Protest Day!

Some time in the afternoon today I started to hear loud booms and what sounded like explosions or gunfire. Then the helicopters started flying by. I honestly had no idea what the hell was going on, and as I had no reason to leave the house, I remained nude and listened with interest as I made spaghetti (a risky, but worthwhile endeavor). I figured it was just another "event" here in Brussels, of which there are many thrown sporadically through out any and every month. It could be a free concert, a Francophone day, a Flemand day, or "just another reason to take off work day".

As the booms started getting louder I started to think the Flemands had finally gotten angry enough to start some shit, so I started texting around and asking what was happening. Fireworks are usually a night time thing. For a second, I even wondered if there'd been another bank robbery down the road.

Nope, it was just approximately 100,000 people protesting the government slashing salaries, employment, and pensions/retirement. Politics over here can get hazy and confusing but essentially what the unions are saying is that the banks fucked up and the common man shouldn't have to pay for it. Hey, that's not so foreign after all! Sounds familiar. Except I don't remember anybody marching the streets of America these past few years. Unfortunately, our protest phallus is forever flaccid.

I was a little bitter when I found out this went on today and I didn't get to at least witness it, because this is the type of stuff I wish us Americans would do -- show up and be counted for when it comes to our government being lazy, inept, or corrupt. But all we can ever seem to do is put our hopes in a politician's hands and then quickly wash our own of the situation. He's successful, he got the American dream to work for him. Maybe he'll get it to work for us!

The classy European style of protest complete with Eyes Wide Shut orgy masks. After the march it's off to enjoy some beer, frites, and some other dude's wife!

I can't even find a real job over here, so I'm not sure I should have a say in anything protest-wise. I don't feel like it's my place to join in on things like that when I can barely understand the politics of Belgium itself, let alone the entire EU. Ideally, any time would be the right time to protest rich fuckers getting richer and the poor getting poorer, but I'm not really an idealist. I don't know what I am. Lately I've just been gassy.

I do know one thing: if there's any reason to head out and protest it's to piss of the Belgian police force. What a bunch of complete dickheads. I never seem to hear anything good about them -- ever. Whether it's the guy whose car was stolen at gunpoint and who was essentially told to "screw off", or the new classmate I have who traded one regular stalker for two police stalkers after she went to file a complaint (she still gets SMS's from those guys) none of the stories are good ones. I asked for directions once and had to give justification for where I wanted to go, but the icing on the cake was when I saw a cop literally get bribed in front of me after a drug transaction. What role models, these guys. They really have taken the whole "uniform = asshole" thing to a whole new level. Like they're playing catch up with the Americans or something.

At least the Brussels protest wasn't as bad as those in Spain (or as good, I'll let you be the judge of flaming police cars and flailing batons).

But I'll end this with a legitimate question. Do plainclothes police beat any harder than regular cops? I mean, your average pig has the uniform to help with the small man complex, but what about the guys pretending to be normal human beings?

Bonne Nuit

Seems to be a high or insane person walking around Porte De Namur tonight screaming random shit at the top of their lungs. Could be either/or , I don't know. Probably too much coke. I think they're shouting "Viens!" or "Come here!" The police won't come because they never do -- not that I'd bother calling them. They're useless, after all. Unless you need them at 5am on a Sunday yelling through their loudspeakers and sounding their sirens.

Sometimes I wonder about the homeless. You see some in the center, but not here. Actually, just one... there's a guy named Maurice that I've given beer or fries or money to on various occasions -- he sleeps in a small garage down the road. He's quiet so nobody bothers him. I saw him pissing in traffic at noon, once, but that isn't loud, so people don't care. He seems nice enough and I wonder what his story is and what he does when he hears animals screaming in the night. Does he pull his blanket up over his eyes and hope it all goes away or does his insanity just mix with theirs?

