Tuesday, December 11, 2012

Laughing out Loud


 




It was a typical Northern California winter, with heavy rain and high humidity. My bones were cold and in need of warmth. I wanted to hibernate. Sitting in front of a blazing wooden-fire burning with high flames, a pleasant heat pervaded my living room. I didn’t want to go out. But I was supposed to have lunch with my girlfriend Laurie at the Bon Air Shopping Center. Courageously, I affronted the tempest. We met at Noah’s Bagel and ordered our favorite food. While savoring a poppy-seed bagel and sipping a hot latte, I started complaining about being cold to my girlfriend. She listened and said:

“It is not that cold. I thought you were born in Belgium, where the weather is much colder than here.”

“I was born in Africa where the weather is always warm,” I responded, waiting for my friend’s response.

“You were born in Africa? I didn’t know that.”

“My Aunt Lucy was born in Africa.”

“Really!?”

“Today, Aunt Lucy is a little over three thousand years old,” I explained with a smile.

“Ha, ha, ha …,” my friend laughed understanding my joke.

“Aunt Lucy is supposedly your Aunt too,” I explained with a big smile. “She’s the Aunt of all human beings. She is one of the known links in humanity’s ancestry that started in Ethiopia.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that theory before,” Laurie answered poking me with her elbow and continuing to laugh.

Seeing her laughing, I started laughing too. Laurie’s laugh was as contagious as a yawn. The contagious laugh didn’t clear easily either. Then, it was time for paper-tissues as my nose started running. One might have thought we had smoked a joint but we hadn’t. It was all genuine and innocent. We couldn’t stop laughing. We laughed a very long time while tears of joy invaded our eyes.
On another outing with my girlfriend, Laurie and I went to the movie theater in San Rafael. We were going to see a French movie.

“The movie is in French with English subtitles,” my girlfriend continued. “It should be easy for you.”

“Yes, I should be fine,” I replied. “It will be good practice. I’m losing my French these days. I can’t find certain words in French when I talk to my mother on the phone.”

“That is not funny.”

“If you don’t use it, you lose it,” I said remembering a famous American expression.

In the dark amphitheater of the movie house, we sat in the back rows popcorns in hand.
Movie trailers started unfolding onto the giant screen. The Northern California movie-theater advertised for new movies that would be showing in a near future. The theater room was packed with Marin residents in search of an evening of entertainment. As it happened, a violent film was eventually promoted on the screen. The trailer for the movie didn’t appeal to me. Without a conscious control of my thoughts, my mouth exclaimed out loud:

“I don’t think so.”

Laurie started to laugh, everyone in the room started to laugh.

“Oups,” I said softly to my girlfriend.

 Staring at Laurie, I started to laugh as well.
When the next advertisement for another movie came onto the screen, Laurie and I were still laughing. Waves of laughs bounced back between us like a ping pong ball. Again, we couldn’t stop. Tears began to drip down my cheeks while my hand desperately searched for tissues.

“Shhhhhhhhhhh,” said the crowd.

Our French movie was starting and we were able to stop our compulsive behavior. While eating warm popcorns, we stared at the big screen. The title: “La Vie en Rose” appeared in gigantic letters and the famous Edith Piaf song began to play. With my girlfriend, I discovered the tragic life story of the notorious French singer. I was glad to have extra tissues with me. I hadn’t cried in a movie for years. Walking out of the theater Laurie said:

“You know. You are part of our family.”

“My adopted family,” I responded with a smile. “A very nice one.”

And we hugged.

Back in Belgium for more than a year, I miss Laurie’s hugs. I miss all my California friends’ hugs. Belgians don’t hug, they kiss. In Belgium one kiss on the cheek is usually the custom. On the bright side of life, laughing seems universal and a human need. Most humans enjoy a good laugh. Yet laughs and tears seem of opposite forces. While tears often come from sorrow, sometimes tears are pearls of joy. I miss great laughing with Laurie.
 
 
 
The End
 

 

Sunday, November 11, 2012

Best Friends


While growing up in Belgium, I had a few friends. At the time, my girlfriend Catherine was my best friend. For a while we shared a small apartment at the edge of Brussels. One summer afternoon, Catherine phoned me at work.
“Can you stop by my mother’s work and convince her that I’m fine,” my best friend said. “She’s worrying about me.”
“Ok,” I answered. “I’ll be home around 7pm. I’m so glad you are feeling better.”
Arriving home that evening, I found my best friend in bed. Her face was colorless, her body inert. At first I thought she was asleep. Then I worried.
“Catherine,” I exclaimed. “I’m home.”
But Catherine wouldn’t wake up. I touched one of her hands. Her hand felt cold. Hastily I phoned 911. Ten minutes later an ambulance arrived. A few men tried to reanimate my friend but without success. So they took her to the hospital.  
A few weeks earlier, Catherine and I had spoken.
“I dreamed about you,” I’d said. “In my dream, you told me that you were dead even though you looked alive and talked to me.”
“That’s funny,” Catherine had retorted laughing. “I’ve been thinking about committing suicide. I know the right pills to swallow.”
“Are you joking? What about your family, your friends,” I’d said. “What about me.”
“Yes, I know,” she’d retorted. “But I’m in so much pain. I don’t feel like living these days.”
My girlfriend’s laughs and words had startled me. I knew Catherine wasn’t well. Her boyfriend had left her for another woman. A psychologist was supposedly helping her deal with her heartache. In a way, I thought she was safe. I was mistaken.
For weeks, Catherine stayed in intensive care at one of Brussels’ hospitals. She was in a coma. While her body looked rosy and healthy, her brain was presumably dead. Every other day I went to visit my best friend at the hospital. Holding one of her hands in mine, I talked to her. I begged her:
“Please wake up.”
But my girlfriend wouldn’t wake up. Eventually, the doctor in charge disconnected her from life support. In a few minutes my best friend was gone.
The death of Catherine changed my life. I felt guilty for not being able to help my best friend. I felt guilty for arriving home too late. I should have taken my dream seriously. Shortly after Catherine’s funeral, I talked to my mother.
“I’m going to quit my job and leave Belgium,” I simply said. “I’m going to America.”
“You are?” she replied. “You know your father wouldn’t approve.”
“But dad is dead,” I continued. “He died last year. I need space. I need to see the world.”
“Do what you have to do then,” my mother finally responded.
“Thank you,” I finally replied. “If I don’t go, I’ll die too.”
Before leaving Belgium, I didn’t have the courage to say goodbye to some of my friends. I was feeling sad, angry and lonesome. In Europe, psychologists were only starting to become popular. Catherine was seeing one before she died, and what help did she get? Thus, I left my native country like a thief, fleeing away with my sorrows.

