The obligatory Maneken Pis photo. Why is this stupid thing so famous?
I worry a lot about Alzheimer’s. I guess it’s natural at my advanced age. It doesn’t help that I can sense my memory deteriorating daily. A few weeks ago I couldn’t think of word “Toronto” for over an hour. Seriously. “That big city in Ontario . . you know, the biggest city in Canada . . WTF is it called?!” This really actually scared me.
"... take it ..."
Stumbling around Europe, though, I’m getting a surprise boost to my memory morale. How? In my pathetic, yet largely successful, forays into French.
Yesterday I was in a charming little Chinese restaurant where I made friends with a pretty pure white cat named Vanilla. Yes, inside the restaurant. At my table.
Think Belgium, think . . . Don Quixote?
This is not my complaint – I think all business should have pets, and people who are allergic can just order off of the internet.
Anyway, the reason I know the fuzzy one’s name is that I somehow pulled this question out of my ass: “Comment s’apppelle-t-il?” What is his name? Now, this is not at all impressive except for the fact that I haven’t studied French since 9th and 10th grades. And kids, by 9th and 10th grades, I mean 1974 and 1975. Yeah, before the Second World War. I was NEVER fluent in French by any means. And I don’t mean to suggest in any way that my miniature linguistic successes such as asking a cat’s name are impressive on their own. I just mean they make me feel like perhaps my memory hasn’t been completely shot to merde yet after all.
By the way, I went back to the same restaurant today, and was disappointed to learn that Vanilla was sleeping in the back.
I guess we should be kind. The Belgians are juggling so many damn languages, it's unreasonable to expect them to spell everything correctly.
The owner of the restaurant is a very nice Chinese guy, and even though he knows I speak English and he speaks French, when we speak to each other, I use my shaky French and he uses his shaky English. Because we’re just attempting to be polite.
D'oh! I was hoping to see the OLD Europe!
///
Another laptop scare last night!
I forgot that I didn’t have the stupid thing plugged in, and it ran out of power right in the middle of a Very Important World of Warcraft dungeon run. Blast. I plugged in, fired up the computer again . . . and, to my horror, it would no longer connect the internet! Consternation!
Le Grand Place
I didn’t panic. I tried every troubleshooting technique I could think of. I did a system restore. I disabled and enabled the wifi device. I rebooted several times. Nothing.
I sheepishly took the beast in to work today, and as I expected, Bert solved the problem in about two minutes. Now I know what to do if it happens again:
At a command prompt,
Configsys /release
Configsys / renew
The machine was stuck on a bad address. This fixed it. Relief‼
Yes, our tourguide was smoking during the tour.
Other Important Things I’ve Forgotten
. . . huh what?
Average Rating: 4.5 out of 5 based on 237 user reviews.
Back to work! Almost a relief after the hectic three days I had as a tourist. Tourism, at least the way I do it, is very tiring. But, as David Letterman says, it’s a good kind of tired.
Today started a battery of classes. It was fun to get back into the classroom after doing mostly support for many weeks.
Took care of the Attend a Movie requirement for Brussels tonight. I was running out of hope – everything in Brussels was either not in English, or I’d already seen it, or I’d rather drive upholstery tacks into my gums than see it. Then I spied a new Ken Loach film with the curious name Route Irish playing at a multiplex in the center of town. Score.
I recommend the film. I have no idea if it’s even opened in the states, or if it will open. Ken Loach has never done big business there. He’s an angry, frankly political filmmaker. Compared to Ken Loach’s films, Mike Leigh’s movies are Spielberg.
General Rommel ate at this Subway in 1942. Legend has it he ordered a foot long Spicy Italian on wheat.
The market in central Brussels. It's got a titanic history, but is probably most famous for being the place where we made First Contact with aliens from outer space.
This one treads similar ground to the much less successful Green Zone with Matt Damon from a year or two. In fact, the color in the title relates to the title of the Loach film. “Route Irish, ” according to the movie, is a nickname Americans give to the stretch of road in Baghdad which connects The Green Zone to the airport. It’s considered the most dangerous stretch of road in the world.
Mark Womack stars as a Liverpudlian ex-military, ex-mercenary who hears of his best friend’s death on Route Irish. At the funeral, .listening to the fulsome speeches and condolences from the suits of the Blackwater-like organization that his friend worked for, Womack begins to get suspicious. He begins tugging at threads and soon the cover story about his friend’s death begins to unravel.
