My attitude when it comes to activities is if someone I know here suggests something, I’m going to say yes. If it’s free, I’m going show up early.
The Program Manager of the fellowship I’m on, MC, invited the US fellows out to see a former Belgian fellow give a piano recital on the occasion of the 200th anniversary of the birth of Robert Schumann. I was free, too. I was the only fellow to take her up on it. Now, there are only about 4 or 5 of us here so far (out of a total of 9.
The Royal Conservatory isn’t resplendent. It’s old and there is a pot in the atrium for donations for its renovation. The hall itself has wonderful acoustics and the performance was wonderful. I don’t really know much of Schumann’s work, but I’ll certainly check out more of his stuff now.
Afterward, it was off for a beer on the Grand Sablon, the square I pass each day to the archive. They have those outdoor heater things so it wasn’t too cold – fall is reaching Brussels – and pestered MC about good restaurants and things to do/see in Brussels.
All in all a nice night out that didn’t cost a dime (or, centime, as the case may be.)
Tomorrow I go with a Belgian friend to a dance performance in the Walloon Brabant part of Belgium, which is to the south of Brussels. Should be interesting....
P.S. Post Offices in Belgium are just like in the US. Four counters, only two people working, no one's happy, lots of standing in line, and the stamp machine is broken. I think I felt more at home in the Saint Gilles Post Office than I did at McDonalds.....
Friday, September 25, 2009
Day to Day and an Afternoon in the Archive
Until now, I’ve been working on the diary I posted about previously and taking care of the some more basic business. I finalized by bank account and took out insurance on the apartment and the things I have in it. I declined to take our “family insurance” which is a type of insurance that covers me in the event I break something on the street – a window or door – or harm someone else. When my landlord was explaining this to me it wasn’t computing and it still doesn’t. When I talked to my flat mate, AS, he was perplexed by it, too. “Back home, you break a window,” I said, “you just pay for it.” He nodded in agreement.
I also had a visit from the Brussels police. This was expected. See, all Belgians need to carry a national ID card at all times. This card contains a chip that has their info in it on where they live and the like. Foreigners who stay for more than three months – that is not tourists – need a national ID card as well.
Part of the process involves a police officer coming to your door, checking to see if your name is on the bell or mailbox, and then coming inside to inspect that you really do live there. “They do this for Belgians” is a refrain I keep hearing from anyone I talk to about this. Anyway, I happened to be home. This is good, because if not they would leave a note and then come back at an appointed time, thus delaying the process. As it is, I have to wait until 21 October to go back to Saint-Gilles town hall to put in the formal application. And, oh yea, pay 30 Euros on top of the 7.50 I already paid just to start the process.
Anyway, the cop was nice enough. We trucked up the 83 stairs and he asked me the basic questions: “do you live alone,” “how long have you lived here,” “who lives across the hall” and the like. After all that, he gave me the form and we headed out. “Do you have a lot of these to do,” I asked. In reply he opened the binder he had and flipped through at least 50 of the same looking forms that he just gave me.
I just don’t know if this is the best use of the police force. It’s a little like seeing CT police at construction sites, just sitting in their cars with their lights one. I guess home inspection is a reasonable activity for police (if, as an American, a little odd to have a police officer inspect my home), but I can’t help but think this poor guy has better things to do with his time (and gun strapped to his belt) thank check up on people.
This afternoon I spent it in the archive. Not the library like I did last week, but the archive itself. It’s a nice room, nicer than the Hoover Archive with a modern feel, though I think the chairs are form Ikea so they look nice, but aren’t necessarily the most comfortable.
I was determined to navigate the ordering of documents myself and did well. I figured out the computer system by trial and error and am now waiting for the documents to arrive….(I’m writing this post as I wait.)
I’m interested to see how they organize their material. According to their finding aid the material I ordered is “1 chemise” which means “shirt” in its literal translation. I’m assuming they mean folder, but I’m not sure. I only ordered two items – we can order up to five – so I may go through these quickly or not. I also don’t know if they are in English or in French. These are the records of the CRB, but in the Belgian archive. We’ll see soon enough.
So, the documents came and, sure enough, they are in one big folder. Well, it’s not really a folder, more of a big piece of paper folded over on itself to hold about 6 to 8 inches of material. I have the feeling that no one has really looked at this stuff in a long while. The finding aid was begun in 1927 and then finished in 2000.
It’s a mixture of French and English in this first folder – again these are CRB records. Some documents are not useful, but I did find an 18 page typed (with lots of handwritten notes) transcript of a July 1915 American delegate’s meeting in Brussels with Hoover present. This document has a lot of themes I want to discuss, power, national culture, conflict, sympathy, and the like. It discusses discussing changes to the delegates role
and a lot of good stuff on what kind of authority and power ("executive" or just plain "advisory") the Americans should have, complaints over why the Belgians won't listen or follow the rules (some say it's their "national character" some say it's because "the mayor wants to get re-elected" and they all have to live with each other during and after the war), and why one CRB's province is better run than an others. (I got the sense of some internal CRB pride.)
The language is free and frank and there is certainly a good deal of difference of opinion between the delegates based on their particular experiences in their province. I don’t know who took the minutes, but they are good in some places and incomplete in others. Some spots just have …….. in place of words. I will keep my eyes open for an other document like this, but I doubt I’ll find it. I never came across anything like this in the US. Of course, that doesn’t mean it’s no there, but I’m glad I found it here!
I also had a visit from the Brussels police. This was expected. See, all Belgians need to carry a national ID card at all times. This card contains a chip that has their info in it on where they live and the like. Foreigners who stay for more than three months – that is not tourists – need a national ID card as well.
Part of the process involves a police officer coming to your door, checking to see if your name is on the bell or mailbox, and then coming inside to inspect that you really do live there. “They do this for Belgians” is a refrain I keep hearing from anyone I talk to about this. Anyway, I happened to be home. This is good, because if not they would leave a note and then come back at an appointed time, thus delaying the process. As it is, I have to wait until 21 October to go back to Saint-Gilles town hall to put in the formal application. And, oh yea, pay 30 Euros on top of the 7.50 I already paid just to start the process.
Anyway, the cop was nice enough. We trucked up the 83 stairs and he asked me the basic questions: “do you live alone,” “how long have you lived here,” “who lives across the hall” and the like. After all that, he gave me the form and we headed out. “Do you have a lot of these to do,” I asked. In reply he opened the binder he had and flipped through at least 50 of the same looking forms that he just gave me.
I just don’t know if this is the best use of the police force. It’s a little like seeing CT police at construction sites, just sitting in their cars with their lights one. I guess home inspection is a reasonable activity for police (if, as an American, a little odd to have a police officer inspect my home), but I can’t help but think this poor guy has better things to do with his time (and gun strapped to his belt) thank check up on people.
This afternoon I spent it in the archive. Not the library like I did last week, but the archive itself. It’s a nice room, nicer than the Hoover Archive with a modern feel, though I think the chairs are form Ikea so they look nice, but aren’t necessarily the most comfortable.
I was determined to navigate the ordering of documents myself and did well. I figured out the computer system by trial and error and am now waiting for the documents to arrive….(I’m writing this post as I wait.)
I’m interested to see how they organize their material. According to their finding aid the material I ordered is “1 chemise” which means “shirt” in its literal translation. I’m assuming they mean folder, but I’m not sure. I only ordered two items – we can order up to five – so I may go through these quickly or not. I also don’t know if they are in English or in French. These are the records of the CRB, but in the Belgian archive. We’ll see soon enough.
So, the documents came and, sure enough, they are in one big folder. Well, it’s not really a folder, more of a big piece of paper folded over on itself to hold about 6 to 8 inches of material. I have the feeling that no one has really looked at this stuff in a long while. The finding aid was begun in 1927 and then finished in 2000.
It’s a mixture of French and English in this first folder – again these are CRB records. Some documents are not useful, but I did find an 18 page typed (with lots of handwritten notes) transcript of a July 1915 American delegate’s meeting in Brussels with Hoover present. This document has a lot of themes I want to discuss, power, national culture, conflict, sympathy, and the like. It discusses discussing changes to the delegates role
and a lot of good stuff on what kind of authority and power ("executive" or just plain "advisory") the Americans should have, complaints over why the Belgians won't listen or follow the rules (some say it's their "national character" some say it's because "the mayor wants to get re-elected" and they all have to live with each other during and after the war), and why one CRB's province is better run than an others. (I got the sense of some internal CRB pride.)
The language is free and frank and there is certainly a good deal of difference of opinion between the delegates based on their particular experiences in their province. I don’t know who took the minutes, but they are good in some places and incomplete in others. Some spots just have …….. in place of words. I will keep my eyes open for an other document like this, but I doubt I’ll find it. I never came across anything like this in the US. Of course, that doesn’t mean it’s no there, but I’m glad I found it here!
Sunday, September 20, 2009
A Day in Ypres
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
-- Lt. Col. John McCrae (1872-1918)
I went to Ypres on Saturday. The town, about 2 hours northeast of Brussels, had to be completely rebuilt after World War I because it served as a frontline post for the British and was leveled by German artillery. By rebuilt, I don’t mean that some buildings had to be repaired, I mean the town was flattened and the inhabitants decided to rebuild their guildhalls and church and homes the way they were before August 1914. The Cloth Hall, the main building on the town square, was only finally finished din 1968. Pictures and scale models at the In Flanders Field museum show the devastation that came to this old cloth-trading center.
