We, the zinnekes

In the wonderfully rich and almost disappearing Brussels dialect, zinneke is the word for a street dog, whose origin is difficult to determine. Many of us in Brussels are like a zinneke, with diverse origins and varying cultures and languages. Every zinneke has her/his story. Since the year 2000, the Zinneke Parade brings together all of us 'zinnekes' from here and there, making us parade through the city proudly showing off our diversity.

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Nel ricco dialetto brussellese, zinneke è la parola che descrive il cane randagio, la cui origine è difficile a determinarsi. Qui a Brusselles ci sono in realtà tanti zinneke tra di noi, con origini diverse e di culture e lingue varie. Ogni zinneke ha la sua storia... Dall'anno 2000, la Zinneke Parata riunisce tutti noi zinneke di ogni dove facendoci sfilare per la città e sfoggiando orgogliosamente la nostra inestimabile diversità!

floralia concoction

We are just out of Brussels, now in Flanders. The tram makes it very obvious as it stops giving its bilingual announcements to the advantage of Dutch. Our eyes catch glimpses of an industrial setting and at the same time of a village that once was. Tiny brick houses and office blocks stand awkwardly side by side. Just as a few white cows are grazing quietly on a backdrop of trucks and containers, on a soundtrack of motorway's rumbles. 

Luckily, it's a sunny day. Otherwise, this strange place would look slightly depressive. It's not quite where I'd expect to see a castle! Yet, the Castle of Groot-Bijgaarden (or Grand Bigard) appears as a surprise from behind a hill. We are here for the yearly Floralia. The castle's owners have opened their modest adobe to the public, pleasing us all with a sweet flowers concoction. 

una cosa bella

E' una piazzetta qualsiasi nel bel mezzo di Ixelles/Elsene, un quartiere tanto sopravvalutato quanto i suoi angoli anonimi restano sconosciuti ai più. 

Eppure, qui la grigia circolarità di place Henri Conscience è graziosamente impreziosita da un gran castagno che vi spadrona al centro con la sua folta chioma e il suo colorato...abbigliamento. Sì, questo Signor Albero è infatti ben vestito, ricoperto di stoffe colorate abbinate un pò alla sanfasò. 

Ai suoi piedi, una sedia e un'altalena. Una sedia vecchio stile, di quelle che immagino ritrovare in una grande pattumiera parigina dell'usato, e un'altalena che, neanche a dirlo, è lo spasso dei tanti passanti. Nell'insieme, l'inusualità di questa scena infonde una dolce spensieratezza. M'incanta anche a sera.

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It's technically a little square like any other, located in the middle of Ixelles/Elsene, a neighbourhood as much overrated as its anonymous corners remain unknown to many.

But the circular place Henri Conscience is nicely embellished by a chestnut tree standing in the center with a rich foliage and a colourful...outfit. Yes, because Mr Chestnut Tree is elegantly dressed in cheerful fabrics put together a bit sans façon. 

At its feet are a chair and a swing. A vintage chair that I would imagine to find in a fancy Parisian dump of retro things, and a swing which amuses many passers-by. While curious, the unusualness of this setting puts you into a serene, tranquil state of being. Also at night, it plays its magic.