By the beginning of autumn, I was heading towards Northern California. I had a friend there. Michaela and I had met a few years earlier, while I was backpacking along the California coastline.
“You are welcome to stay with me in Mill Valley,” explained Michaela when I phoned her.
“That’s sounds wonderful. Thank you.”
Mill Valley is located in Marin, north of San Francisco and the Golden Gate Bridge. The small town features a large square, with various shops, restaurants and cafés. Hills and redwood trees also share the town’s landscape.
While my new life felt therapeutic, I often cried. My dreams where loaded with my best friend’s memories. Catherine’s ghost was playing tricks on me.
“Did anyone in Belgium tell you that I didn’t die after all,” the ghost in my dream said.
“No, no one told me,” I replied. “I’m so happy. I’ve been crying over you for months.”
“I’m alive and well,” the ghost explained.
Yet as soon as I awoke, reality returned. For years I kept on dreaming similar scenarios, until one night.
“Take me to California,” Catherine’s ghost once asked me.
“You’ll have to ride on my back,” I replied. “Where do you want to go?”
“To Stinson Beach,” she said knowing where I had been.
This time in my dream, I was a Bald eagle. Catherine sitting on my back, we flew together across the Atlantic and towards the Pacific Ocean. Our journey only took a few seconds. Quickly my sharp bird’s eyes located Stinson Beach while discerning a few miniature human buildings along Highway 1.
“I need to eat,” I said to Catherine.
“I’m hungry too,” she replied.
“Let’s go to The Sand Dollar Restaurant,” I explained. “I want salmon.”
Although I had metamorphosed into a bird, my girlfriend had remained human. She was holding my white neck with her two hands, her feet and legs tightly embracing my feathered body.
“There it is,” I said. “Hold on tight. We’re going to land.”
Adjusting my claws, I landed smoothly on the one of the tables in the restaurant’s outdoor terrace. We sat in the two last empty chairs. A waitress came fast. She didn’t seem startled about my transformation. The many customers already sitting and eating didn’t seem to care either. Catherine couldn’t speak English, so I ordered.
“Two bagels with cream cheese and lox please,” I said to the waitress.

After ingesting our lunch, we left the beach café and headed east towards Belgium. While flying away, we slowly vanished into annihilation. Today, often still, Catherine and I meet in a reality solely existing in my dreams.
 

 

Saturday, October 6, 2012

Todos Santos, The Town of all Saints




Todos Santos, The Town of All Saints


I’ve only been to Mexico once. By all means, my knowledge about the country of Mexico is quite limited. But my Spanish is improving. Not long ago, I started taking lessons in a small town near Brussels, Belgium, where I presently live. Learning a new language that resembles French is definitely enjoyable.

When my California friend, Jack, invited me to spend a week in a small Mexican town call Todos Santos, I diligently followed. At the time, Belgium was experiencing constant rainfalls. The prospect of sun felt a deliverance.  

Before my departure I looked at the website of a resort adjacent the Pacific Ocean, reading of birds, a large swimming pool containing salted water, a virginal beach and organic food. The website also disclosed pictures. I discovered a Mexican eco-friendly resort standing proudly amongst palm trees of all kinds. It all sounded perfect and idyllic.

I didn’t further investigate on what else I would see and discover in Baja California, leaving my upcoming adventure to serendipity. Anyway, the sun would be shinning. What else would I need? I knew the weather would be warm, while the nearby ocean’s wind perhaps refreshing. I knew the benefit of sunblock. The Aloe Vera gel used for sunburns. When it came to clothing I was also prepared. A bathing suit was a must but also shorts, sandals and roomy cotton tops that allowed breathing. I totally underestimated Mexican mosquitoes though. And little did I know about other creatures living in that part of the world.

One summer morning, I left rainy Belgium and headed towards Northern California. While reuniting with the Bay Area and spending time with friends, my jetlag went smoothly away.  A week later, I was back at San Francisco Airport. This time, Jack and I took a short flight to Los Cabos located in Mexico. At the old fashion airport, we rented a car. The small town of Todos Santos was a little less than two hours away. If all goes well on the highway.

Passing through the town of San Jose, we spotted a grocery store call Mega. Jack went in, while I stayed by our rental car. I wanted to make sure all our belongings remained in our white Volkswagen. Presently in Belgium, intelligent humans would never leave belongings inside a car for all eyes to descry, while fraudulent temptations are on the rise.
In the giant parking lot, Jack said:

“I know we need help with directions, but don’t talk to anyone while I’m gone.”

“Ok,” I said wondering about our safety in a country I knew so little.

At the time I wasn’t well aware of Mexico City’s agitations, only guessing. While living in Belgium, I mostly hear of tensions unfolding in Greece, Spain, Egypt and other troubled countries. Mexico seemed behind in the European news’ priority list.

With the help of my companion, I quickly grasped the tensions unrolling in the Mexican capital. Hopefully Mexico City was far enough from us. So I wouldn’t worry.

