A wedding and a funeral

As I wrote yesterday, my departure flight for Stockholm was scheduled on July 11th. I could have left a few days earlier, but then I would have missed my friend Mati’s wedding. My parents and I were invited to attend the church ceremony, which would take place on Saturday, July 9th at 3 p.m. at our village church. Later in the evening, there would be a banquet and a dance party, to which we had also been invited. As I have known Mati since we were three, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

This picture is actually very appropriate
as my friend Mati's mother is Polish!
Photo: google images

The first weekend of the school holiday was uneventful. My mother and I started thinking about what to pack for my trip up north. What would the weather be like? Did I need summer clothes, or should I take some sweaters and a warm coat? On Monday, I went to the bank to exchange some Belgian francs (this was pre-euro days) for Swedish Kröner. In the evening, my father came home and handed me my plane ticket. “Sweden here I come.” was still ringing in my head … less than a week to go!

And then it happened. On Tuesday morning I was awoken by my mother storming into my room … in complete panic. “Your grandmother just passed away.” she said. For as long as I can remember my father’s parents have lived with us. My grandfather died in the late sixties, but my grandmother, who was then in her eighties, was still living with us in 1977.

The rest of the week was hectic; with my parents arranging the funeral, friends and relatives coming to our house to offer their condolences, me packing and at the same time asking myself whether this was the appropriate moment to go on a holiday. I was also wondering whether it would be fitting to attend a wedding when my grandmother had just died. In the end, it all worked out rather well. The funeral took place at 11 a.m. on Saturday, July 9th . In the afternoon I attended Mati’s church wedding. I went alone, while my parents stayed with the funeral guests. I didn’t go to the banquet or the dance party, though.

The next Monday, my father drove me to the airport. I felt somewhat guilty leaving my parents so soon after my grandmother’s death and funeral, but both my mother and father insisted that I should stick to my initial plans. So off I went.

Having a free ticket implied that I wasn’t sure about having a seat on the plane, although my father had booked well in advance. People holding a paying ticket always get priority. At the check-in desk at Brussels airport, the clerk said that there was no problem for the first part of the trip, Brussels – Copenhagen, as there were only 12 passengers. However, he couldn’t guarantee that I would have a seat for the second part, Copenhagen – Stockholm …

“Sweden, here I come” might very well become “Copenhagen, here I am and here I stay”! …

(yet more to come)

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How I came to visit Sweden

In 1977, I was in my second year at university, training to become an interpreter. In those days the full program took four years: two to obtain a Batchelor’s degree and two more to get the Master’s certificate. Today the program takes five years, with an extra year during which you specialize in a specific field: economics, law, sciences, etc.

My original goal was to become an interpreter, not a translator. During the first two years of the program, all students – future translators and interpreters – take the same classes, though. At the end of the second year, and providing you score at least 70% at the interpreter exam, both options are open to you: translator as well as interpreter. If you score less than the required 70%, translator is the only option. The second year is therefore a very demanding and crucial one. The program comprises 38 hours per week. In my schedule, with the language combination English/Italian, Tuesday was the worst day, with an early start at 8 a.m. It went on almost non-stop (except for a short lunch break of 45 minutes) till 7 p.m. Since then, and even today, I hate Tuesdays!

In 1973, while I was still in college and during my second language holiday in England, I had met a Swedish boy called Mats, who was also staying with my guest family in Kingsdown. We had a great time together and even were summer sweethearts for two consecutive years. But we were probably too young and living too far apart (Brussels – Stockholm: 1500 km) for the love to last. However, we continued writing to each other and became very good friends. In his letters he used to urge me to come and visit him in Sweden, as he wanted to show me around Stockholm.

I had always liked the idea, but my parents thought that I was too young. Until 1977 when, to my surprise, my father agreed on one condition: I could go and visit my friend if I successfully passed all my exams in June. He knew that I was finding the second year at university extremely difficult and rightly guessed that a trip to Sweden would be an excellent incentive.

In order to make it even more tempting, he made me fix the dates: from July 11th till July 25th. I wrote a long letter to Mats, asking him if this suited him and his parents. He said it was perfect, as his brother Per would be in England in July and I could have his room. My father, who at the time was a flight engineer with Sabena, was entitled to free tickets for himself and his family. So he booked a return flight for me from Brussels to Stockholm via Copenhagen for the above dates.

 Nov. 7th, 2001:
Mismangement by the joint venture partner Swissair,
led to the bankruptcy of Sabena.
This Airbus 340 from Cotonou and Abidjan,
flight  SN 690, was the last plane of the fleet to return to its homebase in Brussels.
Here it is given an honorary salute by the airport's firebrigade.
One of the pilots on this flight later committed suicide ...
The bankruptcy of Sabena is one of the biggest social dramas in Belgian history, with more than 17.000 people directly or indirectly losing their job.

(Photo: google images)

Needless to say that I studied more and harder than I had ever done before. And I made it! On Friday, July 1st I got my Batchelor’s certificate and was even offered the option to take the interpreter classes. I had just ten more days to go with only one thought in my mind: “Sweden, here I come!”

(more to come)

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The Swedish connection

Last week I received a picture postcard from my longtime friend Mati. She was spending her vacation in Stockholm, Sweden and seemed quite impressed by the beauty of the city. And she's so right!

