tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12708212011351240722024-03-14T09:52:46.802+01:00Beer, Chocolate, WafflesMe and the Professor http://www.blogger.com/profile/14315986297142456111noreply@blogger.comBlogger66125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270821201135124072.post-84873986218961243702012-07-09T01:47:00.001+02:002013-11-24T23:07:53.104+01:00Last Words<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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We're home! Or back, anyway. Our final night in Belgium was in the university town of Leuven, the Flemish half of the Catholic University of Leuven/Louvain. When the government decided to split the university in 1968, the Wallonians opened a new facility in Louvain-la-Neuve, taking half of everything including the library. And I mean half: two-volume works went Volume 1 to Leuven and Volume 2 to Louvain. Shows the difference between practical and sensible.<br />
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Anyway, Leuven is a pretty little city with a spectacularly ornate hotel de ville. We stayed near the Park Abbey (yes, more abbeys! This one was Norbertine, which has nothing to do with hermaphroditic dragons in Harry Potter but is a branch of Roman Catholicism that differs slightly in the wording of several rites). We had an excellent Italian meal in the town center -- with Belgian beers, of course, but there were no untried ones on the menu. </div>
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In the morning our flight took off on time and landed on time at JFK, where the temperature had hit 93. Our bags, crammed with beer and wine (as well as gifts and multiple items for ourselves, like our cereal bowls and beer glasses from the kringwinkel that will make us think of Gent each time we use them) made it through safely. We picked up Ben in the Bronx and arrived home by late afternoon. And since then it's been all unpacking, taking care of business, and getting horribly disfigured by a hornet sting. We'd forgotten what a dangerous place New York can be.<br />
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We saw places new and old, <br />
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met with friends new and old,<br />
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ate dishes new and old, <br />
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drank beers new and old (but especially new).<br />
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Somehow, in a way I never managed on earlier trips, I was able to appreciate nearly every moment of our time away. Certainly part of it had to do with this blog: bringing you along on our adventures, seeing things through both my eyes and yours, made everything doubly intense, doubly rich. (It also made it much easier for my sievelike brain to remember what we did.) So thank you! <br />
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Now that we're back, I wish that I could continue to appreciate events this way. Not likely, with the press of daily life and responsibility -- it already feels like Gent was an experience outside of time, a five-month slice of life that existed on another plane entirely. <br />
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But I'll try. And when I feel like home doesn't begin to compare with the wonders of our months abroad, I'll do my best to recall what the little girl in the seat in front of me said (after screaming for two hours straight) as we began our approach into Kennedy: "Oh, New York is so beautiful! It's got bridges -- and everything!"</div>
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<em>Bridges -- and everything</em>. <br />
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I think that <em>everything</em> will probably be enough.</div>
Me and the Professor http://www.blogger.com/profile/14315986297142456111noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270821201135124072.post-80785867285018915352012-07-07T00:57:00.002+02:002013-11-24T23:24:19.406+01:00Travels with My Husband<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Vacationing with Phil is rarely relaxing. It can be exciting, educational, exhilarating. It is always exhausting. It always involves getting lost multiple times. His itineraries are as ambitious as his syllabi -- there is no way you'll ever get it all done. I used to think vacations required a beach and a book. After nearly thirty years, I am used to the wild pace. Now I even enjoy it. <br />
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Burgundy was no exception. After our two whirlwind days of abbeys, chateaux, and winetasting, we spent another day at abbeys, chateaux, and winetastings. I could visit a chateau every day for a year and not get tired of them. Our first stop, though, was at a Cistercian abbey -- the Abbey of Fontenay. Yet another one founded by the tireless Bernard, this one even lovelier and more pristine than the last. <br />
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It was called Fontenay because it is located in an area of natural springs; in fact, it had to be drained over many years so the abbey could be built.<br />
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There's a stunning church, spare and stark, with an beautiful 13th century statue of Madonna and Child, the Christ child playfully pulling his mother's hair. <br />
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The Abbey has vast gardens and fountains, pools with giant trout whose ancestors were served to local noblemen, and a stream that ran a machine the monks invented to work the iron they mined from the cliffs behind the buildings. <br />
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There's a dormitory where the monks slept on pallets, and a dungeonlike room beneath where they incarcerated the locals when they misbehaved. What kinds of wickedness did they perpetrate to deserve such a grim punishment?<br />
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When we left the Abbey, we had a leisurely (by Phil's standards) lunch at an outdoor cafe, where we sat near two French women in stilettos and designer outfits, accompanied by the usual little yappy dog. They ate 3 courses with wine and espresso, while we had sandwiches and water. Then we went on to the fabulous Chateau de Bussy-Rabutin. Here, Roger de Bussy-Rabutin, "<em>le plus celebre des libertins du Grand Si</em><em>ecle,"</em> lived after being exiled from the court of Louis XIV. A writer of cutting wit, he made the fatal error of penning a satire about the lives and -- especially -- the loves of the King and his courtiers. The work was never intended for publication, but one of the Count's many paramours sent it to Holland to be published and then distributed it to everyone at court. Furious -- particularly at the fact that the Count shared many of the King's lovers -- Louis banished him from court forever. (Other sources claim his disgrace was the result of taking part in an orgy during Holy Week. This is not in the official pamphlet.)</div>
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The chateau is, as its pamphlet says, "furnished with resentment." The rooms are filled with portraits of courtiers so the Count could feel as if his friends were still with him. The portraits in his bedroom are all of his lovers. <br />
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There is a special room where other lovers' pictures, each with a description (sometimes quite lubricious) hang. The ladies of court came to the chateau often to visit, and afterward they frequently sent a portrait as a gift. One gets the impression that the Count must have been very...talented.<br />
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We then traveled to Beaune, one of the wine centers of the region. It boasts a spectacular 15th century hospital, or Hotel Dieu, which Nicolas Rolin, chancelor of Burgundy, built in an attempt to ensure his entry into heaven. <br />
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Here, dozens of impoverished patients were treated -- bled, cupped, and more likely than not killed off by the doctors' lack of knowledge. Still, for the suffering poor, the place was far more luxurious than anything they'd experienced before (though often they were more than one to a bed).<br />
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The hospital includes a display of some pretty frightening medical instruments (and even scarier descriptions of how they were used). It has a chapel right in the sickroom, so the diseased could view marriages, baptisms, and funerals for their entertainment. <br />
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There was a kitchen and an extensive pharmacy, added later. We were amazed to learn that the hospital treated people until <br />
the 1980s.<br />
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In the hospital museum, we viewed an remarkable triptych of the Last Judgment by the Flemish painter Rogier van der Weyden. Later, at dinner, a Flemish gentleman hinted that it had been stolen by the French and actually belonged to Belgium. In those days, though, Flanders was part of Burgundy, ruled over by the duke of Burgundy. So you can draw your own conclusions.<br />
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Stopping at a Beaune wine shop, we tasted 6 red wines offered by a young woman who was uninformed but liberal with the pour. They were all lovely, and we purchased yet another, deciding to ignore the fact that there was no place to pack it.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our room at La Cimentelle</td></tr>
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We rushed back to our hotel for dinner, which we shared with the aforementioned Flemish man and his family, a charming wife and their teenaged daughter, who had just finished high school and would be starting at the University of Gent in the fall. The food was extraordinary. We started with gougeres and cherry wine as an aperitif, then moved on to a light broth sprinkled with fresh peas. Floating among the peas were tiny raviolis stuffed with foie gras and chanterelles. It might be the best thing I've eaten in our five months abroad. Next came veal steaks in a champagne sauce, incredibly tender. The cheese course was extensive and delicious, and dessert was a sabayon with tropical fruits, topped off with macarons. All accompanied by a lovely pinot noir, and worth every calorie.<br />
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In the morning, we decided to drive through the Morvan National Park for a little nature to offset our excess of culture. We drove around a beautiful lake and hiked a bit, coming across a group roasting a whole pig on a spit. We didn't take pictures -- they were the French version of a biker gang, and we thought they might not take kindly to photos. And then we were off to Belgium, tired but replete in every way, to spend our last night in Leuven before taking a morning flight from Brussels back to the U.S.</div>
Me and the Professor http://www.blogger.com/profile/14315986297142456111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270821201135124072.post-2989675442613118322012-07-03T23:46:00.000+02:002012-08-16T16:53:20.100+02:00La Vie en...Burgundy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Some of you may wonder how it is that I can eat and drink in the outrageous quantities that I have been detailing -- for five months, nonstop -- without consequences. Well, the answer is, I can't. Morocco comes back to haunt my digestion every now and then, and after our amazing meal at La Cimentelle on our first night, I was...somewhat indisposed. But that did not keep me from continuing to indulge.<br />
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We've been driving from wine <em>cave</em> to chateau to <em>cave</em> to abbey to <em>cave</em>, through sun-soaked countryside thick with white butterflies. We visited Vezelay yesterday, a Unesco World Heritage site, perched on a hilltop and crowned with a medieval Romanesque basilica. It was founded by Bernard of Clairveaux, the originator of the Cistercian order who is responsible for building many abbeys throughout Burgundy. <br />
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The church is plain, pale, and austere, as the Cistercians wanted (they had broken away from those over-the-top, worldly Benedictines) and holds bones of Mary Magdelene. As a result it was an important pilgrimage site on the route to Santiago de Compostela. It was also the embarkation point for two crusades.<br />
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The town is beautiful too. In the home of pacifist writer Roman Roland, there is a collection of modern masterworks of art. It includes paintings and sculptures by Calder, Leger, Picasso, and others.<br />
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From there we headed to the medieval village of Noyers-sur-Serein, a picture-perfect, quiet little town with half-timbered houses and dwellings built into the towers that surround it. <br />
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Then it was time for wine tasting. We concentrated on Chablis, one of my favorites, stopping at a little <em>cave</em> where we tasted an amazingly affordable Petit Chablis, a regular Chablis, and a Premier Cru Chablis. Guess which was better? Guess which we bought?<br />
