Further adventures in Surreality

I sleep in – well, not strictly true. I’m awake at 5, read for a while, then find I’m ready to doze again, and give in to the temptation. When I surface again, it’s nearly 8:30. Breakfast in the hotel; coffee, oranges and croissants; the Rough Guide in front of me, where to this morning?

Sunday in the sunshine. I will head back to the Upper Town, give it a second chance. En route I pass a second hand book shop, window full of old engravings, oh bliss! I must come back when it’s open, though there are no hours shown.
In another closed shop window there’s a poster for a free folk festival, featuring the Karim Bagilli Quintet (the band from Friday night with the memorable flautist), but it’s the same weekend I’m in Telford (12th July), why does everything happen at the same time?
Trying to find the Galeries Ravenstein, I come across the Place Albertine – I know where I am, just down from where I was yesterday. By the statue of King Albert, I spot a Euro coin on the ground – an Irish one. I put it in my pocket for luck.
Here are the Galeries, elegant and empty – oh, this is the way I should have come yesterday afternoon instead of my fruitless search for the Jardin Botanique.
There’s an accordion player on the steps up from the Galeries. I fish out my lucky Euro, smile, wish him bonjour. ‘Merci beaucoup, madame’, but his eyes remain closed, lost in music or indifference.
I enter the park via a different gate from yesterday. Is that man over there alone eyeing me up? I steal a second glance, catch him doing the same, but our paths only cross at a distance of 50 metres or so.
I sit on a bench by the lily pond – the lilies are only just starting to open – revelling in the sunshine and writing these thoughts.

I discover there are a hell of a lot of Spanish people in Brussels. Half of them seem to be parading in front of the Bourse, blowing whistles and trumpets, waving flags and shouting ‘Viva Espana!’ while the other half drive up and down the Boulevard Anspach blowing their horns. I text Eduardo: ‘You know about football, did someone just win a match or something?’ When I return an hour and a half later, they’re still at it.
I eat special fried noodles with king prawns, banana flambé, Singha beer, liqueur coffee. There’s a guy eating alone, dark, very Latin, ridiculously sexy – the kind I automatically dismiss from my thoughts because – well, why would such a man look twice at me? And anyway, that’s not what I want – I don’t know what I DO want, but I’m sure it’s not that.
I psyche myself up to go back to the Cuban bar, drink mojitos and listen to the live music. But when I get there, the music has been cancelled in favour of the football – as it seems to have been in the other bars as well.
The live entertainment in the Grande Place tonight – apart from the Spaniards – consists of a man in a monk’s habit cutting up bread and cheese and selling them for a Euro a time. His patter has the audience in fits, but my French isn’t good enough to keep up.
Outside the Roy D’Espagne, I freeze on the terrace (away from the telly and ubiquitous football) drinking hot chocolate with Baileys (outrageous at 10 euros, but what the hell) and wait for the moon to rise above the Hotel de Ville while the sun sets.

It’s 10:20 – 40 minutes till happy hour at El Metekeo – mojitos at 4 euros each – has the football finished yet? Edu has replied to my text: ‘Spain 2 Sweden 1’. ‘Lucky I didn’t ask Daniel!’ I text back. The moon has disappeared behind the building. Another hot chocolate? A mojito or two? Or back for that bath and a good read?
There’s music (not live) coming from somewhere... L’Homo Erectus – I won’t fit in too well there. My Rough Guide lists the lesbian bars though, I could extend my options...
At El Metekeo, the football is still on. At the Music Village, the Sinatra Reunion Big Band is wowing them, two nights only. The haunting strains of ‘YMCA’ drift from L’Homo Erectus.
I buy a bottle of water from the tourist shop. That hot bath seems very tempting. Time to call it a night.

The slump hits mid-afternoon. Brussels doesn’t do parks, it seems. I find one, a fairly uninspiring affair, and it starts to drizzle. I try to head for the Botanic Gardens, and I’m wandering through a wasteland of brutalist concrete blocks, brooding over gloomy poetry.
Past the cathedral, I give up on the botanic gardens idea as the rain gets heavier, and go back to the Arcadi café, for a bacon and mushroom omelette and a cappuccino. The resident cat snoozes on the bench opposite, until s/he is evicted to make way for more customers, and takes refuge under my seat.

