Thursday, May 30, 2013
Flemish Night Fever
When I was little, and we'd come home from a camping trip, I would sit at the open front door, looking out the screen, and cry. Never did I want the fun times to end. Now back in our brand new home with the hummingbirds fluttering past the window, our kitty snuggled up in between us on the bed, and a plum tree full of fruit ready to be jammed, I have to say I'm quite satisfied. I love this place, but that's not to say I don't miss cruising through the Flanders countryside, eating long dinners with family, and tipping back frosty Belgian beer along the riverside. So if that old post-vacation melancholy does rear its head, this video I took at the wedding of Flemish line dancing, should do the trick of cheering me up.
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Aren't There Flemish Mountain Lions?
On our honeymoon road trip through Italy, Hannes and I listened to an audiobook outlining the dangers of traveling in Australia - the salt water alligators, box jellyfish, poisonous spiders under toilet lids, even more poisonous snakes in your car's wheel well, getting lost in the outback, and believe it or not... killer seashells. While the book goes on for 20 days of driving as to the splendor and beauty of the country, all I could think of was, 'never ever will I ever ever go to that island,' as I replayed a nightmare in my head in which I was bitten by a venomous snake while walking without a map under the blistering sun of the outback with a souvenir seashell in my tote bag just waiting for its chance to strike.
I'm not normally a worst case scenario person. As my Belgian husband can attest, we Americans have an unusually, delightfully and often disturbingly positive outlook on life. 'So we can't afford to pay our doctor bills, and we'll have to foreclose on the house... next week's 4th of July BBQ is going to rock!' I do, however, draw the line at things that can possibly kill me, like winding cliffside roads and toilet seat spiders. I have never witnessed this paranoia from the other side of the aisle, though, until just recently, listening to my husband tell/warn/brag to his family and friends on several occasions while in Belgium of the many horrors that can befall one in the wild frontiers of California. Let's go over the list, shall we? And if you're a Californian yourself and don't by the end of reading this want to quietly (but quickly) pack up and move to safer territory (let's say, the Siberian tundra or the Middle East or some impenetrable jungle somewhere) then you, my friend, are one seriously tough cowboy. The list is as follows:
Bears that rip off car doors.
Mountain lion attacks - mainly of lone joggers.
Black widow and recluse spiders.
Earthquakes.
Floods.
Rattlesnakes bites.
Wood houses (aka, homes made of kindling.)
Skunks/possums/raccoons.
Great white sharks.
Poison oak.
Droughts.
Coyotes that roam city streets.
Hanta and West Nile Virus.
A former action movie governor (which can be either horrifying or unbelievably cool depending on which European you're speaking with.)
As he was listing these off last night over fries with stew sauce at his family's local frituur, I actually heard myself say, "Yes, the bears will rip your tent apart with you inside at a whiff of Chapstick, but don't worry, they don't want to eat you." Anytime you tell someone that a bear attack is no big thing, you're either badass or very very stupid. Of course, all that said, California is my favorite place on the planet, and other than a run in once where I mistook a skunk for a kitty cat, I have never spent time actively fearing any of these things, and will no doubt continue telling foreigners, "Yes, we have some earthquakes, but only, like, once a month."
So here's my point: next time you tell yourself you can't go to Africa because of stalking tigers or South America because of anacondas or Thailand because of tsunamis or the Mojave because of scorpions or France because of dubbed episodes of "The Mentalist", just think about your own backyard and how terrible it would be to miss out on such history, culture and beauty because of the 'what ifs' that will probably only ever stay 'what ifs.' So while I may not be booking my trip to Australia anytime soon, I am indeed considering the possibility, as I really would like to see Uluru Rock. That also reminds me... I need to tell my husband to add Mojave scorpions to his list.
----------
Some final pictures of our Belgian wedding adventure...
A typical Belgian frituur (fry shop) where we enjoyed our last meal in Flanders.
Dog and boss waiting patiently for the frisbee to be thrown back from the cow pasture. In case you're wondering, "boss" is the word Belgians give to a pet owner, which leads to whimsical imaginings of poodles taking clerical notes while border collies round up everyone for a meeting.
The door to family.
Old and new technology come together to enjoy a Flemish sunset over the Ardennes.
The Belgians love to bike. You can see why with well maintained trails like this crisscrossing the country.
