Use Your Head

When Marine leaves I often end up neglecting myself for whatever reason, and so I may not eat all day but then wait until the last minute, drag myself out the door, and eat something bad for me. It makes no sense, because when she's here she doesn't really cook that much. In fact, it's me making sure that she eats otherwise she will get angry and fatigued like a small baby. I just seem to lose all energy and I don't do anything, and today was a good example. I pushed through the hunger, gave an English class to an architect (which I couldn't avoid as he was coming to my house, there's not much else I could do), and then when I felt as though I might pass out I decided to descend the stairs and get something to eat.

I've talked about African food and how much I love it. Goat, chicken, rice, beans. Whatever. It's cheap and local and I know that when I move I'll probably not have the opportunity to eat it again, so I decided why not, 5 bucks, I'll go get some African. As is normal in Belgium, the place I frequent decided to close for no reason other than that they did not want to open that day. I backtracked and thought about the place across the street from me -- it's good but I prefer a specific type of chicken with sauce called moambe and, not being from Congo, the guy doesn't usually make it. But again I said screw it, I don't have the energy to be bothered looking for anything. Went there, got some goat (it's odd to use that casually, like for example he was telling me what was available and I said, "Mmmrrr.. I think I'll have the chicken -- wait no, the goat." -- you don't get to say that often) and he speaks fluent english so I had a little chat with him.

It's a new place next to a parking garage and he has nice new glass doors, but one was put out of commission and he had a chair behind and in front of it with a giant sign saying, Do Not Use This Door, as if a lot of people had tried and he had to barricade the thing in to stop them from shattering it and hurting themselves. I asked what had happened, just out of simple curiosity. I mean, he's basically a neighbor and I'd like to know the goings-ons in my neighborhood. "Well," he said, "They broke it and so I went and replaced the door. Then they broke it again the very next day. I said to them, It's ok, but give me the money to replace it!" He laughed and I tried to imagine it in my head.With the parking garage, I just made an assumption and asked "Did a car back into it or something?"
"No, with his head! He pushed the door open with his head".
That made no sense to me so I asked him and he explained a guy was coming in, twice, and broke it with his head. That simple.

I have no idea how someone does that and doesn't horribly maim themselves in the process, to be perfectly honest. He just continued to smile and said "It's Matongé, you never know what's going to happen!" I laughed with him, cause, well, it's true. People push open doors with their heads.

Sure it spices life up, but lessons should be learned here. Just as you shouldn't throw stones if you live in a glass house, you shouldn't own glass doors if you live in Matongé. There's plenty of evidence of that, unfortunately.

I just wished him good luck and went home and ate my goat.

Show Me Your War Face

We recently had to take our end-level tests at the EPFC, and as usual we had to pair up for the oral tests (heh heh). A lot of the time, if the teacher has a stick up their ass -- and a lot of them do -- they choose who will pair with who, or at the very least they'll veto your request and tell you to choose a different person. For example, I met a Canadian a few courses ago and since then we've been taking the classes together, sitting next to each other so if we're totally stumped we can try to help each other out, etc. But since we're both anglophones, we've had the profs try to split us up. I don't really know why, because listening to some of the eastern Europeans or Spanish speak French is grating and difficult to endure let alone understand. Not that my friend's accent is any better, but at least we can practice speaking to each other and feel prepared. The tests are also really stressful, in that it's you in a room with a professor, speaking in front of him or her while they sit there staring at you fumbling along. It's a little more comforting doing it with a friend -- I mean, it can be embarrassing and of course you hit the mental blocks because you get nervous, everyone does. Some more than others, like me. I have to actually be sedated for them.

Anyway, a few weeks back we had to decide who we were pairing up with and for whatever reason I was absent and the Canadian was off doing Canadian things like skiing in the alps, so neither of us signed up. Now, there's only one black girl in the class and she's Rwandan. My professor knows I live in the African district so I suppose she just assumed we'd be happy to do it together or something. I have no idea. But when she asked the girl, she refused, saying that she was scared of me and that I looked mean. Apparently, the other people in the class agreed. They told me so after we had some drinks and they realized I wasn't going to murder them or something. We all laughed about it, or at least they did -- I was just surprised. How often do you get feedback like that from people you barely know, let alone an international jury?