Today the town is an interesting mix affluent and vibrant city – based on the massive tourism for the war sites – and the hallowed nature of its history as the site of intense fighting during World War I.
For example, when I first arrived I made my way to Menin Gate. Menin Gate is a memorial to over 50,000 British subjects who died during the war, but have no known grave. It’s huge, but not big enough to actually hold ALL the names, so another 30,000 or so are on another memorial. The gate is an entryway to the city and cars, bikers, and pedestrians all walk through it to get into the old town and out to the suburban area. Walking into Menin Gate for the first time, though, is humbling. Through that spot (and many others that led out through the old city wall that is still standing around about half Ypres) thousands of young men from around the world marched to certain death on the front line. Over that spot artillery shells flew into Ypres and leveled the town. It’s like walking into a tomb of sorts. You are surrounded by names etched into white panels. If remains are found – and it’s happened over the years – they are identified and given a proper burial. Then the name is taken off Menin Gate.
I returned to Menin Gate later in the day for Last Post. More on that in a bit.
Unlike Brussels where the old city walls no longer exist, part of the ancient wall of Ypres still stands. Ypres was an important cloth town and had to be defended from rivals. A moat sits right in front of the walls. It makes for a peaceful walk that takes you – on the southwest side at least – to a small cemetery, the Ramparts Cemetery, where a number of British and Canadian soldiers are buried. Many more cemeteries dot the surrounding countryside, but that’s for another day. Now it was back into town to see what a rebuilt Gothic town looks and feels like.
Guidebook in hand, I made my way to a small restaurant in the shadow of the Stadhuis (town hall) and had some steak frites and a local brew: Ypras. Excellent food, value, and atmosphere. Of course, since I’m in Flanders, French is not the language of choice, so I had to navigate the Dutch menu, but managed okay. Again, most people speak English, but I’m trying to make an effort. The waitress was patient.
Then it was off to the In Flanders Field Museum at the Cloth Hall. Opened in 1998 this museum is excellent – if a little confusing the follow. It has wonderful artifacts and is interactive with kiosks telling you history, short films outlining aspects of the war, and an card that you carry that tells you if you go to war or not; if you live or die. You take a ticket with a barcode and place it in three different kiosks. I was a young Belgian man who was conscripted, fought briefly, and participated in post-war activities in Germany. I was happy to have lived. It’s a museum to be seen, not described….so come visit me and we’ll go.
Since it was such a beautiful day – I’m waiting for it to turn any day now – that I decided to wander the city. I tried to find this specific beer hall, but no luck. So, I returned to Grote Markt and found a table and had a few beers – a Palm, very tasty, and a Kapittall Bruin (an abbey beer) that had an odd aftertaste – and a waffle while I took in the sights of the main square. Now, one of the sights included an old WWII era Jeep (I think it was a British version of the Jeep, so I’m not sure what that would be called). It wasn’t odd until I saw who was driving the thing. It was a man wearing the following: round sunglasses (ok), soul patch (ok), combat books (fine), black socks (ok, good), short army style shorts (odd, but okay), and…a green mesh shirt….yup, you could see ‘em, plain as day. Thank god it wasn’t too cold out!
My belly full of booze and sugar and my eyes burning from male-mesh-fashion, I decided to head back to Menin Gate for Last Post.
Last Post has been performed at Menin Gate every day at 8pm since 1928 except for that other German occupation….and even then the day the city was liberated, even though there was still fighting going on in other parts around Ypres, they began the ceremony again. It consists of local buglers playing their bugles, a color guard, and people chosen to lay a wreath of poppies on the steps of one of the doors of the memorial. Traffic is stopped and soldiers, at least when I was there, march out to stand guard at the two main entrances to the gate.
It’s powerful and somber and the dedication to doing it every day is remarkable. A big crowd showed up, too. It must be mobbed on 11 November.
It was great to get out of Brussels for the day. Two hours there and two hours back with the iPod in was easy enough. Ypres is a city to go back to and it certainly leaves an impression, only some of which are here.
Of course, while this carnage was taking place in Ypres, hundreds of towns behind the German lines were experience kindness and given in the form of international humanitarian relief, but while at Ypres it was hard to think of anything else but the toll the war took on a whole generation of men and women (at the front and back home). Ypres is also a testament to the power to rebuild, move forward, but to also remember. Menin Gate is such a simple and powerful monument to those who died that it puts in perspective the fights many have been having over the proper memorial to 9/11 in New York. Menin Gate is a memorial to 54,896 dead.
Yes, there were debates over what should be done (some wanted to turn the whole town into a memorial or take the Cloth Hall) but the result was functional and static. Cars still pass through it on the way into town where people go about their daily lives in 2009 like any other gate into Ypres or any other town in Belgium or the world, but on the walls are etched a staid reminder of the tragic history of the town and, because it was the First World War and includes name for the far reaches of the British Empire, the tragic history of the world itself.
[I don't have the best internet connection, so uploading pictures isn't always easy. When I can, I'll post some pictures in this post or a subsequent post....sorry for the lack of visuals. -- Tom]
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
-- Lt. Col. John McCrae (1872-1918)
I went to Ypres on Saturday. The town, about 2 hours northeast of Brussels, had to be completely rebuilt after World War I because it served as a frontline post for the British and was leveled by German artillery. By rebuilt, I don’t mean that some buildings had to be repaired, I mean the town was flattened and the inhabitants decided to rebuild their guildhalls and church and homes the way they were before August 1914. The Cloth Hall, the main building on the town square, was only finally finished din 1968. Pictures and scale models at the In Flanders Field museum show the devastation that came to this old cloth-trading center.
Today the town is an interesting mix affluent and vibrant city – based on the massive tourism for the war sites – and the hallowed nature of its history as the site of intense fighting during World War I.
For example, when I first arrived I made my way to Menin Gate. Menin Gate is a memorial to over 50,000 British subjects who died during the war, but have no known grave. It’s huge, but not big enough to actually hold ALL the names, so another 30,000 or so are on another memorial. The gate is an entryway to the city and cars, bikers, and pedestrians all walk through it to get into the old town and out to the suburban area. Walking into Menin Gate for the first time, though, is humbling. Through that spot (and many others that led out through the old city wall that is still standing around about half Ypres) thousands of young men from around the world marched to certain death on the front line. Over that spot artillery shells flew into Ypres and leveled the town. It’s like walking into a tomb of sorts. You are surrounded by names etched into white panels. If remains are found – and it’s happened over the years – they are identified and given a proper burial. Then the name is taken off Menin Gate.
I returned to Menin Gate later in the day for Last Post. More on that in a bit.
Unlike Brussels where the old city walls no longer exist, part of the ancient wall of Ypres still stands. Ypres was an important cloth town and had to be defended from rivals. A moat sits right in front of the walls. It makes for a peaceful walk that takes you – on the southwest side at least – to a small cemetery, the Ramparts Cemetery, where a number of British and Canadian soldiers are buried. Many more cemeteries dot the surrounding countryside, but that’s for another day. Now it was back into town to see what a rebuilt Gothic town looks and feels like.
Guidebook in hand, I made my way to a small restaurant in the shadow of the Stadhuis (town hall) and had some steak frites and a local brew: Ypras. Excellent food, value, and atmosphere. Of course, since I’m in Flanders, French is not the language of choice, so I had to navigate the Dutch menu, but managed okay. Again, most people speak English, but I’m trying to make an effort. The waitress was patient.
Then it was off to the In Flanders Field Museum at the Cloth Hall. Opened in 1998 this museum is excellent – if a little confusing the follow. It has wonderful artifacts and is interactive with kiosks telling you history, short films outlining aspects of the war, and an card that you carry that tells you if you go to war or not; if you live or die. You take a ticket with a barcode and place it in three different kiosks. I was a young Belgian man who was conscripted, fought briefly, and participated in post-war activities in Germany. I was happy to have lived. It’s a museum to be seen, not described….so come visit me and we’ll go.
Since it was such a beautiful day – I’m waiting for it to turn any day now – that I decided to wander the city. I tried to find this specific beer hall, but no luck. So, I returned to Grote Markt and found a table and had a few beers – a Palm, very tasty, and a Kapittall Bruin (an abbey beer) that had an odd aftertaste – and a waffle while I took in the sights of the main square. Now, one of the sights included an old WWII era Jeep (I think it was a British version of the Jeep, so I’m not sure what that would be called). It wasn’t odd until I saw who was driving the thing. It was a man wearing the following: round sunglasses (ok), soul patch (ok), combat books (fine), black socks (ok, good), short army style shorts (odd, but okay), and…a green mesh shirt….yup, you could see ‘em, plain as day. Thank god it wasn’t too cold out!
My belly full of booze and sugar and my eyes burning from male-mesh-fashion, I decided to head back to Menin Gate for Last Post.
Last Post has been performed at Menin Gate every day at 8pm since 1928 except for that other German occupation….and even then the day the city was liberated, even though there was still fighting going on in other parts around Ypres, they began the ceremony again. It consists of local buglers playing their bugles, a color guard, and people chosen to lay a wreath of poppies on the steps of one of the doors of the memorial. Traffic is stopped and soldiers, at least when I was there, march out to stand guard at the two main entrances to the gate.
It’s powerful and somber and the dedication to doing it every day is remarkable. A big crowd showed up, too. It must be mobbed on 11 November.
It was great to get out of Brussels for the day. Two hours there and two hours back with the iPod in was easy enough. Ypres is a city to go back to and it certainly leaves an impression, only some of which are here.