Her card reminded me of the vacation I spent in Stockholm in 1977. In 1973, whilst staying with my English guest family in Kingsdown, Kent, UK I met a Swedish boy who at the time lived with his parents in Nacka, one of the Swedish capital suburbs. And that's how, in 1977, I had the opportunity to make this fabulous trip to Sweden. During my two weeks stay I visited Stockholm and a fair part of Sweden and Norway.

I know my blog title indicates that I want to be in and write about France ... but this Scandinavian experience is really something I would like to share with you. Interested anyone?

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Destiny

This morning, I went to visit another apartment. Yes, I’m still house hunting. This really was the best place I’ve seen so far. It’s located on the first floor on a completely renovated 50-ties house, which used to be a private villa. It’s too good to be true and the price is okay too. So what’s holding me back?

There has been a significant development in the leak/mold/damp problem in my current apartment. After an extremely hot July, August has been particularly rainy. And ‘rainy’ is a euphemism, as it has been raining cats and dogs. After the first pourdown I noticed a water stain on the ceiling, where the decorator had removed the mold and dirty paintwork. Next we had some nice warm and sunny days, and the stain gradually disappeared … By this I mean that the water found its way down into the wall. Came the next pourdown, and there it was again … a new stain in exactly the same place. And so on …

New stain after the rain.

This clearly proofs that the water is coming in through the roof or the façade. In the meantime I was contacted by the leak detection firm. My insurance company had instructed them to look for leaks in the apartment building nextdoor. For the first time since the beginning of this sordid affair, my interlocutor was ready to listen to me. The young lady on the other end of the phone was really charming and listened to what I had to say: about the stain appearing after a bad rainstorm and it disappearing when the weather was dry and sunny. Moreover, the nextdoor’s tenants were away on holiday when this happened, which meant their kitchen sinks, the other plausible cause, weren’t being used.

To make a long story short, a new leak detection is planned on Monday, September 6th. They will start at 9 in the morning and the young lady assured me that they would keep looking, exploring all possible options, until the leak was found. Even if it took all day! I’m therefore mildly optimistic about the outcome.

After visiting the new apartment this morning, I told the agent that I was interested … providing the result of the new leak detection attempt was negative. He said that he couldn’t guarantee that the apartment would still be available in a week’s time as there was already another candidate waiting by the door when I left. Moreover, there were three more visits planned for next Monday. We agreed that he would call me as soon as he had a firm answer from one of the potential tenants.

So I’m leaving it to destiny … If this new apartment is really the right place for me – and it really felt like home – it’ll still be available on Monday Sept. 6th AND the leak detection will once again have failed to find the cause of the leak!

Right now, I don’t know what to wish for …

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What to make of this?

I'm curious to know your ideas/thoughts/views
regarding this photo ...

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Locked in

In the early days of my blog, I wrote a post about being locked in with the Cardinal’s cats. It was about our visit to the cat museum in the town of Richelieu. From what I’ve heard the elderly lady of Belgian origin who was the founder, owner and caretaker of the museum died some years ago. I don’t know whether she had any children or relatives to continue her work. And judging by the error message which appears when you click the following link http://www.museeduchat.fr/, there is very little chance that the Cat Museum still exists.

The memory of being locked in with the Cardinal’s cats all those years ago suddenly became very vivid again last Friday when we found ourselves locked in an underground car park. This is what happened.

After our visit to the MediaMarkt store it was too early to go to the restaurant where I had booked a table for lunch. It was a nice and sunny day – the first one after a long chilly and rainy period – and we rather fancied an aperitif al fresco. Along the road from the store to the restaurant are some ‘parc d’activités’, some of which look like ultra-miniature versions of Silicon Valley. The recently built offices host law firms, advertising agencies, … Very often the ground floor is used as a showroom for top-of-the-range cars like Volvo, Hummer, Cadillac, Rolls Royce, etc.

I tend to call this an ‘interesting’ view as I had never seen it from this angle before.

The ground floor of one of the most prominent buildings, however, hosts a classy restaurant and a snack bar … side by side! Both have a nice outdoor terrace with an interesting view of the site and the nearby road. As it was on our way, we decided to have a drink there. All the outdoor parking space being taken, my friend boldly drove up to the large open gate of the underground car park. As soon as he pulled up to the barrier, which was closed, a ticket appeared out of a machine by the side of it. My friend grabbed the ticket at the barrier opened automatically. Funnily enough, as soon as we had passed the gate which had been open on arrival, automatically and mysteroiusly closed behind us.

The car park was almost deserted. We took the elevator to the ground floor, where we were greeted by the lively sounds of a snack bar in full swing. We managed to find a nice table on the terrace which was rapidly filling up with hungry employees from the nearby offices.

We stayed for about half an hour, enjoying our drinks and the warm August sun. Back in the underground car park, we put the ticket in the machine and … nothing happened. The barrier as well as the automatic gates remained firmly closed. The little screen on the machine showed: 2 euro. We examined the machine, but failed to find a money slot. After turning off the engine we both got out of the car to try and find a machine where to pay to 2 euro or at least a sign explaining what to do. Nothing!

Finally, me friend told be to get back into the car and wait while he returned to the ground floor to solve our problem. While I sat there, waiting for him to return, nothing stirred. There we no cars coming in and no one seemed to feel the need to go out and the gates remained firmly closed.