I just don't believe in false advertising.And so what if I don't come into class and greet all 18 people individually, or smile like a vacant jack ass all day long? I'm not going to kill you and rape your corpse during the oral examination. Well, I wasn't going to...

Ah, Matongé

They're renovating the area that I live in now. Tearing up the streets to create a larger walking space for the tourists that like to come through the area, I guess. Normally, there would be a constant amount of traffic passing by, but since the street I live on is currently blocked, people have decided to use it as free parking space . The problem is when someone gets blocked in -- which is what happened two minutes ago.

This is the Congolese or "African" district mind you, and the solution to any problem is to honk your horn. A lot. Bite your tongue? Honk. Angry at the world? Honk. Happy? Honk too.

 In this case, somebody came out of one of the bars and found themselves shut in, so they honked. And honked. And honked some more. My frustration started to grow after about 5 minutes until a car, a street or so over, decided to start honking along in solidarity. Like two ships lost in the fog, they communicated in slow, defiant beeps. I have no idea what they said, other than "Get me the fuck out."

 The common struggle of Matonge. Or maybe people just like honking. I've been told that it is just the way to get things moving in Africa: you honk, they move. Nevermind the noise.

I haven't been to Africa yet, but I'd guess it would be an interesting visit after living here, a place modeled after a city in Congo. The only way that I can describe the Africans I've met since living here is... relaxed, to the point of not giving an absolute shit. A cop came to verify my existence when I applied for my ID card here, and when I answered the door he gave me a run down of my new neighborhood. He said,

"Most of the people around here will tell you if they have a problem. They will say it to your face, that's their culture. Except for the Moroccans, they'll stab you in the back".

A little racist-sounding, and he was a Flemish cop (managed to insult my wife, too), but the point I got out of it was that the cultures are very different, and the majority of people who live or frequent the area bring their culture along with them. It's true. It's not even a question, really.

A lot of the people living in this area are first generation immigrants. The streets that compose Matonge are lined with fruit and vegetable shops that sell things like plantains, and the "really fucking hot peppers", as I call them, that tend to grow in Africa... not to mention weaves and other hair products. All at the same time, in the same shop, sold by Pakistanis (Chris Rock should have come here for his documentary. I have literally seen TumbleWeaves).

That's why I love this place; the fusion of cultures is exactly what you would expect from "big city" life, as my grandparents would probably call it. Yet it works -- Matonge isn't Dante's Inferno, like everybody seems to think it is. (The last article I looked up online was some racist bullshit about gang violence)

Despite everything, Brussels is a melting pot full of all sorts of people who manage to get along under almost any circumstances. And there's not even a government! Maybe that's why it works?

Belgian McDonald's and other horrible food

Tonight I had nothing much in the fridge and I started to think about if I should bother heading out to grab something quick to eat or just go to bed. It's not like I don't have options around here, unlike a lot of other areas in Brussels. There are no fritkots within throwing distance, but there's plenty of other stuff to clog my arteries.

I pass Pizza Hut, McDonald's and Quick on a daily basis, a reminder that multinational corporations and capitalism are never far away. And as much as I hate to see their giant logos so far away from the country that spawned them, I'll admit that I love walking up to the Pizza Hut counter and paying 1.60 for a slice of a pizza whenever I want and then being on my way. And I don't complain every once in a while when classmates drag me to McDonald's to get a burger after a few drinks. Beyond the staple restaurants you have the not-so-common places like Chicken Spot (why didn't they just call it Chicken Restaurant Place and be done with it?) or kebab shops.

One of the first things you notice after walking into a McDonald's or anything else from the states is that they don't run the same menus over here. You'll find the Big Mac but beyond that it gets kinda weird. For example, one of their specials right now is the CHICKEN MYTHIC.When I hear the words Chicken and Mythic together, the first and immediate image that comes to mind is a Mythical Chicken from some epic Greek poem, about a gigantic fucking chicken who roams the countryside at night, eating children who dare to venture beyond the city's walls. What I don't picture is a nice big chicken patty on a piece of bread and some fresh iceberg lettuce.

Us Americans really do have a gift when it comes to advertising, it seems. But we also deliver on those offers. It's just not in their blood over here. I think it comes down to 10 Frenchmen sitting around a table gesticulating, the boss finally piping up with "Alor, what should we call zis thing?"