Of course, while this carnage was taking place in Ypres, hundreds of towns behind the German lines were experience kindness and given in the form of international humanitarian relief, but while at Ypres it was hard to think of anything else but the toll the war took on a whole generation of men and women (at the front and back home). Ypres is also a testament to the power to rebuild, move forward, but to also remember. Menin Gate is such a simple and powerful monument to those who died that it puts in perspective the fights many have been having over the proper memorial to 9/11 in New York. Menin Gate is a memorial to 54,896 dead.
Yes, there were debates over what should be done (some wanted to turn the whole town into a memorial or take the Cloth Hall) but the result was functional and static. Cars still pass through it on the way into town where people go about their daily lives in 2009 like any other gate into Ypres or any other town in Belgium or the world, but on the walls are etched a staid reminder of the tragic history of the town and, because it was the First World War and includes name for the far reaches of the British Empire, the tragic history of the world itself.
[I don't have the best internet connection, so uploading pictures isn't always easy. When I can, I'll post some pictures in this post or a subsequent post....sorry for the lack of visuals. -- Tom]
The Diary of Constance Graeffe or "Wow, I didn't see that coming."
Well, not every post can be about my fun and games or the day-to-day routine of living here, some should be about work. So, here is a little more on Constance Graeffe.
I began and finished reading her diary last week and, I must say, it was not like anything I expected and I'm all the happier because of that. Constance was of English and French descent and she married a German-Belgian, Otto. They would eventually immigrate to the United States and they died in Michigan in the early 1950s.
The historian who edited this diary – and did a fantastic job and wrote a great introduction – points out the transnational nature of The Graeffe family. (Constance would begin to write her name the German way, Gräffe, as the war went on in a way to distance herself from the Anglophillia of member of her family, especially Carrie.) This is an interesting fact considering that there really is no indigenous Belgian nationality. The king comes from a line of German princes and, well, I’ve written about the language and cultural divide of the Flemish (Dutch) and the Walloons (French) in the country. So, the question remains, “what is a Belgian?” and who were “Belgian” in World War I and, as I always like to tell my students, “what did that mean?”
The diary is a fascinating insight into what it was like to live in Brussels during the war. Constance and her family lived in Saint-Gilles, which is the same town that I live in. They spoke French and German fluently (indeed, most of the letters that Constance puts into her diary are in French). They also spoke Flemish – mainly to the servants – and English as well. Constance and her family were well off, Otto owned a sugar refinery and, let me tell you, the Belgians like their sugar.
The diary itself is written in an interesting way. It goes from August 1914 to December 1915. No one really knows why she ended it there, but she did. The entries are not typical diary entries, but letters, unsent, to a Scottish friend living in Australia. For someone who tried to be understanding of and, later, defensive of German motives and actions in Belgium and the war itself, it’s interesting that she wrote to a British subject. Again, these letters weren’t sent, but as the introduction to the diary points out and the dairy itself makes clear, Constance (or Connie) was trying very hard to justify her thoughts about the war and her family. (This interpretation isn’t mine, but the interpretation of the historian Sophie de Schaepdrijver in her introduction to the war dairy. Just trying to give credit where credit is due.)
The diary contains the usual musings on the lack of food – though Constance and her family had no worries getting food and often went to their house in the country side to get vegetables and such to supplement their rations. Also interesting is the division within her family. Carrie, the sister, allied herself and her family with the allies and was partial to the United States. Carrie housed a number of Commission for Relief in Belgium (CRB) delegates and send news of the CRB to Constance. Constance often dismissed these as propaganda or undue outside influence and doesn’t seem to have too high a regard for the Americans in her country. At one point she transcribes a report from a newspaper by an American CRB delegate – Robinson Smith – who describes the character of some of the Belgian women as very maiden-like with a certain earnestness to help their American humanitarians. Constance makes a comment, alluding to possible romantic interests by Mr. Smith, that she has never seen such Belgian maidens that Smith speaks off and goes on to describe Belgian girls as more selfish and concerned with hats and accessories than with the simplicity of country life.
It was also interesting to read about the timeless ungratefulness of children in the diary. Constance’s and Otto’s eldest son, Robert, was, well, a brat. He was 16 ½ at the outbreak of the war and tried to enlist in the Belgian Army like his cousins, but was turned away, so he continued his education first in Switzerland and then in Germany. He hated his boarding school education, in part because he was always lacking money. At one point he complains to his mother and father that he doesn’t understand why they send him to this expensive school when they can’t afford to give him money for good suits and other odds and ends. He even asks his parents if they are as rich as they say they are! The back and forth is amazingly honest about the role of parents and the role of children and the nature of the war in shaping that relationship. Indeed, the rest of the children are at home skimping, while Robert is away at school and able to take vacations.
Robert makes constant threats to sign up for the Belgian army via Switzerland. He agrees with a number of his cousins (many of whom sign an open letter to the family) that the Gräefs and their kin should be fighting for Belgium, no matter their national ties. There is a clear generational split. This threat infuriates his father who sends him a letter saying, in short, that if Robert were to sign up for the Belgian or allied army, ties would be severed and, indeed, Robert would be breaking the law because Otto gave his word to the German government (not sure how) that Robert would not take up arms against the German Empire.
Robert would eventually serve in the German army and, indeed, Otto and the family would take German citizenship partially, it seems, because of their affinity for Germany and for Otto’s business interests. (This later war and post-war information is known not through the diary, but through the research of Sophie de Schaepdrijver in her introduction to “We Who Are So Cosmopolitan”: The War Diary of Constance Graeffe, 1914-1915.)
The diary builds to a very defensive end and it’s interesting to see how Constance is first appalled – as his her husband – by the violation of Belgian neutrality, then to try to see both sides of the war and attack the excesses in rhetoric by both the English and the Germans, then to point out the hypocrisy of the English, and then to really feel as though there was a conspiracy by the English and allies to involve Belgium in the war and force the Germany’s hand. The complexity of her thinking is helpful for me because my whole approach to this project is to uncover the frictions of the relief effort and discuss how it was successful in spite of them. I’m not out to do a hatchet job or anything close to that, but to interrogate the received notion of this particular relief movement and to better understand what kind of impact humanitarian work makes on the people and the people on the relief work. This diary presents a narrative of opposition to the traditional narrative of “Germans bad” in a complex way. It’s certainly not “Germans good” but Constance wants to better understand what motivated and drove the Germans to do what they did in August 1914 and how best she, as a Belgian, can live with in the system. She also seeks to understand the inherent contradictions of war. At one point Constance asks why is it okay for the English to bomb seaside Belgian cities, but it’s not okay for the Germans to bomb Belgian towns….One man’s freedom fighter is an other man's terrorist….
These questions aren’t just abstract, they get personal at times. Constance’s sister Carrie accuses Constance of taking the German side because it suits Constance’s family’s interests to be on the German’s good side. Constance takes offense at this. This idea of collusion or participation in the occupation regime is an important one and has been studied a great deal in France, in particular. I wonder if the same question can be asked for those who participated in the “humanitarian regime” of the Belgian relief organizations….I think I see where my research may be heading as I delve deeper into the organization itself. This diary, though, has prompted a lot of good questions from an unexpected source.
I began and finished reading her diary last week and, I must say, it was not like anything I expected and I'm all the happier because of that. Constance was of English and French descent and she married a German-Belgian, Otto. They would eventually immigrate to the United States and they died in Michigan in the early 1950s.
The historian who edited this diary – and did a fantastic job and wrote a great introduction – points out the transnational nature of The Graeffe family. (Constance would begin to write her name the German way, Gräffe, as the war went on in a way to distance herself from the Anglophillia of member of her family, especially Carrie.) This is an interesting fact considering that there really is no indigenous Belgian nationality. The king comes from a line of German princes and, well, I’ve written about the language and cultural divide of the Flemish (Dutch) and the Walloons (French) in the country. So, the question remains, “what is a Belgian?” and who were “Belgian” in World War I and, as I always like to tell my students, “what did that mean?”
The diary is a fascinating insight into what it was like to live in Brussels during the war. Constance and her family lived in Saint-Gilles, which is the same town that I live in. They spoke French and German fluently (indeed, most of the letters that Constance puts into her diary are in French). They also spoke Flemish – mainly to the servants – and English as well. Constance and her family were well off, Otto owned a sugar refinery and, let me tell you, the Belgians like their sugar.
The diary itself is written in an interesting way. It goes from August 1914 to December 1915. No one really knows why she ended it there, but she did. The entries are not typical diary entries, but letters, unsent, to a Scottish friend living in Australia. For someone who tried to be understanding of and, later, defensive of German motives and actions in Belgium and the war itself, it’s interesting that she wrote to a British subject. Again, these letters weren’t sent, but as the introduction to the diary points out and the dairy itself makes clear, Constance (or Connie) was trying very hard to justify her thoughts about the war and her family. (This interpretation isn’t mine, but the interpretation of the historian Sophie de Schaepdrijver in her introduction to the war dairy. Just trying to give credit where credit is due.)