Waiting outside, the mid-afternoon sun felt amazingly hot. The stuffy atmosphere transpired with highly charged humidity. I had left foggy San Francisco in a pair of Jeans and a long sleeves cotton top that started to feel very sticky. I went back inside the car and waited. Jack finally walked back from the giant store with a bag full of groceries.

“You should have put the air conditioner on, while waiting.”

“I thought I did,” I responded. “I’m melting.”

“I bought bottles of water,” he said. “Here drink,” handing me a bottle.

“Thank you,” I responded. “I’m very thirsty. Let’s go now. You were in that store forever.”

“You should have come in. It’s enormous in there,” he explained. “I talked to a vendor for a while. He was all smiles. Everything you want or need in that store. I bought a cooler and a bottle of Cava for you.”

“Super,” I replied. “I can’t wait to take my clothes off, jump in the pool and have a glass of bubbles.”

At last we found highway 19, after touring a few times around a large roundabout connected to numerous streets and multiple stop signs, left and right. Jack wasn’t sure when to stop or drive but other drivers, even a policeman driving through, waved with one hand to let us pass. Perhaps the colors of our hairs helped the friendly residents to yield their driving rights. Traveling through a busy neighborhood saturated with convenient stores, by and by we arrived at the edge of civilization. Eventually, we passed Cabo San Lucas or a touristy destination for surfing fans. A few well-known American hotels promoted luxury in front of a golden beach. The Pacific Ocean came into view with white foams rolling in the distant water.

“Beautiful Ocean,” I proclaimed.

“I have to keep my eyes on the road,” retorted Jack holding the wheels.

“Right.”

As we drove further north, isolated adobes surrounded by giant green cactuses unfolded before our eyes. Millions of tall prickly plants inhabited the surrounding hills and small mountains, but also green shrubs or trees that perhaps were never able to grow taller.

Meanwhile, similar highway signs kept on appearing. The signs reminded drivers of the possibility to turn around in the middle of the highway, a few hundreds kilometers away. Highway 19 connects one place to another. No small or major towns built in between, just a road cutting through a thorny undulated landscape. No gas stations to fuel either, or side roads that might lead to the other side of the highway. The practical setting seemed dangerous to me.

While hills of cactuses unrolled on one side of the highway, here and there, I glanced at the sporadic view of the Pacific Ocean appearing on my left. The blue hue of the water looked impressive, the waves titanic.

Cars passed us by. Some cars had no back plates, while some drove SUV. Arriving at a gate, a large sign read: Pueblo Magico, announcing the small town of Todos Santos. Another small sign directed us to our resort named Posada la Poza. A name I translated into: A Place to Rest.

Leaving the asphalt road behind, we proceeded unto a yellow dirt road. On each side of the unruly road, precarious housings surrounded by garbage filled the scenery. I didn’t expect the sighting. My friend read my face.

“This is Mexico,” Jack remarked.

“I wasn’t prepared,” I retorted.

“We are not in Belgium, or in the United States.”

“I didn’t expect such poverty.”

Grasping my surroundings and the Mexican way of living, I felt uncomfortable. Skinny dogs roamed in one dusty street while small children played soccer on a fortuitous playground. On one side of the following street, two horses tied to a pole munched on grasses. The path to our destination also revealed multiple half-built houses, with long iron poles stretching for the blue sky. I wondered what our resort would look like.

Finally, at the top of a small hill, an adobe-wall encircling colorful abodes came into sight. A sign read: Posada la Poza. We had arrived. The iron entrance gate was closed. Jack rang the bell. A young man carrying keys arrived at the door, a few dogs walking at his side.

“My name is Louis. I’ll show you your room,” meant the smiling young man in broken English.

“Thank you,” I said while Louis carried our luggage to our room.

The owners of the resort came to meet us, both also wearing large smiles on their faces. The couple owning yet managing the property had a foreign accent when speaking in English. Years ago, Juerg and Libusche left Zurich, Switzerland, in search of sun and perhaps another chance in life. Their five dogs wandering the partially enclosed resort had all been rescued.

As we walked towards our bedroom, a tropical garden welcomed us inside an enchanted world. Jasmine flowers unveiled a magical perfume. Palm trees, flowering shrubs, cactuses and various Aloe Vera plants revealed their beauty while the sound of hummingbirds’ wings sang their way around. Unfamiliar sounds also filled the air.

Our bedroom was welcoming, spacious and providing with free WiFi. In no time, Jack and I dressed in our bathing suits and headed to the swimming pool. A small pathway guided us to a Zen landscape displaying empty long chairs, waiting to serve. An Aztec stone statue atop a waterfall guarded the large swimming pool. We both advanced and stepped into the water. The pool’s temperature felt refreshing against my entire body while salted water caressed my skin. Blue and red dragonflies raced above our heads.

“Are we dreaming?” I said. “This is absolutely lovely.”

“Look at the lagoon, the ocean behind, and the birds.”

“Looks like pelicans to me, and white herons too.”

“Let’s go have a closer look.”

Still wearing our wet bathing suits, we slowly progressed towards a large blue lagoon where various water-birds stood still, long beaks espying for food. Green high grasses highlighted the azure bird sanctuary, while a few towering palm trees swayed in the coastal wind. As the sun started imbuing the sky with shades of red, we headed back to our room. The resort’s restaurant was our next undertaking.

While residing in Northern California for many years, I often ate Mexican food. Enchilada is one of my favorites, without forgetting quesadilla, sour cream, guacamole, chips and hot salsa.

That night at the resort’s restaurant, and for several nights, I ordered fish. With my supper, I opted for the house’s organic salad made with Litchi Mexican tomatoes called Morelle de Balbis growing wild in front of the resort’s lagoon, shredded carrots, red beets and green lettuce. A touch of vinaigrette made with mysterious ingredients gave my salad a taste nonpareil. Although my meal was never voluminous, my stomach always felt satiated. I also greatly appreciated eating organic meals.

