Change

June 15, 7:00 AM. N drove me to the airport for my last flight home. With nine months of my life packed into three suitcases and two carry-ons, I said goodbye and boarded the plane. At 5:00 PM I landed in Seattle where Z greeted me with flowers and tears.

Washington seems a little strange to me. There are no old buildings and no cobblestone streets. There is not enough walking and too much driving. I never thought I would say this, but it is almost too quiet in our little neighborhood.

Change is hard for me, but I get better every year. I’ve been back home for about a couple of week nows, and so far so good. A few days ago Z and I went for a 35-mile bike ride along the Foothills Trail with gorgeous views of Mount Rainier all along the way. The other night I went for a walk and saw the most beautiful rainbow over the Cascade mountains. At this very moment I'm in Ohio visiting family I haven't seen in almost a year. People smile and say hello when they pass you in the street. Best of all, I am back with my partner, enjoying being a team again.

I love Belgium. I can’t wait to go back. I already miss my friends and hope to see them again soon, here or there. So, here’s one last look back:






And now a new chapter begins: from muziekmeisje to madbyrd. See you there!

The Last Supper

One of my college friends used to curse the “fun food” fad in America. In the states we enter the restaurant and are immediately tempted by bright signs with plates full of heaping, colorful, artificial-looking food. We pop deep fried things into our mouths and wash it down with a “big gulp”-sized drink. We top it off with a sugar-laden dessert. And we usually do it all in less than an hour.

Soon after I arrived in Belgium back in September I learned that Belgians eat for all the right reasons: to socialize, to relax, and, most importantly, to enjoy food. They eat slowly, thoughtfully, perfect-sized portions of fresh, real food. They drink something that compliments the meal, not to wash it away. They (generally) don’t get antsy if the service is slow, because what’s the rush? After the meal they leave the restaurant satisfied and pleasantly full.

After nine months of lovely, if all too-infrequent dining experiences, I knew I had yet to experience the best of eating in Belgium. I think in one of my first posts I noted that Belgians are proud of their culinary culture and believe that what they offer equals if not surpasses their French neighbors. After my experience at Beluga I agree whole-heartedly.

N, S, and D took me to Beluga as a sort of “final hurrah.” After a drink on the Oude Markt we headed over to this tiny restaurant tucked away in the Krankenstraat. The dining room consisted of only 5 or so tables, laid out in front of the kitchen which was run by a young-ish husband-and-wife team. We began with a light sparkling wine from Italy and a raw oyster on the half shell. The wine: lovely. The oyster: could have done without. BUT my culinary experience only went up from there. The first course consisted on a delicate white fish seasoned with a nutty cream sauce. This was followed by a tasty mussel soup (my first and only time eating in mussels in Belgium!) The main course was a very nice white fish with a risotto and vegetable (my memory gets a little hazy here as the wine was flowing rather freely at this point!) The dessert was a perfect little spice cake with ice cream, and, thanks to D, I managed to get two servings of it. As the restaurant emptied out we were left to visit with the owner, W, who proceeded to bring out a very fine port and grappa to polish off the meal. After 7 hours were finally stumbled out, drunk and happy, and headed to the Oude Markt for one final drink. When I arrived at home the sun was rising and the birds were singing.

*sigh*

Eating out will never be the same.

The Thrill of Archival Work

Really? you ask. The thrill? But bear with me. When one's life has been little more than drab libraries, soft-lead pencils, and itchy eyes, one can't help but get excited by the discoveries of others in their own archival pursuits. Especially when those pursuits lead to that rare, unexpected find.

I have never claimed that my work on Peter Philips mattered much to anyone but me. Even as far as history is concerned, my topic can have little impact on our understanding of the greater good. So congratulations to the anonymous archivist who stumbled across this little note while researching for something completely unrelated!

Read the letter. . . check out that signature. . . what a find!! Ah, I am nearly breathless with excitement of behalf of our anonymous friend (damn him/her!) Anyone who knows me knows that I am fascinated by military history, especially our American Civil War. Maybe this comes from my mother's insistance to drag her poor children to various battlefield sites and cemeteries when we were kids. To read more about this story, click here.

(I am dreadfully behind on my blogging. Stay tuned for posts about my recent trip to England and my final days here in Belgium!)