Au Vieux Spijtigen Duivel

I was walking to the maison communale of Uccle in the early afternoon of one unbelievably pleasant winter day, as almost everyday in the past days. Strolling under the blue March sky, I took new roads to explore a bit of Uccle. I had no particular expectations, but as soon as I turned the corner of Av. de Floréal and Alsembersesteenweg, I found myself facing Au Vieux Spijtigen Duivel. It might look like nothing worth noticing, but it had that typical, unmistakable charm that old things so well retain. That old writing font, so typical of Brussels, and the French/Flemish combination of its name suggested historical relevance at least. Turns out that the old 'Spijtigen Duivel', translatable more or less as the 'unfortunate devil', is one of the oldest Brussels' estaminet, a little cafè. On the menu: carbonnades Flamandes, chicon au gratin, ballekes sauce tomate, and stoemp saucisse et lard, among other delicacies. Meanwhile, legends and history make for an interesting side dish. In the 16th century, this place used to be a hunting lodge where, one day, a group of reformed acrobats took refuge. Back then, indeed, it was a dark time for tolerance and freedom of religion. There was no mercy for people of protestant faith, such as those acrobats. The story goes that one day, as they were performing a parody titled «de spijtigen duivel» inspired to the merciless Duke of Alba, the Duke's soldiers made irruption into the place and cruelly slained the acrobats. Some time later, the only survivor, the tenant, decided to rename his refuge 'De Spijtigen Duivel' in their honour. Centuries later, Baudelaire was sitting in this cafè writing verses about Brussels. Today, I'm taking note of the number to call to make a reservation and try that tempting chicon au gratin.

bright winter days

E' sonnacchiosa l'atmosfera di questi giorni invernali inaspettatamente miti e assolati. Un cane che ciondola per il giardino senza badare troppo ai passanti. Un gatto inerte, posato al sole. Un inverno inusuale, mentre le giornate intanto si allungano. E ci piace così.

These past days, Brussels has been graced with mild and sunny winter days. There's a sleepy calm around, as people sit on benches and put their face in the sun. This unusual winter is all sketched in this scene. An indolent dog hanging around the garden, uninterested in passers-by; an idle sleepy cat sunbathing on the window-sill. Meanwhile the days are getting longer...

Cars and tennis balls

Gotcha! 

A Few weeks ago at the Brussels Design Market, I remember having seen various metal bars stuck on tennis balls. I didn't get that. Was it meant as art, or provocation or as a form of material culture alien to me...what was it? Then I was told it is apparently a not so uncommon practice to use a tennis ball on the metal hook at the back of the car if the metal ball on the hook gets lost. The tennis ball then prevents (so it went the explanation) the metal to rust away. Somehow I found it quite interesting. So, a few days ago we were driving around the Merode area when I noticed a tennis ball strangely placed at the back of a car and finally really got what cars and tennis balls have to do with each other!

Call it unusual...

A myriad of "unusual aesthetical objects" was on display last weekend at the Design Market. Among exquisite vintage cars, countless chairs that have possibly marked the history of interior design, and various objects from the 1950s and 1980s, some unusual things definitely caught everyone's eye. In my modest opinion, the oddest winners of the contest I just made up were:

• A leg-table (not a table leg), with sensual female legs, but possibly obscene;
• a toad, mouth-open full of hearts, quite cute;
• an alien looking sculpture...don't we all imagine aliens to be green and have three eyes?!?
• a wooden couch with hypnotizing designs, including table, quite uncomfortable. And last but not least...
• Pluto! Still wondering what its function could be...

Tell me what you eat and I'll tell you who you are

Once discovered this brilliant system for economizing and yet living like some wealthy VIP, we have had quite a food exploration and treated ourselves also with sauna's and gym sessions. About discovering foreign cuisines, our mouths have been to Japan, Brazil, Vietnam, Morocco, India, Nepal and Tibet. Yes, Japanese is nothing new, but we got to have sushi à volonté prior to what happened in Japan and now we're likely to eat sushi again if this is made by our own hands...(lol, I'll become a sushi maker for the next years!). Vietnamese flavours of ginger and spices have litterally conquered our palates! While the Moroccan 5 stars restaurant we went to might very well be the best in town. On a less yuppie-note, I discovered that coriander in big quantities simply disgusts me.

So, please check out groupon.com and all its related cousins :)

Europe's joke

Seems to be the hit of the moment, the official European joke. Let me just copy-paste it for this time! (I don't even bother to apologize for its length 'cause it's really funny!)

"European paradise:

You are invited to an official lunch. You are welcomed by an Englishman. Food is prepared by a Frenchman and an Italian puts you in the mood and everything is organised by a German.