And in accordance to French work ethic they all just shrug, mutter something about the food being dégueulasse (that's "disgusting" and you should say it like "degolass", with a sneer) ... and then say they'll think of something later after they finish their apperitifs of Pernod, but then never do it, and they lose your paperwork and act like they don't know what you're talking about when you show up for your identification... wait, I'm getting off track. But the government offices might as well be run by McDonald's employees.

If you bother going to the McDonald's websites (who does that, ever?) you'll notice the European McD's has a really small menu compared to the US one, not to mention everything looks smaller. There is no double quarter pounder, that is for sure. Probably because people here are not horrible, fat monsters.

Now let's take a look at Quick, France and Belgium's answer to shit food. Their menu includes:

• the Cheeseburger
• the Classic Pepper
• the Supreme Cheese
• the Quick 'n Toast
• the Giant
• the Long Chicken
• the Long Bacon
• the Long Fish

Exciting! And that's right, you heard me, the Long Chicken. The second cousin of the Chicken Mythic, destroyer of children, friend of Long Fish, destroyer of seafaring vessels (no relation to longcat). The Supreme Cheese tells them all what to do. That's ingenuity. Lately, though, I've seen all sorts of advertisements in the streets from Quick. They're taking a cue from us Yanks and are cranking it up a notch, throwing out stuff like the...

You can almost hear the advert shouting SUPREME TENDER BEEF at you, but that's where the excitement ends. That's European supreme -- a regular burger. Like American companies, Quick routinely tries to pass off food as EXTREME and GIGANTIC, but that's where they have our evil corporations beat, because they give you a normal burger but charge you a supreme price. For the price of that thing you could get 3 of these things:

...and then you would die, but that's your choice, damn it. It's available. Ah well, when in Brussels. I guess I'll have a beer and go to bed and wake up to feel miserable.

Belgian Frites

That's "french fries" or "chips" to you and me...

Belgium's known for a lot of things. Never mind that it's the heart of the EU, or that Napoleon got his ass kicked in Waterloo -- forget the diamonds in Antwerp and the battlefields of Ypres (OK, maybe not the latter, that's kind of important). It's the food and drinks that they're really known for. Waffles, chocolate, beer... mussels and fries. If there were ever a country after American's own cholesterol laden heart other than itself, it is Belgium.

And by no means am I exaggerating. When it comes to things to make you fat, Belgium truly has America beat. Believe it. No matter where you walk around in Brussels, for example, you're bound to find a fry shop, chocolatier, pub with more beers than you can count, or the sweet smell of waffles wafting through the air. It is that prevalent. But today I'm going to talk about the fries, because those are just as important as anything else.

The story goes that during WW1 American doughboys saw Belgian troops eating fries and subsequently called them "French fries" -- after all, they were speaking French, so who else could they be? They then brought the idea back to the states and the rest is fatty fatty two-by-four history.

I figure if you've never been to Belgium it must be hard to picture where you get fries, and why. Especially if you're from the US and you can (and maybe do) get them with just about any meal you want. I wanted to visit for years and read all about where to go and what to do but paid no attention to the frites.

So first off, why? Well, everyone loves fries. Or they should. Secondly, it's a matter of Belgian pride, as they're the ones who created them. It's almost an art form here. In the end, though, it's just a nice treat; they're good, they're cheap, and they hit the spot. There are also a billion different sauces to choose from to mix things up a bit, some of which still remain a mystery to me. Your typical menu of sauces at any given place consists of the following, and it's easy to understand why it can get confusing: Sauce Blanche, Sauce Samouraï, Sauce Andalouse, Sauce Harissa , Sauce Aïl , Sauce Cocktail/Américaine, Sauce Barbecue, Sauce Curry , Sauce Tartare... the list can go on.

The Belgians and Dutch prefer straight up mayo, but a lot of the other sauces are mayonnaise-based and ketchup-based with different spices thrown in. Example: Américain is simply mayo + ketchup. Some are hot, some just have a different tang. I tried samourai on my Kebabs before I knew it was essentially fiery mayonnaise and fell in love with it. Only later when I realized what I had done did I feel dirty (I got over it). If I'm not sure what to get I stick to a little bit of ketchup and some salt and that's it. Depends on your mood and how many hours or days you'd like to shave off of your life.