About ten minutes later – and ten minutes can be an awful long time when you’re sitting on your own in the semi-darkness of a deserted underground car park – my friend returned with a new ticket. It had been given to him by the waiter of the snack bar with the simple instruction to insert it into the machine near the exit barrier. He hadn’t charged any money for it. We were just about to do as he had told us when the waiter suddenly appeared from the elevator. “Wait a minute”, he said, “I’m not sure it’ll work. But just try it. If the gate doesn’t open I will let you out be opening it using my personal badge.” We put the ticket in the slot and …

Blinded by the bright sun that shone through the open gate, my friend carefully drove up the ramp while I gratefully waved goodbye to the helpful waiter …

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Trying to live a healthier life

It’s common knowledge that nutritionists recommend that we should eat five portions of fruit per day. And they conveniently add that it shouldn’t be too difficult to do so as ‘everybody likes fruit’. Everybody that is … except me. Mind you, I’m not saying that I loath it, but there are very little species that I really like. Melons are okay, and so are bananas – for a short while – and an occasional apple or kiwi. But that’s about it. Consequently, I rarely eat fruit, let alone five portions a day! I do like to drink orange juice.

Since my recent discovery of the very convenient ‘Fruit in a bottle’, by Chiquita I manage to eat/drink one portion of fruit per day… which is far less than the recommended five portions, but it’s better than nothing, isn’t it. These smoothies come in five or six flavours. My favourite is the pineapple/banana/orange mix. However, the smoothies have a major drawback … they are outrageously expensive: almost 2 euro per 250 ml bottle. Plus by the end of the week you find yourself with 7 empty plastic bottles, which you need to recycle. In this case it means buying special plastic bags which are supplied by the village council and collected every fortnight on Tuesday.

My latest acquisition.

I’m no miser, on the contrary, but why not look for an alternative way of buying and eating fruit. And this brings me to one of the items I purchased last Friday at MediaMarkt: a juicer! It cost 88 euro. If you divide this by the price of a smoothie, multiplied by the number of smoothies I drink per week – based on only one per day – and if I add to that the price of the fruit that I will have to buy to make my own fresh fruit juice/pulp, the juicer should have paid itself in less than three months.

On Saturday I bought some red and white grapes, a watermelon, 6 kiwis and 500 gr. of strawberries. And yesterday afternoon I made my very first glass of fresh grape juice … it was delicious. The machine is easy to take apart and rinsing the three parts that have been in contact with the fruit takes less than five minutes. I can hardly wait to try the next fruit on my list: the strawberries. Using the juicer, it shouldn’t be too difficult to consume up to three portions per day. Okay, it’s still not enough, but I’m getting there …

The other item that I got on Friday was the paper shredder. The one I had bought in the spring of 2009 had broken down; through my own fault. Although the label clearly said not to shred more than five sheets of paper at once, I had been too careless, and involuntarily had tried to push 7 sheets down the slot. Although my friend took the machine apart, he never managed to remove the pieces of paper that were trapped between the cutter knives.

As for the netbook and the Outlook software. Well, the netbook will have to wait. I don’t really need it right now as I have no immediate travel plans, and the laptop that I bought last October works just fine for the daily use I have at home. Finally, at 179 euro I found the Outlook software way too expensive. Maybe the next time! After all, I will have to go back in two or three week’s time to get Mauricette’s new plug-in device.

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Saving Mauricette

In May last year my friend bought me a GPS. In the meantime you’ve come to know it as ‘Mauricette’. During my little expedition in July to the Tenants’ Association in Kessel-Lo, Mauricette had partly failed me. She had worked perfectly on the way out. On the way back, however, she was ‘powerless’. And I mean that in the strictest sense of the word. Somehow, the feeding cable which you plug onto the car’s battery through the cigarette lighter didn’t properly function.

I asked my car mechanic to have a look at the cigarette lighter and he confirmed that it wasn’t working. The fuse operating it had probably blown. He also noticed that the white reverse lights of the car didn’t function. This was more serious than the malfunctioning cigarette lighter! He fiddled around in the fuse box for a while and found the culprit. He replaced it and charged me 1 euro for it. He also said that he suspected Mauricette’s feeding cable being the problem. As it did not only affect the cigarette lighter but also the reverse lights, I decided not to take any risks by using the GPS before having the cable checked out.

Last Friday, my friend and I drove to the nearby MediaMarkt. We bought the GPS last year in the Waterloo branch of this media store. Since then a new shop has opened nearby and that is where we went. The young man at the ‘service après-vente’ (after sales service) was very kind and helpful. I had hoped that he would replace the cable straight away as it was still under warranty, but he said that he had to send it back to the European headquarters in Holland first, to get permission to replace it. It would probably take two to three weeks. There was a lot of red tape involved and I had to give my mobile phone number. They will send me a text message as soon as the new cable is available. And so we left the store with a temporarly amputated Mauricette.

But you can’t walk into a MediaMarkt without browsing around for a while, can you? I had four items on my mental shopping list: a paper shredder, a juice maker, a netbook and Microsoft Outlook software. I walked out with two of them. Can you guess which? Or what would you have bought, given the choice of the above?

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A trip to the garden centre

My mother, who lives right next door, has a nice garden. In the past, when my father was still alive, part of it was used for growing vegetables: potatoes, peas, garden beans and string beans, carrots, lettuce, courgettes and some herbs, like thyme, tarragon, mint, parsley … There also used to be a chicken pen with two or three permanent residents that were in charge of our daily egg supply.

For the first years after my father’s death, my mother managed to keep the garden going on her own. However, over the years, it became too much work. She waited until the last chicken died of old age to have the pen dismantled by a little man who comes in every now and then to till the garden and trim the hedges. The vegetable garden was the next thing to go. Today it only contains some fresh herbs and two or three lettuces … if they haven’t been eaten by the snails.