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After that we went to the Chateau de Tanlay, a sixteenth-century manor house with a wide moat and carved outbuildings. It has two remarkable features. <br />
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One is the Grand Gallery, whose walls and ceiling are completely covered with griseille painted trompe-l'oeil. The other is a secret tower room where the Hugenots met. Its walls are painted with a satirical scene in which all the political figures of the day are featured as gods and goddesses, some quite unclothed.<br />
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From Tanlay, we drove on through vineyards and fields of grain to Chablis, a pretty little town, where we tasted still more white wine at another <em>cave</em>. It was so good we had to get another bottle. (We have <em>maybe</em> enough room in our luggage for one.) And we saw the synagogue, which for some reason had tiny, Hobbit-sized doors.<br />
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We returned to our hotel, took a quick swim, and went into the nearby town of Avallon for dinner (I could not face another 4+ course dinner quite yet). We ate al fresco. The food was not as spectacular as at the hotel, but the quantities were human-sized. <br />
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So we are LOVING Burgundy. Stunning abbeys and chateaux without the crowds of the Loire Valley. Incredible food without Paris prices. Great wines without Bordeaux snobbery. Please, can we stay?</div>
Me and the Professor http://www.blogger.com/profile/14315986297142456111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270821201135124072.post-6126410523040091132012-07-01T23:38:00.001+02:002012-07-02T10:34:00.297+02:00On the Road Again<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Saturday morning, we left Gent sadly in the brilliant sunshine and drove south to Redu, the village of books we were unable to view in the winter because it was Monday and everything was closed. This time it was summer, Saturday afternoon, and everything was open. Every second shop was a bookstore, most French books, mostly used, some antique. There was a preponderance of bound French-language comic books, which was odd. But some of the antique volumes were really beautiful, and there was a shop that made its own paper. It was the perfect place for us, although they didn't have any of my books. That may be because they aren't published in French editions. French publishers, are you listening?<br />
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We had a lovely lunch in a cafe where Phil discovered a beer -- St. Monon -- that he had not tried. Hey, are you surprised? I peeled the label off, of course, though the Wall O' Beer is no more. The fact that I had to do that worries me a little. What does he have in mind...?<br />
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On we drove in our little Ibizi (no, we never heard of it either), across the Luxembourg border to the Chateau de Vianden. This gorgeous castle is the ancestral home of the dukes of Luxembourg, who are from the lineage of Orange, as in William of.<br />
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I now know why William and Mary became king and queen of England -- through not only his ancestry but hers. They were cousins whose parents were also cousins, all related to the Stuart line of monarchs. That's an awful lot of interbreeding...<br />
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After Vianden, we decided we needed some exercise, so we drove to Gorge des Loups on the German border. Our hike took us through some gigantic rock formations, and we walked up and up the steps of a steep gorge to glorious views of the countryside. Well, Phil did. Remembering how I crippled myself in Croatia climbing 400 stairs up a bell tower, I stopped halfway up. I do sometimes learn from my mistakes.<br />
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Then onto the big roads and past Luxembourg City to Dudelange, which I picked as a stopover mostly because of its silly name. It's a nice little town, though our hotel was opposite the church and next to a rowdy tavern, and it was Saturday night. No rest for the weary -- but an excellent dinner of summer vegetable soup, veal prepared two ways, and chocolate mousse, washed down with Luxembourgish wine.<br />
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Sunday we were off early (those church bells!) to France. It was supposed to be rainy, but the sky turned mostly sunny by early afternoon. We drove through pastoral landscapes, paying large sums of money to the French for the use of their peage, which refused to accept our credit cards. <br />
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When we got off the highway on the way to our hotel, my desperate search for a <em>toilette</em> brought us accidentally to the Abbey of Pontigny, which we hadn't actually planned on seeing. <br />
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It was a remarkably preserved 12th century structure, impressively high for a Romanesque church, and dramatically stark and undecorated. Phil couldn't even make fun of me for having to stop, it was such a pleasing surprise.<br />
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We tried to stop for a <em>degustation </em>of Burgundian wine, but apparently on Sundays, one needs an appointment. Really, Burgundy? When better to drink wine than a Sunday? So we went straight on to our hotel, which turned out to be another lovely surprise. <br />
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I'd read that it was an old cement factory, with a swimming pool built "on top of the factory," and assumed this was a strange lexicological error. In fact, it is a gorgeous estate once belonging to the owner of a cement factory, now lovingly restored by his descendants, who also happen to be first-class chefs. <br />
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We swam in the pool, which is indeed built on top of the now-defunct factory, and walked through the nearby fields of corn and wheat. Then it was time for dinner with the other guests: a British couple, soon to be newlyweds, a French couple, both scientists, one pregnant, and a Belgian couple from Flanders, not far from Gent. Everyone was kind enough to speak English. We ate an extraordinary four-course meal, wines included, of snails in pastry shells (the amuse-bouche), egg poached in Burgundy sauce, "wife of the duck" in whiskey sauce, six cheeses, and molten chocolate cake. With macaroons. <br />
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It's a good thing I left my scale in Gent.</div>Me and the Professor http://www.blogger.com/profile/14315986297142456111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270821201135124072.post-47394913363060105532012-06-30T09:21:00.002+02:002013-06-29T18:23:58.191+02:00Tot Ziens! À Bientôt!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Final Wall O' Beer. With thanks to Jo,<br />
Ben, Biggie, Gary, Kries, Annie, Klauser, and Sue for their<br />
aid in acquisition and consumption</td></tr>
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It's our last post from Belgium. I know you all would like to express your heartfelt sorrow at the ending of our five fabulous months of excess. You feel our pain. You wish we could stay forever. We are grateful for your sympathy. And our credit card company shares your feelings.<br />
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We will close out our time in Gent with a few photos of nearby sights that are part of our daily lives, the oddities and beauties that we will miss the most.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our balcony at Home Heymans</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnKJ9mmDC1HpZeBrAGvJwusUK-sdH6kc6VmHo4_ebJ0EW8veYhfLxwu1Rirt1f-850POkD9WxlJF7NO1J668CHSvNPdJKGy29Dw8NRPcoM36g3fB2OrmX1cMpu8N4DOl4UaQFP1M2lzs0/s1600/100_5929.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" rca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnKJ9mmDC1HpZeBrAGvJwusUK-sdH6kc6VmHo4_ebJ0EW8veYhfLxwu1Rirt1f-850POkD9WxlJF7NO1J668CHSvNPdJKGy29Dw8NRPcoM36g3fB2OrmX1cMpu8N4DOl4UaQFP1M2lzs0/s200/100_5929.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St. Pieters, the Scheldt. Home Heymans</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgdXphAwDgLp9b7QKlMIW-bkE9rFP47EcHERywWm2w3av9VbFHBGH1cmuL8SraUlafz7IZvMQ47BptrZhRIe76eHznvLFTtZ050Z5k5ATAyf60jCd7-_xRsCMjOpVEwYteFxSasR4ZFZA/s1600/100_5933.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" rca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgdXphAwDgLp9b7QKlMIW-bkE9rFP47EcHERywWm2w3av9VbFHBGH1cmuL8SraUlafz7IZvMQ47BptrZhRIe76eHznvLFTtZ050Z5k5ATAyf60jCd7-_xRsCMjOpVEwYteFxSasR4ZFZA/s200/100_5933.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Best quattro formaggio pizza ever<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAgvpw_sBT2_joiVJkiz2PmjBWG8O8-_OSpxoGQvduTAvkGK-9N5I4wtvPHHgXCAtah5F_K89WFBaD5Pgv0O78n2ZiuYBS3XcU4rpRcNe9SmoFG37RUjprJZi_xDqTzCMUu6argny5XbM/s1600/100_5942.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="193" rca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAgvpw_sBT2_joiVJkiz2PmjBWG8O8-_OSpxoGQvduTAvkGK-9N5I4wtvPHHgXCAtah5F_K89WFBaD5Pgv0O78n2ZiuYBS3XcU4rpRcNe9SmoFG37RUjprJZi_xDqTzCMUu6argny5XbM/s200/100_5942.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sphinxes near St. Pietersplein</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8yzTLqoOyjVvWCP9oI7HjETtrmzedE0TSFRJ1iLZ0dimY9RUaeIUBWAK9hhZ6dwHRCbj6Gh8JG-GzpWJAtw5eRn8LYMQ8IUtvM3ytyWmR1qlwi7gHxRs9Eu6_kPwRC28CvfwEdY6k4ts/s1600/100_5944.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" rca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8yzTLqoOyjVvWCP9oI7HjETtrmzedE0TSFRJ1iLZ0dimY9RUaeIUBWAK9hhZ6dwHRCbj6Gh8JG-GzpWJAtw5eRn8LYMQ8IUtvM3ytyWmR1qlwi7gHxRs9Eu6_kPwRC28CvfwEdY6k4ts/s200/100_5944.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wanted to fit this in our luggage. Too big.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXBbCPR2z3sE2jJUr8HLPnfxtT9zVQprJCiRNonvmtbqb61lqKplSpQ2HELlCOXQiMCWhWpu61lPBW58klk-7eXt-zCGhgJ5XTDLNJmN1iiGWSjWfaEHsXbC9kpTvZoYij6JF6a90fHQk/s1600/100_5935.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" rca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXBbCPR2z3sE2jJUr8HLPnfxtT9zVQprJCiRNonvmtbqb61lqKplSpQ2HELlCOXQiMCWhWpu61lPBW58klk-7eXt-zCGhgJ5XTDLNJmN1iiGWSjWfaEHsXbC9kpTvZoYij6JF6a90fHQk/s200/100_5935.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Site of many fine film viewings (and also The Avengers)</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5IoVQevn3ZH9FvSF1p_HPfpxxl0WDYToBEQJuSDCuk3UOJpZxQCNaqecIFBnjdzs06kFWoO_dPaqcXmpySL7dk8El2775AHl1IRDoqsHdWc6DMWoHjWMjauR6CYId5nSew1oKnbm4z6o/s1600/100_5941.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" rca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5IoVQevn3ZH9FvSF1p_HPfpxxl0WDYToBEQJuSDCuk3UOJpZxQCNaqecIFBnjdzs06kFWoO_dPaqcXmpySL7dk8El2775AHl1IRDoqsHdWc6DMWoHjWMjauR6CYId5nSew1oKnbm4z6o/s200/100_5941.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Largest DVD shop in Europe. Saw all 5<br />
seasons of The Wire -- again</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjroKKY6PREpQGqvrnnVgm_JK_NUaqGKlyTIiNnF8-hhxq_yacdVk4Xne66AD3sSGIfgMlue1qjoMa-S7PxsryWoE5qOP95EmZOfZZ_W-pA1vNkhgfOJv5UkeJKjJixs_aPjLqRPDB0Sbw/s1600/100_5924.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" rca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjroKKY6PREpQGqvrnnVgm_JK_NUaqGKlyTIiNnF8-hhxq_yacdVk4Xne66AD3sSGIfgMlue1qjoMa-S7PxsryWoE5qOP95EmZOfZZ_W-pA1vNkhgfOJv5UkeJKjJixs_aPjLqRPDB0Sbw/s200/100_5924.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Amorous ibexes on our evening walk</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0f1m2yjBS-LWoffj4aq7rhHfF-ovTp60DuqXLQmdiNSXeaN4eohxT9frKq18SGnFxMuMra-1LRaluBjEbUFkM9HHSq0quZBledZ_Qqyjum000CNho90eV-af3WCJKh4QdGh04o37hwZM/s1600/100_5936.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0f1m2yjBS-LWoffj4aq7rhHfF-ovTp60DuqXLQmdiNSXeaN4eohxT9frKq18SGnFxMuMra-1LRaluBjEbUFkM9HHSq0quZBledZ_Qqyjum000CNho90eV-af3WCJKh4QdGh04o37hwZM/s200/100_5936.jpg" vca="true" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Barge cafe where many labels were peeled</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_dBprRbQ8_VTnnJvyILdmv0GDMOCPNlvXtjUw5XRaJm_eIFC4y62aSJOYKlYPCNaDSEKaS-ih7XrrpNVDVooUknixhHrJ_MHXQ4fFehkjzngw1kGMlEKmz7rMTmbrsOozVUL8dtP1TgE/s1600/100_5930.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" rca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_dBprRbQ8_VTnnJvyILdmv0GDMOCPNlvXtjUw5XRaJm_eIFC4y62aSJOYKlYPCNaDSEKaS-ih7XrrpNVDVooUknixhHrJ_MHXQ4fFehkjzngw1kGMlEKmz7rMTmbrsOozVUL8dtP1TgE/s200/100_5930.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The tower of the evil dwarf (see May 5 post)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI-7KGEDrrP3y-H78p-Hr1d3885JOmjuQkYvAxXpOf3Fv9KYamWbYb98LyyKwVwK5PgR1dH1qh1CVYDtfWHStP7VtSZfjoqXH5mGBYGIIdbBq_tAm3c4ePbQ3uNSBaWKO27Nm1Mm2txRw/s1600/100_5948.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" rca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI-7KGEDrrP3y-H78p-Hr1d3885JOmjuQkYvAxXpOf3Fv9KYamWbYb98LyyKwVwK5PgR1dH1qh1CVYDtfWHStP7VtSZfjoqXH5mGBYGIIdbBq_tAm3c4ePbQ3uNSBaWKO27Nm1Mm2txRw/s200/100_5948.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our favorite Gent fountain</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHsN8ED7NhNs-QWK39jMueI3jfYODvnaDBSzWSiWWI8DLBFhw2WSjgC60mM0gwaLOuRb_CRNypYoVeOxLfhi9tZPbODeFN_8uObhGU5UjQpU7a6E8oS5lMl9WhjnWGAkOfcJfxf9gw-Dg/s1600/100_5946.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" rca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHsN8ED7NhNs-QWK39jMueI3jfYODvnaDBSzWSiWWI8DLBFhw2WSjgC60mM0gwaLOuRb_CRNypYoVeOxLfhi9tZPbODeFN_8uObhGU5UjQpU7a6E8oS5lMl9WhjnWGAkOfcJfxf9gw-Dg/s200/100_5946.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Waterfall in Citadel Park</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBwBf5qI5Ceh3CKgjpspANZMMHutWDgAYGYEeN0DRLpusZoz1iu7YUNWvp3v4DEZxQ4oXGNiKjDumIxf6QPVJ3GfEyr-HYyA8x8cimQ3DKFYbD0lQAINzaZ_PEz0DpgrdzCksGr8lA4xE/s1600/100_5959.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" rca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBwBf5qI5Ceh3CKgjpspANZMMHutWDgAYGYEeN0DRLpusZoz1iu7YUNWvp3v4DEZxQ4oXGNiKjDumIxf6QPVJ3GfEyr-HYyA8x8cimQ3DKFYbD0lQAINzaZ_PEz0DpgrdzCksGr8lA4xE/s200/100_5959.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In an alcove at the Combreen Institute</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB6_WrB3dpn7kopXOMhNGiYn7Mo7l0CI5NaOV29S22G3K_sV-ztbMVCMvuD2mLsvWaftF4cFbHFBSJeNw9NMB5hDGuchKcIAgJsNA_yPoK3C7uWbTVAtk0T6VH5Bu0vmTS-lovaxC_goo/s1600/100_5952.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" rca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB6_WrB3dpn7kopXOMhNGiYn7Mo7l0CI5NaOV29S22G3K_sV-ztbMVCMvuD2mLsvWaftF4cFbHFBSJeNw9NMB5hDGuchKcIAgJsNA_yPoK3C7uWbTVAtk0T6VH5Bu0vmTS-lovaxC_goo/s200/100_5952.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Secret vineyard behind St. Pieters (are the priests <br />