Miro comes to say tot ziens.
An announcement that us Californians were coming to town?
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
I'm not normally a worst case scenario person. As my Belgian husband can attest, we Americans have an unusually, delightfully and often disturbingly positive outlook on life. 'So we can't afford to pay our doctor bills, and we'll have to foreclose on the house... next week's 4th of July BBQ is going to rock!' I do, however, draw the line at things that can possibly kill me, like winding cliffside roads and toilet seat spiders. I have never witnessed this paranoia from the other side of the aisle, though, until just recently, listening to my husband tell/warn/brag to his family and friends on several occasions while in Belgium of the many horrors that can befall one in the wild frontiers of California. Let's go over the list, shall we? And if you're a Californian yourself and don't by the end of reading this want to quietly (but quickly) pack up and move to safer territory (let's say, the Siberian tundra or the Middle East or some impenetrable jungle somewhere) then you, my friend, are one seriously tough cowboy. The list is as follows:
Bears that rip off car doors.
Mountain lion attacks - mainly of lone joggers.
Black widow and recluse spiders.
Earthquakes.
Floods.
Rattlesnakes bites.
Wood houses (aka, homes made of kindling.)
Skunks/possums/raccoons.
Great white sharks.
Poison oak.
Droughts.
Coyotes that roam city streets.
Hanta and West Nile Virus.
A former action movie governor (which can be either horrifying or unbelievably cool depending on which European you're speaking with.)
As he was listing these off last night over fries with stew sauce at his family's local frituur, I actually heard myself say, "Yes, the bears will rip your tent apart with you inside at a whiff of Chapstick, but don't worry, they don't want to eat you." Anytime you tell someone that a bear attack is no big thing, you're either badass or very very stupid. Of course, all that said, California is my favorite place on the planet, and other than a run in once where I mistook a skunk for a kitty cat, I have never spent time actively fearing any of these things, and will no doubt continue telling foreigners, "Yes, we have some earthquakes, but only, like, once a month."
So here's my point: next time you tell yourself you can't go to Africa because of stalking tigers or South America because of anacondas or Thailand because of tsunamis or the Mojave because of scorpions or France because of dubbed episodes of "The Mentalist", just think about your own backyard and how terrible it would be to miss out on such history, culture and beauty because of the 'what ifs' that will probably only ever stay 'what ifs.' So while I may not be booking my trip to Australia anytime soon, I am indeed considering the possibility, as I really would like to see Uluru Rock. That also reminds me... I need to tell my husband to add Mojave scorpions to his list.
----------
Some final pictures of our Belgian wedding adventure...
A typical Belgian frituur (fry shop) where we enjoyed our last meal in Flanders.
Dog and boss waiting patiently for the frisbee to be thrown back from the cow pasture. In case you're wondering, "boss" is the word Belgians give to a pet owner, which leads to whimsical imaginings of poodles taking clerical notes while border collies round up everyone for a meeting.
The door to family.
Old and new technology come together to enjoy a Flemish sunset over the Ardennes.
The Belgians love to bike. You can see why with well maintained trails like this crisscrossing the country.
Miro comes to say tot ziens.
An announcement that us Californians were coming to town?
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
Location:United Flight High In The Sky
Saturday, May 25, 2013
Belgian Nuptials
There aren't too many differences between a Belgian wedding and an American one, but I did pick up a few this time around. For one, you have to first get married at City Hall. No, you're not just picking up your marriage certificate. You actually go through the whole ceremony, with a champagne toast and all, set in a medieval room with a massive fireplace that looks as though one touch of a particular brick and you might be privy to a secret chamber full of golden Belgian beer chalices. Then it was off to the church, of which most people at the later reception do not attend. It seems that partying together in celebration is the priority, which just goes to show why Belgium is one of my favorite countries.
Then there are the little differences. There's no knocking on your wine glass to get the bride and groom to kiss at the reception (a favorite tradition - as what's better than forcing two people to kiss like in front of a hundred people like Pavlovian dogs?) The food courses come about 45 minutes in between in the European way of savoring both food and conversation at the same time. At an American wedding you've barely scooped your leftover salad dressing up with your pre-packaged bread roll before the waiter has absconded with it and set a plate of Chicken Cordon Bleu before you. There's also the use of a gong, which I found both piercing and utterly thrilling at the same time.
