tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53873526456825448692024-02-07T07:06:52.691+01:00Travels without my spanielLeft my beloved Kraków now to set up in Brussels but this is by no means the end of my adventures with Polish. Linguistic confusion and cross-cultural misunderstandings still abound. I'm an interpreter, a translator, a musician, I'm learning to cook again and I miss my dog. I think that's got it covered, more or less.pinolonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00473418753213565601noreply@blogger.comBlogger401125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5387352645682544869.post-6766759854600484512011-08-07T18:21:00.000+02:002011-08-07T18:21:09.249+02:00SummerAm I the only one who hates the summer holidays? No work, combined with potentially long periods of confinement indoors due to terrible weather, plus lack of company as everyone else flies off to fairer climes.<br />
<br />
I know I should enjoy it, and consequently feel guilty when I don't. There's nothing like that creeping feeling of dread at the start of July when people start disappearing and 'closed for holidays' signs start to pop up on shop windows everywhere. I love hot weather, don't get me wrong. But as a British woman living in Belgium, chance'd be a fine thing.<br />
<br />
For years now, the summer holidays have been a long, tedious stretch of socially-barren thumb-twiddling.<br />
They almost always involve separation from someone I don't want to be separated from, often with a significant body of water and a frustratingly slow internet connection standing solidly between us.<br />
<br />
Summer holidays also belie their name by being a traditional period of hard labour: for students, stuck behind the checkout at Sainsbury's, and for interpreters, at Polish language schools.<br />
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Almost all your friends will go on holiday at the same time and then on language courses, and by the time everybody's back it will be September again and time to go back to work (with a sigh of relief). The consoling charms of retail therapy and comfort eating are rendered virtually inaccessible by the lack of shops and restaurants actually open in Brussels in July and August.<br />
<br />
Why not go on holiday? I hear you cry. You must be joking. There are two options here - no, three. One: you holiday with your nearest and dearest, resulting in bickering, tears and cries of 'I'm not a fucking GPS!', not to mention the unknown quantity of the acoustics in the hotel bathroom. Two: go away with friends... actually this isn't such a bad option, except that it's hard to find single friends of a similar age to go away with - plus any kind of girly holiday inevitably leads to excruciating hangovers and embarrassing sunburn. Perhaps best avoided. Three: go away with your parents...<br />
<br />
Ideally, I'd like to kidnap several of my favourite people in the world and hole up in a converted farmhouse in Tuscany (so very home counties), spending daylight hours reading by the (tastefully designed) swimming pool and evenings chugging Chianti in the cool of a hilltop terrace.<br />
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In reality, I'm in Kraków, mainlining Tok FM podcasts and trying not to get into trouble with the police (long story). At least the sun is shining. For now.pinolonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00473418753213565601noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5387352645682544869.post-75282513784848835092011-04-17T23:15:00.000+02:002011-04-17T23:15:33.803+02:00weekendWow. My browser no longer remembers this URL address.<br />
<br />
Recently I read an article* about how addicted we are to mobile internet: to the extent that we're no longer able to bear being on our own and automatically reach for the phone/iPod when left alone. I realised I do the same thing: check facebook on my phone when waiting for the metro, read the news on my iPod when it's not my half hour at work, etc.<br />
<br />
So... is it possible to spend time alone without recourse to a phone-full of virtual company? For purely scientific purposes, I've analysed my own weekend, containing a fair amount of loner-time. Here we go (it's likely that the hours will not add up, maths is not my strong point and time is at best a hazy concept):<br />
<br />
- Writing/checking an achingly dull Italian legal translation with two Technical Annexes: 9 hours<br />
<br />
- Reading <i>The Blessing</i> by Nancy Mitford: 4 hours<br />
- Daydreaming about being picked up by a French duke while weeping on my suitcase in the Gare du Nord (I know that's a different book): about 45 minutes<br />
<br />
- Running: 45 mins<br />
- Washing, showering, grooming in general: 2-3 hours<br />
<br />
- Cooking (surprise entry because normally I have trouble even finding the kitchen): 45 mins<br />
- Shopping (just for food, Mr ING branch manager): 1 hour<br />
- Compulsively checking bank account for arrival of late payment: total about 20 mins<br />
<br />
- Drinking alcoholic beverages in the company of real (as opposed to virtual) people: total about 6 hours, but can't remember exact going-home times. Drunk text messages in my 'Sent' box may give some indication though.<br />
- Rather awkwardly admiring other people's babies/photos of babies: 20-ish mins<br />
- Daydreaming about having sweet cuddly babies of own: maybe about 30 mins<br />
- Wondering whether my mutual fund includes maternity cover: 10 mins<br />
- Thinking wistfully (and not without a touch of envy) of generous <i>fonctionnaire</i> healthcare package: 15 mins<br />
<br />
- Sleeping: a blissful 9-ish hours, all at night-time, not a hint of an afternoon snooze on the sofa.<br />
- Watching imported American TV series and Trinny and Susannah (it holds a morbid fascination: you almost can't help watching. The best episode is the one where they go to Flanders) on the Flemish channels: 5-ish hours, probably, but a lot of the time it was just on in the background while I was doing something else.<br />
<br />
- Messing about on the piano: about 20 mins<br />
- Messing about on the internet: hours and hours and hours. I'm not sure that this has worked at all...<br />
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* In <i>Wysokie Obcasy, </i>so I am at least still trying.pinolonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00473418753213565601noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5387352645682544869.post-75727612929044894892011-02-27T22:12:00.000+01:002011-02-27T22:12:13.288+01:00Museum Night FeverThis is a bit like Noc Museów in Kraków, except that the wristband costs nine euros, instead of the token one złoty for a stamp.<br />
<br />
Last year we played dressing up at the City of Brussels Museum on the Grand Place, then traipsed around a crowded costume museum before queueing 20 minutes to get into the Musical Instrument Museum for a swing dancing workshop.<br />
<br />
This year, we stayed in Ixelles: the <a href="http://www.museedixelles.be/AVANT-PROPOS_a61.html">Ixelles Museum</a>, which is currently hosting the works of Olivier Debré<br />
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... alongside its permanent collection. I'm not sure whether I'm allowed to show pictures of individual works or not but these tiny Rodin cherubs touched a chord. This is called 'Idylle d'Ixelles'. From this angle you can see how softly the little girl cherub is kissing the boy. Why is her arm in the air? Is she about to fly away on those tiny wings? Is he trying to catch her and pull her back down to earth?<br />
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And then there's tons of classic art nouveau posters (I am crap and can never remember which is art deco and which is art nouveau).<br />
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After a burger stop at Le Comptoir on Place St Boniface, we went to the dinosaur museum. Oh all right, the <a href="http://www.sciencesnaturelles.be/">Natural History Museum</a>, but it's basically all about the dinosaurs, right?<br />
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And then we trekked into town to finish the evening off with a beer on the top floor of MIM and to steal a few minutes on the dancefloor before chucking-out time...pinolonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00473418753213565601noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5387352645682544869.post-54810440911190887892011-02-21T23:13:00.001+01:002011-02-21T23:14:35.004+01:00late snow<i>... et la neige fait son apparition...</i><br />