Procession of the Holy Blood

Sounds potentially gory, right? The Procession of the Holy Blood is held every year on Ascension Day, which this year was May 17. It is an ancient tradition dating as far back as 1291 when it was first mention in a charter. Although there have certainly been many changes since then, the heart of the event remains the same: the re-enactment of the passion and resurrection of Jesus Christ. The final part of the procession is the passing of the golden shrine that houses the Holy Blood itself, the blood of Jesus.

V, A and I were lucky enough to get front-row tickets for this year's procession. I had stupidly left my camera in a locker at the train station, so these pics are courtesy of A.

Those Dam Dutch

At first glance the Dutch appear to be everything the Flemish are not: they wear brighter clothes, they talk more loudly, and they don't look at their shoes, your shoes, or anyone else's shoes when you walk towards them on the street. They look at your face.

So how is it that only 450 years ago these were all the same people? Before Luther knocked on the old Cardinal's door, the people of the Low Countries lived harmoniously together, eating waffles and digging canals. Contrary to popular belief, however, those in the north weren't encouraged to leave by religion alone. They were drawn away from Antwerp towards Amsterdam by the opportunity to make more money. Merchants decided that rather than give part of their hard-earned cash to the occupying Spanish, they would rather keep it all to themselves. And the fact that they didn't want to worship false idols came as an afterthought. Those lucky Dutch. Amsterdam's position on the North Sea combined with a few profitable colonizations turned it, almost overnight, into the world's richest city in the early seventeenth century.


This fact is plainly obvious, even after only two days in the Netherlands. The churches are small and plain compared to Belgian standards: no elaborate altars, no side chapels full of relics. They are clean, tidy places with sparkling chandeliers, white walls, and large organs. In fact, while some religious fanatics (yes, there were some) wanted to burn the organs along with all the other Catholic icons, many people wisely stepped in, played the money card (organ-building was a lucrative career for many Dutchmen), and saved the organs from destruction.

Seventeenth-century Dutch paintings reflect the people's wealth in numerous ways. The people are central: men and women wearing massive lace collars and expensive jewelry. They are often pictured in their familiar surroundings, whether it be an elaborate sitting room or a tropical plantation in the Dutch East Indies. I spent two hours wandering through the masterpiece collection of Amsterdam's Rijksmuseum--some of the best Dutch paintings around--and found barely a single representation of religion.


Dutch architecture is wonderfully varied. The rooftops are marked by the famous gables, false fronts that are meant to enhance sharply-pitched roofs. They come in all shapes and sizes and are sometimes decorated with animal and human heads, garlands, urns, scrolls, and curlicues. The gables have such names as Point, Bell, Step, and Spout. And, according to Rick Steves there is "probably even a clark gable, but frankly, I don't give a damn."

My favorite thing about Holland is its willingness to flaunt itself in all its rich, varied glory. Tacky sex shops line up right alongside the upscale cigar bars. While in Belgium your elderly neighbor drinks strong beer, in Holland she can (and probably does!) smoke pot. The tacky signs of tourism are everywhere, and yet you can be in the lovely, tree-lined Jordaan district in a matter a blocks.

So what do the Flemish have to say about their northern neighbors? They don't know how to cook. They are too loud. They are penny-pinchers. What do I say about the Dutch? Well, from what I tasted they really don't know how to cook. But eating aside, the Dutch know how to relax, have fun, and be themselves. I can't wait to go back!

Relief!

And now, as the anxiety of last week slowly melts away, I find myself boarding a train for a long-awaited destination: Amsterdam! See you next week!

Anxiety

(The part where I complain)

I'm getting antsy, bored, a little burned out on my friend Peter Philips.

It was bound to happen. How long can a person possibly do just one thing for an entire year? Well, I guess I've been doing more than one thing. But as far as brain food, it's been nothing but Philips, Philips, Philips. Philips in Brussels, Philips in Antwerp, Philips in Spanish, French, Dutch, Latin . . . And I haven't even started writing yet!

*****

(The part where I rationalize)

It was partly this most recent trip to the states. I got on the podium for the first time since last July. Ahhhh, what a rejuvenation! I was anxious for weeks ahead that I would have somehow forgotten how to conduct, when in fact I just plain missed it. I can't wait to get back on the concert stage!