The garden in July 2010

The flower garden is doing well, though. The first to appear in spring are the snowdrops and the crocuses, followed by the daffodils and the tulips. Next come the azaleas, the callas, the roses and finally, at the height of summer, the hydrangea. However, my mother found that there was something missing. And the other day, she knew what it was: lavender! She therefore asked me whether I would drive to the garden centre with her to get a nice lavender plant.

The garden centre. If you look closely, you can see my mother
just behind the last car on the right.

And so, a couple of weeks ago, one sunny Friday morning, we set out to a nearby garden centre. The place wasn’t too crowded and we spent a pleasant hour wandering around. We bought more than we needed, of course. We got a pruner, garden gloves, some fertilizer, two 10 kg bags of potting soil, three flower pots in different sizes and matching plastic trays, a packet of bright blue paper napkins and two odd looking sansevieria plants to put on my window sill in summer. They replace the orchids which are currently sitting on the window sill in the second bedroom where the hot summer sun can’t harm them. In October they will have to switch places.

High maintenance bonsai

I saw some lovely orchids too, but I refrained from buying one … which wasn’t easy! We were about to leave when all of a sudden we remembered what we had come for: lavender. We strolled back to space where all the outdoor plants are kept and found a nice looking specimen. We also saw an attractive orange tree – with ready-to-pick oranges already on it - and several cute bonsai. I’ve had two bonsai trees in the past, but find them very high maintenance, even more so than my orchids.

Oranges, ready-to-pick

The boot of my little car was hardly big enough to accommodate all our purchases and we had to put the lavender on the back seat. By the time we got back home, it was time for lunch. I heated up a lasagna that we had bought at our local butcher’s and enjoyed it with a glass of red wine. The perfect ending of a successful trip to the garden centre! Today the lavender is sitting in a large pot near the veranda, for all to be seen.

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It's a dog's life!

I wonder which of these two dogs has the toughest life ...

This weathered specimen which for the last five hundred years has been guarding the entrance to the Logis Royal in Loches?

OR

This Paris Hilton's pet look-alike,
which we saw carried around Amboise by its master?

I suppose his legs were too short to climb all those 'awful' steps in Amboise castle.

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Weird, weirder, weirdest

In Belgium, July and August are the quietest months of the year. Many people, especially those who have school-going children take their annual vacation during these two months. For those of us who work during that period, it’s the best time of year to drive to and from work as there is very little traffic.

Early this morning it struck me that the almost empty roads had been taken over by crows. Audaciously they were hopping and strutting on and by the side of the road, looking for food. Ever since I’ve seen Hitchcock’s movie ‘The Birds’, I find crows to be very creepy creatures. But apparently not everybody shares this feeling. 

Some years ago when we were staying at our favourite hotel in Tours, the landlady told us a very strange story about some of her patrons. They had arrived with quite a large number of suitcases and trunks. Before coming down to dinner on the first evening of their stay the woman had called the reception to ask whether it was possible to have a babysitter for the evening. This had slightly surprised the girl at the reception desk, as she was not aware of the couple having a young child staying with them. She hadn’t asked any questions though, and had called the hotel’s babysitter.

Shortly after the babysitter had gone up to the room the couple came down. Several times during dinner either the man or the woman went upstairs to check whether everything was alright. The next morning the babysitter told the following unbelievable yet true story.

Apparently two of the large suitcases had contained the couple’s collection of cuddly toys all representing … crows. They had spent the best part of their first afternoon at the hotel unpacking the crows and placing them all over the rooms of their hotel suite. There were well over a hundred of them and they all had been packed in individual vacuum-sealed plastic bags.

Photo: www.guidestobuy.com

The woman had instructed the babysitter to entertain the crows by singing to them and caressing them, making sure not to forget the ones in the bathroom so that they wouldn’t get jealous of the ones in the bedroom and the sitting room. At first nobody would believe the poor babysitter. The presence of the crows was however confirmed later that morning by the maid, who almost had a fit when she walked into the room to do the beds and the daily cleaning. Next the other members of the hotel staff had gone up one by one to have a look at the strange set-up.

In the evening the couple once again requested the services of the babysitter. Although the girl was available the landlady lied and said that she was looking after some other guests’ baby. As a result the couple took turns to come down and have their dinner. To everybody’s surprise they didn’t ask for the babysitter on the third evening and they had their meal together in the dining room. Had they come to there senses? No, they had … bought a baby phone, which lay on the table throughout the whole meal. On the other end of the baby phone you could hear the sound of a tape recorder playing lullabies. When the tape stopped, either the man or the woman went up to check on the crows and to insert a new tape into the machine.

Needless to say that the whole hotel staff felt relieved when the next morning the couple packed up their weird flock of crows and moved on to their next destination.

P.S. It's not so much the fact that the couple collected crows that surprises me - after all I collect beavers! It's more the fact that they took so many with them on their holiday and even paid a babysitter to look after them!

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Chili con carne

Last night I had homemade chili con carne for supper. I had prepared it on Sunday afternoon and let it sit and rest in the fridge for 24 hours. I like a nice chili con carne every now and then. I’ve developed my own simple version, based on some recipes I found in magazines and cooking sites on the internet.

I bet my version has little or nothing to do with the real thing. At the risk of offending any Mexican or Latin American readers, here’s my Belgian version of chili con carne.

