Rural Beauty

I have a favorite local hideaway spot. A place where I go to be reminded how wonderful the simplicity of rural life is. 

A silver lining to not owning a GPS is stumbling upon accidental gems, in this case, Café des Etangs. I’m not certain if I was charmed more by the bar and its location, or by the humble proprietors, Michel and Natalie. Like the owners, the structure exudes warmth and welcome. The café’s name hints at the surroundings, “etangs” translates to “pond” in English. The terrace outside offers a beautiful view and a dozen tables overlooking the interconnecting ponds of St. Denis. The patrons are varied. It’s not unlikely to find yourself sitting alongside fisherman downing a Juplier before they head back to catch their dinner.  Their numerous tents dot the lake’s perimeter. On several occasions, especially Sundays, I’ve found myself in the company of senior citizens passing time with a deck of cards. And one day after hiking around St. Denis we were surrounded by celebrities and paparazzi! Our visit was at the same time a film crew was shooting a wedding scene for a popular Belgian reality TV series. The bride was sitting alongside her parents in a beautifully decorated horse drawn carriage. It was amusing to watch the TV crew wait for their instructions to proceed down the hill to the Abbaye of St. Denis. The groom along with a procession of people in ornate French costumes were waiting to welcome the bride and her parents. To pass time, the driver of the carriage enjoyed small glasses of cold beer while he waited in the hot sun. My husband and I, along with Natalie and Michel, were the only people there to witness this unique event.

Entering the café you’re most likely greeted by Michel or Natalie because they live over the bar. Their guests feel the genuine warmth that can only come from being in someone’s home. The space is dimly lit and lined with wooden tables and chairs. Overhead are tunes of classic rock. A small sun room overlooks a gated garden area. Our family tends to sit towards the back of the café, where the chalk board easel and dart board are set up, an added touch, but an important indication. It tells visitors like me, kids are welcome too!

Two important elements tucked in a corner provide insight into one of the owners, Michel. The piano is a hint to his love for music. He’s been the guitarist for a local band called the Flying Cervelazzz for nearly 30 years. I’ve seen them perform both at the Mons and Jurbise Beer Fests. His casual attire for the performances stayed true to his personality- dark jeans, boots, and a collard button down dress shirt. On both occasions his petite, smiling wife Natalie was there greeting family and friends. At both concerts, I witnessed the crowd come alive as they watched and listened to this local institution. They have a following, including our family!

The second hint of Michel’s interest sits on the piano, a statue of a Gilles. If you haven’t seen a Gilles, you will want to mark your calendar for March 2-4, 2014. Unique to Belgium, they are honorable participants of the carnival of Binche; which dates back to the 14th century.  Their purpose is to entertain during the days leading up to Ash Wednesday.  Historically they are male, natives, and are between 3-60 years old. They are dressed in colorful attire with a signature wax mask and wooden shoes. Their heads are topped with tiny white caps that tie around their chin. On the last day of carnival (also known as Fat Tuesday/Mardi Gras) they dance through town with wooden sticks with bells in hopes of scaring off evil spirits.

Afterwards, the Gilles can be seen carrying baskets filled with oranges that are thrown into the crowds.It’s considered good luck to catch an orange thrown by a Gilles. The fact Café des Etangs happens to be owned by a guitar playing Gille makes me think I’m already lucky. No oranges required.

Cheers.

Not A Typical Love Story...

The night I fell in love with someone nearly half my age wasn’t planned. After all, I’ve been happily married for 17 years.  Our marriage has produced off-spring; four daughters.  I most certainly didn’t expect a pop icon to introduce me to this new love.

Our meeting made me feel the angst and confused emotions that usually pick on unsuspecting 15 year old's.  I tossed and turned in bed while scrambled words tumbled around in my confused state.  How could I let this happen?  I knew you were trouble when you walked in.  I’m 40, I should know better!  It was difficult falling asleep, I worried you or I might come to our senses and this feeling would flee before morning.  

As the sun rose, I was happy to see nothing had changed, including my tormented emotions that refused to budge.  Like a carefree child that frolics merrily in wonder one minute, and then loses sight of a parent and becomes lost and scared the next, my words too, were lost.  The more I tried to compartmentalize these mischievous letters, the more they retreated in fear.  

The night prior that had set my nerves ablaze pushed its way to the forefront of my brain.     

Our meeting was inevitable.  We were both in London, attending the same concert, and we both knew intangible elements were missing from our existence.  It’s as though an unidentifiable force placed us within the same room.  Not just any room, a venue filled with 15,000 others.  Really, what are the chances we would be assigned the same seat?