Often we decided to eat in the indoor dining-room, instead of the terrace standing above the resort’s main restaurant. Even at nights, the temperature was oppressive. The fans spinning in the indoor restaurant only felt a temporary relief. Yet on the ceiling, small ramping geckos seemed dormant. The light green lizards became a blessing. While we ate, my head kept on looking up, watching the tiny creatures advancing towards invisible preys, mosquitoes.

My first night in a comfortable bed was from time to time interrupted by waves of heat, even with two fans in constant motion. Perhaps turning the air-conditioner on while we slept was the solution to my discomfort.

With new days rising, our breakfasts always awaited us on an outdoor terrace featuring small round tables garnished of flowery vases, tropical orchids in woven baskets and an oil-painting created by Juerg’s wife, Libusche. The female artist exhibits her semi-abstract paintings throughout the resort. Fruits were daily on the breakfast menu. I tasted of juicy mangoes that flourished in the region, and Swiss Müesli. One morning after breakfast, we decided on a walk to the beach. The sun was already hot. I put on a hat to protect my blond hair and fair scalp.

To get to the beach, we followed a rocky dirt road along a hill to finally step into sand the color of sunshine. I took my shoes off but quickly put them back on. The sand was burning. Eventually reaching wet sand, I was able to walk shoeless, feeling like a child again, my toes playing in sea-water.

“Don’t go too close,” said my friend. “The current is extremely dangerous here.”

“I can see that,” I responded. “No surfing here I guess.”

“No, not here. Stay away, a wave could come and grab you and you’ll never be able to come back.”

“Ok,” resigning myself to more secure ground or where the waves wouldn’t have a chance.

While pursuing our walk, we encountered pelicans taking a break near the ocean, drying their longs wings in the sun and hot wind. A few black water-birds flew by our side, completely unafraid of our presence. I looked for whales in the ocean waves and learned that we were too early to see colossal mammals traveling south. Not a human soul in sight on the tropical beach, only the two of us and nature at its best.

On our next walk to the beach, we met an old man sitting under an elementary shelter made of dried palm leaves. Although our conversation was in Spanish, Jack and I understood that the indigenous man was guarding a turtle sanctuary. Soon, thousands of eggs would hatch. We didn’t grasp his whole discourse though. But the upcoming full moon gave us a clue. Unfortunately we missed the event. The night of the blue moon, we noticed human shadows on the beach heading toward the extraordinary occasion. People went to help the newly born baby turtles to reach the ocean in safety. 

A few days later, we left our dreamy resort and headed towards Todos Santos.  Arriving in the small town, we discovered a Mexican version of Hotel California. In the hotel’s souvenirs shop, an Eagles’ song played again and again: “Welcome to the Hotel California. Such a lovely place ….”  In an adjacent dirt street, we located a colorful café. Sitting indoors under two large wooden fans in full action, I drank an ice Latte and noticed a painting by Gabo, a Mexican artist. Frida Kahlo was also idolized in the small town, as well as La Madre de Mexico shielded of a light blue aura.

Awhile later as we entered an open street shop, multiple beach wraps dyed in bright colors grasped my attention. In the back of the store, a young mother carried her baby while two young girls dressed in dark uniforms ate their lunch. Both girls were sweating. I was too. There was no ventilation in the store.  Further along, we ventured into the local supermarket that sold fruits and vegetables but also bottles of drinking water. Each day, I drank litters of water. We had none left. Thankfully, each day the resort provided us with free bottles of water to clean our teeth, and avoid getting sick. While in town, I also noticed locals walking around with a cloth in hand, and from time to time, sponging their faces. I started carrying a bathroom cloth everywhere I went.

On our last day of vacation, we headed one last time to Todos Santos.

“Can we have a Latte,” I requested.

“Yes. We can.”

“Let’s go back to the coffee house we discovered when we first came to town,” I further said.

“That place is funky.”

“I like it. Lots of colors inside and great pieces of art on the walls,” I added.

“Yes, interesting pieces.”

“The pencil portrait of Frida smoking a cigarette is the way I’d like to draw.”

“I’ve noticed the drawing.”

 With all the water my bladder had already ingested, I needed to go to the bathroom.

“Can you order a hot Latte for me?  I’ll be right back.”

“Hot?” Jack responded.

“Yes. Last time I ordered an ice Latte I found an iceberg in my drink.”

“Are you still worried about water?”

“We’re flying tomorrow. Even though I have no unpleasant ailments to report, I don’t want to try my luck.”

I left my companion in a hurry. At least, relieving myself and proceeding to flush the toilet, no water came about. Without thinking further, I attempted to wash my hands. Putting liquid soap in one of my tan hands, I turned on the faucet water. No water came out either. Walking back to the kitchen’s café, I asked the female server:

No agua, No water?”

Si. No agua, Yes. No water,” she said, rinsing my soapy hands with water pouring out of a jar, and smiling.

Gracias, Thank you,” I responded smiling back.

Later that day, we learned that the town would have no running water for days. The municipal water plant caught on fire. Fortunately for us, Posada la Poza had plenty of running water.
While taking a shower the next morning, I felt very lucky and grateful.
 
Our vacation in Todos Santos faded away and so did our venture to Mexico. After saying farewell to the friendly staffs, we left the precious resort, the beautiful garden yet the incredible view.
Back in Belgium again, I reflected on the hot Mexican days I experienced. Breathtaking recollections feed my mind. Thankfully, I feel blessed that Posada la Poza never experienced a shortage of water. I'm not sure how I would have handled a lack of running water for days, while under a blazing sun. Still today, I find myself smilling and delighted in the power of smile.  
  

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

Monday, July 9, 2012

A Peek at Life through my Eyes




I was born not too long ago; I do not remember when though. My mother had many babies all at once. We were a very big family. My many siblings and I used to fight to be fed, and quickly I acquired the skill to fight for survival.