making their own wine?)</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I don't know what this is, but Phil likes it</td></tr>
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But don't despair. We'll be in Luxembourg and Burgundy for the next five days, attempting to drown our sadness in a sea of Chablis. And, of course, blogging about it.</div>
Me and the Professor http://www.blogger.com/profile/14315986297142456111noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270821201135124072.post-68942406414074744522012-06-28T18:21:00.000+02:002012-06-28T19:49:26.159+02:00Finals Week<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMvjgsMsbNQkqig_XVLhQZsLnrL5r-gPESYMEwQyfkk7vz64NF91dHOpRvukcJ33ivDL83BHFZRRAMlH3BmXsMYf8jYOHe5qYj-NS_Xrsy-vB5bP5Tr4GE3bsrvhfPmc3p-TD_PU5NfBs/s1600/student+papers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMvjgsMsbNQkqig_XVLhQZsLnrL5r-gPESYMEwQyfkk7vz64NF91dHOpRvukcJ33ivDL83BHFZRRAMlH3BmXsMYf8jYOHe5qYj-NS_Xrsy-vB5bP5Tr4GE3bsrvhfPmc3p-TD_PU5NfBs/s200/student+papers.jpg" vca="true" width="168" /></a></div>
Final exams are over, and Phil has finished grading his students' tests and papers. It is time for our own finals.<br />
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Our final trip to Bruges, for example: Sister Biggie and husband Gary flew to Belgium the day after our return from Ireland. They visited our apartment, where we made them large quantities of Belgian food. <br />
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We took them to Dulle Griet, where they were sporting enough to try the giant Kwaks (though Biggie did not enjoy having the waiter take her shoe! And Phil had to finish the beers). </div>
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Because of their ridiculously huge quantity of luggage (and heavy luggage, too -- Aer Lingus nearly had to fly another plane over to carry it, apparently), they rented a car. With GPS, of course, which they promptly named Katrien. Katrien was not as good at her job as the Irish Brigit, though. She had a little trouble locating the actual position of the car, and then became quite incensed when we didn't follow her directions. <br />
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Still, we found Bruges. It was just as fabulous as on our other visits. And while you East Coasters were sweltering or cowering from the tornadoes and golf-ball sized hail (does it even come in other sizes?), we had sunshine and low 70s.</div>
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We revisited some sights (though it was all new to Biggie and Gary), and made it to the Chapel of the Holy Blood, which holds a vial of Christ's blood that is taken out every day from 2 to 4. That part we missed, though Phil and I've seen it before. But the Chapel is pretty spectacular, as befits a place where Christ's blood is kept.</div>
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We bought the necessities of life in Bruges: chocolates, lace, beer, waffles, frites. Then we drove on to Damme -- Katrien had improved -- and ate at the wonderful restaurant Siphon, where Kries and Annie had introduced us to eel. <br />
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Only since there were no Belgians watching, we had steak, which really was just as good.<br />
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Our final museum visit in Gent: the amazing Stad Museum, which details the history of the city. There's one room that's entirely a high-tech map. At last, at last, we sort of understand Gent's configuration of rivers and canals. Four rivers! Canals intersecting, linking, paralleling! No wonder we've spent five months getting hopelessly lost. </div>
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The museum is in the old Bijloke abbey, and it contains some remarkable illuminated manuscripts, a beautiful dining hall, and the story of the city's Great Theft of the 1930s -- the stealing of two of the panels from the Van Eyck <em>Adoration of the Mystic Lamb</em> in St. Bavo Cathedral. Only one panel was ever recovered.<br />
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Our final trip to Brussels. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bruegel the Elder</td></tr>
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We went to admire the Bruegels at the Musee des Beaux Arts.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bruegel the Younger</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The occasional Lucas Cranach</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And some Bosch apocalypticism</td></tr>
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Visited the Beer Museum on the Grand Place. Ate train-station waffles.</div>
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Had drinks at A La Mort Subite, a cafe from the 1920s where Hemingway and Fitzgerald and Stein wouldn't have looked out of place. </div>
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Dined at 't Kelderke.</div>
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We still have our final meals with Jo and with Kries and Annie to anticipate. And should I get too sentimental about it all, I have only to remember the conversation I had today with a woman at our local park:<br />
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She: That mother duck had four or five ducklings with her the other day.<br />
I, pointing: Maybe they're over there?<br />
She: No. Probably the rats ate them.<br />
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Oh well.<br />
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</div>Me and the Professor http://www.blogger.com/profile/14315986297142456111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270821201135124072.post-3836577248269800872012-06-21T12:32:00.001+02:002012-06-21T13:26:58.102+02:00brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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On our last day in Ireland, we traveled around the countryside. Gary picked us up and somehow squeezed us into the van with the other four, making seven altogether. He and his GPS, which he'd named Brigit, successfully guided us through the lush farmland, absolutely teeming with sheep, to Powerscourt Manor, an enormous estate known for its gardens. <br />
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<em>A day of dappled seaborne clouds</em><br />
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The interior was nearly bare, but the views down the gardens and across to the Wicklow Mountains were spectacular.<br />
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We walked past fountains and ponds, down the pebbled pathways to the Japanese garden.<br />
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There were walled areas and a huge sweep of greensward.<br />
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We found a rose garden.<br />
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<em>O, the wild rose blossoms</em><br />
<em>On the little green place</em>.<br />
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There was a gnome in a tree.<br />
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<em>Save the trees of Ireland for the future men of Ireland on the fair hills of Eire, O.</em><br />
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Some hand sanitizing occurred. <br />
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<em>Is this the day for your monthly wash?</em><br />
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After lunch outside -- the rain graciously held off -- we shoehorned ourselves back into the van and headed for Glendalach. It's a ruined monastery whose earliest buildings date from the 7th century.<br />
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Set beside a wide stream in a valley of the Wicklow Mountains, it's an enchanting site. The perfectly preserved tall conical towers from the 11th century are unique.<br />
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<em>Glory be to God they had no idea it was that high.</em><br />
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We admired the ancient 7th century St. Kevin's church.<br />
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The ruined cathedral still had remnants of early Romanesque windows.<br />
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The monastery was surrounded by gravestones. Inscriptions from as far back as the 1600s were still readable; many other stones were so old they'd been eroded beyond legibility.<br />
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<em>Cemetery put in of course on account of the symmetry.</em><br />
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Finally, Brigit guided us back to the airport. The others weren't leaving until the following day, but they were kind enough to drop us off. We found the airport extremely user-friendly: efficient, full of helpful people, and offering free samples of Irish whiskey in the duty-free. In fact, all of Ireland that we saw seemed efficient and full of helpful people. And I have no doubt that if we'd asked, most of them would have given us free samples of Irish whiskey.<br />
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<em>The tradition of genuine warm-hearted courteous Irish hospitality, which our forefathers have handed down to us and which we in turn must hand down to our descendants, is still alive among us</em>. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">JJ's death mask</td></tr>
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(Yes, enough Joyce, I know. I promise.) </div>Me and the Professor http://www.blogger.com/profile/14315986297142456111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270821201135124072.post-51560415141998952042012-06-18T16:15:00.003+02:002012-09-06T02:46:08.061+02:00Dear Dirty Dublin<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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After Phil's (very wet) stint at the conference in the morning, we set out on the bus to visit the sights of Dublin. It's a lovely city, well-signed as our museum curator friend would say, in both English and Gaelic. How many Irish people actually speak Gaelic? (Wait, I'm googling. Now I know. It is called Irish in Ireland, not Gaelic, and everyone is taught it in school.)<br />
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We stopped first at Trinity College, in the center of town. The library holds the 8th century Book of Kells, which I've longed to see since my college medieval art course. It includes the four gospels, gloriously illuminated by Celtic monks. Two pages of the actual Book are on view at any one time, one with an illumination, one with text. Since the monastery that housed it was raided and destroyed by invasion and fire dozens of times over the centuries, the manuscript's very existence is pretty much a miracle.The exhibit was impressive, as was the library's long hall. The manuscripts on view in the hall included William Caxton's 1480 printing of Lord Rivers' <em>Sayinges and Dictes of the Philosophers,</em> a book that actually makes an appearance in my historical children's novel, so I was doubly thrilled. </div>
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We walked through Dublin Castle and saw the Royal Chapel, and then went on to the Chester Beatty Library, home to an astonishing group of illuminated texts from the Near and Far East (are you sensing a theme here?) collected by a wealthy American industrialist with Irish roots. </div>