Most importantly, the dancing goes on until the DJ leaves at 3am. 3am! In America you're lucky if you can get the reception hall to allow the music to go until midnight. While a woman's heels demand respite at this earlier hour, it's still nice to see 80-year-olds tipping back beer and joining in for Belgian line dancing at two in the morning. Gives one hope for the future, no?
One funny mix-up that relates to my previous blog, was my mother-in-law (who I should tell you, speaks amazing English, as almost all Belgians do even as they exclaim humbly "My English isn't good") trying to explain to me why they were buying balloons to release into the sky after the church ceremony. Searching for the right word, she tells me, "We wanted to set the, ah, pigs... yes, the pigs free." I'm thinking to myself, 'wow, perhaps our pigs really are different' (to understand the meaning behind this see the previous blog entry)... I mean wedding pigs is really a new concept, and what a marvelous step up in the world for our mud relishing friends. Turns out, though, she meant doves. Not pigs. A shame.
Below some pictures of our Belgian drives through the countryside, as well as wedding snapshots...
Belgium knows how to do dramatic clouds.
The sturdy Belgian bred plough horse, happy I'm sure for modern farming equipment.
The rainy day, sends us into the wedded couple's high school where they first met to take wedding pictures.
The principal took us to the chemistry room... for a little lesson on love.
The door to the aforementioned nuptial chamber at City Hall.
Once inside.
The above dessert table, including freshly made mini crepes and whole passionfruit, was left open until 1am. Thank god for dancing until 3!
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
Then there are the little differences. There's no knocking on your wine glass to get the bride and groom to kiss at the reception (a favorite tradition - as what's better than forcing two people to kiss like in front of a hundred people like Pavlovian dogs?) The food courses come about 45 minutes in between in the European way of savoring both food and conversation at the same time. At an American wedding you've barely scooped your leftover salad dressing up with your pre-packaged bread roll before the waiter has absconded with it and set a plate of Chicken Cordon Bleu before you. There's also the use of a gong, which I found both piercing and utterly thrilling at the same time.
Most importantly, the dancing goes on until the DJ leaves at 3am. 3am! In America you're lucky if you can get the reception hall to allow the music to go until midnight. While a woman's heels demand respite at this earlier hour, it's still nice to see 80-year-olds tipping back beer and joining in for Belgian line dancing at two in the morning. Gives one hope for the future, no?
One funny mix-up that relates to my previous blog, was my mother-in-law (who I should tell you, speaks amazing English, as almost all Belgians do even as they exclaim humbly "My English isn't good") trying to explain to me why they were buying balloons to release into the sky after the church ceremony. Searching for the right word, she tells me, "We wanted to set the, ah, pigs... yes, the pigs free." I'm thinking to myself, 'wow, perhaps our pigs really are different' (to understand the meaning behind this see the previous blog entry)... I mean wedding pigs is really a new concept, and what a marvelous step up in the world for our mud relishing friends. Turns out, though, she meant doves. Not pigs. A shame.
Below some pictures of our Belgian drives through the countryside, as well as wedding snapshots...
Belgium knows how to do dramatic clouds.
The sturdy Belgian bred plough horse, happy I'm sure for modern farming equipment.
The rainy day, sends us into the wedded couple's high school where they first met to take wedding pictures.
The principal took us to the chemistry room... for a little lesson on love.
The door to the aforementioned nuptial chamber at City Hall.
Once inside.
The above dessert table, including freshly made mini crepes and whole passionfruit, was left open until 1am. Thank god for dancing until 3!
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
Location:Kroonstraat,Brakel,Belgium
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Flanders Fun
If there's one thing that becomes strikingly clear upon having your Belgian husband move to America, it's cultural differences. An anecdote to that effect:
One day, when discussing dinner, Hannes and I got into a righteous discussion about whether or not pork is considered white or red meat. In Belgium calling it red is a no-brainer. In America, the pork industry has spent millions instilling in us the idea that it's a good-for-you white meat. (In case you're interested, upon research, it can be considered either.) After much debate, Hannes threw up his hands and exclaimed the following (read with accent): "Maybe our pigs are different."