My personal interpretation of a chili con carne

What you need (serves 2):

200 gr. of minced beef

2 handfuls of dried red kidney beans
1 large onion, preferably a red one
1 small tin of tomato puree or 400 gr. of chopped tinned tomatoes
a teaspoon of soft paprika powder
a teaspoon of Mediterranean herbs (thyme, oregano, rosemary, …)
a dash of Worcestershire sauce
a dash of Tabasco
pepper & salt
½ a cube of chicken stock
a small glass of water

This is what you do:

Soak the beans overnight in a large bowl of water. The next day, peel and roughly chop the onion. Let it sweat in a deep pan. When it’s translucent, add the minced beef in small batches. Bake the meat at a high heat, while you continue stirring and crushing it. If it gets too dry or starts sticking to the bottom of the pot, add a dash of water. Add the tomato puree or chopped tinned tomatoes. Next, season to taste using the paprika, the Mediterranean herb mixture, the Worcestershire sauce, Tabasco and chicken stock cube. Drain the beans and add them to the pan. If you are using tomato puree, you might have to add some water at this point. If you’re using chopped tinned tomatoes, their juice will probably do the trick.

Turn down the heat and let the chili simmer for at least two hours. Stir every half hour or so, allowing the ingredients and the flavours to blend together. After two hours, put the pan aside and let the chili rest for 24 hours. The next day, reheat it gently and serve with a slice of whole grain bread, a chilled beer or a glass of robust red wine.

My mouth is watering while I’m typing this as I still have a generous portion of chili con carne waiting for me in the fridge … It'll make a nice supper!

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Food, glorious food

Yesterday afternoon I made my own version of a Chilli con Carne. But that’s about the only cooking I did this weekend. Let me explain. On Friday my friends B. and J.L, with whom I spent a lovely week in the Loire Valley in May, came over for lunch. I hadn’t seen them since our trip and it was nice catching up on the latest news about their recent vacation in southern France and their upcoming trips to Troyes and Canada.

They arrived a quarter to twelve, which left us ample time to enjoy the Champagne and nibbles that I had bought the day before. I had left them the choice out of three restaurants in the neighbourhood, one of which they had been to before. As they wanted to try something new, I took them to the ‘Nostra’, a former farmhouse that has been converted in a very trendy place, with a lovely outdoor terrace. Although the weather was nice enough, we didn’t get to eat al fresco, as the whole terrace had been turned into a building site! They we changing the floor tiles and were building a new wall to temper the noise from the nearby motorway.

We did get a nice table by the window though, with a brilliant view of a cement mixer staring into our faces. We didn’t mind, as the food largely made up for the somewhat unusual surroundings. And the company was great too, with lots of fine memories of our Loire Valley trip and the warm hospitality of the people we had met. B. an J.L. have fallen in love with the Loire Valley and are now even considering buying a house there!

On Saturday I traditionally have lunch at my mother’s. This Saturday was no different. She made her famous ‘Blanquette de Veau”. It’s absolutely delicious and although I have tried to copy it several times using the recipe she has given me, I can’t seem to get the hang of it.

On Sunday, it was restaurant time again for a birthday lunch. We went to the tiny and nearby restaurant named after its chef ‘Ludwig’.

We had delicious dishes, such as ‘Parma ham with two melons’ (not two whole melons, but two types: watermelon and cavaillon), ‘Fresh Tuna Carpaccio’, ‘Croquettes de crevettes grises’, Steamed cod with summer vegetables, Pineapple sorbet and ‘Crème Brûlée’. I didn’t take my camera, so I have no photos to show you how delectable it all looked - and tasted. But don’t these two melons look cute?

Melons in love?

When we left the restaurant around four, it started to rain. Not a lot, just a few, yet very fat drops. By the time we got home, we were glad we had taken our umbrellas. Ten minutes later it was raining cats and dogs. It rained all through the night, and the water rushing down the drainpipe from the roof kept me awake of a big part of the night.

Luckily I have taken the day off today. I therefore had a nice lie-in. “J’ai fait la grasse matinée.” as they say in French! I suppose I’ll use the rest of the day to do some ironing, go through my favourite blogs and watch one of my favourite comedy shows on TV. Maybe you know it: ‘That’s 70ties Show”? That’s about all one can do in this weather.

 

Spectacular rain front moving in.

We had some sunshine this morning, but our national weather man, Frank, just said on the radio that a new rain front is moving in with heavy rainfall already over Bruges and Ghent … up to 61 litres per square metre! That’s more than six large buckets of water! Let’s hope that our local woods, which are known for having a deterring effect on rainclouds, live up to their reputation and send the heaviest rain elsewhere …

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Meet Hector

I wouldn’t call him my NEW flat mate as he has been around for some years now. Although I’m not allowed to keep pets in the apartment, I’ve managed to smuggle him in and keep him hidden from the other tenants.

How come? Take a closer look and tell me what makes Hector so special and yet so inconspicuous?

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Strange coincidence

Just yesterday I posted about the first flat where I used to live from 1980 till 2001. Well, this is it:

I used to live in the flat on the fourth floor on the left.

Photo: Elke zijn huis

Pretty soon I will have to say: "Well, this WAS it." Last night when I called my mother to give her an update on my recent house hunting experience, she told me that the people who currently live in these 24 flats - many of which since the very beginning in 1980 - have received a letter telling them that they have six months to pack up and find another place to live as the whole building will be dismantled next year.