There wolf!!
I really liked the movie because I like anything that deals with complex moral ambiguity. By the end of the film, there’s no one who’s really innocent. I also must say that, while I’m generally a complete wuss when it comes to depictions of torture on screen (or in fiction, for that matter), it’s used in an extremely smart and nuanced way in this movie. I don’t want to say more, but let’s just say it made the stakes in the movie even more morally messy. Which is a good thing.
Seek Route Irish out if you are up for a gritty, sad, beautifully acted drama about the moral complexities of modern war.
Got home just in time to download the huge new Patch 4.1 for World of Warcraft. OMG tons of new stuff to do!
This is the only actual bodybuilder I've seen on the trip so far, damnit.
Some Good Movies About the Slippery Morals of War
Under Fire
Salvador
Route Irish
Three Days of the Condor
Syriana
Gallipoli
Breaker Morant
Paths of Glory
Black Book
Average Rating: 4.9 out of 5 based on 186 user reviews.
Fun, long excursion day to Bruges and Ghent, the two jewels in the crown of historic Flanders.
Both cities were hugely important for a long time. They were both ports (reachable from the sea by canals) and were heavily involved in the Flemish cloth trade. Then two horrible things happened: Silt filled in their harbors and those damned English figured out a way to make cloth as nice as the Flemish stuff for much less. That and a reprisals from a bit of political disobedience killed both towns. Now they are both sturdy, mid-sized cities who earn a lot of their dough from tourists like me.
Make sure you spring for the most expensive candles; this guarantees that God fast-tracks an answer to your prayer.Okay, I'm firing my cleaning lady
I have one question for the horrible Spanish family who sat behind me on the bus. Why would you take a two year old on a 10 hour bus and walking tour to Ghent and Bruges? Why, oh why? What a shock that he didn’t have a good time. And as everyone knows, if a two year old who’s sharing a confined space with you isn’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.
Didn't have time to climb it. But damnit if Brendan Gleeson can climb it, I can climb it.
I kept looking for an opportunity to push the tot into one of the many scenic canals we visited during the day, but no appropriate opportunity presented itself.
Bruges is the smaller of the two cities, but its historic district is much larger. It is indeed a jewel. I had just the day before ascended the many winding stairs to the tippy top of the bell towers of Notre Dame, so I wasn’t sure if I was up to doing the same thing in Bruges. The clock tower in the center of town figures prominently in the fabulous movie In Bruges, and I really wanted to climb it . . . I think. Perhaps fortunately, the line to climb was long and we didn’t have time during our brief stay. Oh, well.
I enjoyed the picture taking, particularly around the little lake just outside the town center. Also, there’s a lovely Michelangelo statue in the cathedral. He carved it for a church in Siena, but it was acquired by a rich Flemish merchant who brought it home to impress the locals. It’s one of the very few Michalengelos outside of Italy.
One of the few Michelangelos outside of Italy.
After Bruges it was a zip down the highway to Ghent. By this time the squalling espagnol brat had soured my mood somewhat, so I sort of stomped around Ghent checking out the greatest hits. Happily, one of the greatest hits was the magnificent altarpiece The Adoration of the Mystic Lamb, from 1432, on display at the St. Bavo Cathedral. It consists of 24 panels and is quite something.
I guess I don't get the point of black flowers.
Something that had been bothering me to an increasing degree over the week was concerns about having enough walking-around money. In Europe, debit cards are used much less commonly than in the States, and I’d had zero luck using either my debit card or my credit card in getting more Euros out of any ATM. Finally, I scored at a KTB bank ATM in Ghent, rendering Ghent to be an official Wonderful Place.
I guess wherever you grow up feels normal to you . . .
... even if it's not.
Many of these swans are over 600 years old.
The main canal in Ghent
When's the last time you saw an actual hurdy-gurdy man?
Polychromatic facade in GhentYes, Bruges is a pretty town.
A simple but lovely window in the cathedral in Ghent
It's so cool: For Easter, the Ghent Cathedral has the Stations of the Cross illustrated with ACTUAL PHOTOS.
Pigeon towers
Memorable Tours
Walking tour of Nazi Munich, 2006
Bus tour of Ming Tombs and Great Wall, 2007
Segway tour of old mill area of Minneapolis, 2008
Average Rating: 4.7 out of 5 based on 223 user reviews.