European hell:

You are invited to an official lunch. You are welcomed by a Frenchman. Food is prepared by an Englishman, German puts you in the mood but, don't worry, everything is organised by an Italian.

That joke was proposed by a Belgian as the Official European Joke, the joke that every single European pupil should learn at school. The Joke will improve the relationship between the nations as well as promote our self humour and our culture.

The European Council met in order to make a decision. Should the joke be the Official European Joke or not?

The British representative announced, with a very serious face and without moving his jaw, that the joke was absolutely hilarious.

The French one protested because France was depicted in a bad way in the joke. He explained that a joke cannot be funny if it is against France.

Poland also protested because they were not depicted in the joke.

Luxembourg asked who would hold the copyright on the joke. The Swedish representative didn't say a word, but looked at everyone with a twisted smile.

Denmark asked where the explicit sexual reference was. If it is a joke, there should be one, shouldn't there?

Holland didn't get the joke, while Portugal didn't understand what a "joke" was. Was it a new concept?

Spain explained that the joke is funny only if you know that the lunch was at 13h, which is normally breakfast time. Greece complained that they were not aware of that lunch, that they missed an occasion to have some free food, that they were always forgotten. Romania then asked what a "lunch" was.

Lithuania et Latvia complained that their translations were inverted, which is unacceptable even if it happens all the time. Slovenia told them that its own translation was completely forgotten and that they do not make a fuss. Slovakia announced that, unless the joke was about a little duck and a plumber, there was a mistake in their translation. The British representative said that the duck and plumber story seemed very funny too.

Hungary had not finished reading the 120 pages of its own translation yet.

Then, the Belgian representative asked if the Belgian who proposed the joke was a Dutch speaking or a French speaking Belgian. Because, in one case, he would of course support a compatriot but, in the other case, he would have to refuse it, regardless of the quality of the joke.

To close the meeting, the German representative announced that it was nice to have the debate here in Brussels but that, now, they all had to make the train to Strasbourg in order to take a decision. He asked that someone to wake up the Italian, so as not to miss the train, so they can come back to Brussels and announce the decision to the press before the end of the day.

"What decision?" asked the Irish representative.

And they all agreed it was time for some coffee."

Un poquito de nostalgia

The past few days have been a joy. Sunny, mild, springish. Café Belga put its tables outside on the square. Place Flagey has been a come-and-go of skaters and baby buggies, of street musicians and mums, of students and workers. All enjoying the springish atmosphere, the friterie, the open space and the pond to play with swans and birds. As all good things come to an end, today it started to rain again. I had to feel blue.

And then, out of the blue, I found a lovely surprise waiting for me in my mail box. The German couple we had met in Bolivia finally sent the photos made together in Uyuni! Impossible not to notice how they all look like a foto montage, but surely they have been food for memories and nostalgia! A weird feeling of happyness.

How about being a film music composer?

Charlie Chaplin - This is my song

Since I watched Woman On Top, I have been looking for its soundtrack compilation here and there. It is not that uncommon that I watch a movie and its music remains in my ears for days afterwards…most of the time I don’t even know what I am actually singing or humming. But who is it to play the music? Well, generally orchestras, bands, singers...but they just execute. The right question is actually: who is it to compose the music, to write it, to put musical notes on sheet music?

Composers and songwriters are normally overshadowed behind their famous and catchy music in films, Tv-series and the likes. The theme of Two and a Half Men is now obsessing me, thanks to Grant Geissman, Lee Aronsohn, and Chuck Lorre (who wrote the music) and to Elizabeth Daily and ‘other Studio musicians’ (who performed it). Looking at the show, I actually thought Alan, Jake and Charlie were singing it! Funny, uh?