I also realize that my time here is nearly up. I leave in just over one month! Rather than enjoy the time I have left, all I want to know is . . . what's next? This kind of restlessness is a typical springtime reaction for me: Will I be working? If so, where? When will I find time to write? Will I want to write? When will I graduate? What about juggling schedules with Z? Will we need another car? If so, how can we afford a new car if I'm not working? Will I be working . . .

*****

(The part where I engage in dialogue)

I've been giving Z an earful on my restlessness/anxiousness all week. In return, he has given me that much-needed dose of perspective.

Me: "I can't take much more of this research. I'm soooooo unmotivated."

Z: "Well, how much more do you have to do?"

Me: "I could work on this topic forever! But I don't have time. I still need to go to the Netherlands, England, Rome, maybe Germany."

Z (with that sarcastic *poor thing* look on his face): "You don't have to do it all, just do what you can and enjoy yourself."

Me: "How can I enjoy myself when I haven't seen the $#*(&@ sun in over a week? Stupid Belgian weather."

Z (cheerfully): "Well, welcome to my--"

Me (clearly not listening): "And what about next year? What will I do?"

Z: "Dear, maybe--"

Me: "MAN I've had enough of Peter Philips. I'm tired of seeing his name during the day, his imaginary face in my dreams. Geez, how much more of a nerd can I be?"

Z (starting to straighten up his desk): "Mmm-hmmmm . . ."

Me: "So, what should I do?"

Z: "Sounds good, dear."

Me: "What? Have you been listening?"

Z: "OK, good luck with that. Gotta go . . . grade papers . . . and stuff . . ." (I know perfectly well he's going to the couch to watch basketball.)

Me: "WHAT?!?"

Eventually after I calm down a bit Z imparts his sage words of wisdom: "Don't spend your last weeks worrying about everything you have to do. Remember, you're only writing a dissertation, not the seminal study on the life and work of Peter Philips. Do that later if you want. Right now just relax and enjoy!"

*****

(The part where I accept)

He's right, of course. I've spent all year living the stress-free life of an American abroad, soaking up the slow-paced European way of life, food, and drink. I would hate to flush that all down the toilet over a man who's been dead for almost 400 years.

So.

Breathe deep, straighten my shoulders, do a little work . . . and relax!

Any (Other) Dream Will Do

It's been a long couple of weeks since I've posted--travel, interviews, archival work--and it's time for an update.

Not long after my last post I was able to meet with a prominent American musicologist, Dr. F. She was in Brussels, traveling as part of a sabbatical, and agreed to meet with me to discuss confraternities. This was fortuitous since I had just made "the discovery" in the archives only a week before. She sat with me in Anderlecht and helped me decipher old Dutch. It was quite possibly the nerdiest thing I've ever done, and I loved every minute of it! We hit it off so well that I didn't even feel slightly embarrassed when I told her about my recent string of Peter Philips dreams: meeting Peter Philips on the Grand Place in Brussels, shopping with Peter Philips in Wal-Mart, etc. (Sad, isn't it?) Dr. F. and I only had one day, though, because the next day I had to . . .

. . . travel back to the United States for a job interview at Gonzaga University. I flew into Seattle and recovered from jet lag with Z at our home in Puyallup. After two days spent preparing and (of course) shoe shopping, I was flying off to Spokane. The interview was rigorous: three rehearsals, two tours, one class, one mass, and several meetings, all in two-and-a-half days. The trip was even more anxiety-producing in that all three candidates were there at once! I am happy to report, though, that Gonzaga is a beautiful school, and the people there are sooooo nice. I felt I did my best in the interview, so now I have to wait and see if it's what they wanted. I'm especially grateful to have had the opportunity to interview because it also meant that . . .

. . . I got to spend some unexpected time with Z. It wasn't a lot of time, but we did manage to eat at a favorite Indian restaurant in Tacoma, attend the PLU Concert Band concert, hike up to Pike Place Market in Seattle, and watch a little of the NBA playoffs. And even though I initially suffered a little mild culture shock after an evening visit to the Puyallup South Hill mall, I realized that I am really looking forward to life back in the states. So it was with a little weariness that I boarded a plane--again--to Belgium, only to find upon my return to my apartment that . . .