I have achieved the Notre Dame bell tower! It wasn’t easy. Months ago when I planned this excursion, I didn’t realize it was to be Easter Week. Paris was a zoo, and the lines for everything were horrifying. On Saturday I gave up on the slow-moving line to climb the bell tower. I arrived early on Easter Morning, got a much better place in line, and got comfortable for my wait.
Ethel Merman posed for this gargoyle sculpture when she was touring Europe in CALL ME MADAM in 1955. "I just hacked away everything that didn't look like Ethel Merman, " the appalled sculptor said to reporters, shortly before killing himself.
Evidently all Scout Guides in Europe come to Notre Dame on Easter Sunday. There were thousands of them, all in uniform. I kept wanting to stop them to find out if they practiced institutionalized discrimination like the Boy Scouts of America did, but I didn’t. I looked it up online later and the answer was more complicated than I expected. The Guides are completely affiliated with the Catholic Church, so there has been a traditional animus against atheist and homosexual members. However, in many European countries, these restrictions have been relaxed or eliminated in recent years.
The best thing about the Scout Guides was that, since they were European, many of them were smoking. In uniform. It was fantastic. I am very sorry I didn’t get a good picture of that.
At last it was my time to climb. I have to say that getting to the top of the bell tower was certainly harder than it was when I was 27, but I made it without too many palpitations. Got some good photeax on the top of the Cathedral. The gargoyles just don’t let you down.
After Notre Dame, I went to that neighborhood the waitress had recommended last night: Butte aux Cailles. Must confess I was underwhelmed. Perhaps because everything, and I mean nearly EVERYthing, was closed for Easter. I went back to my favorite Montparnasse haunt and had a nice ham egg and cheese crepe for lunch. Then headed to the Gare du Nord early.
Statler and Waldorf
If I was a bit let down by my Paris trip, I actually think that’s okay. I still really enjoyed myself, and if it wasn’t as golden as it was in my memories, that’s a good life lesson. Memories are fine, but it’s the present that counts. Maybe after this trip my new favorite city will be Tallinn, or even Moscow. Who knows? The best of times must always be NOW, or else we’re doing it wrong.
The design of the Cite Metro station is very Jules Verne.
No problems on the train returning from Paris. I actually enjoyed my overlong stay at the Gare du Nord. Sometimes, even in Paris, it’s good to just sit still and do nothing. I read, worked on my computer, took pictures, etc.
The famous "Honey Badger" gargoyle
It is impressive to make the 162 miles between the two cities in just eighty minutes.
I love trains. I love everything about trains. I love movies and books set on trains. I like traveling by train better than any other form of travel, by a wide margin. Trains are so civilized.
Lookout
Sacre Coeur is so breathtaking I can't even come up with a jokey caption.
The beauty and majesty of the famous Rose Window in Notre Dame proves that the Judeo-Christian God is actually real.
I love this. The sign says they're never closed . . . except they are.
“See that big sign, with all the trains schedule on it, Son?”
"Everywhere those trains go, there are French people smoking."
"Papa, when I grow up, I want to work in middle management in a drab anonymous office block in Brussels, and then die of emphysema in my early forties."
"You will, my son. You will."
Memorable Train Rides
Menton (French Riviera) to Pisa, Italy, 1987
Los Angeles to San Francisco, 1994
London to Edinburgh, arriving in Edinburgh in a beautiful snowfall, 1998
Montreal to New York during fall foliage, 2003
The legendary Paris institution of higher learning, The Sorbonne. In this very building, French scientists discovered fire more than 130 years ago, changing the course of human history and earning the eternal love of candle makers everywhere.
Hot air balloon caught between the towers of St. Germain-des-PresUnder the Tower
This was a lot easier to climb 24 years ago. But I did it!
Many many scouts!!
I was able to get a piece of the True Cross for the incredible low price of only 7.50 Euro! This proves that the story of Easter is actually true!
Average Rating: 4.7 out of 5 based on 165 user reviews.
Early in the morning, busy Parisians prepare for their day.
One quick word about the view from my lovely hotel room: It was indeed impressive, with a north-facing panorama that included the Seine, Sacre Coeur, Notre-Dame, St. Germain de Pres, and many other landmarks. “Where’s the damned Eiffel Tower?” I kept wondering. And then I realized. The monstrous Tour Montparnasse, this awful black glass highrise monstrosity built five minutes before they passed laws against any tall buildings in the city center, was perversely and precisely between me and the Eiffel, rendering it completely invisible. The only way I knew it was there, apart from the mere fact that I DID know it was there, was its rotating light that I couls see sweep around the city. Oh, well, you can’t have everything.