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A quick trip back to the Stillorgan, and then we went to the Auld Dubliner pub in the Temple Bar section of town to meet the four Sicker sisters -- Biggie, Di, Pooh, and Nita -- and one husband, Gary, who'd survived driving around Ireland for four days in a large van on the wrong side of very small roads. The pub advertised live music, but sadly it turned out to be loud and bad renditions of Johnny Cash, Rolling Stones, and Coldplay, and the food was mediocre. Though the Guinness was good.</div>
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We strolled around town for a while in the evening, admiring the Liffey and its bridges. Then we had to sprint to get the relatives onto the train to their B&B (an odd place, apparently, whose proprietress insisted they wear special socks indoors) with plans to meet at the Stillorgan in the morning.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf-qyYgFBvTfZaYQSezLbtGtBD7G4Z6T32cWaeZz5ReBAxf2t4HZ0qsJH9MoQJq9zxS72gmRACTWzV9EDiABg5b95k5m2NbpProYeTKX0I0ler1NntvmVFdq5Oo2-Yp-QtPbXbK-MVEwE/s1600/100_5825.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" rca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf-qyYgFBvTfZaYQSezLbtGtBD7G4Z6T32cWaeZz5ReBAxf2t4HZ0qsJH9MoQJq9zxS72gmRACTWzV9EDiABg5b95k5m2NbpProYeTKX0I0ler1NntvmVFdq5Oo2-Yp-QtPbXbK-MVEwE/s200/100_5825.jpg" width="200" /></a>Saturday was<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bloomsday" target="_blank"> Bloomsday</a>, as I'm sure you're all aware. Possibly the most important day in literature. Or, according to Phil, in the history of the world. We didn't have the energy to do Leopold Bloom's 12-mile round that goes from 8 a.m. till the wee hours, so our abbreviated version, in the rain, started with dropping Biggie, Gary, and Pooh off at the Book of Kells and walking to 7 Eccles Street, where Bloom begins his day in <em>Ulysses. </em></div>
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We passed costumed nutcases celebrating the day.<br />
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We located the Dublin Rotunda, an 18th century exhibition space attached to a maternity hospital, important as a forum of dioramic spectacle in Phil's most recent book chapter on <em>Ulysses.</em><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW-GGkI5n5chgy5oHyXmkhytFGH2ZRE5OjYKchFOU3Q8vYvHC7MIqrPncfUfxtjF3wz1HtbdB8j4-M98BeWqQAyboVSCohEuLoljYjNn0eXs3CPaC2RonA4uvWMqecxQUM9Bv_54L1WLk/s1600/100_5824.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" rca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW-GGkI5n5chgy5oHyXmkhytFGH2ZRE5OjYKchFOU3Q8vYvHC7MIqrPncfUfxtjF3wz1HtbdB8j4-M98BeWqQAyboVSCohEuLoljYjNn0eXs3CPaC2RonA4uvWMqecxQUM9Bv_54L1WLk/s200/100_5824.jpg" width="200" /></a>To our surprise, we found a beautiful little memorial garden commemorating those who gave their lives in the struggle for Irish Independence. The statue is of the Children of Lir, an Irish version of the Wild Swans fairy tale. </div>
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We lunched at a very nice pub that used to be a bank and has been stunningly restored. Some Guinness was consumed.</div>
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Then we walked to Christchurch Cathedral, which oddly is Protestant and included some strange artifacts.<br />
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Next we visited Dublinia, a history museum exploring the Viking and medieval past of the city. Di was quite horrified by the lack of sanitation in those early days, but she received a brass rubbing from the Pope granting her a remission of four days in Purgatory for the sin of excessive hand sanitizing.</div>
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Our final touristic stop was the Guinness Storehouse, a gigantic museum/brewery, where we learned how the mother's milk of beers is brewed and had the opportunity to taste quite a bit of it. Then we took a horse-drawn carriage back to the center of town and found a pub with real Irish music and excellent food. Also some Guinness. Exhausted, we taxied back to the Stillorgan, where a wedding reception featuring a large number of extremely drunk (on Guinness?), portly bridesmaids in very short skirts and very high heels didn't keep us up for even a minute.</div>
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Me and the Professor http://www.blogger.com/profile/14315986297142456111noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270821201135124072.post-6672625483901540542012-06-15T14:09:00.000+02:002012-06-21T13:29:10.250+02:00Prefatory to Anything Else<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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So here we are in Ireland. The trip here was a little bit of crazy. I won't bore you with details except to say that the Belgian train website times bear no relation to the actual train times. Sprinting was required. <br />
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But we are loving the Irish. All our taxi drivers have met Bono. They all know who James Joyce is. A bus driver gave me a disquisition on Brendan Behan. They have very strong opinions about the austerity budget, and though they blame us for starting the financial meltdown, they have forgiven us. <br />
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They're not quite as good at driving as at literature. One cabbie took us to the wrong tower, not the Martello Tower/Joyce Museum. Sensing our desperation, a couple who owned a taxi but weren't working decided to drive us around looking for it. During the drive, the woman recited poetry to us: "The Ballad of Redding Gaol" and several of her own compositions. She was about to embark on "Paradise Lost" when, thankfully, we arrived at our destination.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVD4ECeICoX1k8amEbm5jcC9HxnPRXjyep2Bb_uUMe5i3IOQsPeYQocoFewmfkUPP9WYqm732cjtrGGexaumzajeqfTacFVM19rYX6X7ajBpOUUPtpBJM9Etsv4frN0HB8gsnhxv34Y-I/s1600/100_5775.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVD4ECeICoX1k8amEbm5jcC9HxnPRXjyep2Bb_uUMe5i3IOQsPeYQocoFewmfkUPP9WYqm732cjtrGGexaumzajeqfTacFVM19rYX6X7ajBpOUUPtpBJM9Etsv4frN0HB8gsnhxv34Y-I/s200/100_5775.jpg" width="200" /></a>We got to the museum just it was closing for lunch, so we ate at a local pub dedicated to James Joyce. I ordered gorgonzola cheese, just to get in the mood.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Joyce's room at the Tower, </td></tr>
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When the Tower reopened we were first in line. Phil, having recently written on Stephen Dedalus's time at the Tower, was in Joyce heaven. <br />
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As we left, it began to rain. I dropped Phil at the Joyce conference at University College Dublin, where he sat in on a panel given by two of his doctoral students, who worked with him 24 years apart. <br />
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Afterward, in a deluge, we took the panelists out for Guinness, and then went on to dinner with additional Joyce fanatics. Phil ate many organ meats, and the other Joyceans ordered enormous quantities of wine. I partook rather too much, but the Irish had just lost their football match, so you couldn't tell my stagger from anyone else's on the street.<br />
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The city is thronged with Joyce wackos, including Phil. By tomorrow many of them will actually be dressed as James Joyce. I am afraid... </div>Me and the Professor http://www.blogger.com/profile/14315986297142456111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270821201135124072.post-77404259714648633992012-06-07T17:40:00.000+02:002012-09-06T02:42:14.494+02:00Fez Fantasia*<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Fez. A magical place. Full of beauty, strangeness, a smothering heat. Like Marrakech, but without the total insanity. As our riad host said, <em>Marrakech comes to life at night, while Fez lives by day.</em> It's a very religious city -- in fact, though I was dressed in short sleeves and a knee-length skirt, I was repeated jostled hard by men who apparently found me immodest. (Once, the guy responsible was taken to task by a passing veiled matron, which pleased me immensely.) I changed into long harem pants. Much more acceptable. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our riad</td></tr>
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On our first morning I was completely unable to get out of bed, exhausted and sickened by the endless drive through the desert. Our riad was a lovely place to lounge away the early hours, and by noon I was up and ready to go. We turned down the (quietly insistent, extremely persuasive) offer of a guide and set off with an incomplete map and the slightly terrifying information that there were 1200 streets within the medina. We were sure to get lost.<br />
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We found our way to the Blue Gate, the Bab Boujaloud, and then entered the maze of the souks. No vespas, thank god, but many mules. As Edith Wharton says, "The distances in Fez are so great, and the streets so narrow, that all but saints or humble folk go about on mule-back." We are humble folk, obviously. Plenty of sellers enticing, imploring, cajoling us to buy. The insistence was of a gentler nature than in Marrakech. In fact, "to Marrakech" has now become a verb in our family. <br />
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And buy we did, but with a certain intelligence that we'd lacked in Marrakech. We could bargain. We could say no. Well, almost.<br />
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We headed to the Fondouk el-Nejjarine, once an inn, or caravanserai, for travelers, now the Musuem of Wood. Many very bad jokes were made. I will leave them to your imagination. It was peaceful and beautiful, housing carved wood objects -- doors, musical instruments, and furniture. <br />
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Not far from the caravanserai, we visited the most sacred site in Morocco, the tomb of Moulay Idriss II, the founder of Fez. We were able to peer in through the door to see the tomb and the pilgrims there, but as non-Muslims we couldn't enter.<br />
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A long trek back to the riad, where we rested and cooled off (I had chosen all our riads with air-conditioning, and a good thing -- it was over 100 in the desert, and at least 95 in Fez). <br />
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Then out again to the Royal Palace area, where we strolled through a formally laid-out garden, full of fountains and cool shade, and then found a rooftop restaurant. <br />
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We ate tagines and skewers of meat overlooking the Bab Boujaloud, with hundreds of swallows darting past as the sun set and the muezzins called from three mosques surrounding us.<br />
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In the morning we set out for the Dar El-Batha Museum, Fez's main ethnographic museum. It's in the palace of Moulay el-Hassan, a ruler of Fez in the nineteenth century. We looked at illuminated manuscripts, ceramics, embroidery, and woodcarving in its cool interior. After that, we found the fourteenth-century Bou Inania Medersa, one of the ancient, beautiful schools of Fez, with a mosque attached. <br />
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We still had some time before catching a taxi to the airport, so we wandered through the souks to the El-Attarine Medersa. Built on the same plan as the other medersas we'd seen, it had a central courtyard ringed with rooms for students and for prayer. The tile and plasterwork were breathtaking. And the walk back to the riad was sweltering.<br />
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Our return trip was uneventful, though exceedingly long. Taxi to the airport, flight to Charleroi, taxi to the train station, train to Brussels, train to Gent, taxi to the apartment. I do have to give a shoutout to Ryanair. We've had four flights on the airline, and though there were absolutely no comforts provided, they were remarkably efficient. Each landed on time or early (though with considerable bouncing). And the passengers, knowing exactly what they were getting, applauded each landing and cheered at the triumphal music they played. Really, some larger airlines could take lessons. The extra charges for just about everything are irritating, but they let our overweight bag (2 kilos of Moroccan purchases!) go through for free. <br />
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So...Morocco. I learned a little something about myself there. I was not quite the world traveler I thought I was. The country was challenging in a way that was utterly new and exciting, and sometimes a little frightening. Driving through the desert, getting lost in the medinas' mazes, dealing with a completely unknown and patriarchal culture -- all was fascinating.<br />
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NOW I'm a world traveler.<br />
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*For a description of a Moroccan fantasia, go <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fantasia_%28culture%29" target="_blank">here</a>.</div>