The fries themselves are supposed to be fresh, "irregularly cut", and fried twice. The oil used for frying is really what gives them their unique flavor -- each friterie has their own oil and cooking method of choice. Normally, the fries are served in a cone (to maximize the amount) and the sauce comes splattered on top. You eat them with a little plastic fork unless you're me, in which case you just dig in with your hands. That's when the cone and the sauce become a problem. Honestly, I couldn't care less what they come in, because when you get frites here in Belgium it's usually after you've had a few beers. Whether it's the same night after nursing some 8%'ers or the next day to nurse your hangover, it really doesn't matter; the two go hand in hand.

Ironically, the best frite places are often little stands placed through out the city. You might expect more, but then you'd be disappointed. Most of the places are in "fritkots" (that'd be dutch this time), almost resembling what we'd call a "roachcoach" back in the US. A little portable trailer and nothing more. Even the brick and mortar places are incredibly small. You can get "french fries" anywhere, but it doesn't mean the establishment is devoted to them, so it's not going to be the same. I think in this case, the smaller it is, the better. Here are 4 places I frequent or at least know of for now. All of them are hailed by locals and tourists alike, so you really can't go wrong:

Fritland

This one is an exception to the rule, as it's even got sitting area inside. As per my rule, it's really not the best place in town, but Fritland is very popular, and for a reason. It is where you go after a night of drinking, or after a night of anything, actually. It's open late -- 1.00AM or so, and it's situated right in the center near the bus stops. On your typical Friday or Saturday night, you hit up a few bars and try some Belgian beers, then head home on the bus. Before you get there, the smell of this place hits your nostrils and soon you're queuing in line for a cone your own... which, inevitably, ends up being shared, willingly or not, with your buddies... everyone mauling at it like a group of Mr. Potato Head zombies. You can sit inside during the day if you feel like exposing yourself to the immense amount of heat being put out by the fryers, and like most places you can get kebab-like sandwiches or loempia or just about anything deep fried. At night they close the doors, so you order from the window and then stand around gorging yourself like a fat fuck in front of all the people catching their buses. But it's worth it when you're desperate.

Frit'Flagey

I pass this place on the bus all the time. I look at it longingly and yet it always seems to evade me. Part of the reason is because it's always packed, but if the locals like it, you know it's worth the effort. It's situated in a chaotic area -- Place Flagey -- on the way to the University of Brussels, so it's a sort of hub stop for trams and buses, along with a billion cars weaving here and there across the FUBAR'd intersection. Apparently, one of the guys running the place is fairly well known for being a dick. Much like the "Soup Nazi" in Seinfeld, he will refuse service to you if he doesn't like the way you speak to him. Part of me thinks that's wonderful and I'd like to have a beer with that man, and the other part of me says, if I wait in line 30 minutes for some fries I better fucking get them. There are other places, however, which leads me to...

Pitta De La Chapelle

That's right, everybody. Here's a picture of a beautiful chapel built in 1134 and I'm talking about the fritekot in front of it. Let's just call these guys religious, as they had the balls to name their fry stand after the gigantic medieval church situated behind them. In fact, you can hardly see the 'kot in the picture because it's dwarfed by said church (behind the van). That's Belgium, baby. It's located near the Sablon where you can find a lot of antique shops and a market area on Sundays. I go there for the fries. The guys are really nice and you can take a seat on one of the benches next to the church if it isn't too busy. Normally it's a calm area, which is why I frequent it. There's an ATM really close by and you can use your extra money to get a Poulet Croc if you get the chance -- it's just a stick of deep fried chicken, but it is truly a piece of heaven. After that you can go into the church and pray for your arteries.

Tabora

These guys are hardcore. They stay open until 6am and apparently use veal fat for their frites, giving them their own unique flavor. This is the first friterie I visited in Brussels. Marine took me there after a night of wandering around and it was definitely a surprise. In America you're used to fries sitting under heat lamps and being shoveled at you in cardboard cartons by fast food workers who couldn't give a shit. I don't know if they give a shit at Tabora, but it sure seems like it. It's small and it can be a pain in the ass waiting in line some nights as there is simply the cooking area and room for a handful of people to order. Normally, you get your food and stand or sit (if the chairs aren't already taken) outside at the tables or simply go for a walk. That's my only complaint, there's no where to really chill with your fries. I'd prefer a dark corner so that no one sees me at my most grotesque.

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!