. . . my building had finally been sold, and there was a new landlord and, consequently, a new set of building keys that I didn't have. I also discovered (with only a little surprise) that my beat-up bike had been stolen while I was gone. The onset of jet lag was a little delayed by some news from home (not to worry, all is well!) And soon a sense of normalcy returned. Despite a four-hour nap in the afternoon I managed to sleep for 11 hours last night, a blessedly dreamless sleep!

The One where I Find Stuff

It was Wednesday. Another gloriously sunny day here in Belgium, and I was getting a little cranky at having to stay cooped up in an archives in the middle of a remarkably-unattractive neighborhood in Brussels. I was sweeping quickly through a rekening (a ledger), looking at the income and expenses of a Confraternity at Saint-Gudula in Brussels. I was looking to see if the con had ever purchased music similar to that written by Peter Philips for their devotional services. And, low and behold, this is what I found:

A rough translation: Peter Philips was actually a member of this confraternity! And not only was he a member, but he was such a prestigious member that he could afford to establish an annual mass given in his name. And see that little word in front of the one in front of his name? Wylen. It means "recently deceased." I already knew that he had died in this particular year (1628), but now we may have a good idea of where he is buried. (Shall I grab a shovel?) This little bit of information basically unlocks a whole new part of his life that no one has ever explored. Until now. Feeling that Mr. Burns urge again: "Ah, Smithers . . . "

Though it would have been better if I had found this last fall, for now this could not be a more timely find. Earlier that day I was getting so discouraged that the only thing that lifted my spirits was this. But I warn you, only look at it if you dare: it's a rather R-rated entry!

Time Out on the Vismarkt

Spring is here in Belgium. Since I returned from my spring break to the states it's been sunny nearly every day. The air is warm, the trees are green, the flowers have bloomed. The best part about spring in Belgium is that all the cafe terraces are open! And last week I discovered a new favorite: De Blauwe Schuit on the Vismarkt. It has a self-contained garden patio shaded by a huge tree with nesting birds (watch out!) and a great beer list. When I went last week with D, S, and H, I decided that the perfect pairing for a warm spring evening would be a fruit beer.

Fruit beer has a bit of a bad reputation in the states. It either represents a watery, seasonal beer that tries a little too hard to be good (I tried blueberry beer once in Boston--ick), or it means Zima with a lime, a truly high-quality beer for young undergrads trying to get very drunk very quickly. In Belgium, however, fruit beers are tasty without being too sweet. The most common ones are cherry, raspberry, peach, and black currant. Among the several brands available in Belgium, the one I ordered (and one of the most common) was Lindemans.

I've said it before: the cafe culture in Belgium is not to be missed. And when paired with fine beer, well, it makes it all the harder to think about leaving. I've been in recent discussion with Z about possibly bringing him back for a couple of weeks this summer before I leave, if for nothing else than to share these kinds of local experiences with me. We talk about it, get caught up in the romantic notion of summering away the days in cafes. Then we remember that we also want to do a fair amount of traveling in the states this summer: east coast and Ohio to visit family, maybe up to Victoria and Vancouver for a long weekend. And, oh yeah, what about that house down payment we keep talking about?

Luckily, the pace of life moves so slowly here in Belgium that the cafes and fine beer will always be here, ready and waiting for our next visit together! And in case you are in doubt as to whether or not you would enjoy it, here are a couple of spring pics to tempt you.

A windmill in Bruges


The botanical gardens in Antwerp

Yoga in Leuven's Stadpark

At the bio-engineering building in Leuven

In the news

Mondays are difficult days to conduct archival study in Belgium. All city, provincial, and national archives are closed. Private archival institutions are generally open, and so yesterday I took advantage of a long-awaited trip to see an original Roman Breviary (1610) at the Plantin Archives in Antwerp. This would have been nearly identical to a Breviary that Peter Philips would have had at his disposal at the Archducal court in Brussels. It was a simple book, mass-produced for all religious institutions of Catholic Europe, and chock-full of images of Saints, martyrdom, and, of course, Mary. But I stray . . .

The Archives closed at 4PM, so I left to meet a friend on the beautiful summer-like afternoon. We walked, we parted, and then on my way to the train station, where I was to catch a train to choir practice in Bruges, I ran into another friend. We dined on the best Pad Thai I've had in Belgium, and off I went again to the station. On my way I got a call from my friend N, about to travel from Leuven to Bruges for choir:

"There's been a strike."