If Morricone goes with Western’s, Nicholas Hooper is the one of Harry Potter’s films. Maurice Jarre is the one behind epic films such as Lawrence of Arabia or Doctor Zhivago, whereas David Nessim Lawrence is the one of the American-Pie-kind-of-stuff. And who did not enjoy Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl by Klaus Badelt, or the music of Gladiator by Hans Zimmer (allegedly the king of music scores)?!? On January 30th, John Barry died. Without him, James Bond would have had all a different sound. The Guardian wrote this music-blog page for him "John Barry: a life in clips" and among his aficionados, one left the closing comment: "if music has the ability to instantly affect the emotional and intellectual state then John Barry is the Grandmaster Wizard". Who's your favourite one?

European Roma Woman

Video: I'm a European Roma Woman

One of my current job's tasks is to monitor European Parliament's debates in those areas of interest to the organization I work for. I am sent off to the Parliament for work purposes, but I have to confess this duty amuses me quite a lot...many languages in my headphone, meeting new people, socio-political VIP's, cool building, unexpected fun at the meetings, a walk through Leopold Park...I like going there.

Often, participation to the meetings turns into an occasion for actual learning and reflection. So it was yesterday. I discovered that Hungary is the only EU member state who has brought a Roma to the European Parliament. Lívia Járóka is one of the new generation of leaders. At EU level, she is on a mission so that Roma can get their voice heard. What strucks me is that in this person, there are all necessary ingredients to bake a quite exotic and unpropable cake: being a woman, being young, Eastern European and from a minority group, certainly not a privileged one. And yet, she made it to the EP. Quite noteworthy!

Stories of Roma, Gypsyes and Sinti have always attracted me and I await the day that the nobel peace prize will be given to the Roma people for moving around pacifically since ages, without harming a soul, without weapons and without starting wars against other nations. Instead, we only know stories of criminality and failed integration, which surely are the only kind of story the newspapers catch and like.  I bet the older collegues of Járóka in the EP make it a challange for her to be actually heard and taken seriously. I like this woman. Let's see if we manage to come face to face next time.

Flagia, the art of frying

I fear I have just discovered the BEST friterie in Brussels. It was Friday, and I profited of my lunchbreak to get both food and some fresh air out of the office. There was this kiosk there on the square, which seemed to attract quite a lot of people. The queue was disarming, but I took it as a testimony of the quality of the food and I put myself in line. Inside the kiosk, a man, no, THE man. 

At Friterie Flagey, right on Place Flagey, the man isn't just frying, splashing frozen food in hot oil. He is, I dare to say, rather cooking! He literally takes care of every request, of every potato and of every little frie. His moves are almost those of a pizzaiolo, moving gently and deflty, almost hinting at some dance move. You've got to see him. And then, when your typical Belgian cornet of fries is ready, you do realize why this frietkot is an institution of the Brussels' heritage. Gold, crunchy and selected. Yes, because THE man has also cleverly selected the best fries for you, removing black spots or overfried stuff. Someone would like some more salt, whereas I only wish it weren't so cold. It looks in fact that 3° are enough to turn mayonnaise and other sauces into a hard sticky thing.

It seems also that this kiosk in Flagey has so far survived a process of removal by la commune d'Ixelles, in the interest of some works on the square. On internet you also find petitions to sign to keep the Friterie Flagey on its spot. Selfishly said, I hope the friterie will stay in Flagey at least as long as I will, but it would definitely be a loss of revenue and image for the square if THE man will be moved away. And while the bourgmestre clears his mind, I'll keep enjoying this frying flagey magia, let me call it Flagia!

