An Orange Grove, and a Moment of Fame

Every week before French class, I go for coffee with one of my coworkers, who also happens to be taking French at the Alliance Française. We meet at the same cafe around the corner. At least, until this week, when we found the cafe closed. Like, permanently closed.

So we went across the street to another cafe, and what should greet me when we walked through the doors but this huge mural of an orange grove on the back wall. With the turquoise chairs and ketchup bottles, I felt like I was in a diner in Winter Haven! So this is clearly meant to be our new weekly meeting place.

I'm a bit fuzzy-headed this morning because Dave and I went to a dinner last night where numerous bottles of champagne and wine were consumed. This was at the home of the boyfriend of another work colleague, Natalie, who then came down with a fever before dinner and had to go to bed. We offered to go home and leave her in peace, but her boyfriend, who's a chef, wanted us to stay because he'd been cooking for hours. Awkward! Every once in a while Natalie would contribute to the conversation from her sick bed in the upstairs loft. (It was a very small apartment.)

It's been quite a social week, actually. I also met up with my old Peace Corps friend Rene, on Thursday night. She happened to be passing through London with her kids. We just had a quick drink at her hotel, but that was enough to check in with each other. I hadn't seen her since 1994!

Yesterday after French I went to the National Gallery to have a wander among some famous painters. It's been a while since I've been able to browse an art museum at leisure, and I spent a couple of hours there with Cézanne, Goya, Hogarth, Canaletto, Turner and many others. My favorite painting on this visit was this one, of a rhinoceros nicknamed "Miss Clara" who toured Europe in the mid-1700s. Can you imagine how strange a rhinoceros must have looked to most Europeans at that time?

Finally, did I ever tell you that once last June, while walking Olga from Hampstead Heath back toward home, I saw the Google Streetview car drive by? It was a fair distance away and I wasn't certain it was photographing at the time -- it seemed to be moving awfully fast. But yesterday I looked on Streetview and there we are!

Crocuses and Infinity

Olga and I took a long walk to Hampstead Heath yesterday, where we were pleased to find crocuses coming up. (The ones in the picture were actually in a nearby cemetery, but trust me, there were plenty of them on the Heath.) Spring has sprung!

As usual, my canine charge was thrilled to get out of the house.

We even found a light saber, left behind by a careless Jedi. The force was with us!

The weather allowed us a good view from the top of Parliament Hill. You can see how muddy the Heath is at the moment. I'll be glad when the grass begins to grow back after its winter dormancy!

In other news...

Several days ago Dave and I were watching the prison drama "Orange is the New Black" and Piper, the lead character, was talking about getting a tattoo. Something small, she said, maybe an infinity symbol -- for which she was chastised by a fellow inmate for succumbing to cliche. And I was like, "Wait a minute!"

Because that is my tattoo. I have a small infinity symbol, about the size of a dime, on my right foot, given to me by hand by a friend in the Peace Corps. (You could say it's my own version of a prison tattoo.)

How is it possible that a tattoo I've had for 23 years is now regarded as a cliche?! Here I thought I was being quite the rebel. I'm going to maintain that at the time I got it, I was breaking new ground, and the world has simply imitated me. That's my story and I'm sticking to it!

Also, I got my overseas ballot for voting in the Florida Democratic primary. It has exactly one race on it. I'll mail it off on Monday, and you know who I'll be voting for!

The Brussels Assailant

Yesterday I mentioned that almost immediately upon my arrival in Brussels on Wednesday, I found myself in a conflict with a local.

Here's the story.

At about 10:30 a.m., I was walking on the Avenue de Stalingrad from the train station to the center of the city.  I was noticing the interesting shopfronts, many with Arabic writing and Middle Eastern or North African names and themes. The avenue has a wide median with trees and benches, and I was standing in the median taking pictures of a tree shadow across a closed shop.

Suddenly a young, bearded, brown-eyed man came out of a doorway and, yelling at the top of his lungs, ran straight at me.

I scarcely had time to react before he grabbed me by the jacket and shook me, yelling in my face something about mon maison -- probably "Why are you taking pictures of my house?" (As mentioned, I was photographing an apparently vacant shop, not the windows he pointed to above the shop, in what was not a house but clearly a multi-story apartment building. But I understand the confusion.)

I tried to explain but the guy didn't want to hear it. He pushed me and hit my camera several times and bellowed "DELETE! DELETE! DELETE!" inches from my face.

People were emerging from shops up and down the street to watch this very loud spectacle.