We don't know whether they are going to knock it down completely and build a new one or just give the place a thorough facelift. The news is very upsetting as most of these people are old or disabled and just don't have the means to afford a monthly rent of +/-600 euro, which is the bottom price for a one bedroom apartment in this area close to Brussels. Moreover, the move will be a very unsettling and stressing experience for these poor people. I really feel for them.

Maybe I should hang on to my place a little longer. After all, they are in a far worse situation than I am.

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Ladybird looking for real estate

The fourth post that I did on this blog on May 25th, 2009 was entitled ‘Leprechauns looking for real estate’. It was about our 1993 visit of a mushroom cave in the Loire Valley.

1993 is an awful long time ago. In those days I was still living in a small flat on the fourth floor in a five story building with 24 units. I had moved in there as a young bride in July 1980. After my husband’s death in 1983 my parents invited me to come and live with them again. I declined their kind offer and stayed on in the little flat till May 2001, when I moved into my current ground floor apartment.

Photo:  Martin RUEGNER

I’ve enjoyed living here. At some point I’ve even considered buying the place. I’ve always felt closely related to it as it is built on the exact spot where my great-grandparents’ farmhouse used to be. I’ve never known them, as they died before I was born. But I have very fond memories of my father’s uncle and aunt who lived there in the sixties. It was no longer used as a farm then and my cousin and I used to come and play in the courtyard, the barn and the former horse stables.

A cousin of my father’s inherited the house and let it to one of his sons. Little did the son know that his father was a gambler, who used not only his own money, but also some of his employer’s capital … ‘to play the gee-gees’. After he died, the son had no other option than to sell the house to pay his father’s debts. A wealthy contractor bought the whole place, knocked it down and built a two story apartment building on the spot. When you compare the lay-out of my current apartment with that of the former farmhouse, you could say that I now sleep in the barn and that my car is parked in the stables!

However, due to the – now almost one year old – damp problem, my fondness of the place is rapidly decreasing. There is a third leak detection planned, but I’m not very hopeful about the outcome. And the tension with my landlord is building up. So I have more or less decided to move. Finding the right place isn’t easy, and after seeing two places – the cottage and a first floor apartment – I realize that it’ll be very difficult to find a new home, offering the same advantages and space I am enjoying now. There are a lot of fine places on the market … at almost 1000 euro per month, which is a bit too steep for my budget.

(more to come …)

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Poll (closed Aug. 13th)

Would you like to live here?

Apartment on the first floor on the right.

Please, don't be shy and vote in the poll section in the sidebar!
Your vote is anonymous ... but your comments/advice/opinion are welcome too.

MORE PHOTOS!

Front view

Living room

The largest of two bedrooms

If you've been following my blog lately, you can probably guess what this is all about.

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A quiet evening

Our chambre d’hôtes in Chantilly was definitely one of the nicest places we’ve ever stayed in. After our walk in the garden, we went in and took a long relaxing shower.

Next it was time to have our picnic supper. Our hostess had kindly offered to put our charcuterie and cheese in her fridge and when my friend went into the kitchen to collect it, the landlord invited us to have a drink with him. Apparently, during last night’s cooking lesson the guest chef had prepared sangria for all those present. However, it had turned out that many of participants didn’t drink alcohol and now the landlord found himself with two litres of sangria to drink on his own.

Click to enlarge in case you want to know the telephone number,
as it is wise to book in advance.

We accepted his invitation but asked if we could postpone it till after we had had our supper, as we had just had the Champagne and felt rather hungry. This was no problem for our kind host, who also added that we could use the table under the parasol by the kitchen door. He would join us later, after we had finished eating. When we opened up the packet of ham we had bought in Triel, the yellow Labrador that had been lounging around whole afternoon now eagerly ran up to the table, wagging its tail. He put his snout on one the chairs and – with begging eyes – looked up to my friend who was cutting the ham. We asked the landlord if was okay to give the dog a piece of ham. It wasn’t a problem, but he said that we should turn the dog away if it was bothering us. It wasn’t and we really enjoyed its company.

Pretty soon we were also joined by the couple’s five-year-old daughter, who was sheer joy to have around. She was continuously babbling to herself and singing in her tiny little voice that we had heard earlier on the speakerphone. From time to time she would walk up to the table and ask questions like “Where are your from?” “What’s your name?” “How long are you staying?” and so on. At one point she went to pick some daisies and brought them to me. “These are for you.” She said, handing me the little bunch of tiny flowers. The stems had all gone soggy as she had been firmly clasping them in her sticky hand.

Every now and then the landlord stuck his head out of the kitchen window, urging his daughter to leave us alone. We said she wasn’t bothering us at all. As soon as we had finished our supper, he came out, holding a large jug of sangria and three glasses. ‘I’m so glad to have someone to share this with.” he said. By the smile on his face you could tell that his words were genuine.

We spent the rest of the evening with our hosts who explained a little about their business and their plans to build an extra guesthouse with three more rooms at the far end of the car park. The plans were ready and the landlord, who was a contractor, had already started digging out the foundations. Recently, however, he had received a letter from the town’s council announcing that the building permission had been refused by the ‘departement’ as the land was registered as being meant for agricultural purposes. He had started a legal procedure to have the purpose of the land changed and he had good hopes that it would work, but … it would take time. In the meantime business continued with the two rooms he already had.

He also informed us that the people staying in the room next to ours where in Chantilly to attend a wedding and that they would probably come in very late. He said not to worry if we saw the lights outside go on as they switched on automatically when someone approached the house at night.