Me and the Professor http://www.blogger.com/profile/14315986297142456111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270821201135124072.post-39559546728809699482012-06-06T00:30:00.002+02:002012-06-06T00:43:46.872+02:00Long Day's Journey Into Night<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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It did indeed take us 12 hours to get to Fez, as warned, and we didn't even go the way we intended. At the last minute, our host at Sawadi kasbah told us that the road to the Cascades D'ourzoude is a "piste." This was a new French word for me. It took a while for me to figure out that it means "dirt road." Change of plans.<br />
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We decided to stick to the bigger road, which would be mostly paved, and take a short detour up the Dades Gorge. Another crazy drive, with intensely beautiful views. There were rock formations known as the Doigts de Singes (because, you know, they look like fingers). There was a place way up top where we bought a stained glass lantern and a rug (there is always a place to buy stuff). It was so beautiful that we drove for an hour in it.</div>
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Then back to the desert moonscape. I'd learned that the black rocks were volcanic; I have no idea at what point the area had volcanoes. It was a very long way across the desert before we started up into the Middle Atlas. Six hours, in fact. We listened to strange Berber music on the radio. Saw Bedouin tents among the rocks. Wondered what the skinny donkeys and goats were eating in the bleakness. Marveled at the women walking along the road in long robes and head scarves, carrying huge baskets of greens from the nearest oasis to feed their livestock. Were amazed at a vivid turquoise saline lake, in a rock landscape without people or plant life around it. At a speed trap, the cops stopped us. Every few miles there's a speed trap -- you can drive 100 km/hr for about 5 minutes, then it goes down to 60. The police spent quite a lot of time looking at our papers, then informed us we were going 13 km over the speed limit, and it would cost us 300 dirham. Right now. Relieved (300 dirham is about 39 dollars) we handed it over. Then they took Phil out of the car. I pictured <em>Midnight Express. </em>I wondered if I could drive a stick shift over the mountains to Fez to get a lawyer. I panicked completely. Phil, on the other hand, had a nice chat with the policemen. When they found out he was from New York, they asked him what the capitol was, and when he correctly answered "Albany," they gave him back the 300 dirham and then sent us on our way.<br />
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The landscape became greener immediately. It was a relief to the eyes, reminding us that we are creatures of the north. There were cows, fields of grain, multicolored flowers. Fields full of storks (I immediately thought "Ostriches!" but luckily didn't say it.)<br />
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We passed into the Foret de Cedres, part of a national park, where I was startled by more animal life. I wasn't smart enough to stay quiet this time but shouted, "Monkeys! Monkeys! Monkeys!" The mockery was intense. They were Barbary apes, as Ben pointed out, living happily among the trees with a group of shaggy dogs, who appeared to be herding them as if they were sheep. <br />
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Then we got to Ifrane, a new, wealthy town that looks very European -- some of the houses are even half-timbered. The king has his summer palace there. We were searching for the Cascades des Vierges, or Waterfalls of the Virgins. Got very lost, but finally found them. We don't know why they're called that, but we had an interesting time speculating.<br />
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We raced to Fez, trying to get to the airport to return the car before dark, and made it just in time. The airport was sort of closed. There was certainly no one at the Budget office, though I'd made arrangements to drop the car off at that hour. Luckily, a kind gentleman let me use his cell phone to call the Budget guy, who obviously never had any intention of being at the airport at all. We worked things out (I had to pay the nice gentleman for the use of his phone, and then I had to pay him more). And finally we found a taxi to take us to our very lovely riad in the Fez medina. It was well after 10 by then, and we hadn't eaten. Our host gave us mint tea and called a friend of his who came to pick us up to take us to his house in the old Jewish quarter, a fifteenth-century structure, which doubled as a restaurant. </div>
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We had the best meal of our trip. And we returned to our room and collapsed in utter exhaustion.</div>
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</div>Me and the Professor http://www.blogger.com/profile/14315986297142456111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270821201135124072.post-91997077357064254452012-06-05T18:48:00.002+02:002012-06-06T00:35:32.498+02:00Under the Sheltering Sky<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dearest readers, I’m writing this in Word to post later on the blog because we have no Internet access. BECAUSE WE ARE IN THE SAHARA DESERT. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But as usual, let me backtrack.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We drove from the seaside at Essaouira back past Marrakesh to the Atlas Mountains. Up. And up. I knew our hotel – an ecological dar, or house, in the High Atlas – was six kilometers up a dirt road. I had no idea that the road was a series of insane switchbacks without any kind of guard rails, leaving a sheer drop of many thousands of feet. By the time we arrived, I was sweat-soaked and trembling. Ben was trembling. Phil was gaseous. But good lord was it worth it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We were offered almond milk and dates, then mint tea and salted nuts. We needed two snacks to recover. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dar Tassa is an exquisite bed and breakfast hanging off the side of an Atlas cliff with nearly endless views down the valleys. We hiked up the mountainside and then down to the stream, which was still running though most wadis here are dry by now. Waded in Atlas waters, read books (they had E. Nesbit in the dar library!) in the Berber rooftop tent. Then we ate a wonderful dinner on the rooftop, listening to the muezzin’s call to prayer and watching the moon rise over the mountains.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the morning we set off back down the switchbacks – so much easier on the way down! – and then drove through the mountains to the desert. What a road. It was mostly paved but generally only about 1.5 lanes, which made oncoming traffic a heartstopping challenge. Few guardrails. Astonishing and terrifying views. And all in standard shift.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We stopped at the thirteenth century Tin-Mal mosque, one of two mosques in the country that non-Muslims are allowed<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>to visit. It is no longer used for religious observance, but it is serene and beautiful, set high on a hill in a tiny village that was once a bustling center of commerce. Then we crossed the High Atlas at the Tiz-n-Test Pass at 7400 feet. The margin of error for the driver (Phil) was zero. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The mountain road finally deposited us on another road that runs along the edge of the Sahara. We drove past fields holding nothing but enormous red rock boulders. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Past buttes carved of black and purple rock. Past small groves of argon trees with occasional goats climbing up them. (Yes, goats climbing trees. Really.) Past long stretches of a frighteningly monotonous moonscape of brown rock. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Past camels. The sun blazed down unrelentingly. The road twisted and turned, losing its pavement now and then. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We stopped to see the Unesco World Heritage site Ait-Benhadou, a medieval town with four towering kasbah built of mud brick still beautifully preserved. We drove through Ourzizate, which had a ridiculously gigantic movie studio where <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Sheltering Sky</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kundun</i> were filmed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We were dizzy with sun, heat, and exhaustion when we finally reached the six-kilometer dirt road that led to our hotel. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And now we’re in a beautiful kasbah (a fortified dwelling) set in the middle of a gorgeous palm oasis on the edge of the Sahara. This part isn’t the dune-covered Sahara of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The English Patient </i>(sadly, no Ralph Fiennes wrapped in bandages and dying slowly and beautifully in our room). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But there is a swimming pool, and they serve wine here. The dinner was exceptional – a cumin-flavored soup made from “a brother of the carrot” (any guesses?), saffron flavored fish tagine, and what seemed to be a deep-fried rice pudding. If we die in the desert tomorrow, we die full and happy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Here it is Sunday, and we are still alive. In fact, we had a marvelous day. We spent the morning lounging by the pool and treating our fierce sun headaches, then set out for the historic Amerhidil Kasbah in the Skoura palm oasis, a seventeenth-century structure that has been restored. A member of the Glaoui family who originally built the kasbah lo these many centuries ago took us through it. He explained the various rooms and the implements that were found in the stable, where they had been successfully hidden from the many invaders who’ve overtaken parts of Morocco at various times in its violent history. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We then drove deep into the palm oasis with Mustafa, a mostly French-speaking, turbaned Berber who claimed to have “only one wife, but many French <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">amies</i> who come to visit in September and October. My wife does not mind!” At least I think that’s what he said. He was quite dashing, so it was easy to believe. Mustafa renamed us Ibrahim (Phil), Ismael (Ben) and Asni (me) and guided us on a wild drive through the oasis, pointing out the old Jewish kasbahs and cemeteries (there is only one Jewish family left in the oasis, though there are 35,000 people living there in tiny villages of mud-brick houses that can’t be seen from the main road).Ben saw a hoopoe. No sign of fennec foxes, sadly. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Mustafa brought us to a friend’s carpet and jewelry shop, where we drank mint tea, admired many gorgeous and pricey carpets, and bought necklaces. Then he showed us the Dades River, one of the two rivers responsible for the oasis’s existence, where many small boys were leaping into the water with joyous abandon.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Back at our kasbah, we swam, and Ben and I had massages – mine of the feet, his of the skull. Thank you, Kaz, for the birthday massage, so belatedly realized! It was wonderfully relaxing, curing my severe mental strain from so much speaking of French. Ben claims his head has never been so loose. We devoured yet another delicious dinner and are now about to go to bed early, as we’ve been told our drive tomorrow to Fez will take at least ten hours and perhaps twice that.</span></div>
</div>Me and the Professor http://www.blogger.com/profile/14315986297142456111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270821201135124072.post-58722940754374155122012-06-01T00:34:00.000+02:002012-06-06T00:36:13.828+02:00Moroccan Fauna<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The drive from Marrakech to the coast was fascinating -- miles of a wasteland of rock and sand with occasional bright patches of green planation groves of olive and argon trees. We passed dozens of people walking along the road, which seemed to stretch from nowhere to nowhere. Where did they come from? Where could they possibly be going? <br />
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The coastal town of Essouaira is amazing, though it has a few too many vowels. It's quiet, breezy, very peaceful after the madness of Marrakech. But I'm tired, and it's late. So I will let photos tell most of the story.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Now I understand why Eeyore<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;">In Jemaa el-Fna Square</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Charming cobras <br />
in the square</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Catch of the day -- including moray eels.<br />
Also some endangered stuff.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stork on minaret</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lawrence & Lawrence Jr.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A friend who joined us in our swimming pool. For its sake, I hope unchlorinated. For my sake...<br />