I've always wondered what I would do if asked (!) to delete a photo. In some cases, I might try to state my case in a friendly way -- but that was clearly not the path to take here. This guy was flat-out enraged. I have been challenged by people before while taking pictures, but never with this much volume, venom and violence.

So I deleted the pictures, allowing him to watch as I did so. (They weren't that great anyway.)

When I finished, he grabbed my jacket again and pushed me backwards, so that I very nearly fell. I turned right around and walked away, wanting only to get out of there. I passed an old man on a bench, who looked at me sympathetically and wobbled his hand beside his head -- the international "crazy" gesture. I nodded in agreement.

Now, I know that street photography is not everybody's thing. But photographing the exterior of an urban building, on a street that visitors must frequent often, hardly seems transgressive. Google Streetview? Real estate agents? His reaction was clearly off the charts -- unless he was genuinely mentally ill, or traumatized, or hiding something, or all three. And who knows. Maybe he was.

I considered going to the police. But in the end, I wasn't hurt, my camera wasn't damaged, and while being pushed around and manhandled could perhaps be considered some kind of assault, I didn't want to spend my one day in Brussels in a police station. I felt like it was best to let the whole thing lie.

(Photo: A sculpture known as La Pasionara, on Avenue de Stalingrad, just a short distance from where my altercation occurred. Ironically, it represents freedom of personal expression.)

Une Journée à Bruxelles

So yesterday, kind of spur of the moment, I hopped on the Eurostar and went to Brussels.

I've been nagging Dave for some time about wanting to see Brussels. We went to the Atomium years ago, but I'd never spent time in the central part of the city. Dave ultimately didn't want to go, partly because Brussels has a bad rap as a tourist destination, at least among people I know -- the belief seems to be that, as the capital of the European Union, it's basically a center for bureaucracy.

But I felt certain there had to be something to see there. It's a capital city of 1. 2 million people, after all.

So I left Dave happily at home at caught the train, arriving about 10 a.m. I almost immediately had a bizarre altercation with an angry, possibly deranged man on the street -- which I may tell you about at another time -- but afterward spent a nice leisurely day taking photos.

(I love the sign outside the cafe above: "YOU CAKE or DEATH? Or a sandwich?")

First I walked to see the Manneken Pis, the legendary fountain featuring a urinating cherub that might be the single most famous emblem of the city. I took pictures, but they're not that great -- the statue is a tiny little thing. OK, it's 400 years old, but still -- I don't really get the appeal.

(Apparently tons of other people do, because there are cafes called "Manneken Pils" and "Manneken Frites," among others, and you can buy Manneken Pis bottle openers, statues and t-shirts.)

I also went to the Grote Markt, the old main market square (top photo), which has some beautiful old architecture.

But I was more interested, as usual, in seeing how people live -- checking out the shops, the restaurants, the general atmosphere.

This was an interesting building, festooned with what appears to be tilework of bananas and oranges at the top.

I crossed a canal and went to Molenbeek, the neighborhood that has been the source of much distressing news coverage lately. I was curious to see what it was like. I walked around for about half an hour, and didn't get the camera out much -- not wanting to be provocative. It seemed like a perfectly respectable immigrant neighborhood. I'm sure like most places it has its good and bad elements.

Back in central Brussels, I had lunch at a cafe near the canal bridge (Chimay beer and vegetable lasagna) and then kept walking. I found the monumental fountain dedicated to Jules Anspach, mayor during a transformative period in the city's history in 19th century. The fountain is topped with this sculpture by Pierre Braecke of St. Michael slaying a dragon.

I also went to a cookshop where I bought some little presents for Chef Dave.

I got to practice my French, but Brussels isn't the best place for that, being a multilingual city. People were too tempted to switch to English rather than endure my mauvais Français.

Finally, my feet aching, I walked to the Parc de Bruxelles, where I sat for a while despite the fact that it was chilly. At least we had sun! There wasn't a cloud in the sky yesterday -- surely unusual for Brussels in February. I think I even got a bit sunburned on my neck!

As the sun set, I made my way back to the train and got back home around 8:30 p.m. Whew!

Silly Old Postcards

Still cleaning out the old stuff...*

Isn't this a creepy postcard? I mean, seriously. The scale of the disembodied, hovering orange relative to the overly made-up, apparently anesthetized face. Sheesh! Courtesy of my friend Carolyn, it's from Morocco, where many, many odd postcards once could be found.

As some of you know, I was a huge fan of the old TV show "Thirtysomething." Hence this card from my friend Liz, mailed in 1995.

Another old Morocco postcard, also from Carolyn. Sultry, and yet...not.