When I got to the station, at 6:30 on a busy Monday afternoon, sure enough I was met with a departure board that had only one train listed. And event though it was going to Bruges, there would be no guarantees that I would be able to get back to Leuven that night. So I decided against choir practice waited for a train. And rather than bore you with the mundane details of my sitting in a station, on a train, at another station, I'll just say that two hours later, I was finally home.

This was the big news in Belgium yesterday, but of course when I checked the New York Times headlines before heading to bed I was met with a very different story out of Virginia.

I have spent half of my life living and working on college campuses. They are unique communities that are in part designed to be safe havens for working, studying, and living. Eight years ago this week we watched TV and saw kids running out of a high school in Colorado. Several years ago a music professor was shot and killed on the college campus where Z now works. And then this.

Gun violence is horrific. And this kind of gun violence seems to be unique to the United States. Almost 1/3 of the world's 600 million guns are owned by Americans. I remember from when we lived in Texas that just about anyone can buy a gun at Walmart. What's wrong with this picture?

There isn't much else to say, I guess, but see how events unfold at Virginia Tech and wonder what tomorrow's news will bring.

Duality and Process

These three words head up the several-hundred page dissertation my dear husband just mailed in to the University of Iowa. As of mid-May we will be "Dr. and Mrs. L." I am so proud!!

Of course, HE did all his research in English . . . :)

Peter Philips, I Presume?

One of the joys of researching someone with a name like "Peter Philips" is the frequency with which both names appear in a variety of forms. This past week, for example, I've been examining the books of the Church Fabric at Sint-Goedele in Brussels. Philips didn't actually work there, but it's possible some of the music he composed would have been used in the cathedral's side chapels. So rather than taking a detailed look, I've just been skimming the pages for his name. After two full days, and several hundred pages, I've come up with only one entry.

This is something I do often, with a variety of different kinds of documents, and in several different languages. The name "Peter Philips" actually appears in many linguistic forms: Pierre Philippes in French, Petrus Philippus in Latin, Pedro Philippe in Spanish, Pieter (or Peeter) Philips in Dutch. Sometimes "Philips" is also just shortened to "Phls." And since none of the documents I'm looking at are in English, I can't just look for plain, old Peter Philips.

Just looking for the name "Philips" also presents problems in itself. For example, during the period which I'm studying we have:

• Philip II and Philip III, Kings of Spain
• A "Grd" (Gerard?) Philips, who was also working at the Archducal Court
• A Phillippe was also a monetary value used in the Low Country at this time
• Thomas Phellippes, an English cipher working for Walsingham

This last one poses a particular problem because of my recent theory that Peter Philips was actually more involved in plots to bring down Queen Elizabeth than previously thought. The regional spellings differences make the distinction between my Philips and this Thomas Phellippes a problematic one.

But maybe I shouldn't complain too much. After all, my composer could be named "John Smith."

Europe's Laughingstock

I started today with my usual morning routine: a cup of coffee and a look at the headlines. And there, on the front of the New York Times, was a picture of a woman dressed in medieval clothing sitting at a spinning wheel. The article's headline: "Belgians Hail the Middle Ages (Well, Not the Plague Part)."

This already didn't look good. Hurray for Belgium for making the front page about something other than Justine Henin's latest tennis match. But what's up with the title? I quickly read through the article. Sure enough, the author--I will call him Mr. B in case you decide not to read it yourself--was highlighting Flemish men and women who spend part of their lives living in the middle ages. They go about their daily lives and then retire to towers and tents on the weekends, "roughing it" medieval style.

Mr. B determined that part of its fascination with the past was because Belgium suffers from a lack of contemporary national identity. According to a Belgian psychologist, "little Belgium is fed up with being Europe's laughingstock." There is a quick word about the extreme right Vlaams Belang, another tidbit about young people's interest in studying medieval history. The rest of the article focuses on the general "quaintness" of people wanting to stomp around in wooden shoes and drink spiced wine.

If Belgium is trying to shed its label as "Europe's laughingstock," then, well, this article certainly doesn't help. The title itself is "silly and quaint." There are real issues here: extreme nationalism, prejudice again Muslim immigrants, and the general apathy among young people to do anything about them. Belgium's problems may mean little to others, but certainly its people would rather the world talk about them instead of about this.