said the taxi driver, wryly, as the car swooped in and out of the undulating tunnels of Brussels' inner ring road last night.<br />
Later, I stood at the window (on the step stool, on tiptoe, with one foot balancing on the radiator - my windows are lunatic-asylum high) and watched the white flakes calmly falling through the dark of the deserted square. There's something soothing and healing about watching a gently incessant fall of snow: something magically reassuring, a sort of continuity in the universe.<br />
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I've made a bad start to the week with some spectacularly inept attempts at schmoozing (I tried to come up with something a bit more convincing than 'can I please have some cash to go and spend a few months mainlining tatankas with my mates in Pauza') and am trying to comfort myself by feeding my running-away fantasy on Skyscan.net. In my dreams, this would involve escaping to Venice incognito and getting a Saturday job in a flower shop, à la <i>Pane e Tulipani</i> (a Silvio Soldini film which goes by the catchy English title of '<a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0237539/">Bread and Tulips</a>'). In reality, it may well involve several afternoons watching films in a three-quarters empty Kino Pod Baranami and talking to strangers at bus stops in a desperate attempt to acquire vocabulary.<br />
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In the meantime, I am watching Homes under the Hammer and trying to work up the energy to go downstairs and buy some chocolate. I am plucking up the courage to check my bank account after a fairly typically irresponsible weekend with extra shopping (I need a new winter/spring jacket and a pair of black boots but invariably end up buying dresses and posh lipstick).<br />
After last week's efforts with the washing machine hose, I'm now feeling confident enough to replace the broken loo seat upstairs. Soon <a href="http://www.brico.be/wabs/fr/index.do">Brico </a>will be my second home.<br />
<br />
And finally: here's a video that will appeal to anyone who has ever spent their afternoon off on hold to Mobistar.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/mxXlDyTD7wo?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>pinolonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00473418753213565601noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5387352645682544869.post-54668059986489702132011-02-09T23:54:00.001+01:002011-02-09T23:57:44.763+01:00Back then2002<br />
<br />
I am sitting on the carpet, leaning up against a very tatty sofa, in a two-up, two-down semi in a student town, on a tiny estate five minutes from the main street (there are only three streets in the whole place), ten minutes from the sea. When you go outside the air is sharp and salty and takes your breath away. There is a gas fire in the hearth. We are watching '<a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0089886/">Real Genius</a>' (an 80s film about geeky physics students). There is wall-to-wall carpet, in some garish brown-and-beige pattern. Four boys live here, two New-Englanders and two Glaswegians. The flat is littered with mouldering sports kit and there is a strange shrine in one corner built out of used pizza boxes and beer cans. I am twenty-one, and utterly - unthinkingly - in love with the long-haired American boy that I have been going out with for a couple of months. Three girls - one of whom is me - also live here, unofficially. There is something festering in the kitchen sink which may once have been porridge. I have enough money in my savings account for the whole year. I feel stable, and content, and - possibly - happy, and am aware that at some point this will end and something else will begin, but not yet...<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/R-O3kYrDPbI" title="YouTube video player" width="640"></iframe>pinolonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00473418753213565601noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5387352645682544869.post-13177225897210593042011-01-29T00:09:00.002+01:002011-01-29T12:29:16.434+01:00Memories. And grammar.So I'm one of three. <a href="http://www.belgianwaffling.com/">Belgian Waffle</a> (right-click to open in a new tab) talked about having an odd number of kids to make things easier. I say this is wrong, wrong, wrong. The reason my parents only had three kids was because in 1986, the only option for large families was the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mitsubishi_Chariot">Mitsubishi space wagon</a>. And my Dad vetoed it almost from the start. Some parents think that having an odd number of children saves you from being the adjudicator. I say start from five. Especially if you regularly make twelve-hour journeys to Inverness in an Austin Montego. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory on BBC audiobooks was the only thing that saved Britain from World War Three circa 1990.<br />
<br />
I promised grammar. I know you love it. But not Polish this time.<br />
<br />
Today, I went to the bakery down the road to order a demi-baguette to go with my smelly francophonic cheese. 'Demi' in French is masculine. I swear. I went to the bakery and mumbled something about 'un demi-baguette'.<br />
<br />
- <i>Une </i>baguette.<br />
insisted the baker. <i>Une </i>baguette!<br />
<br />
I repeated that I wanted a <i>demi </i>goddammit. She offered me cheese and ham to go with.<br />
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Bad French days. They happen. However long you study the damn language, I guarantee it...pinolonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00473418753213565601noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5387352645682544869.post-90272685147797031032011-01-24T01:10:00.000+01:002011-01-24T01:10:09.638+01:00Best thing sinceSliced bread in Belgium comes without the crust slice on the end. This is a huge disappointment, because everyone knows that the crust is the best bit.<br />
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I'm sad again because my stats tell me this blog attracts people who have typed 'I hate Belgium' into their search engines. I have to admit that I complain a fair bit about the rather surreal little country that forms my adoptive home, but it's usually just frustration at something unflexible and service-related. Brussels is actually quite nice, sometimes. Here are some pictures:<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">Place St Boniface, the Ultime Atome on the right and one of two father-and-son-owned camera shops on the left</div><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">More Place St Boniface</div><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;">Place de Londres</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;">Eglise St Boniface. I'm not sure what the statues are</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;">Christmas lights and sunshine. These pictures are from late November: the lights have been taken down now.</div>pinolonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00473418753213565601noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5387352645682544869.post-70960143396096401432011-01-08T22:12:00.002+01:002011-01-08T22:14:32.630+01:00Over the hillBouncer <i>tapping P on shoulder</i>: Excuse me...<br />
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Pino <i>turning round</i>: Yes...?<br />
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Bouncer: Oh. Never mind. I was going to ask for ID, but...<br />
<br />
2011 sucks already. Pass the gin.pinolonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00473418753213565601noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5387352645682544869.post-16889134375884080442011-01-06T02:10:00.001+01:002011-01-06T02:13:17.803+01:00ResolutionsI have been at my parents' house for almost two weeks already. In that time, I have completely abandoned the sensible Polish and French literature that I brought with me and made serious inroads into my Dad's Robert Harris collection instead. I have not studied all that much for my exam next week (it's like deja vu all over again), but I have downloaded an <a href="http://www.rtbf.be/lapremiere/">RTBF 1ère</a> app onto my new iPod touch, so that counts as practice, right?<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>I have been up to London and back several times on the train and am thinking of buying shares in Connex South Eastern, not to mention Caffè Nero. </div><div><br />