The diary contains the usual musings on the lack of food – though Constance and her family had no worries getting food and often went to their house in the country side to get vegetables and such to supplement their rations. Also interesting is the division within her family. Carrie, the sister, allied herself and her family with the allies and was partial to the United States. Carrie housed a number of Commission for Relief in Belgium (CRB) delegates and send news of the CRB to Constance. Constance often dismissed these as propaganda or undue outside influence and doesn’t seem to have too high a regard for the Americans in her country. At one point she transcribes a report from a newspaper by an American CRB delegate – Robinson Smith – who describes the character of some of the Belgian women as very maiden-like with a certain earnestness to help their American humanitarians. Constance makes a comment, alluding to possible romantic interests by Mr. Smith, that she has never seen such Belgian maidens that Smith speaks off and goes on to describe Belgian girls as more selfish and concerned with hats and accessories than with the simplicity of country life.
It was also interesting to read about the timeless ungratefulness of children in the diary. Constance’s and Otto’s eldest son, Robert, was, well, a brat. He was 16 ½ at the outbreak of the war and tried to enlist in the Belgian Army like his cousins, but was turned away, so he continued his education first in Switzerland and then in Germany. He hated his boarding school education, in part because he was always lacking money. At one point he complains to his mother and father that he doesn’t understand why they send him to this expensive school when they can’t afford to give him money for good suits and other odds and ends. He even asks his parents if they are as rich as they say they are! The back and forth is amazingly honest about the role of parents and the role of children and the nature of the war in shaping that relationship. Indeed, the rest of the children are at home skimping, while Robert is away at school and able to take vacations.
Robert makes constant threats to sign up for the Belgian army via Switzerland. He agrees with a number of his cousins (many of whom sign an open letter to the family) that the Gräefs and their kin should be fighting for Belgium, no matter their national ties. There is a clear generational split. This threat infuriates his father who sends him a letter saying, in short, that if Robert were to sign up for the Belgian or allied army, ties would be severed and, indeed, Robert would be breaking the law because Otto gave his word to the German government (not sure how) that Robert would not take up arms against the German Empire.
Robert would eventually serve in the German army and, indeed, Otto and the family would take German citizenship partially, it seems, because of their affinity for Germany and for Otto’s business interests. (This later war and post-war information is known not through the diary, but through the research of Sophie de Schaepdrijver in her introduction to “We Who Are So Cosmopolitan”: The War Diary of Constance Graeffe, 1914-1915.)
The diary builds to a very defensive end and it’s interesting to see how Constance is first appalled – as his her husband – by the violation of Belgian neutrality, then to try to see both sides of the war and attack the excesses in rhetoric by both the English and the Germans, then to point out the hypocrisy of the English, and then to really feel as though there was a conspiracy by the English and allies to involve Belgium in the war and force the Germany’s hand. The complexity of her thinking is helpful for me because my whole approach to this project is to uncover the frictions of the relief effort and discuss how it was successful in spite of them. I’m not out to do a hatchet job or anything close to that, but to interrogate the received notion of this particular relief movement and to better understand what kind of impact humanitarian work makes on the people and the people on the relief work. This diary presents a narrative of opposition to the traditional narrative of “Germans bad” in a complex way. It’s certainly not “Germans good” but Constance wants to better understand what motivated and drove the Germans to do what they did in August 1914 and how best she, as a Belgian, can live with in the system. She also seeks to understand the inherent contradictions of war. At one point Constance asks why is it okay for the English to bomb seaside Belgian cities, but it’s not okay for the Germans to bomb Belgian towns….One man’s freedom fighter is an other man's terrorist….
These questions aren’t just abstract, they get personal at times. Constance’s sister Carrie accuses Constance of taking the German side because it suits Constance’s family’s interests to be on the German’s good side. Constance takes offense at this. This idea of collusion or participation in the occupation regime is an important one and has been studied a great deal in France, in particular. I wonder if the same question can be asked for those who participated in the “humanitarian regime” of the Belgian relief organizations….I think I see where my research may be heading as I delve deeper into the organization itself. This diary, though, has prompted a lot of good questions from an unexpected source.
COFFEE!!
The concept of a cup of coffee to go (café apporter or café à emporter) just doesn’t exist here. This was confirmed by my Dutch flat mate. “Maybe the Häagen-Dazs on the corner,” I was told. I did find one place, “The Coffee Shop” that understood the idea but they just put it in a styrofoam cup and send you on your way. I have to say, crossing Place Louise with an open and hot cup of coffee is NOT an enjoyable way to start the morning.
Now, living in a shared flat (I have two flat mates one is a Pakistani guy and the other is a Dutch girl. Both are really nice and I’ve enjoyed talking with them in the off chance we meet in the kitchen) presents the delicate problem of what can I use and what can’t I. (Also, what works and what doesn’t.) So, in the conversation regarding the possibility of Häagen-Dazs (yes, there is a Häggen-Dazs restaurant around the corner from my place) she mentioned the Phillips Senso coffee maker collecting dust in the kitchen. Evidently it was one of the previous renters’ and it was left behind. AhaH! Coffee!
Of course it needed a damn good cleaning and it takes those stupid little pods, so it’s not like I can make a pot and siphon off cup after cup as I like to do, but at least I can get a quick cup before work.
Of course, I do like just sitting in a café, taking 30 minutes for so to down a small cup. (Coffee is served espresso style here, not in the Vente-Stupido size of dear old (and, I must say, missed) Starbucks.)
Now, living in a shared flat (I have two flat mates one is a Pakistani guy and the other is a Dutch girl. Both are really nice and I’ve enjoyed talking with them in the off chance we meet in the kitchen) presents the delicate problem of what can I use and what can’t I. (Also, what works and what doesn’t.) So, in the conversation regarding the possibility of Häagen-Dazs (yes, there is a Häggen-Dazs restaurant around the corner from my place) she mentioned the Phillips Senso coffee maker collecting dust in the kitchen. Evidently it was one of the previous renters’ and it was left behind. AhaH! Coffee!
Of course it needed a damn good cleaning and it takes those stupid little pods, so it’s not like I can make a pot and siphon off cup after cup as I like to do, but at least I can get a quick cup before work.
Of course, I do like just sitting in a café, taking 30 minutes for so to down a small cup. (Coffee is served espresso style here, not in the Vente-Stupido size of dear old (and, I must say, missed) Starbucks.)
A real life Janneke Pis
As I walked to archive this past Thursday, I came across a person taking the unofficial symbol of Brussels a bit too much to heart. Now, Brussels has not one, but two Pis statues. First is Manneken, the famous little boy (see post below). Well, in the 1980s, to keep all things equal, a second statue was set up: Jeanneke Pis, a little girl doing her thing into a fountain. Now, I haven’t seen this version and, well, I don’t think I ever need to....
As I turned down Rue de Ruysbroeck, the street the archive is on, I saw a Roma (better known as Gypsies) woman. That’s not unusual, the Roma are all over Europe (mainly in Italy and, specifically, Rome) but they are here in Brussels, too, often sitting outside churches or at metro stations.
Anyway, as I walked along I saw another Roma woman, um, impersonating Janneke Pis right there on the cobblestone street. I just sped up to walk by the two, but I could hear them laugh a bit and I most certainly made my discomfort obvious via my face.
So, there you go. Sometimes as you walk to work, passing the grand Justice Palace, the great synagogue of Brussels, and a historic Gothic church, you may run into a person taking a pee in the street at 8:30am on a Thursday.
As I turned down Rue de Ruysbroeck, the street the archive is on, I saw a Roma (better known as Gypsies) woman. That’s not unusual, the Roma are all over Europe (mainly in Italy and, specifically, Rome) but they are here in Brussels, too, often sitting outside churches or at metro stations.
Anyway, as I walked along I saw another Roma woman, um, impersonating Janneke Pis right there on the cobblestone street. I just sped up to walk by the two, but I could hear them laugh a bit and I most certainly made my discomfort obvious via my face.
So, there you go. Sometimes as you walk to work, passing the grand Justice Palace, the great synagogue of Brussels, and a historic Gothic church, you may run into a person taking a pee in the street at 8:30am on a Thursday.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Easy Listening in the Belgian State Archives....
It was about time, but I spent the whole day in the archive today. I left the US two weeks ago today and I'm as settled as I can be. It felt good to be back among documents and books and to have a purpose to my day. Yes, there will be plenty of travel and time off -- the girlfriend booked her ticket for the first week in November! -- but it's time to get to work. So, I figured I'd share two things this post: the commute and my first day of work. (Neither are too exciting, but made an impression on me. Like I said not all of this will be crazy tales of me escaping EuroPol or making a fool of myself in French....)
It takes me no longer to walk from my place near Place Louise to the archive just behind the fine arts museum than it did to walk fro my car in T-Lot to Wood Hall when I was back at UConn. The major difference is that instead of walking by whatever is festering in the lake outside the Chemistry building, I take my life into my heads crossing the street and walk past some of the most beautiful spots in Brussels.
Walking in Brussels is easy enough. In fact, it's a pretty walkable city. (Your feet get used to the cobble stones after a while, but I'm interested to see what happens in the rain and the winter....I already saw one poor woman, I think a judge or lawyer (she was wearing a robe, and in Europe often times lawyers wear robes in court) wipe out in her heals.) The major pain is the traffic. It's terrible -- evidently there was no drivers licensing until the 1960s -- and the only way -- and I mean only way -- to make it across many tough intersections is to just step out into traffic, and that includes the (wonderful) trams. If there is no light -- and not every crosswalk has a light -- you just gotta go. Place Louise is one of the most congested spots and, right now, it's under construction so that makes it worse, but enough of that.
After surviving the first 200 feet or so of my commute, it becomes something different, a little surreal even. As I head from Place Louise I pass the Palace of Justice on my left. It's huge. Bigger in area than St. Peter's in Rome (but not as beautiful.) On the right are newer offices with judges and lawyers running in and out in black robes with white cravats and something that kinda of looks like a fur scarf, but probably isn't. (Yes, ignorant American!)