*sigh*

My morning coffee must be stronger than usual.

Three Americans in Paris

(This is a post I've had lingering in my "edit" box for weeks!)

I am kicking myself. I am kicking myself because I've been living in Belgium for six months and have only just recently gotten around to visiting Paris. Had I known it was so easy and inexpensive I would have done it long ago! The Thalys runs trains every half-hour from the South Station in Brussels to the North Station in Paris. So for only about 30 euros and 2 hours each way, you can have an easy, scenic trip to one of the greatest cities on earth!

At first glance Paris appears to be everything a city should be: clean, cosmopolitan, and welcoming. The Louvre sparkles, even when the skies are gray as they were when we first arrived. The Eiffel Tower glitters at night with bright lights that are spectacular and tasteful at the same time. The subway is cheap and easy to use, the food is divine, and the people are friendly. Yes, that's right: friendly.

But I should remind you that everything stated above was "at first glance." We barely had time for a second glance, having only spent about 36 hours breezing through the top sights. So it was more of a teaser than an actual visit. Here's a quick run-down of a whirlwind visit that I think would even make Rick Steves proud!

• March 7, 9:30 AM. Depart Leuven for Brussel-Zuid Station. Mom and dad get an "Americano" coffee to go.
• 10:10 AM. Brussel-Zuid. Scramble to get one more coffee before boarding the Thalys.
• 10:30 AM. Thalys pulls out of Station. Soon dad wanders to the cafe car for more coffee.
• 11:45 AM. Arrive in Paris Nord. Dodge the gypsies on our walk to the hotel near station.
• 12:00 PM. I attempt (in what is possibly my worst French ever) to check us in. The hotel clerk actually smiles warmly (!!!!) at my efforts and helps me through the conversation. Things are looking good!
• 12:30 PM. After dropping the bags we head for the nearest subway station and try to figure out how to get to the Louvre.
• 1:00 PM. Arrive at the Louvre with no problems. Our first view is absolutely jaw-dropping.
• 2:00 PM. After a light lunch we begin a suggested walking tour that takes us along the Seine to the beautiful Ile de la Cite. Along the way we stop at Square du Vent Galant, Ste-Chapelle, and Notre Dame.
• 5:00 PM. After a quick snack of crepes we take the metro over to the Arc de Triomphe. Mom and I walk the 500 steps up to catch a wide-sweeping view of the Champs-Elysees.
• 6:30 PM. Begin walking towards the Eiffel Tower along beautiful (and ritzy) Avenue George V.
• 8:00 PM. Take elevator up to the first floor of the Eiffel Tower to see the Paris skyline at night. Ahhhhh...
• 9:00 PM. Late dinner and return to the hotel.
• March 8, 9:00 AM. After a quick coffee it's back to the Musee du Louvre for a look at the Venus de Milo and the Mona Lisa, along with a glancing look at literally thousands of other wonderful pieces of art.
• 12:00 PM. Grab sandwiches (mine was a delicious blue cheese ciabatta) and eat lunch "European-style" in the sun in the Louvre courtyard. We linger and enjoy.
• 1:30 PM. Wander past the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel towards the gorgeous Jardin du Carrousel. Mom begins to discuss with dad the possibility of a more extended trip to Paris next year.
• 3:30 PM. Head to the train station to catch a 4:30 train.
• 7:00 PM. Back in Leuven for dinner.

Phew! If you are still with me then you definitely have the stamina for the kind of trip we took! And what did we do on March 9? Recovered with Belgian waffles, fries, and beer.

Mom and me in front of Notre Dame

Our first view of the Louvre!

The windows at Ste-Chapelle are oldest in Paris, dating from the 13th century.

Notre Dame (this picture actually makes it look smaller than it really is because the people at the bottom are much closer to me than the building!)

The view from the top of the Arc de Triomphe.

Taking a break at the Arc du Triomphe.

One last look--the Jardin du Carrousel.

Why, George, WHY?

While I'm generally not one to air my political views on the web, I couldn't let this one pass without at least a little comment. I'm not sure if our president's new choice for US Ambassador to Belgium shows how little he cares for this little country, or if he just won't rest until he gets his own way. My fellow Fulbrighter J said it best: "This would be hilarious if it wasn't so depressing." You can read more about it here.