I head for the shops but wander aimlessly; I decide against the skirt and top and can’t find the cardi I saw last night. I need a jacket, but who sells jackets in June, even in Brussels? In the end, all I buy is two scarves from one of the tourist shops (6 euros each, 2 for 10).
I hunt in vain for a cyber café – how can there not be one, here, right in the centre of the city? I feel lost, disoriented, not literally (I can find my way pretty well round here now), but emotionally. Back at the hotel, I can’t raise much enthusiasm for the evening ahead, alone. Maybe I’ll just read my book, have a bath. I text the others. No one is arriving till tomorrow.
Then, I rouse myself, reapply my makeup, put on one of my new scarves and head off towards the Thai restaurant where we always go.

What is it that you want?
Not me, it seems.
What you are looking for,
I can't provide. And all
I do to try and please you, falls
Against the wall
of your indifference.
And if I walk away,
Will you even notice that I've gone?

But what about my hopes,
That hang like withered orchids
On the stems of yesterday?
There's nowhere else
That I can plant them now.
I'll wrap them up in paper, hide the stench
Of their decay,
And bury them.

(c) Melinda Belynda, 14th June 2008

Three hours round the Musee des Beaux Arts. I sit with a coffee in the museum cafe, and realise how tired I am. What's the plan for this afternoon? More walking. Round the parks, round the town, more museums, at the very least, round the shops. Whatever, it will involve walking. Or a cafe to sit and write in - an Internet cafe, perhaps? Write what? More drivel? Can I sit and write my novel? Hmmm.
Oh, chocolate on my fingers again, the small square that came with my coffee, on my fingers, on the Rough Guide, on my notebook... chocolate everywhere.

... was a Slovenian architect who lived from 1872 to 1957 (apparently) There was an exhibition celebrating him in the museum, and I liked this quote, which I thought applied well to writing...

'If you are going to be engaged in the applied arts, you will be alive... Even if you do your work free of charge, it does not matter, Namely, this work cannot be overpaid, and if you work out of sheer joy, the work will refresh and rejuvenate you'.

I was talking a couple of weeks ago to a woman I haven't know for very long about my fantasy of taking off and travelling across Europe. And she said: 'But would you want to travel alone, don't you want someone to share it with?' - meaning, not just the travel, but life in general. And the answer is, that that has always been at the back of my mind, what I thought I wanted. But maybe the only hope for me of finding happiness is to let go of that crazy, unrealistic notion, and learn to be myself, alone and satisfied to be so.

Browsing in the antique market in the Place du Grand Sablon. I love old engravings - the absence of colour and excess of detail make any subject mysterious. A marble penstand, with ink well, sand box and pen. A necklace of green and red beads to match my sweater. A family tree of the Belgian royal family, circa 1918. A sepia wedding photo in a frame, except... the couple, earnest and unsmiling, are far too young, despite the white, veiled dress and dark suit with buttonhole - a first communion, surely?
Passing a cafe, a glance though the window and I find myself staring into the eyes of a golden cocker spaniel, sitting upright and very precise, on a chair. The man on the other side of the table catches my eye, looks as though this is perfectly ordinary and everyday. Like an old married couple. I smile.

I need the loo. What is the etiquette on leaving your restaurant table when you're on your own and don't have a coat to leave to show you're coming back? I don't want to leave my bag - so I leave my notebook and camera on the table. I like having a camera - and a phone (4 years and 3 respectively) - which are new enough to be technologically good enough for what I want, but too old to be worth stealing.
I'm perfecting my gallic shrug. The old dear at the metro station yesterday who nudged me, the young woman who beeped and wound down her car window and shouted to me this morning. I caught the word 'Midi' and at first thought she was saying 'noon', which made no sense, till I realised she was asking directions for the Gare du Midi. Well, I didn't know the answer, anyway.
A girl just spoke to me in the ladies, and I smiled - no idea what she said, but a smile always helps. Three times now I've been asked for directions (once in English). Must look as though I know what I'm doing.