</div><div>I have done far more shopping than my tremulous bank balance allows (which isn't all that much).</div><div><br />
</div><div>I am more than ready to go back to Brussels and was already itching to get back to work by Sunday afternoon: there are only so many re-runs of Midsomer Murders* one can take in a week.</div><div><br />
</div><div>My sister is coping by baking. There has been copious brownie consumption in the Pinocorp household over the past 48 hours. Incidentally, six of us (excluding dogs) managed to get through a tin of Cadbury's Roses by Boxing Day evening (opened on Christmas Day, in case anyone was still feeling peckish after lunch). That's nearly a kilo. Is that bad? Is anyone else's family that gluttonous?</div><div><br />
</div><div>To continue my ever-deeper slide down the literary slope, I ransacked the bookcase in my old bedroom and came up with a copy of Bridget Jones' Diary, bought when I was sixteen and had absolutely no idea what any of it was about. It now seems scarily, prophetically accurate and I hardly dare to turn the pages for fear of reading my life in minute detail on the next leaf. Sadly, my parents have yet to introduce me to any top human rights lawyers, but one can always live in hope. In future, when reading, I resolve to stay firmly away from romantic comedies and safely in the action/crime thriller zone, to prevent maudlin before bedtime (what <i>is </i>the verb form of 'maudlin'? Maudlin-in'?).</div><div><br />
</div><div>Ugh. Resolutions.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I Will Not:</div><div><br />
</div><div>- even pretend to give up drinking as this will only result in a terrible binge some time like next weekend and a lot of guilt. </div><div>- buy a pair of scales. My jeans still fit (even after washing), so it can't be that bad.</div><div>- go near a boy ever again because they are all emotionally immature and a big waste of precious time, energy and emotional investment.</div><div>- go out with friends who coerce <i>teenagers </i>(well, more or less) into taking my phone number by lying about my real age to the tune of about seven years and get us all into trouble for not leaving the pub when it's clearly closing time already</div><div>- beat myself up over any of the following: </div><div><ul><li>drinking too much; </li>
<li>eating too much; </li>
<li>not eating enough; </li>
<li>being single and alone and over the hill and unloved and unattractive and generally an utterly unappealing old hag;</li>
<li>not acting my age</li>
<li>f*cking up at work</li>
<li>not beating myself up enough for f*cking up at work, thus demonstrating lack of gravitas in professional context</li>
</ul><div>I Will:</div></div><div><br />
</div><div>- cook regularly, like <i>at least</i> twice a week, with real vegetables and everything.</div><div>- stop wasting time on Facebook</div><div>- learn all the jazz scales, chord progressions and other technical piano thingies, since I now have all this free time as a single unattractive old hag, and become brilliant - albeit single and unattractive - jazz pianist (this has been my resolution for about the past ten years)</div><div>- start a turkey-baster fund, in case of emergency to be used by 2017 at the latest</div><div>- travel and do stuff outdoors and try to enjoy life in general</div><div>- buy some furniture already</div><div>- talk to people more and stop looking at the ground</div><div>- go to Italy more often because I <i>love </i>it but always forget how much</div><div>- speak Polish to strangers (who actually are Polish, obviously)</div><div>- write more on the blog (and possibly also off the blog)</div><div>- sort out my accounts, since I am a highly streamlined and professional twenty-first century businesswoman</div><div>- lie about my age: the teenager looked (almost) convinced</div><div>- fall in love. Probably with a puppy.</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div>*That's <i>Inspecteur Barnaby </i>to all you francophonic types.</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div>pinolonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00473418753213565601noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5387352645682544869.post-81029405494308153752011-01-04T00:25:00.000+01:002011-01-04T00:25:00.139+01:00Things I did last yearBasically I haven't written anything for almost a month because I'm alternately too sad or too drunk. Here are some pictures, to cheer us all up.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIN8VhKeAfUhsw146w9mUfHzkx3qNF-bNSaTf4UBfdBz2x2RDloaXMKdo3lQjvPc57gEdL0AxeVILKD4tWxVd8gKBjjT8t2LL5XMn8ZIiPz8t6DjUVeXWSCVhAss8C49FT6h_6o0NtZAY/s1600/DSCF1119.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIN8VhKeAfUhsw146w9mUfHzkx3qNF-bNSaTf4UBfdBz2x2RDloaXMKdo3lQjvPc57gEdL0AxeVILKD4tWxVd8gKBjjT8t2LL5XMn8ZIiPz8t6DjUVeXWSCVhAss8C49FT6h_6o0NtZAY/s320/DSCF1119.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>Cafe 'Chez Tintin'</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHflpww2OVooaT-qNqL7faEylk7kgkEH-V3QpejqCPQCU4L-g1qLLrFva4Vf1oJH8s_I2VUt2mqBYaN_Aci5aocI-UHKr1VLb-7FybDnMEjag9iw6gERblF3VSpqOlG6xtZ-bnsojFaLA/s1600/DSCF1116.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHflpww2OVooaT-qNqL7faEylk7kgkEH-V3QpejqCPQCU4L-g1qLLrFva4Vf1oJH8s_I2VUt2mqBYaN_Aci5aocI-UHKr1VLb-7FybDnMEjag9iw6gERblF3VSpqOlG6xtZ-bnsojFaLA/s320/DSCF1116.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>The banks of the Congo river</i> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho5ZtzbEJLbA3wkPU4A5ZSmOUMr2n2ClCnzSs7Z2e5z3hYzcqdp_tJGtCKnNTggKQJewj_Z0BsuCZl-iqklW0F3U4-xBAnNEIKbiIkSlWaU0Ppscmp9Lxs8uUCIOeQmfDSjgeQXZNiUOI/s1600/DSCF1138.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho5ZtzbEJLbA3wkPU4A5ZSmOUMr2n2ClCnzSs7Z2e5z3hYzcqdp_tJGtCKnNTggKQJewj_Z0BsuCZl-iqklW0F3U4-xBAnNEIKbiIkSlWaU0Ppscmp9Lxs8uUCIOeQmfDSjgeQXZNiUOI/s320/DSCF1138.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>The hotel pool and bar - many hours spent here preparing hard for meetings, ahem.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpBSLncvxD2GBwN7Ynpl3SKfl4OMx2ZW5Ucao9pr482KsPQ2cUtFHWsOi3uVimDGt7nPcgQpsfISyNMksaTq3dz8_6vExixzuvtIVo48G3w2mKbVSgoUR8f1PzegcXcn3v3FxZWsSqtbw/s1600/DSCF1152.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpBSLncvxD2GBwN7Ynpl3SKfl4OMx2ZW5Ucao9pr482KsPQ2cUtFHWsOi3uVimDGt7nPcgQpsfISyNMksaTq3dz8_6vExixzuvtIVo48G3w2mKbVSgoUR8f1PzegcXcn3v3FxZWsSqtbw/s320/DSCF1152.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Street food: barbecued kid (as in 'cabri', not child). Comes with yummy fresh offal sausages, mmm.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiphi7gFUWC5x3W4-dAX6T2UQ8VdG36n3C0iappJP8mR56Y1tLB5OiafSWdgdOsQ1duRKI342kq79N8oqIzO8UNPfufGAcuNBCjvl5d5V1Fso-a6oKUsD_35mhNr510lYO0lHRLZ86lpZM/s1600/DSCF1157.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiphi7gFUWC5x3W4-dAX6T2UQ8VdG36n3C0iappJP8mR56Y1tLB5OiafSWdgdOsQ1duRKI342kq79N8oqIzO8UNPfufGAcuNBCjvl5d5V1Fso-a6oKUsD_35mhNr510lYO0lHRLZ86lpZM/s320/DSCF1157.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>View from the hotel. With palm trees. In December.</i> </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqtj9rgcFdoJ_raJPbmQUcilnVCUSN5P-0HLXkBWJm51lTr8wU7vrKzMqHNKsjsd633P8AUclf_Rwt_GipBmTQQG9BCzs8SUBHMzM3MIhiQWV0UPOEY9HgwYpBeBh77Yp1kMaQBeqoHEE/s1600/DSCF1169.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqtj9rgcFdoJ_raJPbmQUcilnVCUSN5P-0HLXkBWJm51lTr8wU7vrKzMqHNKsjsd633P8AUclf_Rwt_GipBmTQQG9BCzs8SUBHMzM3MIhiQWV0UPOEY9HgwYpBeBh77Yp1kMaQBeqoHEE/s320/DSCF1169.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Painted adverts</i> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZh5UO1o27t09DIP6uJzptTbrU0syYT6Vr4KZvHFgxVgNyC55cgkBAgxJ4aQPINWbI-G07pYgltn5edCQKNjMA37cIoGaIairTNnxoA9UQtrwQHJ8gwo9FTRSU6CWPOWpgh6LkOgAhyphenhyphenM4/s1600/DSCF1176.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZh5UO1o27t09DIP6uJzptTbrU0syYT6Vr4KZvHFgxVgNyC55cgkBAgxJ4aQPINWbI-G07pYgltn5edCQKNjMA37cIoGaIairTNnxoA9UQtrwQHJ8gwo9FTRSU6CWPOWpgh6LkOgAhyphenhyphenM4/s320/DSCF1176.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Street scene on the way to the airport</i></div>pinolonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00473418753213565601noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5387352645682544869.post-62221112883164202782010-12-11T13:14:00.000+01:002010-12-11T13:14:29.223+01:00Catch-up postI haven't written anything for ages and ages and ages. So here's a quick résumé of the week, just to prove to you that I didn't get eaten by crocodiles in the Congo (are there crocodiles in the Congo? I didn't like to dive in and check) or succumb to Dengue fever or traveller's tummy or something equally awful. Photos to come...<br />