When I first got here and realized his situation, I'd offer him change or food. One day I even bothered to ask him his name. How naïve of me. After a while there isn't a point: He stays in the same place, nobody does anything, neither do you, neither does he. I've seen others give him food or whatever, but the last time I can remember the public interacting with him was through me. I entered his "cave" to offer him the extra food I got at a kebab shop and on my way out some dudes insinuated I was in there getting a blow job. Normally I'd shrug off shitty humor like that but I didn't let it go because I couldn't understand why a person would be so callous. I stupidly tried to instigate something but my horrible French just confused them and they walked off. For the best.

Viens! VIENS!

I guess it's a good night to wander and scream if that's your thing. The streets are empty. Today was some sort of Francophonian holiday, so I didn't have to go to school. I don't think anyone did. I'm sure somewhere there are Flemands cursing in dutch about how lazy they all are. Or is it we... am I one of them now? I guess so.

Speaking of the neighborhood, we've got a pretty nice church just around the corner called St. Boniface. Since I've lived here the damn thing has been under repair or cleaning non stop. Only just this week have they taken off the fencing and construction facade covering it all up. I may not appreciate religion but I can appreciate art and I'm kinda proud to live here. Even with weirdos like me and Maurice hanging around.

Viens!

Saint-Valery-sur-Somme

The father-in-law & Marine's sort-of-step-mom have decided to split, so a bit of house cleaning was required this weekend. I don't know if I've ever mentioned the step-mom, before. Where to start? She once told me the story of how she lost her virginity; she was 15 and an older gentleman bought her a lemonade. He then took her up to his hotel room where he nailed her. I guess that sums up a lot about her, actually. The French, even. Often while drunk she would force me to dance with her to Talk Talk's "It's My Life" or other 80's hits, an attempt to relive her youth where she was young and blond and drank lemonade and got fucked.

People don't like to move on, it's natural. Last winter I actually spent a couple of months in the house with her because I had no where else to go. She drank a lot of wine and watched a lot of Bewitched. I think she wished she was Samantha so she could wiggle her nose and make everything in her life OK again, back to when they might have even looked a bit alike. But not any more. Now, she talks a lot about her rich Dutch ex-husband, a suspected pederast, who absconded to Japan. According to her, that left her a shell of her former self. I won't argue, it's all pretty depressing.

It wasn't all bad this time. I think she was happy to have the house cleaned out. We even got some free stuff. Some Village People vinyls were salvaged and I snagged a Mickey Mouse phone that nobody wanted. I don't know if I want it either, but there was something sad about that mouse just sitting up there in the attic, waiting so patiently for someone to answer the phone.

After that, we ended up staying in Saint-Valery since Marine's grandma owns a summer house there.

Saint-Valery-sur-Somme looks like your average little port town. It's a place for old French people to use as a summer home and basecamp to gossip from, and a place for families to spend a bit of their vacation. The tourists are from other parts of France, or Spain or Britain -- lots of British -- who come with cameras hanging around their necks, waiting for the perfect sunset so that they can capture it and take it home to bore the shit out of their friends and family. A lot of the old houses have maritime motifs just like you might find somewhere in Florida. An old fishing net hangs from a rafter in our attic-bedroom, picture frames are lined with seashells and doors have the anchor or boat wheels decor. I can't tell if it's a caricature of itself or if it's just so fucking genuine that I can't swallow it. That's what I get for growing up in a country dotted with Red Lobsters. Cynicism and suspicion.

But there are old and winding streets that weave up and down hills, and an inlet where you can watch rich people take their boats out to sea. Across the inlet is another town and when the tide goes out, you can practically walk across to it. It's when the tide comes in that people drown, the currents sucking them out to sea. Down the road is putt-putt golf and occasionally during the summer they'll have musicians come around to play the usual family-friendly blues crap. In the restaurants stretched along the waterfront you'll find people eating the seafood you'd find anywhere. Mussels, shrimp, fish. Whatever the French can find buried in the sand. If you can manage to forget the other people, it's nice to take a walk along the water or through the town -- I like the old architecture and the sides of buildings that have been painted with now-faded liquor advertisements.

Aside from the aesthetic beauty, though, it's pretty damn boring. Like most cities or towns in the north of France, it's small. Very small. OF course, that doesn't stop people from coming and it never has.