At two months old, I left home, and moved to another family. A human family. Possibly my siblings did the same, we were all separated. But then again, some of my kin may have stayed home, I don’t know. I was never told. Since then and for some reason, I’ve acquired what humans call OCD or obsessive compulsive disorder.  Nowadays, I lick and chew my paws for hours, or obsessively tongue the cat that shares my home.

I don’t remember much about my second home and family, except for the feeling of being neglected once. Fortunately I didn’t stay in my second human family very long. When still an infant I moved with my third human family. Today, I have a large yard for my pleasure, toys to play with, plenty of love and samplings of human food. I love raw carrots but also yogurt and of course ice cream. Profiteroles without chocolate is also on my list of favorites.

My present master is pretty cool, and I would follow her to the end of the world. She can’t walk fast, but I can spring and hop at a very high speed. I won’t leave my master’s sight and wait patiently outdoors for her return when she leaves, driving in her French automobile. By now I’ve recognized the sound of her car’s engine and can tell when she’s coming home. In those moments, I can’t help myself but run and bark loudly wherever I am. I am so happy.

To my defense, I’m a great hunter. At home mice are a real concern. This winter an entire family of mice was lodging behind the kitchen counter. My four legs are close to the ground. I can reach within small areas with my narrow pointy nose, or run as fast as mice do. I caught a few. I resemble a terrier with long blond-reddish hair sometimes covering parts of my eyes. I have a pointy black nose and brown eyes that understand a human smile. With my long dark eyelashes covering parts of my olive shaped eyes, I can charm most humans. My belly is bare and my soft pink stomach always warm.

I can also run like a gazelle. When I’m mad the hair on my back stand upward while my nose is breathing odd scents throughout the air. My tail curls up and my ears flop as I jump and run. Birds are not welcome on my land, I’ll chase then until a fence stops me. Too bad I can’t climb a tree. Birds are not allowed on my home’s roof either. I’ll become hysterical and bark to frighten the unwanted creatures away. Birds are also prohibited in the green house where tomatoes and lettuces grow. Once, I caught a black bird in the glass house. The bird was lucky to escape my sharp teeth.

Butterflies are in a samilar category as birds. I’ll jump and try to catch the very small flying wings fluttering on my path. But I never catch any. My behavior when I meet a frog is a wee different. The wet creature is slow, and I’m on my guard. I’ll watch without moving for a long while then try to tease the poor soul into running. My success is limited though; the shiny visitor only hops a few inches. I’m not so interested after all.

When nights begin I need to make a few runs around my outdoor kingdom, barking here and there. I need to scare and chase away all the nightly invaders, one last time before retiring. 

But cats are also a big no no. Except for my feline brother, Tim, all other cats are my enemies. One of my human neighbors has five of them. The felines love to tease me, trespassing on my outdoor property in full daylight. I’ll make them run for their lives too.

Well the cat, Tim, is sometimes a challenge. Most of the time, I’ll share my feeding bowl with him. But if my master or her sister is preparing their meals, I’ll become aggressive. Tim is no longer my friend or brother. The heavy red cat is no longer allowed to feed in my bowl. I’m very fortunate that Tim doesn’t seem to take my protective mood too badly. I guess my stomach speaks for my head and for my adverse behavior. But I love my feline brother. We sometimes sleep side my side and our coloring matches. Tim’s soothing purrs often foster my departures into dreamland.

But on the other paw, if Tim the cat is mad at me, I’ll run and take refuge into my master’s arms, yapping for help. I have to watch myself and not be always so playful. Tim’s bad moods are unexpected, yet I can grasp small signs that prevent him to reach forward and scratch my nose or eyes.

When I’m impatient, I’ll bark while my human master and her sister eat supper on the high and unreachable dining table. In those moments, my barks resemble deep words that push my hostesses to share their meals. Well, usually I have to wait until the end of their meals to get leftovers. Oftentimes when my nose connected to my stomach, passing through my head, smells human food, I’ll say “woo, woo, woo,” to remind the female human beings that I’m waiting. My hostesses always respond with similar sounds “woo, woo, woo,” that pushes me to bark more. The two intelligent women have grasped that I am starving.

But I also use the same barking tone when visitors come and ring the bell. Some of these human visitors are not sure if my speech is a threat or what I am trying to express. Fortunately, my adoptive family is always there to say: “She’s just talking, not barking at you.”
Some of the strangers embrace me while others stay away, seeming perplexed.

Oftentimes, well many times this year, the rain has come to visit Belgium. If it is raining outside, I don’t want to go out and have to be pushed outdoor to go to the toilets. I don’t like my fur to get wet. My feet don’t mind but my head does. But if the sky is low with heavy clouds, I’ll tell my master that we need to go for a walk.

“Woo, woo, woo,” I say. “Let’s go out.”
“Woo, woo, woo,” my master replies. “Just a minute.”

To go for a walk, I have to wear a leash. But once we’ve arrived at the nearby park, I can run free.  Right now the park is very green with high grasses, wild red poppies and marguerites growing tall while waving amidst a refreshing Belgian wind. Off leash, I’ll run after a hare I just spotted in the corn field that starts at the end of the park. I’ll run for crows and pheasants too. My four legs are strong and I thrust the air in a swift amount of time.

My master’s not happy if I go too far, and out of her voice’s reach. Nowadays, I’m learning to come back on a whistle, but I still need more practice. There is so much wild life where I live. Well, wild and tame. I’ve gotten used to meeting cows, sheep, goats and horses, mostly throughout wired electrical fences. I’ve received a shock one day while racing after a feline predator. Barking for help, my two hostesses knew I was in pain and afraid. Brigitte came to fetch me.

But the best time of the day is at home, at night, in the sofa. A basket located in a remote place of my home and on the floor, used to be my bedding. Nowadays the human sofa is where I sleep at night. I’ve been quite convincing about my sleeping preferences. In the comfortable couch, I sit between my two hostesses. They both love to massage my tummy and I love it too. I’ll scratch for more massages or attention. Tummy massages are the best. In return I’ll lick the female humans if they wish, or not. I can sometimes be a burden with my licking, but I can’t help it.