Maybe I'm just in a sour mood because I'm about to make my first trip to the dentist in almost a year. But, really George, WHY?

I promise . . .

Now that I have returned from my two-week spring break to the states, I promise to return to more faithful blogging. I have a saved post from my trip to Paris from almost a month ago, as well as other memories from recent trips clunking around in my brain. Here's a taste of what's coming (and an incentive for me to get moving!)








(I admit this last picture isn't mine, but it was the view I had of Mount Rainier on my flight back the other day!)

Delays

4 hours and counting . . .

Location: Quad Cities Airport, Western Illinois
Time: 5:00 PM, waiting for a 2:25 flight that's been delayed until 6:00 (?)
Reason: Returning from Iowa City with the newly-crowned Dr. Z

Since I last wrote from the comforts of my miniscule studio in Leuven, so much has happened. Brussels to Seattle via Newark, east to Iowa City, back to Seattle today (eventually, though an onvernight in Chicago is looking more likely by the minute), and back to Belgium next week.

I promise to blog these "exciting" adventures soon.

4 hours and ten minutes . . .

In Flanders Fields

In 1914, when the German army attempted to outflank the French and capture Paris by moving through Belgium, they hit a snag around the town in Ieper in Flanders. Ieper (more commonly known to us as Ypres) became the site of a bulge in the line of attack between the two massive armies. As a result of this bulge, or salient, the German offensive had to dig in a series of trenches, and the allied armies did the same. Generals on both sides envisioned breaking through the lines of their enemies combining man power and old-fashioned military tactics such as cavalry charges. The reality of modern warfare--machine guns, barbed wire, tanks sinking in artillery-shelled landscapes, and chemical weapons--resulted in starvation, desertion, and a massive loss of life. Four years, four major battles, and only a handful of kilometers later, 1.7 millions soldiers were either killed, wounded, or missing.

As a child I used to balk at the thought of visiting "yet another Civil War battlefield" on family vacations. They are interesting, sure, but their relative isolation from the rest of the country makes them seem almost quaint and nostalgic. In Belgium the signs of war are much more real. They are a part our everyday lives. The library in which I have an office in Leuven, for instance, was purposefully burned to the ground (along with the rest of the city) by the Germans in both World Wars. Throughout Ypres the signs are even more visible: 160 Commonwealth cemeteries and dozens of monuments dot the sleepy countryside. The entire city of Ypres was rebuilt from the ground up using what our tour guide called German "blood" money. Anti-German sentiment still runs high among the local elderly residents.

Mom, dad, and I visited Ypres a week ago Saturday. We traveled by train to this tiny town at the edge of West Flanders--2 1/2 hours from Leuven--and visited the countryside via a local bus tour. We spent four hours touring the areas top sights:

• Essex Farm Cemetery. The burial site of casualties from a battlefield near the adjacent canal. The cemetery also contains several British bunkers which would have housed crude first-aid stations. This was also the place where Canadian John McCrae composed his poem In Flanders Fields.
  
• Canadian War Memorial. A ten-meter high granite statue that was raised to honor the Canadians who suffered the first German chlorine gas attacks in April 1915.



• Tyne Cot. The largest Commonwealth cemetery in the world with almost 12,000 graves and a memorial naming 35,000 soldiers whose bodies were never recovered.



• Passchendaele. The little village that was the site of the Third Battle of Ypres, the only British offensive. The objective was to break through the German lines and capture this village, only a couple of kilometers away. The battle was a "disastrous success:" in 3 1/2 months almost 750,000 men died, having either been killed or drowned in the landscape's swampy quagmire. The whole campaign came to symbolize the futility of the war and the incompetence of the generals. At one point Field Marshall Haig's Chief of Staff ventured out to inspect the battlefield and said, "Good God, did we really send men to fight in that?" (The first picture above was taken during this battle.)


• German cemetery. We did visit the one German cemetery that is maintained in this area. At the end of the war the numbers of German dead ran as high as those of the Commonwealth armies. But they were only allowed one cemetery. As a result, the graves hold anywhere from 2 to 20 men. At its entrance is a mass grave that holds 40,000 bodies. The names of the dead line surrounding statues, including those of two British soldiers who were accidentally included in the mix. We were shown a picture of Hitler who visited this cemetery with his generals on his way to France in 1940.