I don't remember seeing this the last time I was in Paris. They were everywhere. The street, the subway, my hotel room -- but that's a different story.
He may be bored by the view, but I am not.
Anyway, it’s Paris! I’ve been here twice before, in 1987 and 1989. The first visit was for sixteen glorious days. It was my first time in Europe, and I dove into Paris like it was a swimming pool full of Peanut M&Ms. I saw every museum. Every church. Every monumental boulevard. Every landmark. I saw English movies almost every night. I even got flirted with (uselessly for her, poor thing) by a pretty ex-pat American fashion model.
All around Paris there is still evidence of the nearly six centuries France spent under Egyptian rule.
In 1989 I met two friends in Paris after my month in Italy. I basically recreated the highlights of my earlier trip for my friends. Not the best idea, but it worked.
About halfway through my first full day in Paris this time around, I realized that I was trying to recreate my original 1989 trip again!. No wonder I was getting grumpy at the long lines to do things that had had no lines at all 24 years ago. Three hours to get up the Eiffel Tower? An hour to get into Sainte-Chappelle? Yuck.
Latin Quarter alley
Luckily I figured out my mistake and let go, relaxed, and just tried to enjoy the city.
From the top of Notre Dame
If only I still had the endurance I had in my 20s.
I walked A LOT today. From deep in Montparnasse up the Boulevard St. Michel, all around the Ile de la Cite (home of Notre Dame), along the Seine past the Louvre and the Place de la Concorde, up the tony Boulevard George Cinq, along the Champs Elysee to the Arc du Triomphe, then back across town to the Trocadero Palace and across the Seine again to the Eiffel Tour.
A view of two of the greatest museums in the world -- The Louvre and the Musee D'Orsay -- from the top of the Eiffel Tower.
The Seine from the Tower
King Tut personally ruled over Paris until his untimely death by AIDS at age 173.
So I’d already done all of that walking before digging into the three hour line to ascend to the summit of my beloved tower. Yes, my feets was tired by the time I came back to earth.
A little R&R at the hotel followed by Mexican food (Mexican food in Paris! Yay!) in Montparnasse at a place puzzlingly called The Indiana Café. Nice place, though. My waitress was a very pretty brunette with a deadly-sexy French accent. Honestly, if I’d been a straight guy I would have been a goner. She chatted me up and confirmed that yes, this was an area where locals hung out, not just tourists. “Of course, there will be some tourists no matter where you go, ” she said. “This IS Paris.” She also turned me on to a nearby neighborhood called Butte aux Cailles. “It’s like an old-time French village, ” she cooed. I promised her I would check it out.
Notre Dame from the top of the Eiffel Tower. Hooray for zoom lenses.
YOU WILL BE ASSIMILATED
Complete List of European Cities I’ve Visited More Than Once
London
Paris
(coming soon) Munich
Average Rating: 4.4 out of 5 based on 229 user reviews.
The Boulevard St.-Michel greeted me like an old friend: "Christ, Ray, you got old and fat. Mon Dieu!" "Oh, fuck off, Boulevard St.-Michel."
Paris, Texas
April 22, 2011
Distance Traveled Today: 162
Distance So Far: 7538
Well, that was stupid. All week I’d been thinking the departure time of my bullet train to Paris on Friday night was at 8:35. At 6:20 on Friday evening I was in the office and happened to glance at my ticket. I saw to my horror that 8:35 was the arrival time, not the departure time. The departure time was at 7:15. Oh, dear.
At about 6:20 on Friday I was puttering around at work and I absently pulled out my train ticket and glanced at it. I realized to my horror that for the entire week I had been reading the arrival time in Paris on the ticket. The departure time was 7:15. I nearly had a heart attack. I stumbled out of the office, jogged all the way back to the hotel, begged the front desk to get me a cab, ran upstairs and frantically packed. The cab took forever to arrive – the fact that it was raining didn’t help, I guess. He got me to the train with only five minutes to spare. Grr.
Here’s the thing: The ticket was expensive and completely non-exchangeable. In other words, if I had been five minutes later, I would have had to purchase and entire new ticket.
This ancient toilet dates back to the time of Charlemagne, the first Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire. That's also the last time it was cleaned.
Ironically, after rushing to meet the train, we had a delay of an hour getting to Paris.
