Wallonie = Friendly French

[I am very pleased that blogger/google has beefed up their weblog publishing tools.  This is officially the most advanced word processor that my computer currently has access to, given that I am Microsoft deficient at the moment.  But don't expect any big changes or improvements.  After all, a hack with a Stradivarius is still a hack.]

   Sunday morning after church we hopped into our station wagon rental and drove directly westward into Belgium on the ol' A3.  Looking out the passenger window, I watched the flat farmland and clusters of white German houses transition to rolling green pastures dappled with grey stone Belgian cottages.  Within two hours we arrived at our destination Thon, in the northwestern edge of the Ardennes.  The chambre d'hotes (B&B) that we were planning to stay at was dark and no one was in sight (perfectly normal, because I had not actually confirmed our arrival with the owners).  Great I thought, ironically, and went to the stable next door to see if someone could help me.  I opened the door and, faced with an impenetrable wall of grey-white cigarette smoke, felt the instinct to drop to my hands and knees and crawl towards the nearest exit.  But I was already standing in the entrance way, so I sucked in a deep breath and walked into the middle of the room.  Through watery eyes I made out the shapes of what looked to be patrons sitting on stools and bartender standing behind a counter.  In first year level French, I asked the bartender if she knew the owners of the place next door.  In a matter of minutes and a few Belgian beers, the family that owned the B&B arrived and made up our rooms.  Notes to self: virtually every stable in Wallonie has a bar, and the Wallonians are generally very gracious hosts.

   Despite some middle-of-the-night creeping around by Dorothy, we slept well and in the morning had the quintessential crusty baguette with various spreads accompanied by a cafe au lait.  I stepped outside to check out the scenery and immediately recalled the green hills of West Virginia's mining country, home to the first generations of my own americanized ancestors from the Douglass clan.  Katie and Dorothy came walking up a horse path that was made into a Sleepy Hollowesque tunnel by overhanging bushes.  The temperature was well above freezing, and in the wintery mist everything took on the look of being permanently wet, like it had never been dry nor would it ever be.

   We drove to the mid-sized town of Namur and passed by the town square and casino - too early in the morning for that - on our way up the impressive mass of stone and earth that composes the citadel.  From the citadel we could see the river Meuse make a sluggish arc through the soggy city, only broken up by a measly looking dam and small lock.  Bill was clearly impressed by the view at the top. "Manure, is it?" he asked.  "Close" I said, "Namur".

   From Namur we continued on to Brussels and tooled around there for the rest of the day.  For the sake of regional distinction I am going to include that in the next section on Flanders - even though the city is in itself a distinct province of Belgium.

   We arrived back at the B&B in Thon to spend the remainder of our evening inside.  It was New Year's Eve, so Katie tried to chill a bottle of champagne in the bathroom sink and tough it out to midnight, but it never happened.  After a couple games of euchre and gin rummy the Lewis's were off to bed and I followed suit.  About an hour later, the skylight above my bed lit up with explosive bursts of color and I heard the muffled sounds of revellers in the nearby town singing Auld Lang Syne.  Katie and I went outside to witness the efforts of the local pyromaniacs.  Far off in the distance we could see the glow of a larger firework show and hear the booms - Liege perhaps?  I imagined that lumbering squadrons of Luftwaffe planes were flying over our heads in the darkness, on their way to drop their loads on the Allies.  Admittedly, this mental construction I probably owe more to Band of Brothers than history books.  Once the damp air gave us an adequate chill, we jumped back in bed and started off the new year in proper form, by sleeping for the first 8 hours of it. 

    

The Tower Infernal

Katie's parents came for a visit and put in some serious traveling. Naturally, our first trip was to Cologne for some window shopping, touring the Lindt chocolate factory, and eating and drinking at the Fruh Kolsch brauhaus. I slipped up on the order of events and planned the walk up the 509 steps to the top of the southern spire...after all of the shopping and beer drinking. Mea culpa. Bill and Dorothy made an excellent showing with 200 steps gained before the turnaround. Unfortunately, I was not there to assist because I only have one speed for going up stairs and it is somewhat brisk. Coupled to that is the fact that the only way to the top consists of a single spiral staircase, where descenders have the outside railing and about 2 feet of the step, and the ascender has about 1 foot of step that diminishes to nothing on the inside. Halfway up the spire hangs the largest free swinging bell in the world, named "Dicke Pitter" or "Thick (St.) Peter" in the local dialect. I was fortunate enough to be there for the "klang" and let me tell you it was LOUD. Katie and I had a rendezvous at the top viewing platform, where we checked out the remarkable 100 meter high view of the very horizontal city of Cologne.