• Sanctuary Wood Museum. One of the only places in Ypres where you can visit a series of trenches as they were during the war. It is said that the owner of this little property returned home after the war to find these trenches filled with shells and bodies, all in his backyard. After the clean up he decided to open a museum. Today every tour stops here, including bus loads of kids who unfortunately treat this as their private playground (thankfully not when we were there.)



• Menin Gate. This war memorial stands at the Ypres city entrance to the main route of Commonwealth soldiers heading to the front. Its walls contain the names of 50,000 troops who died in the Ypres Salient but who have no grave. The Last Post is sounded every night here at 8 PM.

The Ypres Salient is a stunning place. Only when you drive across the countryside do you get the sense of this war's utter futility. It took us only seconds to drive across a bit of land that would have cost the armies hundreds of thousands of lives to capture. The landscape is permanently marred by four years of massive shelling. Every Cross of Sacrifice that appears in the distance marks another cemetery: in the woods, in village centers, in people's backyards. On the sides of the road lie old shells and other bits of weapons that are still dug up from the fields. Even today farmers find skeletons almost weekly, and new space is constantly in demand for new cemeteries. It is the kind of juxtaposition that defines the Belgians: continuing to live in the shadow of history's deadly past.

Rediscovering Belgium

I see that I've become a slacker. I haven't posted in almost two weeks, and yet so much has happened! I can actually blame my parents for this lapse in communication. Last spring, when they first heard I would be spending the year in Belgium, they wasted no time in getting their passports and planning their vacation. Monday morning, after ten wonderful days, they boarded the plane home, and I've been scrambling to catch up.

One of the great things about entertaining friends and family from home is that I get the chance to rediscover my love for this country. I happily pull out my white sneakers (or, as we say in the Midwest, "tennies") and my Rough Guide and hit the sites like a tourist. We visited the usual suspects--Leuven, Brussels, Bruges--and a couple of new places for me, including Ghent, Ypres, and Paris. And my parents, bless them, cheerfully endured my dragging them across miles on train tracks and cobblestone streets. And with the promise of a coffee and biscuit or new Belgian beer at every street-corner cafe, who could complain?

My intention is to post a little something about each destination, but let me start with our first adventure: Ghent. Ghent is a bit of a forgotten city in Flanders. It lies half-way between Brussels and Bruges and is usually a place to pass through on your way to someplace more exciting. Like Bruges, it is a city of canals and churches, and though not as picturesque as its northern neighbor, it is an immediately likable place. As the Rough Guide states: "If you're put off by the tourists and tweeness of Bruges, this is the place to decamp."


Ghent's star is Sint-Baafskathedraal, a marvelously Gothic building that was 250 years in the making and was completed only two years before the Reformation wars threatened to bring it down again. While Sint-Baafs itself is rather dark and unremarkable as far as Belgian cathedrals go, its greatest treasure is the famous Adoration of the Mystic Lamb by Jan van Eyck. It is undeniably one of the most famous Flemish paintings of the 15th century, both for its beauty and its realism. It has a checkered history: the Calvinists tried to destroy it, Philip II of Spain tried to buy it, Emperor Joseph II tried to censor it (he replaced the nude Adam and Eve on one of the cover paintings with a clothed version in 1784), and the Nazis stole it and hid it in an Austrian salt mine until it was discovered by American soldiers in 1945. And, unfortunately for us, we didn't get to see it because the guy running the ticket counter stepped out for coffee. *sigh*



Sint-Baafs is only one of three churches that lie within 200 meters of each other. It is remarkable that one can stand in the middle of the center square and see three huge churches, all built at roughly the same time, and each vying for "top dog" in Ghent's religious community. Sint-Niklaaskerk dominates the center of the main square, and Sint-Michielskerk rests alongside the canal. It's hard to say if this kind of close proximity is the result of an "Oh yeah, well I can build an even BETTER church . . .", but it is fun to speculate.

Ghent's other great draw is the deliciously-sinister Gravensteen castle. It was built by the Counts of Flanders in the 12th-century, as much to protect Ghent's citizens as to intimidate them. Having missed the tour of the inside by a mere five minutes (it wasn't our day), we contented ourselves with a stroll around its grounds. As one of Flanders' only "urban" castles, it has survived the centuries to provide us with a more secular view of medieval times.