On the high couch, I also love to play with the blankets and cushions. Up on stage, I’ll softly growl and roll around. Once on my back, head tilted, I open my mouth and smile at my two favorite human faces. I can stay on my back paws up, for quite some time without feeling queer. My mouth keeps on opening when I’m tickled.

But there is a third female human face I always love to see. My senses make me believe that the humans are connected. Maybe they’re all sisters. I would probably recognize my brothers and sisters if I met them. I wonder if I’d be happy to see my siblings.

In any event my life is pretty good right now. Often I’m called Princess although my real name is Lannah. If I was human, being a Princess would perfectly fit my lifestyle. I sleep long hours, have plenty of attention, play when I want and am fed very well. I just have to ask and I’m being served. I have no complaints to report.  



FIN















Saturday, June 9, 2012

Life as it is, Life as it was: A World without Fences

Life as it is, Life as it was: A World without Fences: I often catch myself speaking to birds, any birds. I must have been ten years old when I found a small bird struggling in my backya...

A World without Fences






I often catch myself speaking to birds, any birds. I must have been ten years old when I found a small bird struggling in my backyard, flapping its undeveloped wings trying to take off. I named the young wild bird Juni for the month of June. The Belgian Merlette fell off her busy nest perched in a generous pear tree that sat in the middle of our family garden. The Merlette’s nest contained four eggs and by the month of June the bird-cradle became too small, pushing one of the small birds to leave home too soon.

Luckily for Juni I ran fast and was first to spot and collect the baby bird before any of our many cats might. My love for cats was deep, but I also knew of their killer instincts. Our family’s furry pets were known for catching birds and rodents, in hope of securing a wild meal, or to present us with dead offerings.

Even though I was aware of our cats roaming wildly into their territories, my backyard resembled a small heaven: everything I dreamed of as a young girl. The rectangular and long yard had a redbrick fence and trees all around its edges while fencing other neighborhood plots. Lilac trees bloomed each spring with exuberant purple and white blossoms. Every spring I created generous bouquets to put on our dining table. There was plenty for me to discover in our buzzing backyard while I lived in the Belgian capital.  My bird pet was a blissful discovery.

My parents saw no objection in adding a new member to our pet family. Searching in our dark house’s basement, I found an old birdcage that belonged to a rescued bird. I carefully washed the small cage and put young Juni on one of the batons inside her new confining home.

I knew the type of food to give my protégé, a kind of mixture consisting of crushed insects. The pet-store nearby sold me the precious meal. Standing in front of the bird’s open cage, and holding a sugar-spoon in my hand, I delicately filled the spoon with the dark concoction.

Ouvre la bouche,” opening my mouth wide open so Juni might do the same.
“Tjiiip, tjiiip,” chirped the young bird.

My technique was successful, my new pet showed zealous enthusiasm during her feeding time. While extending her neck, Juni opened wide her brown beak showing a pink throat, which my hand delicately spoon-fed many times a day. In no time, my bird grew strong. Soon, she was ready for flying lessons.

Upon my small white hand the bird stood, claws tightened around my index finger, her wings closed to her light body. Standing inside our atrium, I slowly moved my arm up and down, which in turn made Juni open her wings and start fluttering. We practiced flying lessons every day, several times a day, until the young bird finally took off, within the confinement of the indoor room. Cats were not allowed while we practiced, and I always made sure no doors were inadvertently opened by any of my sisters, or my parents.

As the bird’s wings matured, I took her outside. The time to practice flying outdoors had arrived. With Juni standing on my finger, I slowly moved my right arm up and down into the air. My protégé took off and landed in a neighbor’s tree. I was excited at the bird’s performance, yet I worried my pet wouldn’t come back. “Juni,” I called while brandishing my right arm and hand upwards toward the sky. In an instant, she flew back and landed right back where she had started. Juni always came back.

I knew that one day I would have to let my pet go though, yet I did nothing to encourage my new friend to leave me. Together, we walked to Madame Lamale’s small grocery store located a few houses down on our busy Brussels’s street. Madame Lamale gave my pet cherries, which the bird eagerly swallowed. People always noticed us on the street – Juni perched on my right shoulder – all with a big smile on their faces. I was happy too.

Like every summer, we went on holiday. With my family we traveled to France. We couldn’t take my friend with us, but cousin Jacques offered to look after my beloved bird. After giving Jacques strict specifics regarding Juni’s care, I left Belgium.

When we came back after two weeks vacation, I called Jacques who lived on the other side of Brussels, and asked when I could come and get my pet back. Jacques told me he opened the cage to let the bird fly a while, but the bird never came back.

“You told me you’d done it before,” said Jacques apologizing.
“Yes,” sniffling back my tears, “I knew this would happen one day. It is not your fault. I just wish I could have said goodbye.”

While feeling sad for days, and wondering where Juni could be, I noticed a Merlette in our front yard. The bird didn’t seem afraid when I came closer.

Full of hope, I called: “Juni, is that you?” while speaking in a gentle voice: “C’est moi, ton amie Brigitte. Don’t be afraid. Don’t you remember me?” while extending my right hand. The bird seemed to listen to my words, turning its head sideways to better view me. “Come back.”

But Juni never came back. Often, I wondered if my best friend of that year made it into a world she hardly knew. Many nights, I dreamed of flying in our garden, and seeing Juni perched high in the big pear tree, standing free. I dreamed of standing right next to my friend. Together, we listened to the metallic whistling of a black Merle, whose loud chirping awoke the entire neighborhood as the sun rose a new day.