I got some more information about the event I'm going to in Hungary:

'...located on the Szentendre Island in the middle of the Danube. It takes one and a half hour to get there from Budapest. You will need to take a bus and a ferry, which takes you to the island in less then 10 minutes (the harbour is two minutes walk far from bus stop). The trip with the ferry gives you a beautiful view of the Danube and small sand strand along the bank which is very convenient for relaxing, having a bath and a tan.
Once you are on the island, the camp is less then 150 meters walk, located in a beautiful green surrounding with wooden small bungalows...
... The Szentendrei Island is quite big with lots of places (riding centre, herbal garden, etc.), a beach and beautiful nature which you can explore either on foot or by bike....'

http://www.mahartpassnave.hu/webset32.cgi?MAHART@@EN@@128@@GOOGLEBOT

Sounds pretty nice, doesn't it???
I was in Visegrad in 2000, and that was gorgeous.

I just circulated an email to all the Parish Clerks in the county asking for advice about bottle banks.
Here is one of the first replies I got:
'Hello. I am away until 19 November 2007 and am unable to read email until I return.'
Glad to see that someone round here is really on the ball
Maybe he needs to go on the course I mentioned previously

Found this in my inbox...

'Dear Colleagues

I would like to give you details of the *Cemetery Management Course*
for the East of England that has now been arranged. I would be very
grateful if you could circulate the details of the course to your
members .
*
There are only thirty places so book early to avoid disappointment!'

Wow, I would be SO disappointed to miss that

Not as good as the real thing
But we all have to dream sometimes...

How am I dealing with solitude? When I wrote about it yesterday before leaving home, it sounded rather bleak.
http://husbandorcat.blog.co.uk/2008/06/13/half-life-4309118
But 24 hours has gone, and – pas de probleme. Not really a surprise, because it’s not so different from a normal day at home in that respect (ie, not seeing anyone to talk to).
After the concert last night, I remembered even when I was a teenager going to a gig on my own because there was no one to go with. When I was there, I met a boy from school, but only by coincidence, if I’d been on my own it wouldn’t have mattered. So maybe this solitary streak has always been there. The one thing I am wary of doing on my own is going into bars – though I’ve never been much of a target for pickup artists, even when I was young, and I’m pretty effective at freezing them out whether I want to or not.
So loneliness... well, I’m no stranger to that, but it’s a kind of existential loneliness, a wanting to connect with someone emotionally and intellectually. And physically, of course, would be nice – but I’ve learnt to live without that – I’ve had to. But general, everyday human contact – I can survive without that, it’s not a problem.
Up early (not for me, but relative to the rest of the world), I grab only a cup of coffee and an orange from the hotel breakfast buffet. I have a mission in mind – breakfast at Le Pain Quotidien. I’ve been there before, with the group, and I’ve found it in the guide book.
I’m not prepared for the cold – should be, really, but the warm weather at home over the last few days has confused me, lulled me. I have my route planned, but decide to take a detour past the tourist crap shop round the corner from the hotel, the one with the nice scarves. Though why would they be open at 8:15 on Saturday morning, when they were still open at 10:30 last night? Sure enough, no chance of buying a scarf at this time of day.
I am heading in the right general direction, but find myself distracted by attractive side streets and shops. This one is called ‘Artimundo’ – it has a Peruvian ludo set in the window, carved playing pieces, Indians in pork pie hats, and llamas. For 45 Euros, I’m tempted by the novelty, but I don’t need more stuff, and who would play with me? And anyway, what is the connection between ludo and Peru?
More window shopping. That skirt is just my style – but not the colour – everything in this window is khaki or olive, very stylish, but it would make me look completely washed out and sludgy (Ed’s note: OK, so today that’s just how I’m feeling...)
In the next shop, those are my colours, vivid jewel tones, I want that scarf, those earrings… And how about that necklace? No price, but the matching bracelet is 79 euros... perhaps not.