My friends Kevin and John sent this to me in May 1984, my senior year of high school, when they went to Daytona Beach while I was stuck at home for four weeks with mononucleosis. Knowing my enthusiasm for tree sloths they chose a card featuring the skeleton of a giant ground sloth, on display at a local museum. "I wonder if he died of mono?" Kevin wrote helpfully.

Sent by my friend Suzanne in 1989. Inside message: "I can't run again."

Back then, we thought Ronald Reagan was as bad as it could get. Boy, were we wrong!

My friend Liz sent me this card from Marrakech in August 1993. (It was printed in Spain, so we can't pin this one on the Moroccans.) "You are the one person I thought would really like this card," she wrote. Very retro, even then!

This might be my favorite -- mailed from Key West by my friends Arthur and Cherie in 1989. "I couldn't think of anyone who would appreciate this card more than you," Arthur wrote. I'm not sure what that says about me. But he's probably right.

*Unlike the old valentines, I saved all these!

Rotherhithe

Took a photo walk yesterday in Rotherhithe, on the south bank of the Thames where the river bends around Canary Wharf and the Isle of Dogs, east of Central London. This is a neighborhood I've never explored much, and it's an interesting mix of old historic structures and new housing. I started at the Canada Water tube station, where most of the buildings are characterless and modern, and wound through the densely packed maze of streets to the waterfront.

It was windy and freezing cold on the river -- my hands got numb! I had a great view back toward the city, though, across mud flats exposed by the low tide. And we had sunshine!

There was an old metal bridge across a lock that led to an inland lake called Surrey Water. I think that rounded piece rolls back to lift up the bridge -- which definitely seems like a public hazard -- but I'm not sure it functions now.

In someone's garden I spied this bird bath so packed with fake birds a real one couldn't find space!

Across from Canary Wharf I descended some worryingly dilapidated stairs to a beach. There were rotted pilings for a long-gone dock extending into the water. (This river must be full of navigational hazards, particularly near the shores.) I walked on the sand and found a nice chip of old blue-glazed pottery.

Afterwards I ran an errand. Dave has a Tag Heuer watch that he never wears -- a gift from a former partner -- and since he's not a wristwatch guy he's interested in selling it. So I did some Internet research and took it to a jeweler near Bond Street, who referred me to another jeweler, who referred me to yet another jeweler. (Apparently my research was lousy.) Eventually I spoke to someone who told me it would be worth up to £200 except that it's engraved, which makes resale difficult. (I figured they could just buff out the engraving or replace the backplate, but apparently it's not that easy.) So we may be stuck with it.

These are the sorts of tasks you work on while on vacation, right? Those bottom-of-the-list tasks.

The other day I talked about being out of TV shows to watch, and Sabine suggested "Deutschland 83." By coincidence Dave and I had already been watching it -- I simply forgot to say so. Have any of you seen it? I'm not sure it's available in the States, and it is subtitled, but it's an excellent show -- a mini-series, really, with about eight episodes. It's about the Cold War in Germany in the early 1980s. Check it out if it comes your way.

Steeplechase Olga

Another Monday, another picture of the dog. We were in Hampstead Heath yesterday when we found this interesting stand of trees. I really wanted a photo of Olga jumping over that log, so I threw her Kong into the patch of leaves at the base of the trees, and she dutifully brought it back to me. We did it several times to get the right shot.

Fortunately, to her it was just a game. She's the most cooperative, enthusiastic photo subject I could ask for.

In fact, here's the close-up, just so you can see her joyful expression.

Otherwise, yesterday was very domestic. I continued working on two of my projects, cleaning out some old letters and transcribing old journals into blog form. I've done all my journals from 1988 to mid-March 1993, which isn't bad! Only 15 more years to go! (Ugh)

I wrestled with what to do with the bundles of letters I sent my family while I was in the Peace Corps. When my mom moved recently, she asked me if I wanted them -- and I took them, reluctantly. I was a prolific letter-writer -- in fact, I don't know how they read all those letters! But in skimming them I see that they basically repeat incidents that are already in my journals. So the verdict is: Out they go. Realistically, I'm never going to sit down and read them, nor should I. There's life to be lived now, right?

Dave spent yesterday in the garden, cleaning up the winterkill and pruning the roses. He cut down the cardoon, the asters, the loosestrife and some other stuff, and it looks much better out there. We need to prune the rambling roses above the day lilies, because they've become so dense and huge they're blocking the light from the plants beneath.

Today I'm off on a photo-walk, if the weather cooperates!