I'll be leaving Ghent at 12 PM on Saturday the 15th.
I will board a plane at Zaventem at 3PM on Saturday the 15th.
I will arrive in Cairo in the evening of the 15th.
I will arrive in Mumbai in the morning of the 16th.
donderdag 13 januari 2011
dinsdag 11 januari 2011
Favourite Transport
What is Your Favourite Transport?
The bike? The wind in your hair? The feeling of your muscles working in perfect cohesion? The way you can swiftly swerve through the heaviest of traffics? The ease of parking any where any time for free?
The car? The speed at which you move along the great roads, spread out over Europe like big curly letters, forming words and phrases with never (or rarely ever) a full stop? The freedom to get up and leave, with nary preparation or warning, and only a vague care about the road, the weather and you.
The plane? Distant destinations unfurling one by one? The single-serving napkins, blankets, footwear, friends? The handily packed, readily heated meal, with a lovely scone-with-butter-and-some-jam and a coffee? A score of movies & other tidbits at your disposal, only a click away? The personnel, ever smiling, ever helpful, ever vaguely hinting at sexual escapades and adventures?
The boat? Freely floating flotillas on the deep blue sea? Dozing and drinks on deck, nothing but blue-gray-green masses surrounding you? Pitting yourself against the elements in the oldest way known to man? Using the ancient roads across the world?
Or rather the train? Philosophising on the one true nature of man? Listening to conversations between strangers, sharing a smile with another fellow listener? Letting your gaze wander outside, skimming the skylines of the country? Lazily browsing through a book? Reading or pretending to, whilst secretly (yet not too secretly) checking out the other passengers? The feeling of travel, of freedom, of sights yet to be uncovered or further explored? The gentle lullaby of rolling wheels on the never-ending tracks?
The bike? The wind in your hair? The feeling of your muscles working in perfect cohesion? The way you can swiftly swerve through the heaviest of traffics? The ease of parking any where any time for free?
The car? The speed at which you move along the great roads, spread out over Europe like big curly letters, forming words and phrases with never (or rarely ever) a full stop? The freedom to get up and leave, with nary preparation or warning, and only a vague care about the road, the weather and you.
The plane? Distant destinations unfurling one by one? The single-serving napkins, blankets, footwear, friends? The handily packed, readily heated meal, with a lovely scone-with-butter-and-some-jam and a coffee? A score of movies & other tidbits at your disposal, only a click away? The personnel, ever smiling, ever helpful, ever vaguely hinting at sexual escapades and adventures?
The boat? Freely floating flotillas on the deep blue sea? Dozing and drinks on deck, nothing but blue-gray-green masses surrounding you? Pitting yourself against the elements in the oldest way known to man? Using the ancient roads across the world?
Or rather the train? Philosophising on the one true nature of man? Listening to conversations between strangers, sharing a smile with another fellow listener? Letting your gaze wander outside, skimming the skylines of the country? Lazily browsing through a book? Reading or pretending to, whilst secretly (yet not too secretly) checking out the other passengers? The feeling of travel, of freedom, of sights yet to be uncovered or further explored? The gentle lullaby of rolling wheels on the never-ending tracks?
donderdag 6 januari 2011
Music
Listening to music.
You feel.
You fly.
You float.
You swerve.
For a while.
Not more.
You’ll get back soon.
Earth to you. Where are you? Come back soon!
You will.
But you’ll miss the music.
The wind in your hair, your limbs, your heart.
You’ll miss the music.
You’ll go back to it.
Going back to that temporary reprieve of solitude, boredom, anxiety. Of life.
Music is like the balm of your soul. Like balms, it only works for a while.
Unlike balms, it will never be finished.
There will always be more music. Enjoy it.
While you can.
You feel.
You fly.
You float.
You swerve.
For a while.
Not more.
You’ll get back soon.
Earth to you. Where are you? Come back soon!
You will.
But you’ll miss the music.
The wind in your hair, your limbs, your heart.
You’ll miss the music.
You’ll go back to it.
Going back to that temporary reprieve of solitude, boredom, anxiety. Of life.
Music is like the balm of your soul. Like balms, it only works for a while.
Unlike balms, it will never be finished.
There will always be more music. Enjoy it.
While you can.
Hugs
Do you ever want to just hug people?
Be close to them? Touch them. In a non-sexual, non-aggressive sort of way?
Be near them? In a non-suffocating, non-threathing sort of way?
People. Others. Being surrounded by... not by love, but by... I don’t know...
proximity?
The feeling of others around you. The feeling of a (warm, living, acting) body in your arms. The feeling of someone close to you, knowing that this person wants to be close to you too.
Or at least doesn’t mind.
Knowing that this might be the last time you (ever) see these people?
Do you ever feel lonely? Surrounded by people?
They might be – could be - will be – ripped out of your life, your soul in the (near) future. And you can do nothing about it.
Nothing.
Nada.
Noppes.
Nougat bollen.
Sucks to be you doesn’t it?