The last band was a Roma rap band from the Czech Republic, Gipsy.CZ. They were quite amazing too, a combination of hip-hop attitude with gypsy violins and accordion (though my daughter assures me they are more pop than hip-hop). There seemed to be a large Czech contingent in the crowd, certainly lots of people were whooping and singing along – including Tintin and his girlfriend.

Standing not far from me was the living image of the most famous of famous Belgians – Tin tin. Seriously, it was uncanny. I kept trying surreptitiously to take pictures of him.

In the end I caught his eye, and he must have known I was staring because he said something to his girlfriend and the next time I looked round, she was looking at me. It was pretty embarrassing, though later when I checked the mirror, I realised he might just have been saying ‘That woman over there has got chocolate all over her face’.

The second band were Belgian but with a pretty unusual sound, lots of Spanish influence, flamenco guitar, and a seriously sexy flute player.

In between the first and second bands, I went to the Waffle Factory for a strawberry, banana and chocolate waffle with whipped cream. The problem with eating these things in the street is that the little plastic forks they give you are useless, and you end up just eating the thing out of your hands (which get plastered with chocolate).

I perched myself on the steps of the Hotel de Ville to eat it, but at some point the fork ended up on the floor, and the paper napkin that came with the thing got pretty messed up. Oh well, I don't know any of these people, what does it matter?

I made my way back to the Grand Place just as the first band was being introduced. The concert was a dual celebration of the end of the Slovenian presidency and the Year of Intercultural Dialogue. The first band, Strojmachine from Slovenia, is described as ‘an industrial rock band’. I can’t even begin to describe their instruments, constructed out of various bits and pieces and mainly percussion, but the music was pretty good. I could feel the vibrations up through my legs from the old cobblestones, and gazing at the old guildhouses round the square, wondered if they had ever seen and heard the like before.

I found my way to H&M on Rue Nueve, and even though I knew it wouldn’t be that different from the one in Cambridge, that was part of the attraction.
One thing that was different though was the sizes – they had French, US and European, but not UK – and I didn’t feel I could take off the top I was wearing in the middle of the store to check the label. But I remembered that the infamous size 0 is actually a UK 4 – and from looking at the labels I could see that the European was 30 more than the US – so I worked out I needed size 42.
Of course, at first I couldn’t find anything bigger than 36. Then I reached the ‘Big is Beautiful’ range – but that began at 44. (Too big to be normal, but not big enough to be beautiful – ho hum).
At last I found a summer skirt in 42 – but – was it a bit too short? And what would I wear with it? Well... here’s a matching top... in 42.. but... is it a bit too see-through? And oh look, that’s a nice cardi, could do with that, it’s a bit chilly and I forgot to pack one.
Off I head for the changing rooms, to be greeted by: ‘But, Madame, we’re closing in two minutes!’
So, I shall have to go back tomorrow. But after I left the shop, it occurred to me that I should have bought the cardi anyway. I could always have taken it back if it didn’t fit – and the evening did get very cool.

