Out

I had a brilliant evening. I decided last minute to catch one more movie on the last night of the cinema festival. I went for ‘Whatever Works’, the new Woody Allen, which was sarcastic enough to cheer me up. The night was positively balmy too, which helped. On the main square there was a midnight market, a summer thing they plan on repeating every Friday night, it seems. Stalls with food and drink ready for sampling –and this is France, they take take-away to a whole new level– some knick-knacks, second hand books, lamps, soaps, jewellry…basically, enough to keep a girl entertained. And there was music too…

Funny I should trade Spain for France only to come across more Latin music than I can shake a stick at. First there was a flamenco performance, followed by some salsa and rounded off by my favourite, the tango. There was a small dance floor and people definitely made use of it. All ages, all types, all very fun to watch. The prize went to a hippie dippie in purple trousers and Hawaiian shirt, complete with Jesus beard and mellow attitude, twirling around a 50-something belle in tango shoes and the prerequisite pencil skirt. What a couple! I stayed to watch them for a long while.

I went home before I’d had enough, a rule I’ve picked up along the way and try to stick by: quit while you’re having fun. I walked through the deserted mall that is the main thoroughfare to get from the centre to my part of town, all the shutters down but the muzak still going, stood behind a middle aged man gingerly feeling up his wife on the escalator (at least I thought she was his wife…hmm!), strolled past terraces full of people eating and drinking, and through fountains that were off work for the night. And it was good, really, watching life around me and people having fun. It really was.

10 Sure-fire Ways To Break Your Neck

That festival down by the river I was telling you about? They weren’t joking around with their bulldozers and tents and diving suits last week. It’s an extreme sports festival, with everything from downhill to blading, BMX trix and mono ski. In other words, ten sure-fire ways to break your neck…and I’m quite enjoying it. What can I say, it’s bringing out my latent tomboy streak. There’s DJs spinning hip hop and ragga, a mini village of shops selling all the appropriate gear, and basically tonnes of young people hanging out. Which would normally have me legging it in the opposite direction, it has to be said. It’s not like I’m out there all day or anything. But I walk down a few times a day and stop at the different events for a while. My favourite are the bladers. I’d never seen them doing trix on high ramps before, but then I guess it doesn’t require a giant leap of the imagination. I was chuffed to see eight girl amateurs make it to the finals too! I guess what it is about these people is that they’re very much alive (although I did see one or two of them fall –youch!– and be carted off by an ambulance –awww). And you can’t help absorbing some of that energy when watching them…

Speaking of energy, here’s a little something. In case you’re also in the mood for ragga now…

Love Is…

Just in front of me on the escalator going up, there was a man and his mother. The man had Down syndrome and was already in his 40s, I think. The mother was definitely close to 70. He stood behind her, one foot on the step she was on, leaned his cheek against her back and placed a kiss there. With such tenderness, it was infinitely touching.

A Customer No More

My seventh and final –after this episode, you betcha– trip to Ikea went a little something like this. I had bought two shelves and came to the conclusion that it really is possible to read too much (who knew?), so I had to go back to buy a third. In and out, I said to myself because I was starting to get the feeling I should be paying rent there. First a pit stop at the restroom and then to the warehouse to pick up the shelf.

In the restroom there was a queue like you wouldn’t believe, though if you’re a woman, I guess you would. Annoying how the waiting time is always double than in the men’s room, isn’t it? (I know this ’cause I frequently go to the men’s instead, after making sure there’s no one there to catch me in the act, so to speak). Anyway. The wait went on forever, until there was just a very tired-looking pregnant woman ahead of me, and another woman ahead of her. Please go first, the second woman said to the pregnant one, I can tell you’re tired. The pregnant woman thanked her and did just that. I had the same thought, I said to woman number one, and for a moment there was the sort of all-round good vibe that comes with doing good.

Then woman number one disappeared into another stall, and a few seconds later there was an exchange between her and the pregnant woman that I didn’t quite catch. I heard fou rire –what is it called in English, when someone can’t stop laughing?– and, indeed, a few people in the queue seemed to chuckle a bit. So I smiled along good-naturedly, all the while wondering why the pregnant woman was entertaining a cross-stall conversation with a woman she had never set eyes on before. Weird, but the French are different in terms of embarrassment, or lack thereof, so what do I know?

Then the pregnant woman comes out of her stall and says, and this time I catch it quite clearly, souris. Mouse. Which happens to be my number one phobia, apart from people, that is. Everything went sort of white and I grabbed onto her arm, this woman I had never set eyes on before. Quite firmly, I might add. I thanked the stars she didn’t stop to wash her hands, something I find quite disturbing usually, and followed her out like a two year-old kid. I’m not quite sure why she didn’t object. Maybe the after effects of that all-round good vibe…

Once outside I felt quite silly. Though at least I didn’t start blinking and scratching my nose uncontrollably, which has been known to happen. It was a really small one, she reassured me, and it did run away. Hah, ok. But there was no way I was going back in there –though it was my turn, dammit! I ran to get my shelf, all the while keeping my eyes on an undefined spot somewhere on the ceiling, payed for it and left the building. For ever, and ever and ever more.

La Mer du Nord

Let’s go to the seaside for the day, my mum said enthusiastically last week. It was sunny, it was warm (well, five degrees. funny how warmth becomes a relative concept), and I never need much convincing to spend time near the sea. We took the train in high spirits.

First stop: it seems the sun has gone, my mum said.
Second stop: I noticed ice on the leaves and branches.
Final destination: I wonder which way the sea is, my mum said. A second later, a big (big, big!) boat passed right next to us. I assumed the sea was underneath.

See the boat? Not the thing on the right, that’s a jetty. But next to it, in the middle. That would be the sea right there.

I’m not sure what the temperature was, but it was flipping freezing. We did have a long walk though, until we couldn’t take it any longer. It’s really a lovely beach town.

When we got back home we found out Brussels stayed warm and sunny all day. Sea climate! my mum kept repeating, is supposed to be milder than land climate.

Uhuh.