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<i>Monday</i>: flying into a snow-dusted Belgium via Rome, Addis Ababa and a gratuitously long, hot and stuffy sojourn in the <i>Salon Business </i>at Kinshasa airport. I realise I've lost the little red slip from La Poste that would have enabled me to pick up a package waiting for me at Porte de Namur. Now I'll never know what it was...<br />
<br />
<i>Tuesday</i>: getting back to work in Brussels is a bit of a culture shock. I calmly inform my listeners that there are more than five million villages in Morocco. No-one bats an eyelid.<br />
<br />
<i>Wednesday</i>: starting to get used to the temperature again. Unfortunately not enough to remember the need for sensible footwear. I nearly stack it several times running down the hill to work and have a couple of near-misses cutting through an iced-over Jardin de Maelbeek. In Other Business, I've also re-discovered the gym. There is a painful bruise on my hip-bone from where I stepped off the cross-trainer, slightly stunned, and staggered into the wall. <br />
<br />
<i>Thursday</i>: an afternoon off! Bliss! Choir practice is one hundred per cent Rutter from now until January. In the morning, no-one notices when I tell them that Victor Hugo - in an impressive feat of longevity - managed to attend a summit in 1948. The meeting ends with a rousing chorus of Ode to Joy and everyone standing to attention. This is exactly how I imagined working for the European Union would be.<br />
<br />
<i>Friday</i>: Work lasts well into the darkening afternoon. Lights go off one by one in the other booths as delegates slope off to catch their planes. Eventually it's only us and the French left. The chair finally calls it a day. We manage to track down some mulled wine in the Hairy Canary and the rest of the evening is a bit of a blur.<br />
<br />
Polski update: oh gosh... I haven't spoken Polish for ages. I'm forgetting important words and expressions (I had to look up 'mam kaca'). I carried an increasingly battered copy of Wprost around Kinshasa for a week - which was lucky because I forgot my sunhat and it came in really handy keeping the sun off my face by the pool. I've been trying to finish <i>Gra na wielu bębenkach </i>for almost six months. Worst of all, I can no longer take my Tantanka. I need a trip to Kraków, and fast!pinolonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00473418753213565601noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5387352645682544869.post-15230398316499207152010-11-28T21:59:00.000+01:002010-11-28T21:59:14.536+01:00Far from home in a hotel roomI'm on mission again, which is a direct calque from the French and which sounds a lot more exciting in English than in the original. Although I suppose if it were <i>really </i>exciting then I wouldn't be able to blog about it. No-one else is here yet and the conference doesn't start til Tuesday, so I'm at a loose end, not doing anything except sitting in the hotel room not catching up on sleep and blogging.<br />
<br />
I travelled here on Ethiopian Airlines. For a child of the 80s, Ethiopia means Band Aid, Bob Geldof and 'eat your carrots, there are starving children in...'. At the time, I could never understand why my Mum wouldn't agree to physically send the carrots where they might be appreciated a bit more. Imagine my consternation when the cabin crew came round to collect the dinner trays. I almost apologised over the tell-tale carrots lying sheepishly uneaten in the gravy.<br />
On landing, we were treated to tantalisingly spectacular views over the plains and mountains surrounding Addis Ababa. Unfortunately the rest of my Ethiopian experience consisted of dozing in the business lounge, in spite of the interest piqued by leaflets depicting pyramids, markets and ancient ruins.<br />
<br />
And now here I am, in a rather different country that is not Ethiopia. I have inadvertently managed to do more or less everything I need to do to catch malaria: opening the windows on arriving in the hotel room (it's an automatic reflex, I just wanted to see the view), walking outside by the pool, sitting by the pool after dark eating pizza (because that's where the hotel bar food was). There's a winged insect that looks like a fly in my bathroom. I hope it is a fly. In a few weeks' time I expect I will know whether it was or not. And I accidentally drank from a glass of coke with ice, before I'd really had time to think about it, so I'm clearly well on the way to a nice bout of tummy trouble, if not full-blown cholera.<br />
<br />
If I manage to survive all that, I may even take some photos...pinolonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00473418753213565601noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5387352645682544869.post-26228199144609272582010-11-25T00:19:00.000+01:002010-11-25T00:19:46.346+01:00Winter chillsI still have a good twenty-eight or so posts to get through by the end of the year. This is going to be tough. I feel a lot of photos coming on.<br />
<br />
It's starting to get really cold in Brussels now. Not just ordinary cold, but damp, foggy cold that chills you through and through. The radiator in my bedroom doesn't work. I've heard that you need to bleed radiators. This sounds like one of those rather disgusting but secretly fun things - like picking scabs or pulling out hangnails - that you do as a child sitting cross-legged on a rather dusty floor waiting for assembly to start. I realise that's probably a rather over-detailed simile but I have a very, very clear image in my mind here of the boredom and the floating dust mites and those disgusting curtains decorated in a fetching pattern resembling psychodelic spools of Marmite. Once, I unzipped my summer dress all the way down the front and couldn't zip it up again. I was marched out of assembly and had to change into an abandoned dress from the spare clothes cupboard. My Mum never dressed me in zips again. What do you expect, giving a seven-year old easy access to zippable fashions?<br />
<br />
I did tell the landlord about the faulty radiator and he sent round a plumber. When I say 'plumber', obviously I mean the landlord's sister's cousin's brother-in-law who's a bit handy with a spanner and used to watch Home Improvement quite a lot. The plumber stuck a little Allen key or something in the corner of the radiator, there was a loud, satisfying hiss and some water dripped out. I'm sure it's something I could do myself...<br />
<br />
I also need to put blinds in upstairs. My flat has attic rooms with beautiful, big skylights, perfect for lying back on a snow-white cotton duvet and dreaming that you're floating on a cloud. Unfortunately, at three in the morning when there's a full moon they're not so good. Yesterday I snapped awake and lay in the chilly moonlight, trying to sink back into a lovely dream where I was catching up with an old friend who's recently moved back from Australia. The only thing is, it's not my flat. And I resent investing in something that I'm going to have to take down and paint over in three years time. The flat is definitely my home, but I still feel that I'm camping to some extent. The kitchen especially doesn't feel like mine (although it's miles better than the old place, which looked like this:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil1gSbFk_FxOT3fLXZB0D6L71NS2Pqk8vFhyphenhyphen8Re7QnVmWMQKPn8Ce1bWP5OGaaj6CnR5xE5fD_KZ4ZXBbo_0Uri-gZbFgkOQVslgn6pveRcsky0yf9hyM_s8amOyB9VaFG0-_cAs-utNk/s1600/100_4880.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil1gSbFk_FxOT3fLXZB0D6L71NS2Pqk8vFhyphenhyphen8Re7QnVmWMQKPn8Ce1bWP5OGaaj6CnR5xE5fD_KZ4ZXBbo_0Uri-gZbFgkOQVslgn6pveRcsky0yf9hyM_s8amOyB9VaFG0-_cAs-utNk/s320/100_4880.