My Belgian friends, Yves and Petra, have a poster on their wall which says: ‘J’ais arrivee. Je suis chez moi’. OK, so I’m not ‘chez moi’ exactly. But sitting here in the early evening sunshine, outside the Café Arcadi, with a ‘chocolat de maison’ in front of me, it’s hard to think of anywhere I’d rather be.
Waiting for the tram at the Gare du Midi, an old boy stopped and fired a question at the old lady sitting on my right. Whatever he’s saying, no idea what I’ll say if he asks me, I think. Suddenly the old girl pokes me in the arm. I turn, shrugging gallically, shake my head. It does the trick.
Back at the Arcadi, the guy at the next table, the one who was talking animatedly on his mobile when I sat down, has pulled out a pouch of Drum tobacco to make a rollie. Maybe I should ask him to roll one for me – but I’d probably just disgrace myself by throwing up.
Definitely Gallic, dark and slightly shaggy, bespectacled, leather jacket, the male equivalent of jolie-laide, whatever that would be. The sort of look you can’t decide whether it’s incredibly sexy or incredibly ugly, so you have to keep stealing another glance just to check. A bowl of nuts and a glass of red wine on the table in front of him. He looks as though he should be on the Left Bank, arguing over Derrida or reading Camus or Rimbaud… rather than in Brussels, reading the covers of DVDs – action thrillers, but the look of them. Shame. The ciggy smells nice, though.
I take the spoon, scrape chocolate from around the rim of my glass. Mmmmm… somehow, I seem to have got chocolate all over my fingers.
The plan, hatched back home over a copy of the Rough Guide, was to finish my chocolat de maison, go up to the cathedral, then head off for Rue Nueve and check out the shops. But, passing through the Grand Place, en route from the hotel, I found that a stage was being set up, and sound checks done, for an ‘inter-cultural concert’ to celebrate the end of the Slovenian presidency (and the year of inter-cultural dialogue). It starts at 7, and it’s 6:15 now. So maybe Ill skip the shops – or the cathedral.
The sexy French-looking guy gets up and leaves. I am spooning the last of the chocolate from the bottom of the cup – oops, dripped some on my top. Time to move on.

For the first couple of days last weekend – before I got caught up in work and socialising – I spent a fair amount of time sitting in cafes, on park benches, wherever, and scribbling in my notebook. OK, so I know most of it is only of interest to me – but that’s the whole point of a blog, to inflict your personal drivelings onto unsuspecting and undeserving others.
So, here is my ‘Blog Bruxellois’… (or the start of it, anyway)

Bar chat de la Bourse... spotted in three different locations
His expression sums up the reaction I normally get from males

... if you insist
Spanish friend in the background with a strange expression, as usual.

Not sure what 'Omlegging' is, but it definitely sounds deviant

Typical weather

Watch those clouds...

La Maison de Renard (Ranard?)

Trompe l'oeil

Beer and chocolate

Chez 'Le Pain Quotidien'
I WANT TO GO BACK!!!!

Yum yum yum yum yum

Est-il le vrai Tin Tin???

Un petit 'top up'

All on my ownsome at St Pancras, with 2 hours to kill.
What's a girl to do???

Smoked salmon and scrambled eggs, anyone?

After you, Sir John

I lie in the hammock, waiting for the moon. It’s evening now, the heat has gone, but the air is still sweet, the birds still sing, the fountain is still playing. A plane drones overheard, the woodpigeons are calling behind the house. The cat comes to join me, rubbing against the bare leg which hangs negligently over the side, the foot pushing against the ground, back and forth, back and forth, the gentle motion. I close my eyes, and see the red glow again, behind my lids.
I feel the tears come. Why, why, where are they from? Why the melancholy? Opening them, I see through a mist, close them, quickly, quickly, squeeze out these pointless tears, squeeze them away.
The tree branches form a pattern, I watch them as the breeze rearranges the leaves, a late bee still working hard, only a speck, but its silhouette is caught against the light. I’m in shade here, but look, over there, the old silver birch is still catching the sun in its highest branches.
And why, why, why again, when there are so many reasons to be grateful, why this dreary emptiness? Why does my life feel like a bad joke? Why am I lying here, lost and loveless, empty and wanting? The moon won’t be here for an hour or more, what is the point? Go inside, put some music on, make a cup of coffee, read a book. Why lie here, back and forth, back and forth, waiting for the one who will never come?
I roll round, put my feet on the ground, sit with my head in my hands for a few seconds before I get up, remove the hooks, begin to roll up the canvas. It might rain tonight.
I am almost at the door, when I stop and turn back. The blackbird calls, startled. I unwrap the hammock, put it back in place.
The moon will come. Of course it will. And later…maybe….?
Who knows.

'Oneness is achieved by recognising your self'
'Happiness is taking things as they are'

Oh crescent moon,
That shines outside my window,
I last saw you
Reflected in the Seine.

Between the towers of Notre Dame,
You smiled and watched me
Walking through
The Latin Quarter.

Behind the girders
Of the Eiffel Tower,
You winked at me,
Your light as white,
As the dome of Sacre Coeur.