I noted how eager you were as you made your way down the aisle to find your chair.  I wondered if this was your first concert.  You were surrounded by a gaggle of loud preteen emotions.  Girls that tried to mimic the young pop star we had all come to see smelled like vanilla and cotton candy.  Their homemade signs were adorned with glittering hearts confessing their love and devotion.  As the scent of fresh glue drifted overhead, I watched as you stood in awe.   And our eyes met.

I gifted you my seat. I could see you needed this, whatever “this” was, more than me.  As you took your place, the joy that leaped from your smile made giving up mine worthwhile.  As I slowly backed away, I noticed how you inhaled the joyful sounds of youth.  You beamed like a child when confetti magically fell from the sky.  Your heart raced remembering emotions that had long left your body.  I watched in disbelief as the lyrics washed over you.  Reminding you of first loves, heart aches, and anticipation.  And as you looked back at me, I couldn’t help but let myself go.  Our spirits merged.   My inner girl collided with the grown up I’d become.  

Taylor Swift’s Red Tour concert was the perfect backdrop to our fairytale encounter. Red, a color that represents a multitude of emotions my youthful spirit remembered well, and an emotion my grown up state had left behind.  Seemingly lost in the dizzying commotion of raising four growing girls, I had forgotten the plethora of emotions that fall under Red’s umbrella: Love, Passion, Hate, Hurt, Joy, Frustration, Fear, etc… All of these feelings and more bottled into one bursting emotion!  I began to remember the years when allowances were spent on frivolous things like gel pens, candy grams, and nail polish.  A time when fashion came over form.  And a time when a ringing phone signified one word, possibilities. 

Our love story may not go down in history books, as a matter of fact, it may just be ours alone.  How many people would understand this magical encounter? A night when my persistent preteen heart weaseled its way into an unsuspecting 40 year old.  We merged and it was beautiful…and potentially, lasting.   

 Nostalgia is comforting, especially when you know the future is bright based on the lessons learned at “15” and “22”.  I look forward to watching my four daughters live through their Red years.  If they're lucky, they too might have a night where their old world collides with their new one.  And if we're ALL lucky, the two worlds just might decide to "Stay Stay Stay"  within us, forever....

“We were both young when I first saw you.  I close my eyes and the flashback starts….”

A February Heartbeat...

 

It’s funny what love will make us do.  As we enter into February, I find myself doing something I haven’t done in over twenty-five years (by choice!). It involves being crammed into a space with strangers while listening to music I would never buy on my own.  I blame love. Love made me do something irrational.  Love made me leap before thinking.  Love made me forget sensibility.  This love is leading me away from the rest of my family.

This love is my daughter.  By the time you read these words, I will be in London fulfilling my daughter’s dream to see one of her favorite performers, Taylor Swift.  My 10 year old and I will board a Eurostar train and head out for one memorable night.  Leaving her dad and three sisters behind.  After checking into our hotel we have only two goals: to eat fish and chips and hear the young singer my daughter has admired since she learned to ride a bike.  I haven’t wanted to step into the world of big venue concerts since the Rubik’s cube and mullets.  I’m looking forward to watching my daughter inhale these lyrics live.  And if I’m lucky, my heart too, might skip a beat J

I'll write back next week.  I'm certain the Taylor Swift experience will offer inspiration.  What kind of inspiration is yet to be determined...

Amsterdam

 

Amsterdam has a heartbeat.  In a word, she's confident. Her buildings overflow with character.  And her pedestrian friendly walkways and bike paths invite the passerby to meander.  No rushing required. She likes to be admired.  This city's wisdom is shown through numerous open windows showcasing crammed bookshelves.  And it’s impossible not to notice Amsterdam's flair for color.  She loves art and seems to inspire creativity. It’s no wonder names like Van Gogh, Breitner and Toorop have lived within her realm.  Amsterdam’s confidence can also be seen in her posture.  If you’ve been along her canal lined streets, you’ve noticed how she gets around.  By bicycle.  She’s healthy, and you can see her good health in the strong upward spines that peddle through her streets. 