Then it's a sharp right turn down Rue de la Régence and toward Place du Petit Sablon, one of the prettiest squares in the city and past Notre Dame du Sablon, one of the prettiest churches in the city. A gothic chruch from the 15th/16th century, it's not a bad thing to see at the start (and end) of the day.
Then it's down a narrow side street -- cobble stones all the way -- to the State Archives which are housed in a lovely neo-Stalinist style building.
When you walk in, there is a picture of the king, Albert II and his consort Queen Paola. The same picture graced the walls of the Belgian consulate in New York. I don't know why, but I always notice them and look for them in official buildings. I know the President's official picture is in American government offices and such, but these pictures are just different. I guess it's just part of the (generalized) American fascination with the concept (and reality) with royalty. On Sunday I went to Mass at the main cathedral here, Sts. Michel et Gudule, and at the end of mass (which was said in Dutch and French) there was the "priere pour le roi" (prayer for the king).
Now inside I went to floor -5. No, that's not 5 floors under ground, it's up. I really don't know why they use the negative sign, but they do. Anyway, today I decided to go to the library to look over a diary of a Belgian woman who lived in Brussels during the war. The diary has been edited with a lengthy introduction and takes an interested view of the war. The woman, Constance Greaffe, was of English, French, and German extraction and was partial to the *German* side during the war! Others in her family were not. One of her sisters actually housed CRB delegates and was more decidedly pro-English. Anyway, that's what's there.
The librarian does not speak English so I muddled through in my French -- and pointing -- to find out how to order up a book. Until about 11am I was the only other person in the room, but that's okay because we were listening to Belgian easy listening radio which, oddly enough, is a lot like easy listening back in the US. Actually, it's the same because it was all American, except for the ads and traffic update.
Now, I will say I don't think the librarian -- who is extraordinarily nice -- has a great deal to do day-in and day-out, so the radio, I guess, fills the void, but I did find it weird to be in a library -- there were books around me, signs to be quiet -- and be listening to music. It was doubly weird to be in a foreign country and listen to the exact same music I could hear on a light classic rock station back in CT or NY. I'll make sure to bring my iPod tomorrow, maybe some classical would suit the mood better.
What is really nice about such an easy commute is that I can come home for lunch and 1) eat at home and save some money and 2) hop on Skype to talk to the girlfriend before she heads to work in the morning.
The rest of the week will be more of the same, I'll post if something exciting goes on. I'm not sure what I'm going to do for the weekend...will I attempt to leave Brussels and go to Antwerp, maybe?! I just don't know....
It takes me no longer to walk from my place near Place Louise to the archive just behind the fine arts museum than it did to walk fro my car in T-Lot to Wood Hall when I was back at UConn. The major difference is that instead of walking by whatever is festering in the lake outside the Chemistry building, I take my life into my heads crossing the street and walk past some of the most beautiful spots in Brussels.
Walking in Brussels is easy enough. In fact, it's a pretty walkable city. (Your feet get used to the cobble stones after a while, but I'm interested to see what happens in the rain and the winter....I already saw one poor woman, I think a judge or lawyer (she was wearing a robe, and in Europe often times lawyers wear robes in court) wipe out in her heals.) The major pain is the traffic. It's terrible -- evidently there was no drivers licensing until the 1960s -- and the only way -- and I mean only way -- to make it across many tough intersections is to just step out into traffic, and that includes the (wonderful) trams. If there is no light -- and not every crosswalk has a light -- you just gotta go. Place Louise is one of the most congested spots and, right now, it's under construction so that makes it worse, but enough of that.
After surviving the first 200 feet or so of my commute, it becomes something different, a little surreal even. As I head from Place Louise I pass the Palace of Justice on my left. It's huge. Bigger in area than St. Peter's in Rome (but not as beautiful.) On the right are newer offices with judges and lawyers running in and out in black robes with white cravats and something that kinda of looks like a fur scarf, but probably isn't. (Yes, ignorant American!)
Then it's a sharp right turn down Rue de la Régence and toward Place du Petit Sablon, one of the prettiest squares in the city and past Notre Dame du Sablon, one of the prettiest churches in the city. A gothic chruch from the 15th/16th century, it's not a bad thing to see at the start (and end) of the day.
Then it's down a narrow side street -- cobble stones all the way -- to the State Archives which are housed in a lovely neo-Stalinist style building.
When you walk in, there is a picture of the king, Albert II and his consort Queen Paola. The same picture graced the walls of the Belgian consulate in New York. I don't know why, but I always notice them and look for them in official buildings. I know the President's official picture is in American government offices and such, but these pictures are just different. I guess it's just part of the (generalized) American fascination with the concept (and reality) with royalty. On Sunday I went to Mass at the main cathedral here, Sts. Michel et Gudule, and at the end of mass (which was said in Dutch and French) there was the "priere pour le roi" (prayer for the king).
Now inside I went to floor -5. No, that's not 5 floors under ground, it's up. I really don't know why they use the negative sign, but they do. Anyway, today I decided to go to the library to look over a diary of a Belgian woman who lived in Brussels during the war. The diary has been edited with a lengthy introduction and takes an interested view of the war. The woman, Constance Greaffe, was of English, French, and German extraction and was partial to the *German* side during the war! Others in her family were not. One of her sisters actually housed CRB delegates and was more decidedly pro-English. Anyway, that's what's there.
The librarian does not speak English so I muddled through in my French -- and pointing -- to find out how to order up a book. Until about 11am I was the only other person in the room, but that's okay because we were listening to Belgian easy listening radio which, oddly enough, is a lot like easy listening back in the US. Actually, it's the same because it was all American, except for the ads and traffic update.
Now, I will say I don't think the librarian -- who is extraordinarily nice -- has a great deal to do day-in and day-out, so the radio, I guess, fills the void, but I did find it weird to be in a library -- there were books around me, signs to be quiet -- and be listening to music. It was doubly weird to be in a foreign country and listen to the exact same music I could hear on a light classic rock station back in CT or NY. I'll make sure to bring my iPod tomorrow, maybe some classical would suit the mood better.
What is really nice about such an easy commute is that I can come home for lunch and 1) eat at home and save some money and 2) hop on Skype to talk to the girlfriend before she heads to work in the morning.
The rest of the week will be more of the same, I'll post if something exciting goes on. I'm not sure what I'm going to do for the weekend...will I attempt to leave Brussels and go to Antwerp, maybe?! I just don't know....
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Good fences make good....embassies?
A while ago I read this post http://freakonomics.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/07/28/read-this-if-you-hate-meetings/?apage=3 and, well, it's pretty damn true. The jist is that there are two types of workers, "managers" and "makers." Managers have days that are broken down into small chucks that easily fit in meetings. Tasks can be put down and picked up again. Makers, on the other hand, *hate* meetings and have tasks that need time to develop and sustain over the course of a longer period of time.
Academics are "makers" (even if you question the validity of what we make as anything useful or interesting, but that's a whole other issue) and thus things that cut into a morning or afternoon or day, even, can throw a wrench into a smooth and productive day. (Of course, lunch breaks and coffee breaks and, for those of us from UConn, hallway meetings don't count, really.)
I say all this as way of explaining why I have yet to put in a full day at the archive and, instead, took a long way to find the US Embassy on Friday. This week has, in one way or another, been full of the usual day-to-day activities of getting settled. I took the "one thing at a time" approach and, thus, each day I had a meeting of some sort. Town hall, the bank, landlord, etc. So, I start in earnest on Tuesday.
Okay, preamble over. So, the US Embassy. I'm not fearful that anything bad will happen in Belgium (the country may split in two at some point, but I'm not thinking it will happen while I'm here) but I figured I should know where it is. The Portuguese consulate around the corner from my apartment probably won't cut it. Anyway, I took my walk around the "Small Ring" (petite ceinture) that is the outline of the old second city walls of the city of Brussels. The last remaining evidence of the wall is the Porte de Hale, just southwest of my apartment.
Once I found it, I had to cross the street to get there. I passed the Russian mission to the EU and, as I walked toward the US Embassy, I could see that there was a check point. No other embassy had anything like it. The Belgian Parliament building didn't have anything like it either. Nor the Royal Palace
As I approached I saw a number of police officers, Belgian I assume, and people walking in and out. I just wanted to walk through so I kept going. "Pardon," one officer said to me. "Oh, I just want to walk through," I replied. "You must going around." I looked across the street, a major road, and looked back confused. "Around the fence, there," and he pointed to a specially built fenced in walkway that ran in front of the Embassy. "Oh, thanks" and I walked around.
The fence rose at least 10 feet high and was set off from the main road of the Small Ring and the road that ran right in front of the US Embassy. (I obviously have no pictures. I had enough sense to not bring my camera and take snapshots of the US Embassy on 9/11.)
I've been fascinated for a while now with the the meanings implicit and explicit in "foreign in the domestic" and the idea of "America(ns) abroad." An embassy is extraterritorially part of the country it represents. Here, to the city of Brussels and the people of Belgium, the US shows itself as a heavily guarded compound. It was a bit of a shock, especially since as an American the concept of freedom of movement is so readily accessible. I guess I could have shown my US passport and walked through, but I had no need to.