Oh crescent moon,
That shone upon the Seine,
Why do you peer
Through branches, at my window?
Reminding me
That life can never be
That way again?

© Melinda Belynda
08 June 2008

As you can tell, I've had a busy afternoon

Well, I did work VERY hard this morning
AND I've done the hoovering
So, this was my little treat to myself...

Me Time

Among the trees,
Between the earth and sky,
On ropes suspended,
Swaying gently,
Canvas wraps around my body,
Holds me close.

Branches creak and grumble,
Whispering leaves tell stories
To the inattentive bees,
Humming to drown the tales
Of times long gone,
Too busy with the business
Of today.

The fountain splashes
In amongst the cooing of the doves.
Warm scents of grass and honeysuckle
Cannot tempt the bees
From roses, heavy, sensuous.

Through veiled lids
I see the crimson glow of summer.
And do I feel,
Cool lips upon my skin?
Warm flesh to share my joy?
Here in this summer afternoon, it seems
That anything could happen.

© Melinda Belynda
08 June 2008

1. What I was doing 10 years ago:
Looking for a job and having one last fling with my Erstwhile Male Best Mate (not knowing that he was about to get a job in Derby and bugger off out of my life for good).

2. What 5 things are on on my to-do list for today (not in any particular order):
Try to find recipes for gooseberries and/or bananas
working on conference paper that should have been in yesterday
blogging
cooking dinner
gardening

3. Snacks I enjoy:
cheese (most sorts) with crackers or French bread (ideally with red wine );
Doritos with creamy dip (ideally with a few Margaritas ); salty butter popcorn; welsh rarebit

4. Things I would do if I was a billionaire:
Travel. My current dream is to take off across Europe by train, which would hardly take billions, so I’d probably give away most of it.
Sure I could think of something more constructive given time.

5. Places I have lived:
Scunthorpe; Southampton; Hatfield; Bedford and environs; Dallas, Texas

I tag the following:
I don’t do tagging

no idea why, I just do

It's 9 o'clock.
the bottle is empty.
and the washing up still need doing

This is an old story which I’m paraphrasing from memory, so I won’t give it too many elaborate details:

One freezing cold morning, a little bird collapsed in a field, too cold and exhausted to fly.
A friendly cow came along and dropped a nice warm cow pat over the bird.
The warmth from the cow pat revived the bird, and it began to sing.
A cat heard the bird, fished it out of the cow pat with its paw, and ate it.

The moral is:
Whoever drops you in the sh1t is not necessarily your enemy.
Whoever gets you out of the sh1t is not necessarily your friend.
But when you’re in the sh1t, keep your mouth shut!

Someone sent this to me on Facebook... I had to pass it on
The younger guy reminds me of my son

This is not necessarily an answer to Freud, or a response to Suzee’s writing opportunity (which I only read about yesterday… not sure how I missed it), but just an observation from village life.
Both my Parish Councils have suffered a spate of resignations lately – 2 from one, and 1 from the other - so we are recruiting. I have put a notice in the parish magazine, but inevitably in a village of 400 people, most of the communication is done through personal contacts.
I had occasion to email a resident about something else a couple of weeks back, and, having met him a few times and concluded he was a nice bloke, I mentioned the vacancy and asked if he’d thought about it. He replied to say that the Chair(woman) had already spoken to him about it, and he was considering it. Then yesterday I was speaking to one of the existing (female) councillors, and she said: ‘Oh I hope we get him, I don’t think we’re supposed to say this about men, but he’s a bit of a sweetie’.
So what is it about this paragon that has all us ladies wanting to spend more time in his company? Well, he’s definitely not a sex god – in fact, I honestly can’t remember what he looks like – he doesn’t, as far as I know, drive a flash car or work in some high-powered job. He’s a friendly, affable guy, with a sense of humour, who is intelligent, talks sensibly to you , listen to your replies, respects other people’s point of view, and is willing to get involved and help out.
I just found it interesting that, although we had never discussed him between ourselves, we had obviously felt the same reaction towards him.