If it's any comfort: Not more than it does to be anybody else.
Be close to them? Touch them. In a non-sexual, non-aggressive sort of way?
Be near them? In a non-suffocating, non-threathing sort of way?
People. Others. Being surrounded by... not by love, but by... I don’t know...
proximity?
The feeling of others around you. The feeling of a (warm, living, acting) body in your arms. The feeling of someone close to you, knowing that this person wants to be close to you too.
Or at least doesn’t mind.
Knowing that this might be the last time you (ever) see these people?
Do you ever feel lonely? Surrounded by people?
They might be – could be - will be – ripped out of your life, your soul in the (near) future. And you can do nothing about it.
Nothing.
Nada.
Noppes.
Nougat bollen.
Sucks to be you doesn’t it?
If it's any comfort: Not more than it does to be anybody else.
Ramblings of an Old Lady (on the train from Ghent to Brussels)
The children have no respect for their elders (or for anybody else, for that matter). When a pregnant woman asks for a seat on a bus, she is told that “they pay just as much for the bus as she does”.
People used to be friendly, respectful. These days, the kids just say whatever comes to their mind.
The north is warmer than the south because of the influence of the North Sea.
This is because of the Gulf Stream.
In the year seventeen hundred and something, the Great Place burnt down in Brussels. The guilds had to rebuild it and, seeing that they all wanted their building to be prettier,
all the buildings are pretty.
Once, on a flight to the US, she was allowed in the cockpit when flying over Canada. The pilot said it was one of the prettiest flights ever, and she agreed.
It was very beautiful.
She has 4 grandchildren. Aged 16, 18 and two younger (11 & 8). One of her daughters lives in Bruges, the other one close to Ghent.
The lace of Bruges is actually made in china. They send the cloth to china, where they make the lace for a little money & then send it back.
She knows this because she knows a friend who has a lace shop.
They don’t speak Flemish in a lot of places. In Flanders, in the Netherlands & in South-Africa. And also in some other colonies of the Netherlands. Because the Netherlands made a colony in South-Africa. There they use Dutch, but pronounce it differently,
but you can still understand it…
French goes back in Flanders.
When she looks at her feet, she is pleased to have her snow boots.
Though she has shoes in her bag for the new years.
She always asks questions to strangers. If they want. If they don’t want, she keeps quiet. Isn’t it nice to have a little chat? They [the couple she is talking to, two Spanish people, one of which is a pilot] are very nice.
Very charming.
She always did much sports: swimming, gymnastics, cycling and ice skating. When they were young, every winter was like this [as cold as it is now]. There was ice on all rivers, and you could skate all around Bruges. It used to be a fortification.
A natural defence.
Being with young people keeps you young too. She has always been with youngsters. She was severe, but never cross. She liked them, but she didn’t like their manners. And if they changed their manners, she would like them more. [she used to be a teacher].
She still gets lots of cards from pupils.
She is called Renée.
The Spanish guy is called Dionysos, apparently.
Every day, she fills in her diary.
The Spanish couple will be in her diary.
Spain is interesting. She likes art. And museums.
She likes that.
She hopes Belgium will remain together. Flanders & Wallonia.
She hopes so.
People used to be friendly, respectful. These days, the kids just say whatever comes to their mind.
The north is warmer than the south because of the influence of the North Sea.
This is because of the Gulf Stream.
In the year seventeen hundred and something, the Great Place burnt down in Brussels. The guilds had to rebuild it and, seeing that they all wanted their building to be prettier,
all the buildings are pretty.
Once, on a flight to the US, she was allowed in the cockpit when flying over Canada. The pilot said it was one of the prettiest flights ever, and she agreed.
It was very beautiful.
She has 4 grandchildren. Aged 16, 18 and two younger (11 & 8). One of her daughters lives in Bruges, the other one close to Ghent.
The lace of Bruges is actually made in china. They send the cloth to china, where they make the lace for a little money & then send it back.
She knows this because she knows a friend who has a lace shop.
They don’t speak Flemish in a lot of places. In Flanders, in the Netherlands & in South-Africa. And also in some other colonies of the Netherlands. Because the Netherlands made a colony in South-Africa. There they use Dutch, but pronounce it differently,
but you can still understand it…
French goes back in Flanders.
When she looks at her feet, she is pleased to have her snow boots.
Though she has shoes in her bag for the new years.
She always asks questions to strangers. If they want. If they don’t want, she keeps quiet. Isn’t it nice to have a little chat? They [the couple she is talking to, two Spanish people, one of which is a pilot] are very nice.
Very charming.
She always did much sports: swimming, gymnastics, cycling and ice skating. When they were young, every winter was like this [as cold as it is now]. There was ice on all rivers, and you could skate all around Bruges. It used to be a fortification.
A natural defence.
Being with young people keeps you young too. She has always been with youngsters. She was severe, but never cross. She liked them, but she didn’t like their manners. And if they changed their manners, she would like them more. [she used to be a teacher].