As if these traits weren’t enough to fall head over heels for this city, it just so happens she can cook too!  You can smell the aromas that drift through her bike laden streets.  She's no stranger to culinary delights foreign and exotic.  But she’s also really great at delivering her own twist on comfort food. One of my favorite spots is the Pancake Bakery (two blocks from the Anne Frank House).  The outside of the building is unassuming. After walking down a few steps you’ll enter a space that mimics the belly of an old ship.  A soft light showcases wooden walls, low ceilings, and lopsided framed photographs from a previous century.  While the space feels like a comfortable pair of Sunday slippers, it’s the food that will have you returning.  As the name suggest, they’re known for their vast selection of pancakes.  These pancakes are unlike anything you’ve ever tasted, a cross between a traditional buttermilk pancake and a crepe.  With over 75 options for fillings, you’ll be hard pressed deciding which one to choose.  Let’s hope you make the right choice because when it arrives at your table, the round object you’re meant to consume will be so large, it spills over the side of your plate.   We’re a family of six and no one in our family orders the same thing, and we all leave happy…and full.  Which happens to be how I feel every time I leave the hospitable arms of Amsterdam. 

Belgium's Secret Garden

 Dear Belgium,

It’s taken over two years to gather the courage to express how I feel.  I’ve often found myself struggling to identify and understand your unique qualities.   The weather mimics your peculiar ways.  In one moment you’re happy and full of sunshine, and then, with a slight twist your mood shifts.  Often your streams of light are replaced with dropping temperatures, followed by rain, and on some occasions, as if trying to make a point, you spit hail. You have perplexed me, Belgium.

She’s got a secret garden
Where everything you want
Where everything you need
Will always stay
A million miles away

Secret Garden by Bruce Springsteen…. 

You draw me close only to ultimately push me away. In our two year relationship you’ve reminded me of the multitude of emotions we humans possess.   Like the day you sent an unexpected stranger into my home.  Or what about the day you gifted me a water leak in my kitchen that rivaled Niagara Falls (and took a year to be remedied)?  And what gives with the astronomical water bills that followed?   And what about last Christmas?  Remember the grumpy Belgian postman you delivered to my door that gifted me a bill and a slip of paper to pick up a package.  Do you remember what happened when I showed up to pick up my parcel?  I was told there was no room to hold my box marked “Christmas Gift”, so it was shipped back-to-sender.  My sister’s painting traveled across an ocean, just for you to smugly turn it away. 


 But here is the thing, just when I think our relationship has reached the brink, just when I think  you’ve gone too far, you hold out your hand and offer a breath of respite and compassion. 

When I feel defeated and beaten, and want to pack up my bags and leave, you display an affection that warms my heart and makes me forget the discomfort you’ve caused.  Do you remember the random Belgian people you’ve sent my way that have reminded me how wonderful you are capable of being?  Like the day I was walking near my house and invited in to have beer with strangers?  Or the time our landlord surprised us on Christmas Eve with bread that resembled a swaddled baby Jesus?  And don’t forget the man on the tractor that helped pull our van out of the mud.  He looked like he walked right out of a Vincent Van Gogh painting.  And even the old man that stumbled into our home unannounced turned out to be a nice memory.  Suffering from dementia and having been lost for 24 hours, he had only wandered in for a drink to quench his thirst and to escape the bitter cold.  The police claimed our unlocked door had saved his life.  You sent these souls into my life knowing they would sustain and refresh my weary heart and mind.

I know I’m often guilty of wanting you to change so I can better understand your ways.  I’m sorry.

Now I can see the appeal of your secrets, the qualities that are impossible to define.  The little lines on a map that attempt to define your space have been cut, carved and walked on throughout history.  I’m just another speck. Someone passing through.  You know how this story ends.  I won’t stay.  Just as you begin to open the gates of your garden, I leave. 

Finally I see beauty in your passive stillness.  You’ve gifted me random kind strangers.  You’ve allowed me to meander through your countryside.  And you’ve introduced me to a golden (actually brune) liquid that leaves me with a foamy mustache and a goofy grin.   Your qualities could never be explained on paper - although I try.  Maybe this is part of your secret? While I may never understand your ways, I have come to respect and accept them. 

With Love,

Judy Rae

All I Needed to Learn About Belgium I Learned From a Kindergartener

In two years I’ve learned an abundance about Belgian culture and cuisine while also learning the French language.  I didn’t need to enroll in expensive classes and it didn’t take a lot of my time.  All I needed to learn about life in Belgium, I learned from a kindergartener. 

Ecole Saint Louis is nestled between a drive through liquor store and a tiny church. The two child-like figures on their signage resembles a porcelain Precious Moments figurine.  Simple and quaint are two words that come to mind.