A Good Kind Of Burning

Instructions for a Feuerzangenbowle party: 1) make large bowl of punch from dry, red wine, cinnamon sticks, cloves, lemon, and orange peels 2) heat up punch over flame 3) extinguish flame with lid from a pot to avoid melting table, measure out smaller amount of kerosene, and relight 4) soak large cone of processed sugar with 108 proof rum and place on slotted metal platform over punchbowl 4) ignite rummed up sugar with a match and admire ensuing flames 5) serve punch to your friends and don't be stingy 6) watch movie Die Feuerzangenbowle 7) wake up following morning with headache.

Katie and I completed our first Feuerzangenbowle party at our friends' apartment in early December. Seven of us assembled around the living room table and cheered Marcus on as he ceremoniously prepared the punch and ladled it out. After a few cups of the fiery brew, I felt an irresistable desire to know more about the German electoral system, which Fabian kindly detailed for me. Once we exhausted the subject it was time to watch the movie. Die Feuerzangenbowle is a black-and-white about a fictitious author Dr. Pfeiffer who poses as teenage high schooler to prank teachers and perform other zany hijinks. The movie is alarmingly lighthearted for having been made in Germany in 1944, but one should never underestimate mankind's tendency toward escapism. After the movie and punch were finished we hopped on our bikes and sped home. Let me tell you, the two things that you want the most after a Feuerzangenbowle party are a large glass of water and your bed. Better keep a couple of advil on the nightstand too. Just in case.

Seriously?

Alright, I know what you are thinking right now but let's not rush to judgement. This is merely a picture of Sinterklaas and his two helpers known as Zwarte Pieten. That is, the Dutch representations of Santa Claus and Black Pete. Oh yeah, and Katie. She is playing herself in this picture, both figuratively and literally.

Sinterklaas arrives in the Netherlands by boat from his home in Spain (you might remember that the Dutch were under Spanish rule in earlier times). To all of you scoffers: his priestly robe and mitre are a nod to the original St. Nicholas who was a Greek bishop in Turkey in the 3rd Century. Same as usual, he comes and brings gifts to good children. As for the mischievous Black Petes, they are either slaves, Moors, devils, or simply covered in soot. Apologists have written plenty about these controversial characters, but I have neither the knowledge nor the desire to do so in this blahg.

The implications and connotations of the accompanying picture do not necessarily represent the views of The Transatlantic Monthly, its writers, or its parent company Viacom. Just kidding we're not owned by Viacom.....yet. It is a priceless picture though.

Christmas Markets

Beginning in late November and running up until December 23rd, the Christmas Markets are the best way to pass an hour or an afternoon or even a whole day on the weekends. In every town square, vendors set up wooden shacks and sell ornaments, clothes, candles, food and mulled wine. Katie and I hit up Bonn Zentrum, Bad Godesberg, Berlin, and Siegburg. Gluhwein, or mulled wine, is the name of the game and now every flat surface in our apartment is occupied by commemorative mugs from each village's market. Drop by our place and I will give you one. Seriously.

The Weihnacht Markt in Siegburg is medieval themed, which automatically bumps up the fun factor by 2. Instead of gluhwein we drank hot mead out of ceramic goblets and watched a burly blacksmith pound steel into rustic ten-penny nails. Maybe in the distant future we are all going to stand around sipping Cosmopolitans and watch an old, weathered robot assemble microprocessors. I can't wait.

Das Erntedankfest

Should you ever find yourself overseas for important American holidays, do not worry about missing out. Harvest festivals are celebrated on just about every corner of the globe, Germany included, and by the end of November we had observed Thanksgiving to the point of overindulgence. With all due respect to our avian guest of honor, we gobbled our way through five fantastic meals - several kilos of turkey, a cement mixer's worth of mashed potatoes, and enough pinot noir to buoy an aircraft carrier. Now I can see why the Pilgrims wore buckles around their hats instead of their waists. Also, the Law of Conservation of Gender Roles still applies here, as you can note from the pictures. Many thanks to our generous hosts: Nat and Jen, Lori and Ralph, the APC Women's Bible Study Group, the Fellowship Committee, and ourselves (including Tanya, Derick and Amanda).

Just In Time For Halloween

A couple of weeks ago we took the train into Köln to visit the largest music store in Europe. The music store was alright, but what really impressed me was this bar a couple of blocks away from the Dom cathedral. Check out the spooky animatronic accordion player behind me. Similar to Chuck-E-Cheese, this audacious fellow belts out your favorite drinking songs without a moment's warning. He made eye contact with me twice and furiously wiggled his eyebrows up and down. I looked in the trash can by the door, but that messy-haired bird was not lurking in there and waiting to pop out and crack a joke. Just garbage.