Except that it didn’t. About halfway through the trip, we got held up by a train in front of us that was having problems. So we ended up being an hour late. That may not sound like much, but consider this: The journey was supposed to take only eighty minutes. In other words, the premium we had paid to be on a fast train was utterly wasted. I’ll give them credit for this, though: As we got out, there was an official with apology/partial refund forms at the ready.
Next: Navigate the Metro to my hotel. Turned out to be not as easy as I expected.
Time to make a few complaints regarding our European cousins, at least the ones in Belgium and France:
Can I haz apartment in this building?
First, there is no fountain soda in Europe. At least, it’s rarer than a funny bit from Dane Cook. I’ve been spending ridiculous sums on tiny bottles of “Coca Cola Light.” Finally, in Paris, I figured it out. I should have tumbled to this much earlier. Where else to go to be my desperately needed fountain-style Diet Coke? McDonalds, of course.
Okay, good. I imagine it won’t be that impossible to find McDonalds anywhere in Europe, so when I absolutely positively need a fizzy, chemical-laden diet drink, I’ll know where to go.
If l had my way I'd wander down the Champs Elysees, going cafe to cabaret
The next complaint is more substantive. When it comes to public access to services, the otherwise smart Western Europeans could use a little help. Yes, the subway system in Brussels is lovely and efficient. And while the Paris Metro is nothing resembling lovely – the cars have seen better days – it’s still extremely efficient and peppy.
The problem? Buying a goddamned ticket.
Political protest over helpless victims of the innumerable Dune sequels
In Brussels, you can only use 1) coins or 2) special European credit cards with some kind of magical EU chips in them. My credit cards, which are otherwise honored most other places in town, simply don’t work. That’s okay, I have cash. Well . . . except that, by cash, I mean paper Euros. Surely the sophisticated ticket machine will take paper Euro notes, right? Wrong. It will only take coins or magic Euro credit cards. No problem, surely there’s a change-making machine nearby, right? No. Absolutely not. So let’s review. You’ve got a machine that basically demands that you be a local to use it. Not very friendly to us Americans who, along with our loudmouth, monolingual ways, are also bringing a lot of American dollars your way. How about cutting us a little break?
Naturellement, the Metro in Paris has the exact same limitations.
John Cleese, a huge gothic architecture fan, sometimes gives impromptu lectures here at Notre Dame. The lectures have become known, of course, as "Monty Python's Flying Buttresses."
I ran into a similar problem trying to connect to the internet at the Gare du Nord. I had some extra time before my train, and I thought, what the hell, let’s see what’s happening on Facebook. Surely in Europe there’s free wifi connectivity all over the place, right?
Well, sort of. There are four or five wifi networks available in the station. Several of them are free . . . if you’re French. In other words, they’re free, but you still have to have an account with some mysterious French company. I couldn’t even translate the pages to try to figure out what I needed to do, because it was impossible to go online to get Google translate. Even if I had wanted to get online bad enough to pay for a session, even that proved impossible. You couldn’t simply fire up the railway internet service, pull out your credit card, and pay for an hour. No, you had to purchase it through one of four French internet connection services that you already had to be a member of. In other words, there’s lots of wifi available . . . as long as you’re local.
Or how about in THIS building?
I realize the Europeans need to feel superior to us, and in some ways I guess they are, but that’s no reason for these types of public services, particularly in cities that survive largely on tourism, to be so opaque and unfriendly.
Speaking of European inferiority, can we talk about the smoking? This, I realize, is not news, but every time I come to Europe I have a foolish optimism that that our EU cousins will finally start to catch up with us in the smoking department. Not so much. Everyone smokes here. Everywhere. People smoke right next to you when you’re waiting in line for things. Nice.
Pierre and I will be married very soon. We hope you can come.
My favorite image in Paris, in fact, were the several Scout Guides (Europe’s version of the Boy and Girl Scouts) who were smoking in uniform this bright Easter morning. I am so sorry I don’t have photographic proof of this, but I was in the achingly slow line for the Notre Dame tower climb, and the scouts were always moving too fast for me to get a good shot. But I saw it, I promise you, more than once.
THE DREADED TOUR MONTPARNASSE, DESTROYER OF VIEWS
Anyway, I finally managed to stumble outside of the terminal and beg a restaurant to make me some change, made my way to the subway and to the garish but very friendly Marriott Rive Gauche. Emphasis on the gauche, but hey, I had a beautiful room on the very top floor with a spectacular Montparnasse-anchored view of Paris. Best of all, it was all paid for with Marriott points.