She still gets lots of cards from pupils.
She is called Renée.
The Spanish guy is called Dionysos, apparently.
Every day, she fills in her diary.
The Spanish couple will be in her diary.
Spain is interesting. She likes art. And museums.
She likes that.
She hopes Belgium will remain together. Flanders & Wallonia.
She hopes so.
zaterdag 4 september 2010
Browsing Through Brussels
Me, waiting to order my first coffee, am joined in my waiting by an English speaking man who clearly thinks himself quite the intellectual - the similarity only now strikes me.
He tries to slip in his word before me, but I am not to be daunted. I calmly yet assuredly order my beverage of choice.
The waiter nods, acknowledging my request, and turns to the other, still clearly out-of-sorts by my audacity mere seconds earlier.
Do you have a bottle of white wine. He asks. He is assured that they do.
As the waiter turns around to procure my coffee and the oddly ordered bottle of white, a second enquiry erupts from the - most assuredly not Anglo-Saxon - luscious lips of the aging gentleman besides me.
What kind of white. He asks.
The house white is a Chardonnay.
Disappointment.
We also have a more expensive white, though also a Chardonnay.
But I assure you that the house wine is really quite good.
The most expensive one.
Exit man to join a younger - though not by much - blonde woman in a - slightly too short - red dress.
--- Some time passes in which I realise the presence of 3 Swedish girls & engage one of them in a short conversation ---
A second bottle of white has been ordered and opened and the two have decadently consumed it with pain et fromage. The man has - rather obviously from where I was sitting, two tables away - started caressing the viciously long, slightly fleshy and rather too tanned legs of the red-dressed woman in front of him.
She is obviously delighted by his undoubtedly witty conversation (a "sexy shrimp" seems to feature quite heavily in one of his many anecdotes)(I hope to all that is right and just in this universe that this shrimp was not a thinly veiled metaphor for something else) and his exquisite taste in wine. Expensive. White.
He tries to slip in his word before me, but I am not to be daunted. I calmly yet assuredly order my beverage of choice.
The waiter nods, acknowledging my request, and turns to the other, still clearly out-of-sorts by my audacity mere seconds earlier.
Do you have a bottle of white wine. He asks. He is assured that they do.
As the waiter turns around to procure my coffee and the oddly ordered bottle of white, a second enquiry erupts from the - most assuredly not Anglo-Saxon - luscious lips of the aging gentleman besides me.
What kind of white. He asks.
The house white is a Chardonnay.
Disappointment.
We also have a more expensive white, though also a Chardonnay.
But I assure you that the house wine is really quite good.
The most expensive one.
Exit man to join a younger - though not by much - blonde woman in a - slightly too short - red dress.
--- Some time passes in which I realise the presence of 3 Swedish girls & engage one of them in a short conversation ---
A second bottle of white has been ordered and opened and the two have decadently consumed it with pain et fromage. The man has - rather obviously from where I was sitting, two tables away - started caressing the viciously long, slightly fleshy and rather too tanned legs of the red-dressed woman in front of him.
She is obviously delighted by his undoubtedly witty conversation (a "sexy shrimp" seems to feature quite heavily in one of his many anecdotes)(I hope to all that is right and just in this universe that this shrimp was not a thinly veiled metaphor for something else) and his exquisite taste in wine. Expensive. White.
Browsing Through Brussels
I encountered five Swedish-speaking persons. I cannot but find this a tad ominous.
The first two I met in a shop, where I, minutes later, decided to buy a low-necked t-shirt. Blue. A guy & a girl, alternating between - what I presume was - their native tongue and English. They did not purchase.
The last three I met in a bar, where I enjoyed my usual cup-a-coffee & a cigarette, plural. Unlike the couple, these three females where more obviously of the Nordic persuasion. Blue-eyed & blond, medium height.
Two of them left on what I fathomed was a cigarette errand, based on the fact that they had just run out of their little sticks of death. I could no longer restrain myself. I addressed the remaining one.
Amanda & her two friends were backpacking through Europe. She liked Brussels and had spent a week here yesteryear. I like Brussels too. The connection was immediate, completely imaginary and, as connections are so often want to be, fleeting.
Turns out my accent was quite good.
The first two I met in a shop, where I, minutes later, decided to buy a low-necked t-shirt. Blue. A guy & a girl, alternating between - what I presume was - their native tongue and English. They did not purchase.
The last three I met in a bar, where I enjoyed my usual cup-a-coffee & a cigarette, plural. Unlike the couple, these three females where more obviously of the Nordic persuasion. Blue-eyed & blond, medium height.
Two of them left on what I fathomed was a cigarette errand, based on the fact that they had just run out of their little sticks of death. I could no longer restrain myself. I addressed the remaining one.
Amanda & her two friends were backpacking through Europe. She liked Brussels and had spent a week here yesteryear. I like Brussels too. The connection was immediate, completely imaginary and, as connections are so often want to be, fleeting.
Turns out my accent was quite good.
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