As a resident alien, I have to get a national ID card to stay in Belgium for more than 90 days. I have to register at the local town hall, have them verify my status, and even have a police officer come to where I'm staying to verify that I live where I say I live. Seems reasonable, but then it has been made clear by every Belgian I've met that *they* have to go through that too to get their national ID card. A police officer comes to their houses as well to verify that they live where they say they live. And they are also required to carry around this national ID card. It is much, much more than just a drivers license you get to leave at the bar when you want to keep your tab open. It carries electronic data and is readable by state officials.
Anyway, seeing first hand how the US is projecting itself in the capital of Belgium was very interesting. I'm still processing it, but it's a powerful commentary not only on the dangers in the world (of course, security is a necessity and, no, not anyone can walk into an embassy), but on how the US government feels/thinks it must establish itself in a foreign land, even if that foreign land is in Belgium.
Academics are "makers" (even if you question the validity of what we make as anything useful or interesting, but that's a whole other issue) and thus things that cut into a morning or afternoon or day, even, can throw a wrench into a smooth and productive day. (Of course, lunch breaks and coffee breaks and, for those of us from UConn, hallway meetings don't count, really.)
I say all this as way of explaining why I have yet to put in a full day at the archive and, instead, took a long way to find the US Embassy on Friday. This week has, in one way or another, been full of the usual day-to-day activities of getting settled. I took the "one thing at a time" approach and, thus, each day I had a meeting of some sort. Town hall, the bank, landlord, etc. So, I start in earnest on Tuesday.
Okay, preamble over. So, the US Embassy. I'm not fearful that anything bad will happen in Belgium (the country may split in two at some point, but I'm not thinking it will happen while I'm here) but I figured I should know where it is. The Portuguese consulate around the corner from my apartment probably won't cut it. Anyway, I took my walk around the "Small Ring" (petite ceinture) that is the outline of the old second city walls of the city of Brussels. The last remaining evidence of the wall is the Porte de Hale, just southwest of my apartment.
Once I found it, I had to cross the street to get there. I passed the Russian mission to the EU and, as I walked toward the US Embassy, I could see that there was a check point. No other embassy had anything like it. The Belgian Parliament building didn't have anything like it either. Nor the Royal Palace
As I approached I saw a number of police officers, Belgian I assume, and people walking in and out. I just wanted to walk through so I kept going. "Pardon," one officer said to me. "Oh, I just want to walk through," I replied. "You must going around." I looked across the street, a major road, and looked back confused. "Around the fence, there," and he pointed to a specially built fenced in walkway that ran in front of the Embassy. "Oh, thanks" and I walked around.
The fence rose at least 10 feet high and was set off from the main road of the Small Ring and the road that ran right in front of the US Embassy. (I obviously have no pictures. I had enough sense to not bring my camera and take snapshots of the US Embassy on 9/11.)
I've been fascinated for a while now with the the meanings implicit and explicit in "foreign in the domestic" and the idea of "America(ns) abroad." An embassy is extraterritorially part of the country it represents. Here, to the city of Brussels and the people of Belgium, the US shows itself as a heavily guarded compound. It was a bit of a shock, especially since as an American the concept of freedom of movement is so readily accessible. I guess I could have shown my US passport and walked through, but I had no need to.
As a resident alien, I have to get a national ID card to stay in Belgium for more than 90 days. I have to register at the local town hall, have them verify my status, and even have a police officer come to where I'm staying to verify that I live where I say I live. Seems reasonable, but then it has been made clear by every Belgian I've met that *they* have to go through that too to get their national ID card. A police officer comes to their houses as well to verify that they live where they say they live. And they are also required to carry around this national ID card. It is much, much more than just a drivers license you get to leave at the bar when you want to keep your tab open. It carries electronic data and is readable by state officials.
Anyway, seeing first hand how the US is projecting itself in the capital of Belgium was very interesting. I'm still processing it, but it's a powerful commentary not only on the dangers in the world (of course, security is a necessity and, no, not anyone can walk into an embassy), but on how the US government feels/thinks it must establish itself in a foreign land, even if that foreign land is in Belgium.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Into the Archives...and to the pissing fountain.
I've been in Brussels less than a week and, well, I figured it was about time to go to the archive. You know, the place I said I was going to be working to get the money and time to be here. I survived the first day. No real work, just getting registered, meeting with my archivist contact -- who isn't much older than I am -- and figuring out how the place works. Well, it seems, an archive is an archive is an archive. I have my ID card, good for a year, and client number.
The only hitchers were 1) the laminator broke while they tried to laminate my card so the place smelled of burning plastic and 2) the stuff I want to look at won't be in the database until the end of October. The records of the Comite National (the Belgian counterpart to the CRB) have just been indexed (of which I have a copy on my computer). Thankfully the people at the Belgian National Archives are very nice and know what I'm working on and gave me old-school paper slips to fill out my requests.
I puttered around, but no real work. I've decided to go slow -- very slow -- and not overwhelm myself. So, today was just to see what it's all about. The space inside is new and modern, well lit, and quiet. I think it will be a nice place to work. I don't think I they have wireless so that will probably help my productivity, but I'll certainly have to find a way to let them allow me to bring my big French-English dictionary with me. I'm getting better with French -- my tenses are a mess -- but my vocabulary still isn't strong. It'll take a while to plod through these documents.
I also have access to all the other repositories around the country, so I'll be doing some travel at some point to other places where documents may be housed. I plan on returning the end of the week to actually order up some stuff, mainly from the CRB itself since the National Archives here have some records.
So, the rest of the day. After coming home for lunch (well, I stopped at a sandwich shop and got a brie sandwich) and a brief chat with the girlfriend, I went out in search of the old CRB headquarters in Brussels. Located, according to a set of documents I brought with me, at Rue des Colonies, 66 (named in honor of the Belgian Congo, such happy times). Well, that address is nothing more than a boarded up door. No plaque, nothing, which leads me to believe I have the wrong address. Last night I came across a plaque dedicated to a member of the Belgian government w
ho worked for the relief effort. So, there is a memorial memory here. I just have to find it for the CBR. I'll need better shoes...the cobblestones are killing my feet. Damn you Steve Madden!!
So, it was off to be a tourist. A visit to Brussels' cathedral was nice. Then to Grand Place for a beer and people watching:
That's a Kwak beer. Been around since about 1790 it's served in that funky glass. (CT, I think this is the beer you were referring to in you comment a while back.) It's potent at 8.4% but tasty. The bulb, it seems, keeps a constant stream of bubbles rushing to the top.
Then it was off to find Manneken Pis. That is the famous 1 foot tall stature of a young boy peeing. It's a de facto national symbol of Belgium. The original statue dates from 1388, but this one is from 1619 after the first one was stolen. No one really knows why this statue is, well, this statue. Some say it's modeled after a duke's son who was peeing on enemy troops, some say it's after a boy who peed on a burning fuse during a siege, etc. None the less, it's cute and the city has well over 600 costumes that it will dress petit Julien (the French name) in over the course of the year. This includes an Elvis suit. The various costumes are on display in the Musee de Ville in Grand Place.
So a day of some work and some tourism. I'm finding myself navigating the city much easier now. I know land marks and am pretty well oriented at all times. I still have yet to find a nice coffee shop where I can just chill or a bar for an evening beer. As I've said I live in a "posh" area and it's a bit touristy and/or corporate. Since I live in Saint-Gilles I'll explore it's center (or Parvis Saint-Gilles as it's known). I know there are some more bars and spots there and it has a younger vibe. I have to remember, it hasn't yet even been a week!
Tomorrow, it's to the bank for a bank account. Of the fun I'll have.
Thanks for reading!
The only hitchers were 1) the laminator broke while they tried to laminate my card so the place smelled of burning plastic and 2) the stuff I want to look at won't be in the database until the end of October. The records of the Comite National (the Belgian counterpart to the CRB) have just been indexed (of which I have a copy on my computer). Thankfully the people at the Belgian National Archives are very nice and know what I'm working on and gave me old-school paper slips to fill out my requests.
I puttered around, but no real work. I've decided to go slow -- very slow -- and not overwhelm myself. So, today was just to see what it's all about. The space inside is new and modern, well lit, and quiet. I think it will be a nice place to work. I don't think I they have wireless so that will probably help my productivity, but I'll certainly have to find a way to let them allow me to bring my big French-English dictionary with me. I'm getting better with French -- my tenses are a mess -- but my vocabulary still isn't strong. It'll take a while to plod through these documents.
I also have access to all the other repositories around the country, so I'll be doing some travel at some point to other places where documents may be housed. I plan on returning the end of the week to actually order up some stuff, mainly from the CRB itself since the National Archives here have some records.
So, the rest of the day. After coming home for lunch (well, I stopped at a sandwich shop and got a brie sandwich) and a brief chat with the girlfriend, I went out in search of the old CRB headquarters in Brussels. Located, according to a set of documents I brought with me, at Rue des Colonies, 66 (named in honor of the Belgian Congo, such happy times). Well, that address is nothing more than a boarded up door. No plaque, nothing, which leads me to believe I have the wrong address. Last night I came across a plaque dedicated to a member of the Belgian government w
ho worked for the relief effort. So, there is a memorial memory here. I just have to find it for the CBR. I'll need better shoes...the cobblestones are killing my feet. Damn you Steve Madden!!So, it was off to be a tourist. A visit to Brussels' cathedral was nice. Then to Grand Place for a beer and people watching:
That's a Kwak beer. Been around since about 1790 it's served in that funky glass. (CT, I think this is the beer you were referring to in you comment a while back.) It's potent at 8.4% but tasty. The bulb, it seems, keeps a constant stream of bubbles rushing to the top.