It was nice of him to warn us as the neighbours came in very late – or should I say early – and I was awoken by the sound of their footsteps on the gravel. If he hadn’t told us about it in advance, I would certainly have thought that there was a prowler sneaking around the house. When we opened the curtains the next morning, there were two tiny rabbits grazing on the lawn beneath our window. Could these have been some of the rabbits that race at the ‘lapinodrome’ in Chantilly? Probably not.

We had a very nice breakfast in the large and fully equipped kitchen. Our hostess had made a batch of fresh ‘madeleine’ cakes, while our host had gone out to buy fresh baguettes, Brie and Camembert cheese and an assortment of charcuterie. By the time we left, the shutters of our neighbours’ room were still tightly closed. We said goodbye to our kind hosts and wished them luck with their building plans.

I highly recommend this chambre d’hôtes, but make sure to book in advance as – for the time being – there are only two rooms.

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This is where the dog and swan come in ...

‘La Ferme de la Canardière’, the chambre d’hôtes in Chantilly, is located at the end of a narrow street, of which the first part looks like a 19th century industrial district. Both sides are lined with red brick almost windowless buildings and a connecting covered footbridge on the second floor. Halfway the buildings give way to the countryside, with wide open fields on one side and woodlands on the other.

As I mentioned yesterday, the gates leading into the grounds of the chambre d’hôtes were firmly closed. We rang the bell twice but nothing happened. It was well over five o’clock, the agreed time of arrival. We sat around for a while hoping that someone would turn up soon. Fifteen minutes later, however, we were still waiting. We decided to give it one more try before returning to town to have another drink. We rang the bell again, and suddenly the speakerphone came alive. “Oui?” a very tiny voice enquired. We gave our name and explained that we had booked a room for the night. “Bien sûr”, the little voice said “Je vais ouvrir le portail. Reculez la voiture s.v.p. car le portail s’ouvre vers l’extérieur ». (Of course. I’ll open the gate, but please back up the car first as the gates open towards you.)

We returned to the car and watch how the gates silently opened. Behind them was a long gravel drive with at the end a sharp left turn towards a recently built ‘longère’ (long, low farmhouse) with a lovely terrace facing south and overlooking the fields. We drove to the car park which was located at the back of the house. There we were greeted by a slender woman in her early forties. Was it her voice we had heard on the speakerphone?

No it wasn’t. When we said that no one had answered the bell when we rang it the first two times, she explained that she had been out picking up her two youngest children at school. Apparently, there was another private way in at the back of the property by which she had arrived just a few minutes before the last time we had rang the bell. It was her five year old daughter we had heard on the speakerphone. Hence the little tiny voice.

Sunny terrace

She showed us to our room, which was located on the ground floor. It was a very nice, spacious room with two doors opening unto the terrace we had seen while driving up to the house. The deck chairs and parasols on the terrace looked very inviting. When we walked out to admire the view, we almost stumbled over a large yellow Labrador that was dozing in the afternoon sun. He lazily opened one eye, sniffed loudly and went back to sleep. Some guard dog!

Beware of the dog!

We spent the rest of the afternoon sitting on the terrace, sipping Champagne and nibbling freshly made mini toasts and homemade eggplant caviar and olive tapenade. The lady of the house was quite a chef and we learned that twice a week she organized cooking lessons, inviting the chef from a nearby Michelin star restaurant. The nibbles were leftovers from last night’s cooking session and they came free with the Champagne, which we had ordered and paid for.

Idyllic view, except for the tractor behind the trees!

We strolled through the garden and admired the little pond, where a white swan was idyllically floating on the still surface of the water. In a paddock near the edge of the woodland, a man was training a tall auburn coloured horse. The place was very peaceful and we were looking forward to a quiet evening and night.

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Racing rabbits

When writing yesterday’s post about our nightly abbey adventure, I got so carried away that I forgot to tell you about our 2009 visit to Chantilly.

Chantilly is not only famous for its castle but also for its ‘Musée Vivant du Cheval’. It is located across the road from the château in a very stately building that could well be a palace. As I’m not really into horses, I’ve never visited the museum, nor attended any of the recurrent horseshows.

As you probably know Chantilly also has its own horse track where important international races are run. But did you know that the town also has a ‘lapinodrome’? What’s a ‘lapinodrome’? Don’t laugh … ‘Lapin’ being French for rabbit, a ‘lapinodrome’ is a miniature race track for rabbits. It’s located in the gardens of Chantilly castle and a big hit with children. Every day during tourist season at 3.30 p.m. a hurdle race is run by several competitive rabbits. The rabbits live and are trained in the nearby ‘rabbit village’

Photo: www.mylinepolo.com

I wish we could have visited the ‘lapinodrome’ and see the daily race, but it was well over 4 p.m. by the time we arrived in the castle’s grounds after our meal in Triel-sur-Seine. Although it was too early to go to the chambre d’hôtes, we decided to go and look for it before driving into the centre of Chantilly to buy a baguette. Following the instructions of Mauricette – our GPS, remember – we drove through a fine residential district with beautiful 19th century villas with large gardens. As Chantilly is less than an hour from the centre of Paris and even less from the ‘La Défense’ business district, I suppose most of the villas are owned by or let to affluent businessmen and top managers.