Notable Examples of Me Misreading Important Dates or Times
When I bought tickets to a Broadway show for a visiting friend, and when she and her mother showed up for the Saturday evening performance, they were told that their tickets were for the matinee which had happened earlier in the day.
When I was in charge of purchasing our tickets to see kd lang at the Hollywood Bowl, and on Saturday morning I realized to my horror that the tickets I was holding were for the Friday night performance.
This performer had a lot of flair.
Getting my audition date for the Yale School of Drama off by exactly one month.
Average Rating: 4.9 out of 5 based on 258 user reviews.
Bah. Lots of downtime today because of a nasty keylogging Trojan that attached itself to my profile like a facecrab in an Alien movie.
The old abbey is in a very peaceful setting.
Tonight, they guys are taking me to Leuben, the small and historic Flemish town where Jan, the IT boss, lives. Looking forward to that!
Last night I got my Mexican Food on. It was just Chi Chi’s, but it was acceptable. I’m sure there is better Mexican here in the city somewhere, but it’s not easy to find.
Must remember to get to a movie next week! I’m hoping some new things open tomorrow, as every English film showing here is one I’ve already seen.
///
Pulpit in the abbey church
Excursion to Leuven
Our excursion to Leuben was relaxing, entertaining, and informative. It’s always best to get a tour of a place from a native, and my tour guide Jan is not merely a native, but a pillar of the community. His family has lived in Leuven for nine generations.
Townhouses at sunset
Jan is a great raconteur and bon vivant, and he is attached to his home town by his very chromosomes. He first took us through a set of old abbey buildings that date from the seventeenth century. He sings in a Gregorian choir there, and in fact was missing rehearsal for our tour.
One of the most interesting artifacts in the abbey was near one corner of the cloister. At first glance it looked like a series of coats-of-arms, but it actually was a history of every abbot that had presided over the abbey since its founding. The line of abbots was unbroken since inception, with the single exception of the period of time during the French Revolution. (Jan knew the most recent three abbots on the display.)
Leuven is home to Catholic University, an enormous institution that was founded in 1425. It is very much a university town, crawling with students and youthful energy.
You gotta ring them bells!
Jan’s Notorious Family
Jan comes from a family of seven children, all of whom currently live in the Leuven area with their families. While the family’s history in the community gives it prominence, their reputation is not untarnished. This is largely because of the actions of Jan’s father and uncle, Henrik and Joseph.
During WWII, Joseph, an impetuous hothead, ran away to join the Royal Air Force. He became a bomber pilot.
Remember, tread lightly. In fact, tiptoe.
As we walked through the center of town, Jan pointed out a beautiful red brick tower. “That’s the post office. It was bombed during the war.”
By his uncle.
Oopsie.
Not all of the art in Leuven is a million years old. This is the top of a giant sewing needle in the town square. The impaled fly is about the size of a shetland pony.
Actually the bombing was deliberate. You see, the headquarters of the Gestapo was in that building, and Joseph knew it. The problem with his decision to bomb, however, was that he did it on his own volition – he had received no orders to consider it a target. And while the bombing was certainly disruptive to the Gestapo, there were local people in the building at the time he dropped his bomb as well. What’s worse, in reprisal for the bombings, the Nazis rounded up a dozen or so random locals and executed them by firing squad in the middle of town.
Abbey window
Jan’s father Joseph was still living in Leuven during this time of Nazi occupation. He was a respected surgeon, but like his brother was a bit on the rash side. And so when he formed an anti-Fascist political group – not the smartest thing to do in occupied Belgium in 1944 – he was sent to Buchenwald.
Lucky for Joseph, it was late in the war and he survived the death camp. Barely. When the Americans liberated the camp, he weighed 36 kilos.
A mural inside the abbey. This is probably the only photograph I have ever taken of a work of art and the artist in the same picture! The painter is my colleague and tourguide, Jan Vanmolkot.
After his liberation, Joseph was taken in by a rich Swiss dude who was working out a little of the guilt many Swiss felt when they realized how much their neutral stance during the war ended up helping the Nazis. He took care of a number of survivors of the camps. He was fond of Joseph, and when Joseph was well enough to attempt to resume his former life he sent him packing with a little gift: A small Rembrandt etching.