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</div>Me and the Professor http://www.blogger.com/profile/14315986297142456111noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270821201135124072.post-19696574822814626272012-05-31T00:56:00.000+02:002012-05-31T00:56:36.534+02:00The Perpetual Flux and the Immovable Stability<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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After my words about Marrakech, readers have accused me of having lived too much in the first world. I admit it's true. Except for a trip to Costa Rica (where we were very comfortable, because it was the off-season), I've traveled entirely in Europe, the Caribbean, and North America. So...welcome, Diane, to the rest of the world.<br />
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We were doing better by dinnertime last night. We ate at a tourist place, but it had its unusual touches. It was a 17th century palace, and the location for a scene from Hitchcock's <em>The Man Who Knew Too Much. </em><br />
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It also had a sort of belly dancer, Xtreme version.<br />
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Today we stayed away from the souks. It was easier to find our way. Our reflexes were better; there were fewer near misses with motorbikes. We were forced into only one unintended tour, and we only overpaid a little for it. <br />
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We started out at the Saadian Tombs, from the 16th century. They include three ornate, enormous mausoleums containing marbled tombs of Ahmed el Mansour and his family and descendents. <br />
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Then we took a taxi to the Majorelle Gardens and Berber Museum. The gardens were exquisite. They're known for two things: the blue color with which much of the plasterwork and tile is painted, and the fact that the house and garden were owned for a while by Yves Saint Laurent. <br />
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Then we were hijacked by a tour guide, who took us around to a dozen or more workshops -- huts, really, where men crafted metal, glass, and wood into gorgeous lamps and tables. <br />
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Our final stop with him was the government pharmacy, which made and sold herbal cures for anything that might ail you. Phil was quite intrigued by the mandrake root, offered as a cure for baldness. But I pointed out that it was both poisonous and hallucinogenic, so we decided against it.<br />
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After delicious tagines,we walked over to admire the Koutoubia mosque in the moonlight, finishing off with ice creams on the Jemaa el-Fna square while watching the nightly parade of crazy. <br />
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Tomorrow Phil gets to drive. We may find ourselves longing for the alleyways full of Vespas again.<br />
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</div>Me and the Professor http://www.blogger.com/profile/14315986297142456111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270821201135124072.post-55713639544889991172012-05-29T22:32:00.000+02:002012-05-30T10:43:23.591+02:00Dark, Fierce, and Fanatical*<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
We've been in Marrakech just over a day. I don't even have adjectives to describe it. Here's the best I can do.<br />
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Unbelievably loud. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">La Madersa Ben-Youssef</td></tr>
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Serene.<br />
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Chaotic. <br />
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Frightening.<br />
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Tasty. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Le Musee de Marrakech</td></tr>
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Beautiful.<br />
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We've been lost almost without ceasing since getting here. The souks are fascinating labyrinths. Every time we stop to look at something, the sellers descend en masse. We have purchased many items, some of which we never intended to. We are very, very bad at bargaining and very, very bad at saying no.<br />
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Because of our badness at these things, we ended up touring the tanneries, where leathers are made from camel, goat, and sheep skin. They were fascinating, grotesque, and extremely smelly. We were given clumps of mint to use "as gas masks," as our guide told us. They didn't work that well.<br />
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We visited a historic madrassa, pictured above, and the Marrakech museum, also above, located in a 19th century palace. The contrast between the impossibly hot, Vespa-riddled, loud streets and the quiet, calm interiors is bewildering. <br />
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In fact, bewildered is how Marrakech makes me feel. I've never had this reaction to anyplace I've visited before. But then again, I've never experienced hand-rape by a henna tattoo artist before either. <br />
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*from Edith Wharton's <em>In Morocco</em></div>Me and the Professor http://www.blogger.com/profile/14315986297142456111noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270821201135124072.post-14981930531306844852012-05-27T23:39:00.000+02:002012-05-27T23:43:09.819+02:00The Fleshly School<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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While my child bride packed for our trip to Morocco, I took the Youthful One to Antwerp. We began at the spacious and cleverly designed zoo, next to the train station. We were amused by some of the signs that urge children to ask parents potentially awkward questions about anatomy. <br />
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After a delightful sojourn among the mammals, reptiles, and many birds, we met my old friend Bart at Rubens House, the 17th-century mansion that he helped to design and where the great painter lived during his most prolific years. The furnished rooms displayed many of his canvases. We observed that Rubens penchant for fleshy females and muscle-bound males seems to have developed immediately after his visit to Italy where he was smiten with Michelangelo's heroic depictions of naked human forms. Ironically, Rubens self-portrait presents a slender, elegantly dressed man with a narrow, shapely nose. After a few refreshing glasses of the local favorite, De Koninck, Bart took us to the city's glorious Gothic cathedral, where a Pentecost mass was going, and to the waterfront, where an underground tunnel takes pedestrians to the other bank of the Scheldt.<br />
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All of this sightseeing was in preparation for the day's most stunning revelation: Bart's apartment, a minimalist masterpiece in black and white, full of geometrical nooks and featuring a two-story high spiral staircase and a baby grand piano. The Youth was overcome by a paroxysm of admiration and we had to pry him off a wall when we left for dinner at an Italian restaurant in the neighorhood. <br />
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Dashing for the train, we arrived back in Ghent just in time for a muscial performance by another Belgian friend, Michel Delville from Liege, whose band "The Wrong Object" delivered a fascinating fusion of progresssive jazz and rock at a cafe in the medieval quarter of Ghent. <br />
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Today's cultural immersion took us to the Ghent museum of art, where Lad got his fill of Bosch, Breughel, and more Rubens (of course). As he observed on leaving, "I can tolerate exposure to a great deal of glistening female flesh."Me and the Professor http://www.blogger.com/profile/14315986297142456111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270821201135124072.post-86772471707300257602012-05-26T11:42:00.000+02:002012-05-26T11:42:55.650+02:00There and Back Again<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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We're back in Gent for a brief stint before leaving for Morocco on Monday. And Ben has arrived! <br />
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London was grand -- cold and gray, as it should be (and as Gent has been up until two days ago), and full of friends and fun. We spent Monday, before our train, visiting Sue's place of work, the Royal Pharmaceutical Society. It's a real treat going through exhibits with her. She's a museum curator, so any question you ask will have an informed and fascinating answer. We looked at displays of pharmacy/apothecary objects through the ages (and learned the difference between pharmacists and apothecaries. But <em>you</em> have to look it up). Phil was most intrigued by a display of badger testicles, which apparently were used to cure baldness. In fact, there were many, many cures for baldness in the exhibit. Phil found it quite disturbing that in an era when bubonic plague was rampant, baldness was considered a disease.<br />
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Sue pointed out only one error in my latest novel, which has several apothecary scenes. There may have been many more mistakes, but she was kind enough to stick to one. And she excused it by pointing out that it's fantasy, after all, so glass jars could well have been used in my make-believe apothecary shop. Oops. Corrections will be made in the 2nd edition, should there be one.<br />
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We also had a delicious and fiery Chinese meal to fuel us for the Eurostar back. It included a hot and sour soup that made us all very red in the face, and ended with some peculiar objects that looked like mints, set on a little platform atop a steaming moat of water. We tried to eat them.<br />
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Turned out you were supposed to drop them in the hot water, where they unwound like those little fireworks snakes and became warm cloths to wipe off dirty hands and hot-and-sour-soup sweat. Oops.<br />
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On Thursday Phil gave his last lecture, and we celebrated with -- what else? -- beer. On a boat. It floats on what we've thought for 20 years was the canal outside our window but turns out to be the River Scheldt. Oops. I, of course, peeled off the beer labels with my fingernails while the waitress wasn't looking.<br />
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Tonight we're going to a local nightclub, Trefpunt, to hear our friend Michel Delville perform with his band, <a href="http://www.wrongobject.com/" target="_blank">The Wrong Object</a>. Apparently they play a mix of progressive jazz and Frank Zappa. I am trying to get my head around that.<br />
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And then we're off to a new continent entirely, where I'm sure we'll spend a good deal of time lost and confused. Just to cover us, I say in advance: Oops.Me and the Professor http://www.blogger.com/profile/14315986297142456111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270821201135124072.post-38432233202657757502012-05-20T19:49:00.000+02:002012-05-26T17:48:17.642+02:00A Whole Bunch of Beauty -- Some Truth Too<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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And here we are in England. It's amazing -- you hop on a train from Brussels, and in the same amount of time it would take to get from Wassaic to Grand Central, you're in London. We don't have trains that fast in America.<br />
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We're visiting Klauser & Sue. Haven't been here in ages -- 9 years for Phil and 14 for me. Their apartment is somewhat nicer than Home Heymans. It has beautifully painted plasterwork and tons of lovely art, including a seventeenth century portrait of an actual ancestor. We barely HAVE a seventeenth century in America. And our dear friends have insisted that we stay in their bedroom on their very comfy bed. (This is the same couple whom we forced to sleep on air mattresses on our living room floor. You may draw your own conclusions about the comparative generosity of British and American hosts.) On arrival we were fed a lovely dish concocted by Sue called Autumn Hotpot, in honor of the freezing weather. <br />
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Yesterday we went to the British Library so Phil could look at Joyce manuscripts and we could see the exhibit "Writing Britain." Dozens and dozens of examples of literary treatments of nature and industry, often in manuscript form or first edition, by a thousand years' worth of British writers. We don't have a thousand years of literature in America. Some of my favorite children's writers were included -- Alan Garner, Susan Cooper. There were notebooks with first versions of <em>Alice in Wonderland</em> and <em>Jane Eyre</em>. Lines crossed out by Wordsworth and galleys marked up by D.H. Lawrence. We were pretty much in book heaven.<br />
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Next, a very pleasing stop for tea in the magnificent St. Pancras hotel.<br />