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: right;">)</div><div style="text-align: right;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">The new one is a definite improvement in that it has actual work surfaces. And more than two hobs (which I never use because I am lazy and useless and don't have a dining table yet and haven't found my local veggie market). And no cockroaches whatsoever. </div><div style="text-align: left;">Note the tasteful tiling in my old kitchen. I have to admit I probably failed to appreciate its full splendour, largely because I was utterly bedazzled by the subtle charms of the bathroom:</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Cf3uW1mSU3mvyvFoVF5zrQ9HsubEcJKy7nlBclE0zL0bc-RsyTzq3Cg8AT27621D65PfN8GYorEcx9ynAPalFVrsFqVe2_UbStHAJW7W7w7pJwyJox7QJjBJ_1dLVlOXMpLo0izm5K4/s1600/100_4877.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Cf3uW1mSU3mvyvFoVF5zrQ9HsubEcJKy7nlBclE0zL0bc-RsyTzq3Cg8AT27621D65PfN8GYorEcx9ynAPalFVrsFqVe2_UbStHAJW7W7w7pJwyJox7QJjBJ_1dLVlOXMpLo0izm5K4/s320/100_4877.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Now, I've commented on the weather, written something vaguely amusing about my childhood, given you an update on the flat and some photos of real estate failures past. That's my blogging duty over for the day, bonne nuit!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Oh wait. Polski update. Uh. I have one lesson a week with a very patient Polish lady and we are going through a fascinating textbook on economics. I am also trying - and failing - to remember the difference between <i>siedzieć komuś na głowie </i>and <i>zawracać komuś głowę, </i>and many other such expressions, also from a textbook. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">On a fairly regular basis, I bump into a Polish person at a party and have a long and apparently fluent conversation with them which in reality probably consists of:</div><div style="text-align: left;">- oh wow, you speak such great Polish!</div><div style="text-align: left;">- thanks, I make lots mistakes. I live in Kraków two year.</div><div style="text-align: left;">- How did you learn?</div><div style="text-align: left;">- I go language school and then UJ, Cen-tre foooorrrr Po-lish langu-age and cul-ture iiiiin theeee world (I have to say that very carefully otherwise I get the endings wrong)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">...etc, etc, for another half-hour or so. But it all sounds a lot better after vodka.</div>pinolonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00473418753213565601noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5387352645682544869.post-39043779701446879152010-11-18T00:26:00.001+01:002010-11-18T00:36:10.647+01:00One in threeI have to admit I'm strangely, uncharacteristically fascinated by the royal engagement. Normally my interest in the royal family is limited at the best of times - probably largely due to sheer rage at the Daily Express crowd.<br />
<br />
HRH hit the scene in my second year at St Andrews and the atmosphere there changed dramatically. Suddenly, the nicest bars in town (and it's a small old town) were packed with expensively-highlighted American girls in fitted rugby shirts and pink pashminas, while security was tightened to within an inch of its life. Woe betide the student who tried to get into the Union (or even the library) on a Friday night without an ID card. After second year, he moved out of halls and the hoo-hah died down a bit. Or maybe it's just that I moved to France for a year, returned briefly for the first semester of third year and then absconded to Italy for spaghetti, spritz and snowboarding. I definitely passed WW a couple of times on the street but couldn't distinguish him from the other posh boys wearing navy baseball caps over floppy blond hair. At least until someone hissed - '<i>but wasn't that...???</i>', forcing me to admit my ignorance. My sub-standard celebrity spotting skills make me glad I'm not a gossip columnist.<br />
<br />
But what interests me isn't the romance, or the dress, or the media circus, or even KM's lack of career (these days, who's really managed to achieve anything by 28? I certainly hadn't got very far). It's the reality. It's hard for a relationship to survive the first tough years after graduation. They've been together eight years. What keeps two fast-changing young people together that long, throughout their turbulent early twenties? How did they cope with separation? Why did they split and what brought them back together? Are they really 'in love' or just good mates who fancy each other and get on ok? What does in love mean after eight years? Is the spark still there?<br />
<br />
They both seem so modern and normal - insofar as a prince and the daughter of millionaires can be. They look and sound just like the other posh boys and girls I know. What makes their relationship a success? Do they have a real bond or is it just PR?<br />
<br />
One in three St Andrews graduates marries another St Andrews graduate. A sign of a small, inbred community or of salt-soaked romance on the bracing Fife coast?<br />
<br />
By all appearances, this is not a whirlwind romance, but a tough, tried-and-tested bond, with the battlescars and laughter lines of eight years to prove it. Does this mean there's some hope for the rest of us?pinolonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00473418753213565601noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5387352645682544869.post-67984862065052384912010-11-15T22:11:00.000+01:002010-11-15T22:11:11.520+01:00ExperimentLeave the lights on in your flat. Put your coat on, go downstairs and sit out in the square under the trees and look up at the warm glow in your own windows. Imagine it's not your house but that some other girl lives there. Think about that girl - does she live alone? She must have some kind of wonderful job to live in that big flat by herself. Maybe she worked hard to get there but I bet she loves it, doing what she always dreamed of. Perhaps she gets to travel to exciting places and see things she'd never even imagined. A girl like that is clever, good at what she does: she never doubts herself for a moment.<br />
<br />
She'll have a sweet boyfriend who is crazy about her: he'll come around on his day off and help her fix pictures to the walls of the new apartment and together they'll buy a huge rug from some hippy shop in St Gilles and carry it home on the metro, giggling and beaming at each other. The warmth streaming from the windows carries with it the growing warmth of the flat as it slowly becomes a home. Another armchair, a tall plant in a ceramic pot, a dining room table. A Sunday afternoon spent drinking coffee after coffee on Place St Boniface or the Parvis de St Gilles, stealing kisses and pretending to be shy when nobody really notices them at all. They'll take pictures of each other and make silly faces and laugh at how goofy they are. Secretly they'll both imagine tottering infants with ginger hair and huge dark eyes and a dewy garden in the spring sunshine some time in the hazy future. Their lives spread before them full of love and laughter and everything looks perfect.<br />
<br />
And there you are, sitting out alone in the square in the cold and the dark, pretending.pinolonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00473418753213565601noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5387352645682544869.post-77861892157277107552010-11-02T00:29:00.000+01:002010-11-02T00:29:55.777+01:00DisastersStanding by the printer, on Thursday evening. Work (or at least this part of it) closes at midday on a Friday. I have a meeting starting at 9am. The whole of Belgium will be closed on Monday and Tuesday. I leave on mission on Wednesday morning.<br />
<br />
- So... says the guy from the office, conversationally - when are you flying out?<br />
<i>me - </i>Wednesday morning<br />
<i>-</i> oh! *<i>sudden face of doom*</i> But you'll be far too late - the bus leaves the hotel an hour after your plane lands. You need to change that flight. We're all going on Tuesday evening.<br />
<i>me (turning pale)</i> - are you sure I won't make it? Even if I get a taxi or something?<br />
- I think you need to change it.<br />
- But... but... on Tuesday I'm in London renewing my passport...<br />
<br />
The next two hours were a blurred mess of running from office to office, shedding e-ticket printouts in great paper sheaves in my wake, trying to find the right person to authorise my flight change, trying very hard not to burst into tears and spending a puzzling fifteen minutes looking for a lift that would take me to level 2 (apparently there are several which pass it by altogether).<br />