What a wonderful, if not nonsensical, way to describe the gulch between our cultures. Now when we find ourselves arguing over brick vs. wood houses, appropriate tipping practices, whether people who can garden have a "green thumb" or "green fingers" and the healthcare system (don't even get him started on that one), we now take a deep breath, shake our heads and resign ourselves to the fact that our pigs are perhaps simply different. Which really is a lovely thought. Because how boring would life be if all our pigs were the same?
Now some pictures from our current Belgian adventure...
A family scene in Lieve and Frank's garden.
The original slot machine.
Looks like Spring, feels like Winter.
My first taste of Honey Beer in Het Waterhuis aan de Bierkant - my favorite beer house in Gent. Hannes chose the Gentse Triple. The verdict? Mmmm.
A border collie stare down.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
One day, when discussing dinner, Hannes and I got into a righteous discussion about whether or not pork is considered white or red meat. In Belgium calling it red is a no-brainer. In America, the pork industry has spent millions instilling in us the idea that it's a good-for-you white meat. (In case you're interested, upon research, it can be considered either.) After much debate, Hannes threw up his hands and exclaimed the following (read with accent): "Maybe our pigs are different."
What a wonderful, if not nonsensical, way to describe the gulch between our cultures. Now when we find ourselves arguing over brick vs. wood houses, appropriate tipping practices, whether people who can garden have a "green thumb" or "green fingers" and the healthcare system (don't even get him started on that one), we now take a deep breath, shake our heads and resign ourselves to the fact that our pigs are perhaps simply different. Which really is a lovely thought. Because how boring would life be if all our pigs were the same?
Now some pictures from our current Belgian adventure...
A family scene in Lieve and Frank's garden.
The original slot machine.
Looks like Spring, feels like Winter.
My first taste of Honey Beer in Het Waterhuis aan de Bierkant - my favorite beer house in Gent. Hannes chose the Gentse Triple. The verdict? Mmmm.
A border collie stare down.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
Location:Kroonstraat,Brakel,Belgium
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
A New Adventure
Sometimes a year goes by, and you don't know where to. I've had a year or three where I literally thought to myself, 'Hell, did I do anything? I mean, anything at all? Have I even taken out the trash? Showered? Fed the cat?' I'm not proud of those years. But perhaps I just needed a break, a cool down, a pause before those other years that are jam packed, off the wall and bursting with big life moments.
Since our campervan honeymoon through Italy, Memorexed on this blog a year ago, it's been a three-ring circus. Our quest for a green card. Southwest road trip. Big move to America. Job searches. Buying our first home... The latter process alone is enough to make you want to put down your lion tamer whip and just let the beast have at ya. But we've prevailed and now are blissfully content... if by content you mean buying furniture, cursing the skies because "why didn't I buy a potato brush when I was at Target!", haunting antique faires like the Ghost of Accent Tables Past and collecting DIY tools and advice, neither of which you know what to do with once you have them. Yes, "content".
To take a break from it all, my Camino love and I escaped to Yosemite Valley and our little REI tent, climbing Nevada Falls, wandering the John Muir Trail and pondering whether or not a bear would pry open our car door for hand sanitizer. As I sat at Tunnel View at sunset watching Hannes take the picture below, it hit me how I've neglected this blog through these hectic times. Here I thought learning the ins and outs of real estate, married life and automatic sprinkler systems was mundane... when in reality it's just another adventure on our never ending Camino. Coming home I've avowed a new commitment to this blog, sharing not only our travels - which include an upcoming Belgian wedding, Chicago exploration, Hannes' first Hawaii, family trips to Pacific Grove and Lake Tahoe, and a future hiking sojourn on the mysterious Cathar Trail - but also these new steps in life that are perhaps the greatest adventures of all.
Since our campervan honeymoon through Italy, Memorexed on this blog a year ago, it's been a three-ring circus. Our quest for a green card. Southwest road trip. Big move to America. Job searches. Buying our first home... The latter process alone is enough to make you want to put down your lion tamer whip and just let the beast have at ya. But we've prevailed and now are blissfully content... if by content you mean buying furniture, cursing the skies because "why didn't I buy a potato brush when I was at Target!", haunting antique faires like the Ghost of Accent Tables Past and collecting DIY tools and advice, neither of which you know what to do with once you have them. Yes, "content".
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| Our new permanent Albergue. |
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| Tunnel View, Yosemite, sunset. |
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