FIN






Saturday, May 5, 2012

Walking on Cobblestones


A friend came to visit me in Belgium. For the occasion, we’d decided to rent a small apartment in downtown Brussels instead of staying in a hotel. On our list of visits, we’d planned to explore a few cities including Brussels, Antwerp and Bruges. We’d use trains, subways and trams as a mean of transportation but our feet would also carry us around. My friend brought several pairs of shoes in his luggage. I’d packed three pairs in mine including a pair of high heel shoes for our evening outings. For our daily excursions, I’d planned to wear my cowboy boots with pointy ends.

When it came to the clothes we would wear on our daily excursions, we were both adequately prepared. In April the Belgian weather can be capricious and acting like winter. Therefore: hats, gloves, scarves and warm coats had all been considered with great attention. Unfortunately my cowboy boots had lacked such concern. My black boots were old yet had traveled many places. I’d never suffered a problem before. But then again I don’t remember ever walking for hours on cobblestones.

When I first arrived in Brussels Central Station, I ventured walking to our rental apartment. My friend would arrive two days later. Thus on my own I walked the streets of downtown Brussels dragging my heavy suitcase behind me. Inside my black boots, my feet felt fine yet the sidewalks leading to my destination caused me pain. With each step, my luggage bounced slightly in the air causing my arm constant pressure. I hadn’t been in that part of Brussels for years and the high tower of La Grand Place’s pristine cathedral became my guide. I knew our rental was somewhere nearby. Trying bigger avenues with larger and modern sidewalks gave me relief. Without too much trouble I finally made it to Rue Jules van Praet.  

Two days later my friend, Guy, eventually arrived. He also had to haul his suitcase along several Brussels streets. But he didn’t complain. His shoes were of the right kind. For our first lunch in the Belgian capital we headed towards La Grand Place. Unfortunately, most of downtown Brussels’ streets as well as sidewalks are both made of cobblestones that have survived countless centuries. There’s no way to escape the roman pathways that once invaded Belgium in ancient times. That day my feet were feeling fine, and together we proceeded towards one of the cafés featured around the square. I heard the large square is about the size of a soccer field. 

I took my friend to La Chaloupe D’or, a vintage café restaurant proposing Belgian specialties.  For my friend I ordered a Belgian beer called Kwak. The Ale was served in a glass that had no foot for standing but a balloon instead.  A wooden support helped the tall glass to remain straight. I ordered a Russian Milk or the equivalent of a Café Latte at any Starbuck coffee shop. That day, our lunch consisted of a Croque Monsieur for my friend and a Hawaiian Croque – that included a slice of pineapple – for my delight. I’m not sure where the Croque originated from, but nowadays the grilled ham and cheese sandwich seems a popular item on many Belgian lunching menus.  

In the evening, still wearing my cowboy boots we walked to Le Grand Sablon located thousands of cobblestones away. To my feet’s appreciation, we eventually encountered modern pavements that lead to our evening restaurant. We ate at a Brasserie called: L’Entrée des Artistes. Our meals finished and our bellies highly satisfied, we headed back towards our rental located near La Bourse, or the former Brussels stock exchange and vintage building. On our way, we passed a shop that advertized 250 various Belgian beers. Hundreds of glasses – each specifically made for one beer – were also on display and for sale.

“Let’s go have a last drink on the Grand Place,” my friend announced while glancing at a magnum of Chimay beer.
“And see the square lit up at night,” I continued. “It’s quite impressive.”

After ingesting a nightcap in one of the plaza’s cafés, we toured the sizeable square that was practically empty. The many visiting tourists had left for the day. Alone in the middle of the giant plaza, we were both in awe. Our heads kept on gazing up at the roofs of the various medieval buildings. Walking with my head up was not the best idea for my feet that had to advance slowly to prevent downfalls. The whole square featured cambered cobblestones, which was not the ideal surface to walk on while looking upwards.

“I feel dizzy when I’m looking up for too long,” I explained. “My head’s spinning.”
“Me too, but the view is mesmerizing.”
“Look at the roofing of these buildings over there, gold paint,” I continued. “Well, I’m not sure it is still gold paint today.”
“Tomorrow, we’re going to Antwerp,” my friend retorted. “It will be a long day, let’s go home.”
“Yes, let’s go,” I answered. “My feet could use a rest.”

The next morning, we were ready for our next adventure. Neither of us had been in Antwerp before but we both knew of the city’s notoriety. Antwerp was for centuries the prime commercial port of Belgium. Today, the port’s activity is still prominent. A train carried us to Antwerp Central train station. From there our feet would do all the hard work. We had decided to walk the large city. In the old train station partially modernized, a Starbuck coffee shop made me feel like I was in California again.

“Let’s have a Latte before we start,” I announced. “Look even the cups look the same here.”
“But everything is written in Flemish,” Guy retorted.
“Yes, we’re in Flemish territory,” I answered. “We won’t speak French here.”
“Dank u, Thank you,” retorted my friend amused.
“Better to speak English than French is this part of the country,” I continued. “Everyone speaks a little English in Belgium.”

 From the train station, the city’s cathedral guided us again on our venture. Arriving on the main square of Antwerp, we discovered ancient small dwellings made out of bricks. Amongst the miniature lodgings the giant cathedral stood erected, theoretically aiming to protect its inhabitants from a daring universe.    

“People have grown with centuries,” I commented.
“The doorways look awfully small,” declared Guy. “I can’t imagine living in such small houses.”
“Yes, it would be challenging.”
“Cobblestones here too,” my friend remarked as we walked.
“Yes, cobblestones everywhere,” I replied. “I wonder who really built all these roads, and with such small stones. It must have taken years if not longer.”
“Is it the Romans’ soldiers or the Romans’ slaves who did the work?”
“I have no idea.”
“Let’s walk towards the port,” my friend explained. “My map indicates that we can walk all the way to the MAS museum, using this route.”
“Sounds good.”