My wife's people, the Guals, were here well before ol' J.C. was born, and so were the Romans, who came in to conquer them. And then William the Conqueror sailed off from here in 1066 to, well, conquer the absolute shit out of the British. The house we stay in was built in something like 1860. The cellar was built in 1231. Much like the small and winding roads that barely accomodate cars, the architecture in a lot of the houses seem to barely accomodate people; I've managed to hit my head in both the attic and the cellar now -- both, painful souvenirs. But it does have a cozy feel and there are layers of history everywhere, which is a little overwhelming to me. I mean, Joan of Arc passed through this place, maybe even had a tinkle down the road.

How old is that wall? When was this built? Why, and by whom? Lots of questions no one can answer, because nobody really cares. I love history and I know I'm lucky to be over here, but for someone like me, European towns like this are just frustrating. There's nothing tangible. Some times it just feels like a lived-in old house. You put up with the wear the others put on it and then you move on. Sure, it's neat to see "Jacques X, 1644" etched into a wall, it's nice to sit and imagine the story of the person and what times were like back then, but that's all your doing because it's all in your head. There's no story to be told. The artifact to find here is the town itself, the only problem is sharing it with everyone else.

I keep having to tell myself, "This is France, man. People have lived here for a long time and they're going to continue to live here. That's it."

Me, I want to get out there and discover it all each time I come here. I want to explore and get dirty and find things nobody has seen in years, mysterious things that have secret stories that can never be told, because their owners are long since dead. All that silly, romantic crap.

It's too bad I can't just be happy where I'm at. Maybe someday when I'm old, too.

FIFA Cup full o' Goat Meat

So, Ted came to visit on his way to Seoul for a week or so. Traveling with Ted is always interesting. Some times I want to kick him in the balls over the small things, but it's a mutual feeling and one that seems to be a normal part of our 17 or so year-old relationship. Fuck, we're getting old. Anyway, I can't say I would have traveled to Dinant alone and gotten (relatively) lost in the forest behind the citadel, nor would I have searched for the remnants of the Leffe abbey and ended up watching a group of monks clad in white robes do their daily chanting. That was fun and utterly bizarre, as was the night life here in BXL which would often find us sharing a smoke under the psychadelic lights near the center. I was happy to show Ted around to the few places I knew about. I think by the time he left he had eaten Belgian frites, chocolate, mussels. Pakistani night-shop chicken from Tandooriland down the street. African, Brazilian, and who knows what. I even brought him along to one of my English classes and the couple were nice enough to feed both of us, so I guess he got his Francophonian gourmet on too.

I think our best discovery, though, was just here in Matongè where I live. Normally, when I go to grab some African food, it's cheap takeaway - 5€ for all the good stuff and chicken or tilapia. But seeing as Teddy was visiting and we wanted to watch America in the FIFA matches, we splurged and ended up going to sit down and eat. Bit more expensive, but for 10€ you get the meat of the gods. Goat meat. I don't think we were really in a sober state of mind when we first ordered it, because, well, who is when you look at a menu and decide Goat to be the best option? But sweet jesus was it good when we started eating it. I don't know what they do to it - marinade it, or what - but I'd say it rivaled or surpassed some of the best ribs I've had in the states. Course, you end up having to pay for a drink and then whatever else they might swindle you into buying... rice or plantains... but it's worth it. Never thought I'd find myself celebrating (or lamenting?) the wonders of goat meat in my life time, but here I am.

And then as quickly as Ted appeared, he vanished, off to do whatever Ted does. Who knows, he seemed in an adventurous mood. Maybe he decided to progressively step things up the further East he traveled. I haven't really heard from him since. I envision him in an opium lounge somewhere in Turkey dining on human flesh, or sitting in a communist prison in China, taking lots of pictures. I guess we'll see.

Speaking of communism, half way through the North Korea-Portugal match I expected the Koreans to give up and start eating handfuls of grass on the field, tears streaming from their eyes. Eat what you can while you have it, boys. Because someone, somewhere is going to get tortured for that absolute ass-thrashing and it's probably your family back in the Motherland. You don't get sent to represent Kim Jong Il to all the world and then lose 7 - nil. Actually, I think it's just a good rule of thumb to not represent Kim Jong Il at all, but that's hindsight, and dictatorship.