<br />
Tomorrow starts at quarter to six and ends at ten in the evening and includes an ambitious itinerary of changeovers so nail-bitingly tight they would produce grey hairs in a skeleton luge driver. <br />
<br />
Wish me luck.pinolonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00473418753213565601noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5387352645682544869.post-22193495009436769342010-10-30T00:29:00.000+02:002010-10-30T00:29:20.413+02:00Kryzys tozsamosciIt's been ages since I wrote anything. So I should write. Since I live in a francophonic country - or at least a francophonic region of a tri(at least)lingual country, it should have distinct existential leanings.<br />
<br />
Ever since I left Poland - the first time around - I've been looking for an angle for the blog. It's clearly not about a British expat learning Polish in Poland any more. It's about a British expat, who is (<i>still</i>) learning Polish, but in a different and equally strange country. But should it be about learning Polish? Or about coping with the surreal/endearing/at times utterly frustrating experience that is life in Belgium? Or about being a - more or less most of the time - single woman in her (very) early thirties (Bridget Jones-stylie)?<br />
<br />
Someone I spend a lot of time with recently quoted at me: 'I don't want to be a character in a movie of your life'. But that's not why I write. It's not supposed to be a blow-by-blow description of my rather dull existence. I write a blog because I like to write, because I feel that I might be good at it, if I did it enough, and because I do a job which is challenging and interesting but - in theory - not creative and I want to be able to form something which is my own, and writing a blog is a series of exercises preparing for what one day might be an article, or a short story, or even a very modest novel. Maybe. One day.<br />
<br />
But maybe it <i>is </i>all just vanity. Maybe this is just one more thing that I'm not good at - except that there's no-one around to tell me to pull my socks up.<br />
<br />
It's October, so there is a lot of work, and for this I am grateful. I am living by the skin of my teeth: running to work in the mornings usually almost late (or almost on time), with messy hair and smudged mascara, looking like a cross between a dressed-up schoolgirl and a nervous breakdown waiting to happen. On days when I'm not working, I sprint across Brussels trying to organise appointments and administration and learning of various sorts. My fridge is more or less permanently empty and I need to borrow an electric drill to fix a mirror, a row of coat pegs and a Japanese print to the wall. My flat still looks as though I moved in yesterday and I still haven't bought a bed, or a dining table. Through the bathroom skylight, I can watch the sun rise while I shower in the morning. Occasionally my hormones short-circuit my brain and I spend the whole day thinking about babies, although I'm nowhere near responsible enough to look after one. I've managed to divide all my paperwork into 'in' and 'out', in two big piles on the coffee table. I'm secretly pleased my boyfriend is away at the moment, because I will be able to spend the whole weekend asleep, or being quietly and unashamedly crazy by myself, or out with friends, hoping to forget everything.<br />
<br />
I love late autumn and winter for no reason: for the coolness and freshness and crispness of everything, even in the city. I'm happy to change my life for three months and run in the dark and drink mulled wine in the kitchen instead of cold beer on a terrace.<br />
<br />
There we go. A whole post of 'I'. Selfish? Indulgent? And wrong for these reasons? You decide.pinolonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00473418753213565601noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5387352645682544869.post-33452397018224731732010-10-12T00:36:00.000+02:002010-10-12T00:36:58.540+02:00Rainy days and MondaysI must have written a post with this title before. I'm sure I have. It's actually not rainy at all but brilliantly sunny, and has been for the past few days.<br />
<br />
Here are some random observations about Monday, in no particular order.<br />
<br />
- today I sat in a meeting almost entirely in English, German and - a surprise late entry - Polish, which I am fortunately not yet qualified to do. I switched the microphone on a grand total of once and thus escaped a quality control report due to scarcity of evidence.<br />
<br />
- the fates were clearly on my side with the quality control thing because I had finally rolled into bed the night before at about 2am. Please don't think that this is because I had anything particularly exciting to do: I've simply discovered that having to climb up stairs to go to bed when you are even only slightly tired is hardly worth it when you could just doze on the sofa in front of BBC3. My evenings involve messing about on the interweb, tinkling away at the piano, flipping channels, occasionally doing something vaguely productive like reading a book or writing a blog post (rarely).<br />
<br />
- I ran around the park three times instead of two (in the dark you can be tricked into thinking you haven't run as far) and had a bath for the first time in over a year. Please note that I have washed myself by other methods in the meantime. I reckon that since I'm here on my own and I've already cleaned the bath at least twice since I moved in* it's probably relatively hygienic. Also, I finally have a bathroom which has a window. I've always found it singularly dreary to sit in four inches of tepid, scummy water in a windowless box room, but the fact of being able to lie back and look up at the sunset reflecting off the clouds through the skylight is somehow much more appealing.<br />
<br />
- I bought shoes. I can't decide whether I like them or not. I am fed up with the ubiquitous ballet pump slipping off my feet all the time so I bought some rather flimsy tan leather plimsoll-type things - as unlike a trainer as I could possibly find without risking toe cramps. I have not yet paid my accountant. <i>Accountants</i>, since I actually have two, one in Belgium and one in the UK. I owe money to both, but not as much as I would owe to the respective revenue and customs services if I did not pay an accountant to do it all for me.<br />
<br />
- I am unable to organise a piss-up. It's meant to be at my home, not in a brewery, but since I live in Belgium I'm sure there must be a suitable brewery relatively near by. This is partly social ineptness, more than partly shyness and a large helping of anxiety, plus I don't really understand how these things work. Do people really want to come and drink wine at my flat? Do I have enough chairs? I certainly don't have enough wine glasses. If people don't have fun, is it my fault?<br />
<br />
- I am in the throes of a <i>crise sentimentale, </i>which pretty unclear to both of us. I think at the moment it is back on, largely due to the soothing influence of gorgeous autumn sunshine for the whole weekend and a long, slightly hungover romantic walk in the woods. Maybe Belgium and its meteorology are on my side after all.<br />
<br />
- I keep forgetting to water the plant. He gave it to me. I only have to water it once a week. The designated watering day is Wednesday and I keep missing it (Wednesday is an easy day to overlook, with all those other things going on to distract you, like Tuesday and Thursday). He says that this is ironically symbolic, or symbolically ironic, or something like that.<br />
<br />
Right. Time to tackle those stairs.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
*nearly two months ago, so not so good after all.pinolonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00473418753213565601noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5387352645682544869.post-20763444031077614702010-10-06T01:32:00.000+02:002010-10-06T01:32:06.002+02:00Evensong blues IISinging today, I realised what it is that gives evensong its melancholy edge. The dimly-lit chapel late on a Wednesday afternoon, the shadows drawing closer, the few hardy members of the austere Scottish congregation hugging their winter coats around them as the dark falls ever earlier and we slip into the gloomy tunnel that is November. The wind howls around the stone walls and sheets of rain dash against the windows.<br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Turn not thy servants empty away, for we have thee as our only hope</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i>Defend us from all perils and dangers of this night</i></span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i><br />