So, we walked and walked. On our route, we traversed an ancient gate that used to be part of the city’s protective wall in medieval times and arrived on a promenade adjacent to what looked like a large estuary. The sky was painted in a Magritte tone. White puffy clouds floated aloof in an extensive blue celestial landscape. 

“Walking on the promenade is easier,” I exclaimed.  “The pavements are flat and modern.”
“Look, there’s a café at the end,” my friend continued. “Let’s take a break.”
“Yes, and there’s a terrace too. Let’s sit in the sun for a while. I haven’t seen the sun for weeks.”

The esplanade café had a protected terrace where we sat. While my friend sipped yet another Belgian beer, I ordered yet another Russian Milk. While absorbing the sun my feet rested. But we had more walking to do. After a pleasant break we headed towards the MAS museum by following the estuary going north. Eventually a modern high-rise came into view. Around the copper color building sea water with boats docked.

“There’s a platform on the roof of the museum with a great view of the city,” I said. “There’s also a restaurant up there where we can have lunch.”
“We have many levels to explore first,” my friend explained. “Let’s start at the beginning.”
“Ok, I’m ready.”

Numerous escalators took us to various levels inside the museum. On each floor, we discovered a large room filled with a distinctive exhibition. Arriving on the 8th floors, we then had to take staircases to reach the restaurant and the roof. Finally stepping on the museum’s roof, we contemplated the view for a moment then looked for the museum restaurant. We were hungry. Unfortunately the restaurant had closed for the day. We had to find another place to eat. On our way out the museum, we both witnessed a young lady wearing high heels plodding in front of us.

“Look at her leopard shoes,” my companion retorted.
“I hope she’s not walking home,” I said.

Taking the main square cathedral as a guide again, we proceeded towards downtown. My feet were not happy. My pointy cowboy boots were jamming my toes. I started to slow down and held my friend by the arm. While arriving on the city’s square, we both had noticed the colossal cone filled with yellow painted pretending fries that charmed passerby. Inside the wee shop, a couple was busy feeding on a white paper cone crammed with fries.

“What about French fries?” Guy inquired.
“At the fritkot?”
“The fritkot?”
“That’s how people call such place here. You want to eat fries?”
“Why not.”
“You know Belgians believe they invented fries, not the French,” I interjected.
“I didn’t know that.”
“I always thought fries were from Belgium, but who knows?”
“Look at all the different sauces you can eat with your fries,” my friend observed.
“I like my fries with mayonnaise and ketchup.”
“I’ve noticed that,” Guy said smiling.
“Let’s sit somewhere on the square while we eat. My feet are crying for a break,” I lamented.

Our Belgian fries finished, we proceeded back to the train station. Although the sun hadn’t faded yet, it was getting late. On the train ride, I tried to take a nap but couldn’t. My friend on the other hand was sound asleep. How am I going to walk tomorrow, I pondered. My feet are killing me right now. Finally back at the apartment, we changed into proper evening attires. Not knowing what to put on my feet, I tried my high heels. My toes actually felt better. My high heels weren’t as spiky compared to my boots. That evening, we ate at a Tai restaurant just underneath our apartment building. Our rental was part of a small Asian neighborhood. Inside the large Thai restaurant, Buddha heads and bigger than life Buddha statues infused the ethereal atmosphere. 

“I love all the Buddha,” I explained.
“Nice looking restaurant,” said my friend.
“I’m glad this place is so close. My feet are hurting.”
“Cobblestones are hard on the sole of my feet too.”
“Even with your shoes?”
“Yes, so I can imagine what you must feel.”
“Pain,” I replied sighting. “In the high heels I brought along, my toes have more space but I can’t imagine walking with those shoes for very long.”
“We won’t, my feet are tired too.”
“Can we not hurry tomorrow?”
“We should buy you some other shoes, walking shoes instead of cowboy boots.”
“That might be a good idea. I have tennis shoes though.”
“No, real walking shoes. Comfortable shoes to wear while walking on cobblestones.”

The next morning, we headed for a shoe shop and found one nearby. With my new pair of black walking shoes, we ventured a tour of Brussels, two museums and more walking. My toes felt fine but my feet felt awfully flat. After a day of visiting, my calves started to harden.

“I’m feeling my calves now. My feet are too flat in my new shoes. I need to insert insoles.”
“We’ll go buy some tomorrow.”
“Thank you. I don’t know how I’m going to visit Bruges on Monday,” moaning.

When Monday morning arose my legs and calves felt like sticks. Overnight I had metamorphosed into a robot that lacked knees. But we wanted to visit Bruges. Resigning myself to more walking, we headed to Brussels central train station again and took a train to the small medieval city known for its beauty.

“Could we do a boat tour on the city’s canals instead of walking today?”
“We could do that.”
“I’ve been in Bruges before, a long time ago, but I can’t remember where the train station is and how far we have to walk to get to the city’s center,” I explained. “I hope it’s not too far.”
“I hope so too.”

The main Bruges’ train station was a small distance from a verdant modern pathway circling the city. Cobblestones eventually appeared into the landscape. Walking on the taxing stones was inevitable. Repressing constant pain, I advanced forwards trying to redirect my thoughts on something pleasant like a waffle. In the capital, we had tried waffles and my friend really like it. At the first café we encountered on our way, we agreed on the Belgian delicacy.

“My waffle taste good.”
“I love mine too.”

That Monday, the wind was particularly strong and cold. The entire day, a chill ran throughout my body although I was appropriately dressed. Instead of touring Bruges on an open boat, we decided on a Picasso exhibition featured in an ancient nunnery hospital. Every time I saw a bench, I sat. At that point, standing or walking had become a torture that seemed to have travelled upward. I was a mess. Walking on cobblestones is to be taken seriously. Not wearing the right shoes is a big mistake.

Today, I still wonder who built those timeless roads. Traveling into the days of the Roman Empire, I envisioned thousands of men positioning small cobblestones, one by one, for hours, days, weeks, and years.