Then it was off to find Manneken Pis. That is the famous 1 foot tall stature of a young boy peeing. It's a de facto national symbol of Belgium. The original statue dates from 1388, but this one is from 1619 after the first one was stolen. No one really knows why this statue is, well, this statue. Some say it's modeled after a duke's son who was peeing on enemy troops, some say it's after a boy who peed on a burning fuse during a siege, etc. None the less, it's cute and the city has well over 600 costumes that it will dress petit Julien (the French name) in over the course of the year. This includes an Elvis suit. The various costumes are on display in the Musee de Ville in Grand Place.
So a day of some work and some tourism. I'm finding myself navigating the city much easier now. I know land marks and am pretty well oriented at all times. I still have yet to find a nice coffee shop where I can just chill or a bar for an evening beer. As I've said I live in a "posh" area and it's a bit touristy and/or corporate. Since I live in Saint-Gilles I'll explore it's center (or Parvis Saint-Gilles as it's known). I know there are some more bars and spots there and it has a younger vibe. I have to remember, it hasn't yet even been a week!
Tomorrow, it's to the bank for a bank account. Of the fun I'll have.
Thanks for reading!
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Grand Place/Grote Markt and Booze
Belgium is a beer country. There are at least 750 different Belgian beers. The Belgians take their beer seriously. An amber brew served in a glass chalice is not unusual here; it's the way its supposed to be served. Each beer, from each brewery (or brasserie) has it's own glass. Even the Religious here are known for their beers. Seven Trappist monasteries (6 in Belgium and one in the Netherlands) produce beer and the quality is under strict control.
The first weekend of September, for the past 11 years at least, is the time for a huge Beer Weekend at Grand Place/Grote Markt in Brussels. Grand Place is, more or less, at the center of the old city of Brussels. The Hotel de Ville (City Hall) is located there as well as the Maison des Brasseurs (Brewers' House). It's as European as you can get.
There were 30 stalls for brewers and I don't know how many different types of beers, all served in their own glasses. I went over this afternoon (Sunday, 4 September), bought six crown corks for 6 euros and went on in. I'm not sure why a Dixieland Band was there, but there was a Dixieland Band doing its thing. Lots of people from different parts of the world, even America...and I wanted to yell at this one American woman (nah, girl, she was a girl) who, while trying to move through the mass of people, was asking in the most obnoxious valley-girl shrill "excuse me." I was offended for my people.
Anyway, I enjoyed two beers. (Yeah, I should have had more, but I'm here for 8 months, I'll get to more I promise.) An Orval (a Trappist beer, amber in color, and served in a chalice shaped glass) and a Blance de Bruxelles (a basic pilsner, I presume). I liked the Orval better, it was also more expensive.
Now, I know what you're asking (or maybe, or maybe just if you've been to the Brew Pub and/or City Steam) did I take a glass? Well, I considered it, but didn't. Good thing, because on the way out your bag was checked. Unlike in the US, though, they didn't look in my bag. The guy at the gate kind of did the high school male physical check of the bag. I was waiting for him to ask me to cough....
Anyway, after paying .30 euro to pee (some payed the attendant after they used the loo, I decided to pay as I went in) it was back home for a strong cup of tea. Those beers were strong and, sadly, not a frites (fries) shop in sight. The fries here are excellent. They double fry them so the outside is crispy and the inside is soft. I haven't tried straight mayo (MG, remember when I made fun of you for eating fries with mayo....) but I love the andalouse sauce. (A "spicy thousand island" I was told.)
Tomorrow begins my first full week here. I'll go to apply for my residency permit in the morning...that should be interesting. Then some other odds and ends. Tuesday marks my first day at the archive.
The first weekend of September, for the past 11 years at least, is the time for a huge Beer Weekend at Grand Place/Grote Markt in Brussels. Grand Place is, more or less, at the center of the old city of Brussels. The Hotel de Ville (City Hall) is located there as well as the Maison des Brasseurs (Brewers' House). It's as European as you can get.
There were 30 stalls for brewers and I don't know how many different types of beers, all served in their own glasses. I went over this afternoon (Sunday, 4 September), bought six crown corks for 6 euros and went on in. I'm not sure why a Dixieland Band was there, but there was a Dixieland Band doing its thing. Lots of people from different parts of the world, even America...and I wanted to yell at this one American woman (nah, girl, she was a girl) who, while trying to move through the mass of people, was asking in the most obnoxious valley-girl shrill "excuse me." I was offended for my people.
Anyway, I enjoyed two beers. (Yeah, I should have had more, but I'm here for 8 months, I'll get to more I promise.) An Orval (a Trappist beer, amber in color, and served in a chalice shaped glass) and a Blance de Bruxelles (a basic pilsner, I presume). I liked the Orval better, it was also more expensive.
Now, I know what you're asking (or maybe, or maybe just if you've been to the Brew Pub and/or City Steam) did I take a glass? Well, I considered it, but didn't. Good thing, because on the way out your bag was checked. Unlike in the US, though, they didn't look in my bag. The guy at the gate kind of did the high school male physical check of the bag. I was waiting for him to ask me to cough....
Anyway, after paying .30 euro to pee (some payed the attendant after they used the loo, I decided to pay as I went in) it was back home for a strong cup of tea. Those beers were strong and, sadly, not a frites (fries) shop in sight. The fries here are excellent. They double fry them so the outside is crispy and the inside is soft. I haven't tried straight mayo (MG, remember when I made fun of you for eating fries with mayo....) but I love the andalouse sauce. (A "spicy thousand island" I was told.)
Tomorrow begins my first full week here. I'll go to apply for my residency permit in the morning...that should be interesting. Then some other odds and ends. Tuesday marks my first day at the archive.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Rue Jourdan(straat) and Supersizing Belgian Style
That's the street I'm living on here in Brussels and it has two names. Because of the linguistic divide of the country -- the Flemish in the north and the Waloons (French speakers) in the south -- language is a very touchy subject here. Brussels, as I may have mentioned before, occupies a special place as its own enclave within the country. The center of the city is the City of Brussels (Ville de Bruxelles). Then, outside the old city walls or the petite ceinture (small ring), is the rest of the Brussels-Capital Region that has a total of 19 municipalities. I live in Saint-Gilles or Sint-Gillis in Flemish just outside the small ring which is a major road and the metro follows it around the city.
All streets in Brussels have the same convention Rue or Avenue (French) Jourdan (street name) straat (street in Flemish). So I live on Rue Jourdan (for the French speakers) and Jourdanstraat (for the Flemish speakers). It's even more confusing when discussion towns. I'll do that later....
So, anyway, I now have a place to live. A big room on the top floor of a house occupied by a Flemish family. I've met one roommate who is Pakistani. I'm loving the multicultural feel of this place. I still hope, though, to improve my French.
I had a wonderful time at SC's place in Ixelles. The hospitality of the Belgians is first class. It's a real nice college town. (Again, puts Storrs to shame, though SC's girlfriend was interested in the cows we have back at UConn.) This weekend is a big fair and market which I'll check out tomorrow and try my hand in a Belgian bar. On Sunday there is a beer festival at Grand Place (the big square outside of the City Hall). Should be fun.
I managed to do some touristy stuff on Thursday after I checked out what is now my home. I'm finding it easy to navigate and must thank Carly for the Streetwise Map. It's, as I said not long ago, phenomenal. I made my way over to the archive. Why is it that all archives -- at least the ones I go to -- were built during the high-era of neo-Stalinist design?! At least the walk over will make for it: past the Palais du Justice, Notre Dame du Sablon, and neat shops and such. The coblestones are killing my feet though!
I made my way over to the Palais Royale, too. Imposing building with beautiful rooms. Renovated by Leopold I who wanted to show off Belgium's power in the mid-19th century (because of the coal and steal of Wallonia (the French-speaking region) and his personal jewel, The Congo, he built lavishly). I was particularly taken with the Throne Room because it's, well, a Throne Room. No throne in it, but you can see where it was.
Eating is, of course, important and I've now had the traditional waffell or gauffre. Like NYC hot dog vendors, there are vendors all over and for 1.50 euro you can get a warm gauffre on the go. This evening I wanted something quick so I decided to try Belgian fast food. The place was called Quick...it wasn't. Like any American fast food place it was crowded and no one had any idea what was going on. I felt at home.
This gave me time to study the menu and figure out how to order in French. I'm trying very hard to use the language when I can. BUT, the main dishes at Quick are written in English only. "Fish Fillet." "Chicken Fillet." So, despite my intent to order "Un Chicken Fillet, avec frites et un Coca, s'il vous plait." The second I say, "Chicken Fillet" it's obvious I'm an American and the guy behind the counter (the manager, I think) goes right into English. Oh well...and as one would expect it tastes like generic fast food. The fries were just like McDonald's fries, but the coke was sweetened with sugar. (Oh, if you order a "Coke" here they will think you are looking for cocaine. So, it's "Coca"with a hard c.)
I think I'll end on that note....sorry for the mundane-ness of these posts. I should be doing some fun stuff this weekend -- fair and market in Ixelles and the beer festival at Grand Place on Sunday -- and I get into the archive on Tuesday. Oh, and I'll soon start dealing with Belgian officials on my residency permit. Should be fun.
All streets in Brussels have the same convention Rue or Avenue (French) Jourdan (street name) straat (street in Flemish). So I live on Rue Jourdan (for the French speakers) and Jourdanstraat (for the Flemish speakers). It's even more confusing when discussion towns. I'll do that later....