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We went on to Westminster, to tour Parliament. I was trying to get a sense of what the area would have looked like in the fifteenth century for a book I'm working on.The Westminster Palace of that time burned down almost completely in the 1800s, but there were a few pieces left. The main hall, for example, pictured. <br />
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Our tour guide walked us through the Houses of Parliament -- the Westminster Palace of today -- and taught us about the British political system. Her explanation, given in the tones of a rather strict nanny, was on about a fifth-grade level. We were quite well behaved and remembered all we were told, as we didn't want our knuckles rapped.<br />
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Afterward, we dashed across the street to Westminster Abbey. Though it was closed, we somehow managed to sneak into the cloister and then into the Chapter House, which none of us had ever seen. (I think it was a delayed reaction to the nanny guide that made us slip past the "Closed" sign. Naughty, naughty!) The Chapter House held magnificent tiles and wall paintings, and the Oldest Door in England, dated about 1050. We definitely do not have doors from 1050 in America.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our double-decker bus tour guide</td></tr>
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We came back by double-decker bus, because we ARE tourists after all. Saw a gentleman playing a tuba that shot out flames when he blew into it. We don't have flaming tubas in America. Or in Belgium for that matter.<br />
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Today we hiked on Hampstead Heath, shivering slightly and admiring the many dogs and waterfowl. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A spinnet. Or a virginal. Or maybe a clavichord.</td></tr>
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We visited Fenton House, a homey 17th century manse with a stunning collection of musical instruments. I now know the differences among a clavichord, a harpsichord, a piano, a spinnet, and a virginal. <br />
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The English gardens were as manicured as the Heath was open and wild.<br />
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A stop at a pub was restorative. Phil ate a scotch egg. We don't have those in America, which is a good thing. It was disgusting. He enjoyed it very much.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Keats' death mask</td></tr>
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Then on to John Keats' house, newly restored and reopened. Phil wandered about reciting, but quietly, so we weren't kicked out. <br />
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Tonight, Klauser is cooking lamb, and I am making pine-nut and honey tart. Our hosts have an oven! We do not have that in Belgium.<br />
<br />Me and the Professor http://www.blogger.com/profile/14315986297142456111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270821201135124072.post-86236425031201060192012-05-17T21:22:00.000+02:002012-05-17T21:26:30.766+02:00Honorary Belgians<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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We've achieved a milestone. According to our friends Kries and Annie, we have become honorary Belgians.<br />
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It's not because of the Wall o' Beer, though I'm sure that helps.<br />
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It's not because of our successful pilgrimage to Westvleteren.<br />
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It has nothing to do with the fact that I can now say "please" in Flemish.<br />
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It's because we've eaten eel. Paling, to be Flemish about it.<br />
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I know they're endangered. It's the fault of the Spanish, we're told -- their love of little tiny baby eels (anguilas) has left the few remaining adults eels to the rest of the world. As I discovered with the foie gras, though, guilt adds a certain spice to food.<br />
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Kries and Annie took us to a marvelous place, Restaurant Siphon, in Damme. It's known for its preparation of eel, a Flemish specialty. I've sampled eel before, as part of Phil's renowned Feast of the Nine Fishes on Christmas Eve. It was kind of disgusting, but I ate it. And I was determined to eat it again, this time prepared the Belgian way. <br />
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The restaurant was beautiful, located amid dairy farms deep in the West Flemish countryside. We started with an appetizer of white asparagus a la Flamande, made with a pound of butter and hard boiled egg -- delicious. Then on to the main attraction. I had eel in cream sauce; Phil had it in green sauce, made with 13 herbs. The owner and his son came by twice to be sure we could handle it. And you know what? <br />
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It was very tasty indeed. Tender, succulent, not slimy at all. <br />
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So now we've done it. We've plunged deeply into the culture...and we have no regrets.Me and the Professor http://www.blogger.com/profile/14315986297142456111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270821201135124072.post-21472448104449659652012-05-14T22:38:00.000+02:002012-05-17T21:27:21.395+02:00A Tale in Three PartsPart I: The Grail Achieved<br />
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At last! The months of effort have been rewarded. With the generosity of our friend Jo and a great deal of luck, we have not only tasted the coveted <a href="http://www.westvleteren12.com/" target="_blank">Westvleteren 12</a>, we have purchased some.<br />
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But how? you ask, eyes wide and mouth agape. You could not raise the monks by telephone. How have you managed such a feat?<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grotto at Westvleteren</td></tr>
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Here's the tale: We spent Sunday night at Jo's seaside place, and on Monday he drove us to the Abbey of St. Sixtus, where we knew the attached cafe would sell us a glassful of the 12 (there is also a blond and an 8). There was quite a crowd, some who'd gotten through to the monks on the phone and had come to pick up their beer (many driving Porsches and Mercedeses) and some visiting because the abbey also has a grotto fashioned after the grotto in Lourdes, where people go to be healed. In fact, a large contingent in wheelchairs came in to have lunch, drink beers, and get healed while we were there. Anyway, we ordered lunch and three 12s. <br />
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The beer came. We drank.<br />
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Indeed, dear reader, it was ambrosial. We agreed that even taking into account the absurd amount of hype, the Westvleteren 12 is a truly special beer. Very possibly the best in the world, though we have a few more to try before we can make that judgment.<br />
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Our waitress told us that occasionally they sell a few bottles in the gift shop, but there were no extras today. This made Phil a little sad. So I coralled a waiter and asked him if maybe, possibly, there was a bottle lurking somewhere that he could sell us, as we had come from America to taste the beer. "Ah," he replied, "look! They are selling a few right now. If you hurry you can get some." And it was true! A line of people had suddenly materialized at the gift shop (how did they know?) and they were selling a very limited number of gift packs of 4 beers, including one 12, and a glass for an outrageous price. So we bought two gift packs. <br />
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<em>And, borne by hands unseen, they all beheld<br />A chalice with a light veil over it --<br />The Holy Grale glide through the lighted hall</em>.<br />
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Part II: By the Beautiful Sea<br />
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Before this miracle, we spent a glorious day at the seaside, where we hiked (8 miles total!) on the beach and were lucky enough to see a local oddity, the <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2007/08/31/business/worldbusiness/31iht-shrimp.4.7338018.html?_r=1" target="_blank">horse fishermen of Oostduinkerke</a>. They trawl for shrimp in the waves on their massive Belgian draft horses. Very peculiar and wonderful.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Veurne</td></tr>
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Jo cooked for us and the next day drove us all over West Flanders. We visited the beautiful town of Veurne, made our miraculous stop at Westvleteren, and then headed for Diksmuide.<br />
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Part III: In Flanders Fields<br />
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This strange-looking tower in Diksmuide has an equally strange history. It is part World War I history museum, part peace park, and part commemoration of the rise of Flemish nationalism. Flanders, as you no doubt know, was the site of terrible battles in World War I. At that time the country was run politically by the French-speaking Walloons, and the Flemish were often treated as second-class citizens. When the king asked the Flemish to fight in the war, he promised them equality at war's end -- but he did not keep his promise. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from Yser Tower </td></tr>
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As a result, a powerful movement grew up, immortalized in the abbreviation on the tower: AVVVK, "All for Flanders, Flanders for Christ." This abbreviation was carved in the headstones of the Flemish soldiers who fell during the war. The first tower was blown up in 1946 -- some say by Walloon nationalists -- but was soon rebuilt.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">World War I trench</td></tr>
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The museum inside the tower chronicles the horrors of the war in Flanders in a way that makes the devastation it inflicted all too clear. It's something that we in the US rarely think about. <br />
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As you can imagine, we are still reeling from our visit to West Flanders. A beery miracle, shrimp-fishing horses, World War I -- it's a lot to take in. We will mull it over while consuming our Westvletern.<br />
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<em>"Fair sirs, great marvels have we seen to-day,<br />The Holy Grale we happy men have seen,<br />Which some deemed lost for ever to this earth."</em>Me and the Professor http://www.blogger.com/profile/14315986297142456111noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270821201135124072.post-13410174936401878352012-05-13T00:38:00.002+02:002012-05-13T00:52:33.069+02:00King of the Elephants (and Some Beer)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A fabulous day in Brussels. The Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators, Belgian chapter, invited us to an exhibit celebrating Babar the Elephant at the Centre de Litterature de Jeunesse de Bruxelles, so off we went. It's a wonderful little library, overseen by a man whose name I didn't get (we arrived a little late and he was lecturing in French, so I wasn't about to interrupt). He has collected some 85,000 French children's books, many very old, many very special, and is involved in trying to preserve their legacy. <br />
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The exhibit involved works by Belgian artists inspired by the de Brunhoffs' work, and we learned some things about Babar we didn't know (or I think we learned them; it WAS all in French). For example: the first Babar story was created by de Brunhoff's wife to comfort their son when he was sick. <br />
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And: these pages, depicting the murder of Babar's mother by hunters, were excised from the original book for many years because of their excessive violence. Also: de Brunhoff's son is still living in NY and working (at 84!), illustrating the Babar books <em>his</em> wife writes. We also chatted about the difference between European and American children's books, which led to a rather interesting discussion on censorship. <br />
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We then traipsed down to the Grand Place to drink and buy beer. Passed a bus full of rolicking, highly inebriated people on the way to a gay tea dance, but we weren't dressed for it, so we decided not to join them.<br />
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Instead we stopped in at St. Michael's cathedral, which we hadn't seen in 25 years. And then we found the Delirium bars, a series of pubs dedicated to beers, absinthe, gin, rum, and pastis. We stuck with beer (well, we might have tried the absinthe one, but it didn't open till 10 p.m.). <br />
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Crowds of tourists kept coursing past us, and finally we crept among them to discover a strange little statue in a shady corner, the feminist answer to Brussel's famous Mannekin Pis -- the Jeanneke Pis. <br />