Enrolling my three year old Isabelle into a school where neither of us spoke the language was interesting, to say the least.  The first year tears were shed.  Hers and mine.  I convinced myself we would both be okay.  It wasn’t hard to do.  The kids were cute as buttons and the teachers were always courteous and professional.  Never had I seen a classroom of such well-mannered children (which was also a flag of concern).  How would Isabelle fit in?

There were many days I felt unprepared and inadequate.  Like the day of her first field trip.  Driving up I noticed a yellow city bus waiting to pick up the kids.  Mass transit? There were two teachers and no parent helpers.  I learned quickly that it is not customary for parents to partake in their kids’ education, at least not in pre-school.  Parents are advised to quickly drop off and by no means enter a classroom a minute before school is officially over.  I’m a slow learner, it took a year of downward glances accompanied by pursed lips for me to get the message from my daughter’s teacher, Mme. Sadrine that parents should stand outside the door and wait for her to decide when class was over.  Rain, shine, sleet or snow, a parent is expected to wait.

I also learned about kissing.  After my daughter’s second week, I was pulled aside.   While it is proper to kiss, it should be reserved for the cheek.  My daughter had been going for the lips, a big no no!  And a year into school, I learned Mme. Sadrine had been holding out on me!  It took her scolding me to learn she had tucked away enough English to inform me why my daughter had been crying when I left.  Again, it was the kiss!  This time she was guilty of not giving her teacher the customary kiss on the cheek.  Mme.  Sadrine explained it’s a habit all kids do upon arrival and departure.  She felt Isabelle’s tears were brought on because she wasn’t sealing her arrival and departure with a kiss.  I left that day thinking the teacher had no idea about Isabelle’s needs.  How could she think my daughter’s sadness was brought on by the fact her mother didn’t make her kiss the teacher?  I felt like I had set Isabelle up for failure by placing her in a place neither of us understood.

Guess what, I was wrong.  I tested the teacher’s hypothesis.  I explained to Isabelle it was customary to kiss her teacher on the cheek when she arrives and leaves school.  By this small act, I’ve learned it’s how Mme. Sadrine manages her students.  The kiss isn’t necessarily out of cuddly affection, but necessity.  It announces to the teacher the comings and goings of her knee high students.  She watches them like a mother hen.

Isabelle is now into her second school year.  We have both learned a lot.  She now understands proper kissing habits.  She speaks French fluently and knows a range of Belgian traditions like: Pere Fouettard, the Easter Cloche, and Sorcieres.  She’s gone on trips to the beaches of Oostende and discovered art through various museums.  Recently she not only toured an Andy Warhol exhibit, but also created her own Warhol look-alike painting.  She’s even ventured to local farms where they sampled homemade cheese and bread.  Last week her class made pumpkin soup, tasted it, then packaged it in pretty glass jars to bring home and enjoy. 

Soon our family will attend the school’s annual Christmas fete.  A delicious dinner will follow a holiday performance by the kids, along with a visit and gifts from Saint Nicolas.  The children, along with parents, grandparents, teachers, and even the school crossing guard will be wearing smiles.  The merriment is contagious. 

I can’t help but feel good.  Not only did Isabelle and I survive the first awkward year, but we’re better for it.  Our French has improved along with a better understanding of our surroundings.   And when the Christmas Fete celebration comes to a close, Isabelle and I will both head over to kiss Mme. Sadrine’s cheek and wish her Bon soir!

Discovering Provence

 

 

M.F.K. Fisher- “When shall we live if not now?”

 

After living vicariously through writers like Peter Mayle and M.F.K. Fisher, I took it upon myself to shelve the books and discover firsthand the wonders known as Provence.

For lovers of wine, the drive to southern France is breathtaking from Belgium.  Dijon, Bordeaux, Burgundy, Chateauneuf du Pape, and the Rhone Valley are just a few of the names synonymous with the voluptuous grape vines you’ll pass as you wind your way towards sunshine and warmth, but this trip was about something more intoxicating than a glass of maroon hued liquid.  This trip was about finding a distant memory of something out of reach for most parents with young children.  This trip was about finding Relaxation. 

Relaxation is tricky.  Just when you think you’ve found it, up pops its nemesis, Discovery.  Discovery doesn’t mean to intrude in your quiet space, but nonetheless it does.  As we visited with the owners of our rental, Isabelle and Pierre, it became obvious that we had a plethora of exciting places to discover within arm’s reach. 