Check Stop Schuman

I get to the bus stop at Schuman, excusez-moi, c’est déjà passé le 60?, she doesn’t know, she’s American, but of course the bus is late as usual. Me and five more people are standing and waiting for the same bus. Two Southamerican women keep checking the time, calculating how many minutes they are taking away from the babies they are going to baby-sit. Bus 12 and 22 arrive, people get off and on. The newcomers to Brussels get off and wonder where to go: to the left or to the right, to the left on the sidewalk or to the left through the square? The works and the noise in the area make all look chaotic while is not. The girl, clearly lost: excusez-moi, où se trouve le metro? Two Norwegians walk together to the Norway House right in front of the Commission and of the bus stop. They are dressed light. They must be among the happiest here in Brussels, considering that in this period of the year the sun doesn't rise before 11 o’clock in the south of Norway…and never rises in the north (!). A couple comes, hand in hand, they kiss good-bye and the guy leaves. The girl is Italian. Of course. It’s like “Nespresso. What else?” (Hi George!). That tall guy in his suit runs to work, with his badge jumping up and down. Bus 12 and 22 come again and I am still waiting. The people who get off represent a good half of the world. I have troubles distinguishing among Scandinavians and Asians, and I assume not all Africans come from Congo or Morocco. ...Bus 60 finally arrives! See you tomorrow Schuman.

Not that far from 'home'

Not long ago I was saying that living in Brussels for an Italian feels like living in Italy. My observation finds confirmation once again in the bus service in Brussels. Waiting for the bus is likely to take much longer than the actual ride. Taking two metro lines might paradoxically be an even faster solution. Guess what, in Italy you can't rely on any bus, while timetables are to be taken as an opinion rather than a fact. I have no experience of bus service in the very developed north of my country, but what 'comforts' me is that according to Bruno Bozzetto they are totally unreliable. To conlcude, if Brussels is Europe, I would then suggest Bruno Bozzetto to make some changes in the bus scene (and the bureaucracy scene too) of his video 'Europe and Italy' (excellent video for the rest :))

Petite Italie

Fact.

There is this nice little place in Brussels where all Italians come together. Many are young and bright expats, fed up with their youth-unfriendly country, yet nostalgic and with a touching Italianness. Piola.Libri is a library-wine-bar, it is THE Italian library in Brussels, and clearly a lovely cultural space. Probably it is just too small to host its wide population of fans and friends, but perhaps it is rather the numbers to be blamed. Italians are historically a folk of migrants and in Belgium they represent one of the biggest communities. La petite Italie is actually not so petite. The known fact is that Italians are everywhere, they really are, but I'm dazed by the fact that since I'm here in Brussels I've spoken much more Italian than in the last three years I've spent abroad and travelling around. And that happens also when my interlocutor is not Italian. Here I've so far found French, Polish, Germans, Dutch, British and Romanians all more than happy to practice their Italian with me. I think they are all way too fluent! 

For an Italian it really isn't challenging to live in Brussels. I'd say it's rather more challanging for a Dutch. They experience a cultural schock whenever something doesn't work as expected. Italians have clearly different standards as they are already used to a place where things do NOT work, or actually work much worse. Sometimes, Brussels feels like a piece of Mediterranean, chaotic, mixed, diverse, and bureaucratically confused, but then with a heavy weather and the stiff northern way of relating to other people in general. Not that this really counts, because the Brussels we live in is an international bubble, where no many Bruxellois/Brusselaars are left. 

This said, few days ago we went to Berlin and were surprised to find a sort of Little Italy there as well. Around the world, big little Italies can be found almost anywhere in the USA, then in Cananda, in São Paulo, in the UK and in Ireland...., and if I don't know of any Little Italy in China, Vietnam, Japan or Tanzania is just because, in case, I prefer to be left with the surprise!

TAXI jungle

Today, Monday 18 was the day of the national strike also in Belgium, but the fun unexpectedly started already last night. We were coming back from The Netherlands and after Visé, the contrôleur checked our tickets and said 'good luck tonight, there will be no more trains in the direction of Brussels after ten o'clock!', so we asked whether there were bus or any other alternative to get home...and he, helplessly, replied 'Mais non, c'est la Belgique!'. It was 21.30. We can just make it, we thought. But once arrived in Liege, where we had to change train, we realized that all trains were being cancelled, and it was not yet 22:00. All employees of the nmbs (National Railway Company of Belgium) had it written on their faces: help yourselves, we're going to bed. All happy about it :-/

So, there was no bus, no service, dubious people seeming to profit of the situation...but plenty of taxi's. When asking them how much they wanted to bring us to Brussels, their first reply was 200 euro...which eventually got down til 125euro. Do-able. In the general confusion people asked one another where they were going, taxi drivers were even offering themselves to go to Maastricht, Leuven or any other place. People were creating teams and taxi-drivers were making agreements with groups of people (such as: 'Wait for me here, I'll take them to Maastricht and then I come and take you to Brussels'), unbelievable. 