Jan grins broadly at this point in the tale. “And who owns that Rembrandt now? Me!” Wow. A Rembrandt.
The steeples of the gloriously detailed Leuven Town Hall.
Joseph was so shattered by his experience in the camp that he felt he could no longer continue his work as a surgeon, so the rest of his career he spent as a local family doctor. The artistic gift he received had a lasting impact: He became a lifelong collector of fine art.
“Yes, I have the Rembrandt, ” says Jan with a sigh. “But two of my siblings got the Breugel and the Cezanne.”
Our tour of Leuven went until late in the evening. Nights like this are exactly why I wanted to come to Europe.
Memorable Personal Tour Guides I Have Had
The docent who gave me a private tour of the Library of Congress, 2010
Rob Gibb’s peripatetic survey of Tokyo, 2007
My cousin John Domas and his wife Milana: Mosel River drive, Germany, 2006
The University has 60, 000 students, so night life is lively even during the week.
Average Rating: 4.4 out of 5 based on 266 user reviews.
I almost got in trouble because of the Angry Email Rule last night. Happily I pulled back just enough.
The popular Jack Brussels terrier
Are you familiar with the Angry Email Rule? You should be. It could save your life. Well, maybe not, but it could save a friendship. Or your job.
Remember the last time you received an email that really pissed you off? What did you want to do immediately? Fire off a tart response, right?
Never a good idea. Never, never, never, never, never.
The Best Practice Implementation of the Angry Email Rule is: You may not press the Send button on any angry email until at least 24 hours have gone by. This is the ideal version of the rule, and the most difficult to follow.
What can help is this: WRITE the email. Let’er rip. Purge all that righteous anger right out of your spleen. Plaster the nitwit who was foolhardy enough to incur your wrath right to the wall. Take no prisoners.
les chiens qui dort
Just no pressy on the sendy button.
Give it a day.
In a day, you’ll be cooler. You can look back at what you wrote and try to sift out the actual information from the vitriol. Even better, you very likely may have new, additional information on the situation which could temper your anger further.
If you simply don’t have the strength to implement the Best Practices version of the Rule, force yourself to wait at least an hour. Even an hour can help.
Another strategy? Give yourself a few minutes to cool off, then call the person. That plan of action may sound counterintuitive, but it has worked for me. Increase your chances for success on the call by forcing yourself to spend the first part of the call listening. You just may get some of that additional information that helps inform the situation. Plus when you’re actually talking to someone, you’re probably less likely to express your anger as rashly as you might with a plastic keyboard.
Whether talking or attempting to write a calm email reply, remember the following rules:
If it’s a friend, there are only two strategies to use in writing your careful reply. First, concentrate on providing information that supports your position. Second, let the other person know how the present upsetting situation is making you feel. I know, what could be cornier, right? But it’s necessary. When you concentrate on information and how you feel, you are not making accusations or playing the mindreading game (despite how much you may believe it, you DON’T actually know another person’s motivation for doing anything, and it’s not a good plan to declare that you DO know, and that the motive was a sinister one).
Le Chien Flamboyant
If the email reply is business related, discard Strategy Two. This is business, who cares how you feel. Just provide the information.
When you NOT follow these rules, and you fire off firebomb replies that are satisfying to write, you are very likely making the situation much worse than it already was. Even more dire, you could very well be turning yourself into the bad guy in the situation. Not helpful.
How do I know all of this is true? Trust me. Juuuuuuuuust trust me.
Oh, and did I mention that Brussels was BEAUTIFUL?!?
PS This topic reminds me of the Two Big Lies That The Movies Teach Us. While I believe there is a lot of human truth that can be illuminated by the movies, sometimes the information is not just wrong, but toxically wrong. To be more specific:
The Two Big Lies Taught By American Movies
Everything movies teach girls about love is a lie.
Everything movies teach boys about anger is a lie.
In a typical American movie, the hero (usually a male person) is pushed, and pushed, and pushed, and pushed until he just cannot take it anymore. Then he gets mad. Really mad. And in his white-hot righteous anger, he rights all the wrongs that have been plaguing his world.
This doesn’t work in real life. When you let anger inform your actions, almost 100% of the time, you make a bad situation much, much worse.
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I realize I left something important out of my discussion of listmaking as a form of collecting. I forgot to mention one of my favorite types of lists, and one that’s excruciatingly appropriate for this journal:
I collect places. I can tell you every US State I have visited. Every National Park. Every country. I get demented delight in adding items to these lists. So, as you can imagine, that creates a significant “value-added” bonus to the current trip.