And now the US has lost to an African team-- a hard night for me, living here. In honor of Ted I would return to our table at Chez Ya Peggy and order goat from "mama", cheering on the US of A. I was the only white guy in the little restaurant and when we scored a goal my arms sprung into the air and everyone turned to look at me. I just shrugged with a smile. But by the end of the night, it was the Zairians or Congolese and maybe even a stray Ghanan blowing on their vuvuzelas and cheering on our defeat. Take that, white man.

And then Ghana lost to Uruguay yesterday and their cheering and tooting has since ceased. Sorry guys, how's it taste now? Not nearly as good as goat, I know that. At least we can all take solace in the fact that Brazil lost, and we all did better than England. For those watching, I don't think the FIFA cup is even as much about the sport as it is about cheering on your country and praying for the doom of others out of spite. It's the type of stuff that brings people together. I was happy I got to experience it here in Europe and with an old friend, to boot.

Now who else is going to come visit?

I'll update with some pics later when I'm not being lazy

And now...

So, I think I fucked up my French exam. I have another coming up, but that's kind of like waiting for the second wave to hit while you're still holding your breath. I'm just hoping it tosses me onto the sand. I'll try my best anyway.

But that brings to mind what I will do during the "vacancies". After the big test, I'm just here and the wife is wherever she gets accepted to for training.

I thought about some strange Nordic land where I'd freeze all day, eat fermented fish, and drink strange liquor with the locals but in retrospect it sounds like Stalingrad 1943 and so, no. Scandinavia is probably a no-go especially since I have no fucking money. Western Europe may be half the size of the US but it's just as expensive when it comes to travel.

Maybe I'll join a farm somewhere for a few weeks and live off the fat of the land. Or perhaps I will join a commune, where I will live off of the fat of other humans that we have butchered because communes are fucking weird. No one can tell. Not even me. I hope it is none of those, actually.

Fricadelles and war machines

Occassionally, when I'm in a rush and on my way to class I'll run into Carrefour (fun fact: means crossroads), one of the larger grocery store chains, in search of something to stop the continous rumbling coming from my gut. I hate it when absolute silence in a room full of people is pierced by the sound of my stomach begging for sustenance. That's when I regret not having the bowl of cereal or whatever.

Alas, I am your typical carnivore-style male and I prefer the protein punch to give me the energy in the morning instead. I still sometimes wistfully dream of the Irish breakfasts I've had that kept me full of energy... and presumably cholesterol. (See this for an example...) Anyway, I can't stand eating sweet things in the morning, which is what the French race seems to run on. Lots of dairy and cookies or bread or whatever. My wife seems to love speculoos cookies, for instance. So of course I walked near the fresh baked bread and pastries and what did I spy wrapped in flakey bread? MEAT. Or as I would later find out, a fricadelle (frikandel for the dutch).

If that looks too appetizing, here it is without bread.

There are a lot of sausages from a lot of different places, so that didn't raise my eyebrows or anything, but I shoulda known better when my wife told me once "we don't know what meat is in there". By we, she seemed to mean everyone else in the country. But I love the things, they're quick and easy and taste good. Outside, it's the consistency of a regular sausage and inside it's sort of... grey. The appearance threw me off cause I thought it was breakfast food; silly me... I'm in Belgium, meat for breakfast? Course not. It's meat for lunch, that's why it was sitting next to the mini-pizzas!

You can even find them in kebab shops. Usually I eat them as they are while walking to class, but apparently in the Netherlands and Germany people will eat them sans-bread with mayo, ketchup, onions, etc. Sounds sorta familiar, right?