</i></span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i>Save us, O Lord, while waking and guard us while sleeping</i></span></i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
The night creeps closer and the candles flicker and sputter in the draft - an echo of the gale whipping up the waves outside.<br />
<br />
Bare branches rattle against the panes, trees are stripped and contorted as though with grief.<br />
<br />
At this time of year, we are alone - deep in the night we listen to breath coming in gasps and cannot reach out to comfort the sleeper. We are the wrong person in the wrong place at the wrong time and the dark is all around and winter is coming.pinolonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00473418753213565601noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5387352645682544869.post-74943486045565258402010-10-02T02:05:00.001+02:002010-10-02T02:07:28.263+02:00Sofa, so goodThe sofa has become the central focus of my indoor life. It's a good place to flop down and pass out after work, it's the best place to sit and eat breakfast in front of the BBC (actually the only place, since I don't have a proper dining table yet) and it also doubles as a handy filing cabinet and coat stand.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAEbBwUwWll8BYS6RPMoY1IVBEje9_QfEzQIiT5WGDGFtfE3ZPfAkfo5e5TksEhtPt9ApMwovvcn65T0VP4faHyjvzza7I5NAWaKuVVkDOH4zxGArqfGQiuSdRVgtOc5WLGPufuy_VyQw/s1600/037.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAEbBwUwWll8BYS6RPMoY1IVBEje9_QfEzQIiT5WGDGFtfE3ZPfAkfo5e5TksEhtPt9ApMwovvcn65T0VP4faHyjvzza7I5NAWaKuVVkDOH4zxGArqfGQiuSdRVgtOc5WLGPufuy_VyQw/s320/037.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>As you can see, there's still a little way to go on furnishing the flat. Currently life is full of boring adult responsibilities, such as trying to work out how to do last year's UK tax return. Since I'm not very responsible and have trouble remembering that I'm supposed to be an adult, this has been a bit difficult to take on board.<br />
<br />
Instead, I've been exploring the various procrastination options. Such as cooking.<br />
<br />
<br />
Here's my recipe for vegetable soup. Don't thank me now.<br />
<br />
<br />
- scrape together all the leftover vegetables from the bottom of your fridge.<br />
- cut and/or peel off the slimy bits.<br />
- heat some oil in a pan and add garlic and <i>lots</i> of chilli (to hide the taste of the vegetables)<br />
- add veg and pour stock over the top - preferably Oxo veggie stock, for that authentic Pot Noodle flavour<br />
- turn up the heat, and go and watch ER on Vijf TV until you hear the saucepan lid rattling as the stock boils over.<br />
- turn down the heat and leave to simmer until vegetables have lost all shape and consistency or until the Flemish news comes on<br />
- turn the heat off, get out hand-held blender, and blitz until mushy.<br />
- add a bit more stock to make it look more like soup and less like baby food<br />
- add generous helpings of strong cheese. <br />
<br />
<br />
Smacznego!pinolonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00473418753213565601noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5387352645682544869.post-68833808995086379262010-09-27T00:11:00.000+02:002010-09-27T00:11:08.132+02:00Aux petits riensAn ambivalent weekend full of showers and flashes of sunshine. In Schaerbeek last night there was a huge explosion that demolished three houses and killed three people. My first thought was 'but for the grace of God', and my fear of leaving the gas on is back with a vengeance, even though I've lived with electric cookers for over a year now. The iron is also a serious cause for concern.<br />
<br />
I'm more or less settled in the new flat now. It finally has a sofa (after a very long Saturday afternoon in Ikea with the new boy, culminating in a desperate stress-binge on Swedish cinnamon rolls), as well as television, wifi and a tumble dryer. My happiness is complete. I can look forward to long afternoons spent sprawled across my sofa in front of Grey's Anatomy on Vijf tv, with the blogosphere at my fingertips and the sweet scent of freshly-tumbled towels in the air.<br />
<br />
However, I should probably get some grown-up furniture. By grown-up, I mean sensible things that you can store stuff in. Store as in 'put away in a tidy manner' as opposed to 'leave in the box it came in and pretend it doesn't exist let alone need to be filed'. Specfically a sideboard, a chest of drawers and a dining table with chairs. With this in mind, I set out towards Porte de Namur as soon as the rain held off for a few moments and was very quickly distracted by shoe shops and Fnac.<br />
<br />
Eventually I managed to steer myself down Avenue Louise, past Place du Châtelain and onto Rue Américaine. This is home to Les Petits Riens - essentially a five-storey jumble sale.<br />
Now, I always thought that St Andrews was the undisputed capital of charity shops: all those rich kids casting off last season's Armani or last term's ball dress translates into some serious bargains. But Petits Riens is on another scale entirely. Once I'd wandered around two floors of furniture and got bored I found myself climbing up to the top floor: crockery, old toys and electrical equipment among other things. It's like my parents' loft on speed.<br />
You can browse through shelves and shelves of highly useful objects, such as...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmQmzjVroVQ3lbq72YOgf8H_1y9R7ZhvAH-fEbgBkahPDG-NWAi572eywLSJcjzXPJ7H_16sjm8NHYI2PrDsrhLlYWktY6zcKV3qtqGvhvv3_YTXRtqFPkdmLTvtHAOQFr2-Y5C8_TP8U/s1600/25092010(003).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmQmzjVroVQ3lbq72YOgf8H_1y9R7ZhvAH-fEbgBkahPDG-NWAi572eywLSJcjzXPJ7H_16sjm8NHYI2PrDsrhLlYWktY6zcKV3qtqGvhvv3_YTXRtqFPkdmLTvtHAOQFr2-Y5C8_TP8U/s320/25092010(003).jpg" width="320" /></a></div>... Irish coffee glasses ...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiav69L2evKL2n1tUlwsPXzB2olopZLh2fraPZ7Qkr6LwrU0FGj8TOtSG8UCvx-DOK7nPBgDxO-v3QoIqyhUp3ztYGV6pskuJG12UVKzrAaw2mp5fusZ_sSOU7BBxljpbUIDDoW7jdtPfQ/s1600/25092010(002).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiav69L2evKL2n1tUlwsPXzB2olopZLh2fraPZ7Qkr6LwrU0FGj8TOtSG8UCvx-DOK7nPBgDxO-v3QoIqyhUp3ztYGV6pskuJG12UVKzrAaw2mp5fusZ_sSOU7BBxljpbUIDDoW7jdtPfQ/s320/25092010(002).jpg" width="320" /></a></div> ... elderly (and therefore extremely romantic but highly unsuitable for blogging) typewriters...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrxf9kAKOOpO3GOYqMiHpIFyB8DH7YIJDQSbQCC8fch28nOjBLPyVyWJieLfSH23O-6LlIbfFg9FZH-DnZDFyYPX2EehWOBAzK9JvCNRTHdr32cLPP0WBIhVEY1EKNjxC5w8oqEgJKfT8/s1600/25092010(001).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrxf9kAKOOpO3GOYqMiHpIFyB8DH7YIJDQSbQCC8fch28nOjBLPyVyWJieLfSH23O-6LlIbfFg9FZH-DnZDFyYPX2EehWOBAzK9JvCNRTHdr32cLPP0WBIhVEY1EKNjxC5w8oqEgJKfT8/s320/25092010(001).jpg" width="320" /></a></div> ... record players like my Mum and Dad used to have in the eighties...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSana5oSQEWDvvf_cHaY2hvhUWukKUVkdLiBKWkdskb6RK5135XQfm_niG3x_S4Igk3GXSgBaFlmEYrLlJ6Q9Nl3jExuEby8MOWgHHhKK_WJWm9DypRTzyCUhlmVNLoPNbuUBquL_6iD8/s1600/25092010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSana5oSQEWDvvf_cHaY2hvhUWukKUVkdLiBKWkdskb6RK5135XQfm_niG3x_S4Igk3GXSgBaFlmEYrLlJ6Q9Nl3jExuEby8MOWgHHhKK_WJWm9DypRTzyCUhlmVNLoPNbuUBquL_6iD8/s320/25092010.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>... and things like this that I can't even identify.<br />
<br />
It even has a book store section. All it needs now is for Costa coffee to move in and the rainy Saturday afternoon experience will be complete...pinolonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00473418753213565601noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5387352645682544869.post-70737850002953104862010-09-23T16:33:00.000+02:002010-09-23T16:33:00.331+02:00Evensong bluesApart from the fact that it can be typo-d into 'evensnog', which is intrinsically, childishly amusing, autumn evensong (nearly did it again) is a melancholy time of day.<br />