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You've all seen Phil's Wall o' Beer, but you might not know that when we're in a cafe, I am often assigned the task of removing labels with my fingernails. It's a tough job (and frowned upon by bar owners), but I'm resigned to it. At the Delirium Monasterium, which serves only Abbey beers, they caught me -- and then offered to soak off the labels for us! When we asked, they told us that other insane people have done the same thing. <br />
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Wait -- does this mean there are other Walls o' Beer out there?Me and the Professor http://www.blogger.com/profile/14315986297142456111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270821201135124072.post-68318146965252688502012-05-09T22:21:00.000+02:002012-05-10T00:03:54.168+02:00Of Endives and MonksIt stands to reason that when you're living in a new place whose language and customs you don't entirely understand, there will be...miscommunications. Errors. Failures big and small. We've experienced that before. When we first lived in Belgium 25 years ago, we visited the Ardennes and stayed at a lovely hotel with an all-French menu. At dinner, I was pretty sure I was ordering some nice game bird for my appetizer. And so I was.<br />
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I ordered hypothalamus of woodcock. On toast.<br />
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Phil had a similar food error this week. We went to our local cafe for lunch, and he wanted a ham and cheese omelet. But it was pretty late in the afternoon. Unbeknownst to us, the cafe only served lunch items until a certain time. Then it was on to dinner.</div>
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The waiter recognized "ham and cheese." Not so much the omelet part. "You want meatloaf?" Phil thought he asked. </div>
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"No, ham and cheese omelet," Phil insisted.<br />
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"Meatloaf!" the waiter repeated. So Phil shrugged. A meatloaf sandwich would suffice.<br />
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Imagine our surprise when, after quite a bit of time had passed, the waiter set down a bubbling casserole. "Meatloaf!" he announced proudly. "Ham and cheese!" Oh wait -- he said "witloof." Not "meatloaf." And so it was. Witloof -- Belgian endive -- with ham and cheese wrapped around it. Very tasty. Extremely large. Quite expensive.<br />
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Our other error this week wasn't one of misunderstanding. It was a simple failure to communicate. You may know, if you've been reading the blog, that we're on a quest to acquire the Best Beer in the World, the Westvleteren 12. We've made the nearly two-hour drive to the St. Sixtus abbey where it is brewed only to find that it's closed on Fridays. Since then, extensive research has taught us that to get our hands on this beer, we must pretty much devote our lives to it. It's a multistep process.<br />
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1. Call the abbey, between 8:30 and 11:30 on Wednesday. This is easier said than done, since our phone only allows calls in, not calls out.<br />
2. Order the beer. You can only get 2 cases of the Westvleteren 12 during any 60 day period.<br />
3. Provide the monk who answers with a license plate number. This is easier said than done, since we don't have a car.<br />
4. Pick up the beer on a Monday, Tuesday, or Thursday between 1:45 and 4:45 in the car with the aforementioned license number. See number three for why it is easier said than done.<br />
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We'd arranged for it all -- phone, license plate number, car. It didn't occur to us that the abbey telephone line would be busy for THREE HOURS STRAIGHT. <br />
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We failed.<br />
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But we will try again. We will order food in restaurants, we will call the monks. We are not afraid. Watch this space for updates.<br />
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</div>Me and the Professor http://www.blogger.com/profile/14315986297142456111noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270821201135124072.post-58041310458177614312012-05-05T21:54:00.003+02:002012-05-05T22:02:05.795+02:00The Professor's Post: The Mysterious Tower<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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After extensive research at several Flemish archives, I have determined that the conical tower standing alongside the canal just outside our balcony has a colorful legend--or perhaps a sanguine history.<br />
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The structure was built in the mid-16th century as a toll collector's station for ships, laden with flax and tulip bulbs, coming up the canal from Damme and Bruges. The tower fell into disuse and disrepair in the late 17th century, but it soon found a new and unexpected function. In 1689 the Duke of Ghent used it to imprision a vicious dwarf, Nils Vander Witloof, a court jester convicted of embezzling money from a local bishop who had much to hide. <br />
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Prior to his execution, Witloof asked if he could be moved from his dungeon cell in the Gravensteen Castle to the tower, alleging that he wanted to gaze upon the beloved canal (from the slits cut into the brickwork) before he died. The Duke complied, but it was a fatal mistake. While confined to the tower, Witloof made friends with the birds (magpies, gulls and moor hens), who brought him sticks, sharp stones, and bits of twine. With these materials the ingenius dwarf fashioned a bow and arrow.<br />
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One afternoon as the Duke was being rowed down the canal on his way to a banquet (or possibly a romantic assignation), Witloof took aim through the slit and shot a crudely fashioned arrow that took out the Duke's right eye. <br />
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For this he was flayed before being drawn and quartered. Some elderly local residents claim on winter nights there is a sound emanating from the tower that is a ghostly echo of Witloof's wicked laugh as his arrow struck home. Or it could just be the east wind.Me and the Professor http://www.blogger.com/profile/14315986297142456111noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270821201135124072.post-75429930503896039402012-05-01T10:53:00.000+02:002012-05-01T10:53:10.880+02:00Klauser and Sue confess<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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We started our trip with an afternoon at the Place Royale in Brussels where we went to a church designed to resemble a Roman temple and had a good look around the Musee d'Art Ancien (but only after our first Belgian beer, two bottles of cherry Belle Vue). They had hidden the Rubens 'because of the continued negative conditions' which explained precisely nothing to K. In Gent we heard marvellous live music in the two cathedrals and went on a boat ride in the rain. We didn't mind as we were quite dry under colourful umbrellas. Our guide was very informative but made no comment about the fact that one resident en route had suspended a banner describing tourist boat tours as 'noise terrorism'. We loved the Design Museum especially Dirk Wynants' outdoor furniture.<br />
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Next day K needed to make a pilgrimage to the new Herge museum - the man who wrote and drew the Tintin children's graphic novels. This was extensive and, for K, enthralling. We walked in the gardens at Freyr, had beer and cheese at Maredsuis Abbey and the 'Market Menu' at a great little roadside tavern.<br />
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On Sunday we crossed the border into The Netherlands to look at the tulips at Keukenhof. These were more beautiful than it is possible to believe even as you gaze upon them in rapt wonder. We spent the evening in Haarlem where the inhabitants marked Queen Beatrix's birthday at the funfair and in the bars whilst we celebrated in our own way at the magnificent De Lachende Javaan restaurant (highly recommended).<br />
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The next day the weather had cheered up so we headed up to the to Zwin nature reserve where amorous storks were much in evidence. <br />
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We then enjoyed Pater Van Damme beer brewed in the charming town of Damme. Dinner back at Gent with chef Phil Sicker demonstrating his skill at making the city's classic stew waterzooi. Yum, yum.<br />
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We would advise everyone to visit Belgium and glut themselves into a happy stupor of art, of food, of friendship.<br />
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More Keukenhof exquisiteness below...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHFTq7kXBYHnANAP7Qa2fQzpO5ZzJSkQDE71BZqHTHmYApS2LCaRaVhhECtIAQJAObVMExBWR2EBpdY2He_-GU8qs4nY9UPto46tIUseDzPZCb5l8ggI2GQzthFcZRvKhciKtLPqTcBvs/s1600/100_4998.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" oda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHFTq7kXBYHnANAP7Qa2fQzpO5ZzJSkQDE71BZqHTHmYApS2LCaRaVhhECtIAQJAObVMExBWR2EBpdY2He_-GU8qs4nY9UPto46tIUseDzPZCb5l8ggI2GQzthFcZRvKhciKtLPqTcBvs/s320/100_4998.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Me and the Professor http://www.blogger.com/profile/14315986297142456111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1270821201135124072.post-12709102659750442402012-04-30T11:57:00.000+02:002012-05-01T17:32:41.695+02:00And Then There's the Food<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipxTkvMR-GH7N16WeR-BI56om8SltyiI8qxDB-aJQ2G_T86SlkCsJA1P5y4DUQmS_7GuNgUcT5QWluVN1Hww9nmw6D7fBob_JH0VYMwQKEOENgvqZH8miauvaidOv0ZM4xBEerDwZczQk/s1600/100_4951.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" oda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipxTkvMR-GH7N16WeR-BI56om8SltyiI8qxDB-aJQ2G_T86SlkCsJA1P5y4DUQmS_7GuNgUcT5QWluVN1Hww9nmw6D7fBob_JH0VYMwQKEOENgvqZH8miauvaidOv0ZM4xBEerDwZczQk/s200/100_4951.jpg" width="200" /></a>I realized that I've been neglectful in talking about what we've eaten. This is probably a relief to some of you. But I do advertise this blog as an eating, drinking, and traveling odyssey, and I've focused pretty heavily on the drinking and traveling. And since I'm trying to make Klauser and Sue guest-blog our weekend's travels, I'll tell you what excessive and delicious things we consumed.</div>
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Phil cooked on Thursday and Friday, giving our guests some Belgian treats. He fried some cheese (kaaskroketten), without setting off the smoke alarm. Then we feasted on Carbonnade a la Flamande, a Flemish beef stew made with beer (of course). And I made pannekokken, or crepes, with apricot jam and a homemade chocolate sauce. Friday Phil fried those little shrimp croquettes (again without bringing down the sad little apartment manager who looks at the smoke billowing from our apartment and gives the typically Belgian shrug when we point out that yes, the exhaust fan is on and yes, the balcony windows are wide open. <em>It is not our fault, </em>we say in our flawless Dutch. <em>It is the fault of the apartment</em>)<em>. </em>And he made fish with leeks in cream sauce, a dish we discovered 25 years ago in Liege at a restaurant beside the train station.</div>
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Saturday we spent in the Ardennes. We had a huge plate of Ardennes ham and cheese at the Maredsous Abbey, and we stopped on the way home at a charming little roadside restaurant that had apparently been a coach stop for many hundreds of years. We took the menu du marche and feasted on smoked trout salad, jambon d'Ardennes, what we thought was squab but apparently was guinea fowl, and homemade pasta with prawns. </div>
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Yesterday we went to Holland, ending up in Haarlem, where we nearly killed ourselves with rijstafel, the Indonesian feast that features dozens of small dishes, almost none recognizable and some exceedingly fiery. The restaurant was lovely and we ate EVERYTHING.</div>
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And this morning Phil made an omelet with Ardennes ham and Flemish cheese. Feeling full yet?<br />
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So you see we haven't been suffering for lack of nourishment, in case you were worried. Quite the opposite, in fact. Phil is making waterzooi, a chicken and cream stew, tonight. After that we will stop eating entirely for a week or two. Otherwise we will have to buy all new clothes. <br />
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By the way, I've finally figured out how to enable comments by everyone on this blog. So comment away. But be nice! There may be young children (whose parents haven't noticed them googling "beer" and "voyeur") reading what you write.<br />
<br />Me and the Professor http://www.blogger.com/profile/14315986297142456111noreply@blogger.com0