive sales associate who demanded that we join that day, or else lose the discount on the initiation fee. Since we're not looking for a local Ballys-for-life, we said no.

I then went to Aspria Avenue Louise, which admittedly is a gorgeous gym - but it comes at a price: around €200 per person, per month. And that's excluding the ridonkulous €500 initiation fee. Since Brussels appears in most other regards to be a relatively modest city, I'm not sure who can afford such fees (although the crowd in the café gave some indication).

Finally, we went to Physical Golden Club (if nothing else, these places have great names) on Place du Châtelain, which was unassuming enough - but I couldn't get over the women's communal showers.

So if you know Brussels better than we do, feel free to send a shout out with recommendations.