Cities I’ve Worked in Before current trip
New York
Los Angeles
Houston
Chicago
Detroit
Dallas
Minneapolis
Madison
Buffalo
Boston
Atlanta
Washington, DC
Chicago
Detroit
London
Munich
Beijing
Tokyo
Irvine
San Francisco
San Diego
Santa Barbara
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Classic example of Failure to get the "Here I Am, There It Is" photo. I forgot to set the F-Stop to have deep focus, so the Atomium isn't in focus. Duh.
A pretty basic work day. Today was the first day after the entire office got converted to the new software, and so we were pretty busy – mostly with some keyboard language issues.
Took a lovely walk through the neighborhood after work. Brussels is full of Japanese cherry trees which are in full bloom, and the city is being carpeted with petals in a thousand shades of pink. It’s quite magical. I hope to get some pictures of the blossoms before they’re gone. I need to hurry if their moment of glory is as brief as it is in Washington, DC.
Had a scare with the laptop tonight in the hotel room. Moments after winning my first Player Versus Player gear upgrade from Baradin Hold with a pick-up group, the laptop simply died. I freaked out: Was the pressure from the 220V European wall outlet too much for my laptop’s power source, despite the label saying it was okay?
I let the machine cool off for an hour and it then started up with no problem. From now on I’m not leaving the power source plugged into the wall. Perhaps I should even use the transformer I purchased and have with me, just to be safe. During the hour I thought I’d lost my laptop I realized how, in a short time (since only October) I’d gotten used to having a real computer with me on the road. It’s difficult enough to be without my smart phone while in Europe (this lack causes me physical pain daily). The specter of being without phone OR computer felt grim. Fingers crossed.
Also had a minor but very real frustration with Kindle tonight: It seems that my PC Kindle wishlist is not synching with the wishlist on my actual Kindle. I sent Amazon an email enquiry and received the absurd reply that “the two lists do not synch.” Hogwash. They’ve always synched before. They just pushed out a software update. Is it one of those charming updates that actually reduces functionality? Yay.
Intersection juggler.
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Est-il vrai que vous savez MM Chaplin et Jones de Glendale?
The office is just a few minute’s walk from my hotel. The neighborhood we’re in is breathtaking. In this fine spring weather Brussels gleams like an exquisitely-carved marble chess set under bright theater lights.
And speaking of the IT guys in the office: they are extremely awesome. Fun, funny, smart, welcoming, and interesting – all in about six languages each. They explained to me the intricacies of the major political divisions in Belgium. The country is divided into two major regions: Flanders in the north, which is Flemish (pretty much Dutch) speaking, Anglophilic, and liberal; and Wallonia in the south, which is French speaking. Francophilic and more conservative. There’s also a small minority of German speakers in the eastern-most portion of the country. Add to the mix that Brussels, the largest city, is mostly French speaking yet is located in Flanders, and that’s actually a lot of politics for a country the size of Maryland.
My three IT buddies are all proud Flemish speakers, and justifiably proud of their beautiful, enlightened country. At one point in the conversation we were discussing Africa and I mentioned Ivory Coast. “One of the biggest chocolate producers in the world, ” I said helpfully, having just learned this on my tour of the chocolatier. Jan was having none of that and set me straight. “Cacao comes from Ivory Coast. Chocolate comes from Belgium.” Well, there you go.
Flying in the subway tunnels is officially encouraged. Actually, I got warned by an incredibly polite cop about a 500 Euro fine for taking pictures in the subway!
Jan has been with the Client for eighteen years and helped build many of the Firm’s foreign offices in Europe and Asia. I’m hoping he’ll be able to give me good advice on how to succeed during my stay in the Moscow office.
Worked very late helping migrate the offices computers to Office 2007. I’m not used to putting in twelve hour days (I know, I’m a wimp) but it was fun because it was a part of the process I had not participated in before.
U.S. States Which Are Smaller Than Belgium By Area
Hawaii
Massachusetts
Vermont
New Hampshire
New Jersey
Connecticut
Delaware
Rhode Island
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I was lucky to snap this photo just moments before the dog lunged and ripped out this little girl’s throat. Evidently the fact that she was speaking French just pushed the poor pooch right over the edge. Fido knows that there’s nothing more pretentious than a child speaking French. Even a French child.
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