We enjoyed our drive until we realized that we turning around in circles. We therefore decided to ignore Mauricette’s instructions and drive straight to the town’s centre and ask for directions. We parked in the main square and walked into a bakery to get the baguette for our supper. We asked the saleslady about the chambre d’hôtes. As she didn’t live in Chantilly she was unable to help us. She suggested we’d ask one of the policemen who where writing parking tickets in the square. When we followed her advice and mentioned the name of the chambre d’hôtes to the policemen, they both looked puzzled. “Never heard of.” one of them said. When we mentioned the name of the street, they simultaneously beamed: “Ah oui, ça on connaît.” (Ah yes, that we know) and then started discussing which would be the best way to get there. They ended up by sending us in opposite directions and a final advice: “Maybe you should ask in the bar across the street!” Right!

Having no other options, we walked over to the bar and sat down at a table on the sidewalk terrace. When the landlord came out to take our order, we enquired about the chambre d’hôtes. The man had heard of it, but wasn’t sure about its location. “I’ll look it up for you.” he promised. It took a while before he returned with our drinks … and the solution to our problem. He had looked it up on a map in the local telephone directory. It turned out that our destination was at less than 500 metres from where we were.

We enjoyed our drinks sitting in the afternoon sun, before returning to the car and driving to our chambre d’hôtes. Thanks to the landlord’s directions we had no trouble finding it. However, when we arrived the gates were closed and remained closed even after ringing the bell twice …

(to be continued)

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Voles, horses, ducks, swans and dogs – 3

After our Savoyard meal at ‘La Grange du Petit Rat Mulot’ we set out to our final destination for the day: a Bed and Breakfast called ‘La Ferme de la Canardière’ on the outskirts of the lovely town of Chantilly.

June 2009: the countryside
somewhere between Triel-sur Seine and Chantilly

I had been to Chantilly once before in November 2005 when I accompanied a colleague of mine on a scouting trip in order to find a location for a conference. My colleague has a soft spot for ‘grandeur’ and she thought that the Château of Chantilly, the nearby Royaumont Abbey and Mont Royal Hotel would be the perfect décor for this high class event. It was on this occasion that I visited the Château of Chantilly and the ‘authentic’ kitchen of the famous 17th century chef Vatel, which can be found in one of the castle’s outbuildings.

As the seminar and conference would take several days, we were looking for different locations where the participants could have their meals. The hotel was one of them and the Vatel kitchen another. However, the gala dinner on the last evening was to take place in the historic settings of the 'Abbaye de Royaumont'. During our scouting trip we were to check out the abbey’s infrastructure and pre-taste the dinner the caterer had suggested. As I have the reputation of being a fine gourmet – at least that is what my colleagues think – my presence was required to evaluate the gastronomic quality of the meal. So you see, this scouting trip had nothing to do with my actual skills as a copywriter and translator.

The trip took two days and we stayed in a hotel in the centre of Chantilly. As the abbey is located in the nearby Forest of Chantilly, we had made a little reconnaissance trip in the afternoon in order not to get lost in the dark later that evening. My colleague has the nasty habit of driving like a stuntwoman. Even at the wheel she never stops talking and waving her hands about, stabilizing the wheel with her knee. Or she’s rummaging through the handbag on her lap, looking for her reading glasses. Which of course she doesn’t need when driving! During our afternoon reconnaissance trip she managed to ignore a red light as she was too busy explaining the splendour of the Chantilly castle in the distance.

You can imagine that I wasn’t particularly looking forward to our little nocturne outing! Moreover, it was a dark and stormy night when we set out for our sample dinner at the abbey. We got lost, of course … and drove around in the pitch dark night for twenty minutes before finding the narrow one-lane road that led into the Forest. The wind was howling through the trees, destabilizing the car every now and then. When we finally arrived at the abbey, we found it brightly lit. Judging by the large number of cars that were parked by the entrance other companies also used the abbey for their events.

We were shown into a small austere room – formerly used as a monk’s cell, we supposed – where one single table was laid for two. A young waiter silently and solemnly brought in the first course and two bottles of wine, a white and a red one. The starter was a ‘Salade de gésiers de canard’ (a green salad with duck’s necks, stomachs and other unidentifiable bits of the duck’s digestive system). There was also a small slice of foie gras, which was about the only edible bit. Next came a piece of beef with a bundle of green beans wrapped in some fried bacon, one baby carrot and a generous helping of mashed sweet potatoes. The meat, which almost required a hacksaw to cut, came with a red wine sauce, which was fine. So was the potato mash. I can’t remember what the dessert was, as by the time it was served, we were too distracted by the howling wind and the rattling windows to really concentrate on our meal.

To make a long story short, this dinner wasn’t fit for a group of important clients. My colleague, who’s always very outspoken, was even more so after the wine she had had. She summoned the chef and gave him a piece of her mind. But the ultimate humiliation had yet to come. She rummaged through her famous handbag again and pulled out the recipe of a starter based on prawns and oranges. “Here, this is what I want you to make for our gala dinner. You just try it out, and I’ll come back next week to taste it”, she said. I felt really embarrassed and sorry for the chef who was too flabbergasted to react.

When we left the abbey the receptionist told us to drive carefully. “When a storm is blowing, frightened deer and wild boar tend to cross the road. Make sure to drive slowly and limit your speed to 30 km per hour.” she said. An advice my colleague respected for the first 50 metres …

Well, we got back to hotel without any further incidents and went straight to bed. The whole experience had been very stressing and I didn’t sleep a wink. The next morning we had one last rendezvous with the caretaker of the Château to make the final arrangements for the dinner in the Vatel kitchen. By one o’clock we were back at the Belgian border where my friend was waiting for me. It was only when I was safely sitting in his car, driving in the direction of Brussels with him at the wheel that I could finally relax!

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