So, anyway, I now have a place to live. A big room on the top floor of a house occupied by a Flemish family. I've met one roommate who is Pakistani. I'm loving the multicultural feel of this place. I still hope, though, to improve my French.
I had a wonderful time at SC's place in Ixelles. The hospitality of the Belgians is first class. It's a real nice college town. (Again, puts Storrs to shame, though SC's girlfriend was interested in the cows we have back at UConn.) This weekend is a big fair and market which I'll check out tomorrow and try my hand in a Belgian bar. On Sunday there is a beer festival at Grand Place (the big square outside of the City Hall). Should be fun.
I managed to do some touristy stuff on Thursday after I checked out what is now my home. I'm finding it easy to navigate and must thank Carly for the Streetwise Map. It's, as I said not long ago, phenomenal. I made my way over to the archive. Why is it that all archives -- at least the ones I go to -- were built during the high-era of neo-Stalinist design?! At least the walk over will make for it: past the Palais du Justice, Notre Dame du Sablon, and neat shops and such. The coblestones are killing my feet though!
I made my way over to the Palais Royale, too. Imposing building with beautiful rooms. Renovated by Leopold I who wanted to show off Belgium's power in the mid-19th century (because of the coal and steal of Wallonia (the French-speaking region) and his personal jewel, The Congo, he built lavishly). I was particularly taken with the Throne Room because it's, well, a Throne Room. No throne in it, but you can see where it was.
Eating is, of course, important and I've now had the traditional waffell or gauffre. Like NYC hot dog vendors, there are vendors all over and for 1.50 euro you can get a warm gauffre on the go. This evening I wanted something quick so I decided to try Belgian fast food. The place was called Quick...it wasn't. Like any American fast food place it was crowded and no one had any idea what was going on. I felt at home.
This gave me time to study the menu and figure out how to order in French. I'm trying very hard to use the language when I can. BUT, the main dishes at Quick are written in English only. "Fish Fillet." "Chicken Fillet." So, despite my intent to order "Un Chicken Fillet, avec frites et un Coca, s'il vous plait." The second I say, "Chicken Fillet" it's obvious I'm an American and the guy behind the counter (the manager, I think) goes right into English. Oh well...and as one would expect it tastes like generic fast food. The fries were just like McDonald's fries, but the coke was sweetened with sugar. (Oh, if you order a "Coke" here they will think you are looking for cocaine. So, it's "Coca"with a hard c.)
I think I'll end on that note....sorry for the mundane-ness of these posts. I should be doing some fun stuff this weekend -- fair and market in Ixelles and the beer festival at Grand Place on Sunday -- and I get into the archive on Tuesday. Oh, and I'll soon start dealing with Belgian officials on my residency permit. Should be fun.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
To continue....
Jet lag is, well, a bitch. Anyway, the arrival in Brussels was uneventful. It is interesting to see French and Flemish (a variant of Dutch that, my current Belgian host says is so unlike "real" Dutch that the Flemish TV stations need to put subtitles on Dutch TV shows) side by side.
My Belgian hosts are wonderful. SC and his girlfriend and sister have been wonderful and I'll be out of their hair soon as I've found a room very close to the city center. (More on that later, but the landlord works for the Flemish Government....)
Evidently, cafeterias in Belgium look a lot like cafeterias in the US. I met some friends of my hosts -- one was a Pole another was from Portugal and Luxembourg. An interesting combination. Most of the time they speak French, but I'm updated and often the conversation switches to English to include me. I'm happy to have groups speak French (at least for now). I already feel some basic things coming back to me and, as I walk from place to place, I often rehearse phrases that I remember or have heard before.
For dinner I had a traditional Belgian dish: Mitralliette. It means, literally, "machine gun." It's a sandwitch of Belgian fries, meat of your choice, and vegetables topped with a sauce. It's wonderful and filling.
Today, I had a waffle as I toured part of the old city area. For 1.50 you can't go wrong. The waffle is like the NYC hotdog. You see stands all over the place and it's were high powered looking people stop to get a quick bite as they go from place to place.
That's all for now. That's the jist of what's going on. Once I'm settled in my new room over the weekend I'll update the blog with more coherent posts and get into a routine, especially as I tackle the archive itself.
The adventure continues.....
My Belgian hosts are wonderful. SC and his girlfriend and sister have been wonderful and I'll be out of their hair soon as I've found a room very close to the city center. (More on that later, but the landlord works for the Flemish Government....)
Evidently, cafeterias in Belgium look a lot like cafeterias in the US. I met some friends of my hosts -- one was a Pole another was from Portugal and Luxembourg. An interesting combination. Most of the time they speak French, but I'm updated and often the conversation switches to English to include me. I'm happy to have groups speak French (at least for now). I already feel some basic things coming back to me and, as I walk from place to place, I often rehearse phrases that I remember or have heard before.
For dinner I had a traditional Belgian dish: Mitralliette. It means, literally, "machine gun." It's a sandwitch of Belgian fries, meat of your choice, and vegetables topped with a sauce. It's wonderful and filling.
Today, I had a waffle as I toured part of the old city area. For 1.50 you can't go wrong. The waffle is like the NYC hotdog. You see stands all over the place and it's were high powered looking people stop to get a quick bite as they go from place to place.
That's all for now. That's the jist of what's going on. Once I'm settled in my new room over the weekend I'll update the blog with more coherent posts and get into a routine, especially as I tackle the archive itself.
The adventure continues.....
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Getting to where you're going.
In short, it was a cinch really. This, sadly, will be a little bit detailed, but I'll slip some funny stuff in as I go through because even though it was easy, there were a few moments when you just go "huh."
JFK is, well, JFK and after saying goodbye to the girlfriend (that sucked, it really did) I made my way through the baggage drop off and off to good ole security where I saw a Canadian almost go all "Mountie" on a family who cut the line. The TSA guy was helpful in defusing the situation and upholding the security of the checkpoint: "Nah, nah, nah. Do that over there. [Motioning to the metal detectors] Not here. Not here." Then off to the gate and to board....(I wonder if this was also the SOP at Checkpoint Charlie in Berlin...?)
British Airways is, as I'd think the British would say, nice. One of the flight attendants looked exactly like Hank Azaria. Now, I've already seen a Wyatt Cenac (from the Daily Show) look-alike (in NY at a Mac store). Now a Hank Azaria. Who's next?!
We got in an hour early which meant we sat on the floor for an hour until the airport opened at 6am. In Britain instead of being grunted at to take off your shoes, belt, and the like, you're called mate. (Well, at least I was.)
I flew through Gatewick Airport which, it seems, is just one big mall that happens to have an airport attached to it. The gate for my Brussels Airways flight was a 15 minute walk from the center of consumer heaven. They were having a raffle for a car! Right in the middle of everything.
While Belgian customs would be a cinch -- a quick stamp on page 8 of my passport, nary a glace at the fancy visa on page 11 -- getting out of the UK was a bit more intense (to jump back in time for a second). You think you're safe as you go through the security with all the "hey mates" dolled out. Then through the boarding gate only to run into a half dozen or so UK Customs Officials. They pull you aside and ask you to explain yourself: "Where do you normally reside?" "Where are you going?" "Why?" "How will your support yourself there?" I answered and was on my way, but others were getting more close attention.
On the plane to Brussels I had my first taste of how the linguistic divide. The announcements were made in French, Dutch/Flemish, English and at least once in German. (Either that or the Dutch segment went on twice as long as the French and English versions.)
....More soon....time for a nap.
JFK is, well, JFK and after saying goodbye to the girlfriend (that sucked, it really did) I made my way through the baggage drop off and off to good ole security where I saw a Canadian almost go all "Mountie" on a family who cut the line. The TSA guy was helpful in defusing the situation and upholding the security of the checkpoint: "Nah, nah, nah. Do that over there. [Motioning to the metal detectors] Not here. Not here." Then off to the gate and to board....(I wonder if this was also the SOP at Checkpoint Charlie in Berlin...?)
British Airways is, as I'd think the British would say, nice. One of the flight attendants looked exactly like Hank Azaria. Now, I've already seen a Wyatt Cenac (from the Daily Show) look-alike (in NY at a Mac store). Now a Hank Azaria. Who's next?!
We got in an hour early which meant we sat on the floor for an hour until the airport opened at 6am. In Britain instead of being grunted at to take off your shoes, belt, and the like, you're called mate. (Well, at least I was.)
I flew through Gatewick Airport which, it seems, is just one big mall that happens to have an airport attached to it. The gate for my Brussels Airways flight was a 15 minute walk from the center of consumer heaven. They were having a raffle for a car! Right in the middle of everything.
While Belgian customs would be a cinch -- a quick stamp on page 8 of my passport, nary a glace at the fancy visa on page 11 -- getting out of the UK was a bit more intense (to jump back in time for a second). You think you're safe as you go through the security with all the "hey mates" dolled out. Then through the boarding gate only to run into a half dozen or so UK Customs Officials. They pull you aside and ask you to explain yourself: "Where do you normally reside?" "Where are you going?" "Why?" "How will your support yourself there?" I answered and was on my way, but others were getting more close attention.
On the plane to Brussels I had my first taste of how the linguistic divide. The announcements were made in French, Dutch/Flemish, English and at least once in German. (Either that or the Dutch segment went on twice as long as the French and English versions.)
....More soon....time for a nap.
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