Late September to early October is a time for sitting in church organ lofts, watching specks of dust suspended in the fading rays of the autumn sun. It's a minor key time, slipping back into the vaguely-familiar cadences of liturgy and response, soft notes glowing faintly like the cooling embers of the dying year. Outside, the waves break unseen against the rocks in the dark and we huddle in the empty chapel, cold shivers mimicking a frisson of anticipation: for what? The cool touch of salt-soaked grey stone, the scent of old oak, distant woodsmoke and freezing mist. Darkness falls and the sea cradles the town in huge grey oblivion.<br />
The cycle ride downhill in the blackness, no lights, no helmet, slicing through the searing air to burst into the house tingling in the sudden warmth.<br />
It will be several weeks before Christmas music begins, and the perils of this night are still all too real. And yet - somehow - you wake with a feeling of boundless possibility: a hot shower, a walk to lectures in the fresh, early morning air. You are not yet set in stone, you stand poised to ride whatever wave may carry you: life is a vast ocean of limitless potential.pinolonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00473418753213565601noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5387352645682544869.post-49826971445526858662010-08-31T22:18:00.000+02:002010-08-31T22:18:58.512+02:00TransitionsThis month, I have two houses (and so far no plague on either of them - the <i>intervention anti-cafards</i> seems to be holding plagues at bay for the moment).<br />
I'm moving endless boxes and cases between them via a combination of borrowed parental cars and a half-walk, half-scurry through Parc Leopold. From tomorrow onwards, I will be able to use car-sharing (technical term 'Cambio'). This means I will be officially able to drive in Belgium, <i>whenever I like*.</i> I suggest staying off the roads tomorrow.<br />
The new place has the advantage of space, a bigger bathroom and (as of yesterday) my own duvet. On the other hand, the old flat has a sofa, hot and cold running Telenet and a washing machine (I have one coming in the new flat but not for another two weeks). There's also rather a lot of useless clutter silting up the old place: I've been contemplating it in despair and wondering just how much I can get away with simply throwing in the bin**.<br />
<br />
Moving, proszę państwa, is apparently a learning experience, helping you to develop many useful skillz which can transferred to other areas of your life. In terms of numerical reasoning, I've learnt - for example - that it takes more than two people to lift an electric piano up six flights of stairs where the console of said piano weighs more than one of those two people. Regarding cultural diversity, I have discovered that buying frites in Brussels after nightfall during Ramadan is a task that requires a great deal of patience, good local knowledge and a fast car.<br />
<br />
Teambuilding is another valuable competence often learnt in house-moving. Especially where this involves the lifting of heavy objects.<br />
We all know about teamwork: we all use our skills to communicate effectively whilst at the same time taking time to listen to others; we are all highly motivated and welcome the opportunity to pass on our enthusiasm to others; we are all able to cooperate but not afraid to take a leading role and convince others of the plausibility of our ideas. On paper anyway. <br />
I recently discovered what role I really take on when trying to solve a complex problem - such as extracting a 160 x 200 cm sprung mattress from its position wedged in a tiny attic stairwell. I play a very important part: in fact I'm the one collapsed in the corner, giggling helplessly, liable to say things like: 'ok never mind, let's try Ben's idea now', 'yep, that sounds good to me' or 'does anyone want another beer?' I see it as a motivating, cheering role. In other words, largely useless...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
*Subject to availability, terms and conditions apply.<br />
** note to self, file glossaries <i>before</i> going away for the summer, while I can still remember the name of the meeting.pinolonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00473418753213565601noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5387352645682544869.post-43057484413833174672010-08-09T00:10:00.001+02:002010-08-09T00:11:54.302+02:00Home againI am back in Brussels now - swimming against the tide as usual, since everyone else has just finally downed headsets and skipped off to warmer climes.<br />
Ah Poland: once again the meat counter defeated me and I ended up ordering three hundred grammes of szynka wiejska when actually I wanted 3 decas. Or indeed 13. 130 grams, dammit. About half as much as I eventually got anyway.<br />
<br />
Pino: proszę 3 deka szynki wiejskiej<br />
Pani sprzedawczyni: Co?!<br />
Pino: proszę 3 deka szynki<br />
Pani: ...?<br />
Pino: ok proszę trzysta gramów szynki...<br />
(Pino's friend: who on earth buys 13 dekas of ham?! That's just weird)<br />
<br />
In any case, now I'm back in Brussels. Trouble started on the Eurostar when my seat was occupied by a teenage French brat:<br />
- but weee wanteed to seet togezzer...<br />
I tried to calmly blag an upgrade from the train manager, but she was having none of it. I suspect that had I been a forty-something businessman in a grey suit she would have granted my request.<br />
Every time I get the Eurostar I can feel the tension rising as I anticipate having to fight to keep the seat I've already paid to reserve. Possession is nine tenths of the law, and once someone else's bum is firmly planted on <i>your </i>seat, you're in a lose-lose situation: give in and you have to find yourself another space, which you then risk losing at the next French Deluge getting on at Lille. Insist on having your original seat, and you expose yourself to awkward, resentful silence from your neighbour after having ousted her indignant friend. I never have this problem on any other route so the only logical conclusion is to blame it on the French. Disclaimer: the author of this blog has nothing against francophonic persons and insists that Some of her Best Friends Are French. Honestly. <br />
Fellow Eurostar travellers! If you really must sit together then jolly well book your tickets together and sit in the seat you've been assigned to. And that way you will help prevent frustration and high blood pressure disorders in otherwise mild-mannered conflict-averse persons like me. <br />
<br />
Miraculously, no-one broke into the flat while I was away, the internet still works, my taxi got from Midi to My Place in a record ten euros and I found a whole can of beer in the fridge. There were a few other items in the fridge as well. One of them may have been a tomato, but resembled a very tiny, mouldy round of goat's cheese. My unwashed coffee cup in the sink sported an interesting fungal structure that steamed when I ran the tap into it.<br />
<br />
Tomorrow will be a day for opening bills and paying bills and checking bank accounts and getting keys to new flats.<br />
<br />
Better get a good night's sleep then.pinolonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00473418753213565601noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5387352645682544869.post-80788098437241910772010-08-03T22:02:00.000+02:002010-08-03T22:02:53.147+02:00Wszystko graI went to meet New Boy off the night train at Warsaw Central. We decided to spend the day in Warsaw and leave his bags at the station.<br />
The <i>przechowalnia</i> was run by a rotund, middle-aged Polish man, who persisted in staring into the middle distance somewhere past my right shoulder so that I couldn't tell whether he was talking to me or to the guy behind me.<br />
<br />
Pino: <i>Dzień dobry proszę Pana, czy możemy zostawić bagaż tu? </i><br />
Man (speaking to somewhere vaguely beyond P's shoulder): <i>Ile sztuk?</i><br />
Pino: <i>dwa</i><br />
Man (realising P is not Polish)<i>: </i>Ah. Two!<br />
Pino: <i>tak, dwa. </i><i> </i><br />
Man: yes! Two!<i> </i><br />
Pino: (takes out purse) <i>Ile to będzie?</i><br />
Man: No! Pay after. After!<br />
Pino: <i>ok, dziękuję bardzo</i><br />
Man: Please! Thank you.<br />
<br />
New Boy (casually): <i>Wszystko gra?</i><br />
Man: (with broad smile of manly recognition): <i>Taaak, wszystko gra!</i><br />
<br />
Pino: Fine. From now on <i>you </i>can do the talking.pinolonahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00473418753213565601noreply@blogger.com7