Our family got into a groove, we ran ourselves silly from dusk till dawn, then retreated to the comforts of our cave in the evening.  In one week we hiked up to an 11^th century abandoned fortress, enjoyed the Oceanographic Museum of Monte Carlo, where we could see both the Italian and French Rivera merging, and we sipped drinks in the Café Van Gogh, made famous by his painting called, Café Terrace at Night.  By week’s end we had also walked in the steps of nine Popes in Avignon, witnessed an eccentric man dancing on the Promenade des Anglais in Nice, and munched on burgers at the newly opened Nice Hard Rock Café. 

Relaxation reared its head in small doses.  The nights were quiet as our family sprawled out exhausted from our day’s adventures.  Our 12 inch TV only picked up a few French channels and the internet was sketchy.  This allowed for our family to do something we rarely have time to do between work, school, homework, and soccer schedules.  We were able to enjoy unrushed conversations.

On the second to last day while sitting in the Café Van Gogh, my daughter accidently erased all the pictures from my camera.  Like a gazelle sensing danger, her older sister was quick to defend her younger sibling’s mistake by saying, “You know Van Gogh didn’t use cameras, he painted what he saw”.  This statement took me back nearly 20 years to a drama class in Seattle, Washington.  My professor said some events should stay within the mind, because a camera doesn’t always do a moment justice.  I think my professor was right, and lucky for us, Van Gogh did have a paint brush, and lucky for me, I’ve befriended a pen. 

Relaxation will have its moment in the Provincial sun.  One day it won’t be hard to find. I’ll most likely trip over it unaware that the passage of time has delivered it to my door step. I’ll hear it call my name loud and clear when I can no longer hear the routine sounds of four energized girls. And then I’ll wonder in fascination how I could ever have wanted to find Relaxation in Provence with a gaggle of youthful girls.

I will never forget dining on a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken under the Pont de Gard with my young ladies and their dad.  The image is ours, and ours alone.  No camera, paint brush, or pen required.  Thank you Provence for leading me to Discovery and in the process reminding me that Relaxation will come all too soon.

Living in Color

 

 

I am not a runner, so how did I find myself boarding a Saturday morning train to Brussels for a 5k run?  It’s simple.  This was no ordinary 5k and the people I would be “running” with weren’t ordinary either.  As a matter of fact, everything about the day was nothing short of extraordinary! 

I equate myself to Ferdinand, from Ferdinand the Bull.  This classic children’s book revolves around a big red bull that dislikes motion, he prefers to sit in the shade of trees while smelling flowers.  I like Ferdinand; walking and hiking suit my style.  Both allow me to get my heart rate pumping, while also allowing me the comforts of taking in my surroundings.

After learning several families from our community were signing up for an organized run that involved getting drenched, not in sweat, but with color, my interest was perked!   I discovered this run was different, as a matter of fact, running was optional.  There would be no timing.  And tutus and fedoras were optional. Nearly everyone participating would begin in a white t-shirt.  Along the 5k path there were five archways, each marking one kilometer.   As participants would near each archway, their ears would be greeted by upbeat musical tunes.  As they passed through, lines of Color Run folks would throw and spray colored powder onto anyone and everyone that entered their pathway.  By the end it would look as though bags of Skittles had exploded onto each and every participant!  As if this fun quirky event weren’t enough, I also learned the motivation behind so many families attending. 

Jan Workman.  Her name precedes her. I would like to say I know Jan personally, but I’ve only admired her from a distance.  She’s an active force within our community.  She’s involved in a Lifesaver assortment of activities.   I’ve often thought of turning her into a verb, “Don’t push me or I’ll go Workman on you!” 

Mrs. Workman’s stamina and persistence have trained her for another kind of race, the race against breast cancer.  She now finds herself keeping busy with chemotherapy and doctor appointments.  I don’t like the combination of words: breast and cancer.  Having been exposed to their ruthless behavior in the past (two of my aunts are breast cancer survivors) I want this medical term to feel small and defeated, I want it crushed!

What better way to crush the pavement than to have Jan Workman and loyal friends and family join in the Color Run in Brussels!   This event embodies the woman we had all gone to support.  There was a youthful spirit, positive energy, and enough colors to turn a rainbow green with envy.  Not unlike Mrs. Workman, the event was full of personality and attracted the masses (some 10,000 attended).  More importantly it reminded me why sometimes we have to coax our inner Ferdinand to stand up and move.   This woman of wonders is taking the bull by the horns and marching forward, and in the process, adding color to the world surrounding her.