I think you see where I'm going with this: it turns out that the fricadelle is pretty much the euro equivalent of the hot dog, and I've been happily eating them for breakfast for like a month now. The frightening part being, they are rumored to have the same quality of meat in them as some of the shadier hot dogs in the States except the horse, as I have pointed out before, is still eaten over here. Yep, a growin' boy gotta eat his recycled mystery meat! The fact that I've been sandwiching them inside of the noble croissant is probably worthy of some sort of public punishment in France.

At least maybe I countered some of the pig balls and horse jaw meat by walking around the giant musée militaire here in Brussels. I went there yesterday with some classmates for the second time, and I still haven't really had the time to take in everything. It's free, so I'll be going back. I could spend all fucking day in there and I mean that literally, I'd have no problem with staying there all day and sleeping there as well. I can easily see myself donning Napeolionic-era armor with bullet dents in it and passing out on a Nazi tank with a fricadelle in one hand and a Kwak in the other.

The wife is kickinh my fat ass off the computer so I shall write more about meat later

A Joyeux Noel

So, the holidays and what-not were pretty cool here. I always thought it would be awesome to spend the winter in Europe, figuring it would look like something out of a movie. Which it was, pretty much. Brussels got its first real snow in the last couple weeks of December and I was happy like a school girl.

Ssnow is awesome when you don't have to drive and you can still walk around without slipping. But after a while, snow in the city gets packed down to the point where if you step on it, you're going to bust your ass. Which Marine did once, by the way! The more I get to know her the more I realize how clumsy she is when she gets tired or lazy... it's as if she has no awareness of her physical self, where she ends or begins, and the area around her. Knocking glasses over, dropping things... busting her ass in the snow. That's my wife.

For Christmas we ended up going to France. The train ride was great. As for the time there, it was ok, but unfortunately on the 23rd or so I was asked to accompany a group of Marine's dad's friends on a hunt in the woods. For wild pigs, giant god damn wild pigs. Anyway, our job was to walk around and scare the pigs out of the woods. You heard me, you walk around with no weapon and "scare" the pigs, yelling or smacking trees with sticks, anything to make a noise. If you see one charge at you, you run, because they can easily slice an artery in your leg with their tusks and that'll be the end of you, squirming and bleeding out while a bunch of Sarkozy loving Frenchmen run after their next vanity kill.

Unfortunately (or fortunately?) we didn't end up scaring any pigs out to be slaughtered. The woods there can get pretty thick -- it's the same area where I dug up WW2 trenches last year (I'll have to post about that later) -- and it was cold as balls, of course. So in between the random bomb craters we walked, looking for pigs which never showed up. It didn't take long to get scratched up, cold, tired, and kinda bored. We stopped for lunch at one point, which meant lots of food and lots of booze. Of course. A little strange to see a bunch of guys guzzle wine and then pick up shotguns to head out and kill some shit, but mostly they were safe.

In the end, they did something lame, although I guess it's a tradition. A bunch of pheasants were bought and released into a certain area of the woods and were then hunted. They definitely got a few of those. I wasn't aware pheasants stunk so much, you learn new things every day. Marine had a pretty :( story though, apparently she was near some old dude who managed to blow only the wings off of one of the birds. He shouted at her to chase it, so chase it she did... until it managed to get away in the thick brush. Later, the more ...adept... hunters told her they should have just let it be so they could track it or whatever. So the poor bird ran out into the middle of nowhere loaded full of buckshot. War is hell, pheasant.

All I was saw (alive) was a big hare which was scared absolutely shitless. It was running like a Cheetah through the woods. I yelled "LAPINE! LA LAPINE!" which just made Marine giggle. I was actually trying to be serious though. I need new gloves and that thing looked soft. I was tempted to hunt it myself using knowledge from First Blood starring Sylvester Stallone but decided to let it be for then.

For New Years, we ended up staying in Lille. At this point I was sick with something or other so it kind of sucked. It was in this (cool) old building where they have projectors showing video clips to music. Unfortunately, most of it was typical Eurotrash techno crap with bad art school CGI movies and neither me nor the woman liked it, so we left shortly after 12 and walked a couple of girls home. That was it. Got some midnight kisses on the cheek from pretty French girls and I turned one year older. Here's to my 26th year on the pale blue dot...