The best part came when we had found our "Brussels' buddies" and a taxi driver was willing to drive us to the capital. While we were walking to his taxi, another taxi-driver came saying that we had to go with him because we had agreed with him before. Mr A replied that no, he was first. Mr B insisted that he had been the very first. A Ms C suddenly popped into the discussion saying that we had also taked to her. But Mr A insisted that he had been the first we had talked to and Mr B replied saying that it could not be the case because he was the first in line. Ms C then was supporting Mr B reminding to Mr A that there are rules taxi-drivers are bound to. Enlightening and threatening, she said 'C'est la gare!!!'. Apparently we had violeted all rules of taxi conduct at train station. They were fighting and screaming to each other. Mr B's words: 'I'm from Iran and you're from Morocco, but I was first in line!'. Despite Mr A was really the first of them we had talked to, Mr B didn't want to hear anything of all that. To my surprise they insisted fighting between them, but they were not lowering the price to convince us who to go with. To my dismay, we were in difficulty, a hundred kilometers away from home, in the cold of the night, and no one seemed to care about that.

After a while, Mr A got tired of that and walked away saying to Mr B 'alright, they are yours'. And we could finally go. Mr B was really silent on the way to Brussels. He was sorry and proud at the same time. 'Did you really talked to him first???' he kept asking...honestly, the only thing I wanted was to get over those 100km and be home. Luckily the Congolese guy travelling with us was full of good humor and made us laugh by commenting how bad were Belgian roads even compared to the ones of Congo! Finally, we got home. Before closing my eyes I mentally calculated that the Belgian strike had costed me like ten one-way Ryanair offer-tickets from Sicily to Oslo...

The pleasure of doing NADA

Today I've done nothing all day and it has been a lovely day. I woke up at 12 am and before I realized it was already 12pm. What I have done is to skype and chat with friends all day long! Virtually, I've brought friends around this lovely little house we've got, shared a chocolate mousse with Jola in Den Haag, sensed the emotions in Brazil before the elections, and then jumped to Rome picturing myself five years younger. I've made a tour on the map of California with my rockstar cousin and checked how much was a bus from Paris to Brussels (too cheap for not having been there yet). And when I was looking for the Jasmine tea bags, I found instead the Estonian liquor Tatjana had brought us from Tallinn. So, I didn't move a foot and yet my day has been quite international. Olé.

Internet, mon amour

1991 is the year. Among that year's occurences: the Soviet Union collapsed, Sweden won the Eurovision Song Contest, the Mercosur was established, Comedy Central was launched, and most important...the world wide web was born!

After having been 16 days without internet, I came to the conclusion that is one of the best things the first world has, together with education and health care (...and beer festivals, absolutely). You really can no longer do anything without it. How else would you look for a job these days?! And what about the need to be connected to the world, immersed in the knowledge society, or wasted on facebook and msn chat. Ah! Luxury and necessity it is.

La Grande Place aux milles couleurs

Everybody seems to escape Brussels during summertime. I blame them! Of all places in Europe, this is definitely not among the worst ones, quite the contrary instead. Yes, it is not really a summer destination, no pizza, no Ibiza, but it does have plenty of fun stuff to do. I'm all in for its music and beer festivals. I like this language craziness that you never know which one to use and end up using them all. I like it's kind of messy and not compulsively organized as in the Netherlands. It's an international, colourful place, just like the Grande Place/Grote Markt in these summer nights...