belgianwaffle

Belgium

Intercultural Dialogue at home or random ramblings


Posted in: Belgium, Family

We had some friends round this afternoon. A Scottish-Italian couple and their two children and an Italian woman and her daughter. The children started off speaking in English but quickly moved to French as the common lingua franca. The grown-ups spoke English to each other. I felt mildly embarrassed to be the main reason why two Italian women were speaking English to each other.

One of the mothers explained in graphic detail that this year, her nine year old had asked her a lot of questions about Santa Claus. So she said to her “OK, you really want to know, OK, I will tell you”. In the face of some alarm from me and the other parent with a four year old, her husband gracefully interrupted the anecdote with “So, she said to her ‘Yes, of course there is a Santa'”. That’s a relief, then. We discovered that the Befana does not bring Christmas presents to Italian children who live in Belgium which makes her presence in our lives even more baffling. We had some questions for our guests about the Befana and her ways.

Us: So Santa Claus lives in the North Pole and Saint Nicolas comes from Spain, where does the Befana live?

Guests: Elaborate shoulder shrugging, shocking ignorance.

Me (to Princess): Well, sweetheart, if the Italians don’t know…

Princess (in tones of wonderment): Are our visitors Italians?

There was some talk about multi-lingual schools because that’s what we’re like in foreign exotic Brussels and, in particular, the European School which has sections in all of the EU languages (except maybe Maltese, who knows?). One of the Italians has an Italian friend who is married to a Pole and they are sending their twins to the European School and they have put them in different classes (as the parents of twins are often advised to do) but in a weird twist, one twin is in the Polish section and one is in the Italian section. Is it just me or is this utterly bizarre?

We tossed them all out at 7.00 (none of them put their children to bed before 9.00 – shock, horror) to the regret and ire of our children. Much though we enjoyed seeing them, we were glad to see them go as we had decided to compress all our socialising for January into one day and our dinner guests would be arriving at 8.30.

And now, dinner is over, everyone is in bed and I should be too.

That is all.

Lille


Posted in: Belgium, Family

When you live in Brussels, people always say – oh, you can travel very easily to anywhere – this is true, but you rarely do.  However, to celebrate (ahem) the fact that the boys have decided not to nap at the weekends, on Sunday we went on a day trip to Lille in France.  We emerged from the car park into the last day of the Christmas market.  Michael instantly wanted to go on the big wheel.  We managed to put him off until we had all had lunch. The big wheel was a tremendous success as the children don’t seem to feel the cold at all.  Arrived at ground level with three happy children and two frozen parents, one of whom could only see odd square patterns out of one eye (hello, migraine, welcome to France). We bought the children a helium balloon each (18 euros, fools and their money etc.). We wandered the streets of the old town, perished.  The children were cheerful, though.  We bought the Princess a pair of boots and a pair of shoes in an expensive shop, on sale but still dear (fools and their money part ii).

We decided not to go to the beautiful chic and expensive café which was probably the best decision of the day.  We took ourselves to a creperie where we had upstairs (reached by a hair-raising spiral staircase) to ourselves once we had dislodged the unfortunate courting couple who had been there when we arrived.  We spread ourselves and our 8 balloons (3 helium, 5 non – a present from the expensive shoe shop – we started with three but then the Princess wanted more yellow ones so we had to go back and get more – sometimes I think that there is no greater humiliation than being a parent) over three tables and I put my head in my hands, glad that the migraine patterns had stopped but beginning to wonder whether they might in fact be better than the pain (slightly reduced by the application of paracetemol).  Mr. Waffle tried to stop the boys turning on and off the lights and rescued helium balloons from the ceiling.  The Princess was actually very good and quite sympathetic and I began to entertain brief hopes that she might turn into a pleasant and considerate grown-up eventually.  We finished up in the café and took children, buggy and eight balloons out the door with considerable difficulty.  I felt very sorry for the other patrons who were clearly frozen as we went in and out several times.

We decided to cut our loses and head for home.  The car park was small and narrow and there was no room to get the children in to the car because although the car park had been empty when we arrived, it was now full.  We were about to try putting them in place from the front when the large car beside us left.  I shamelessly opened the door and put in the children causing a long delay which nearly killed my husband.  We put the three helium balloons in the boot with the Princess (you know in her seat in the station wagon, we’re stupid but we’re not heartless) – one covered by a coat.  Mr. Waffle then tried to get out of the car park with gritted teeth.  Daniel who is our most sensitive child and Daddy’s boy, stuck out his lower lip and started to cry because, as he explained to me “Daddy cwoss”.   We explained in great detail to the Princess that the balloons had to stay down because otherwise Daddy would not be able to see out the window and we might all die.

I filled two bottles for the boys in the hope that they might sleep.  Much of the milk got in the bottles but a certain amount landed on me.  My mother always said that children don’t mind being warm and wet and I can now attest that this is true.  It wasn’t too bad being wet and milk soaked in the car but when we screamed to a halt on the hard shoulder of the motorway and I had to go to the boot and remove the balloon which had escaped its moorings and was floating about the car, the chill wind was deeply unpleasant on my damp jeans.  For the remainder of the journey, the Princess had to hold the remaining two balloons on her lap.  I should have taken them all into the front but I feared her wrath (grim death on motorway v. child’s wrath – which would you choose?).  The Princess was moderately successful at keeping the window clear but the whole thing was a bit of a strain and we were very glad to get home.

Gave the children dinner and packed them off to their beds.  Before collapsing into ours, Mr. Waffle made dinner for the following day and we discussed the weekend.

Him: I think the children liked it.

Me: Hmm.  They liked yesterday’s outing better.

Him: What did we do yesterday?

Me: Um, can’t remember, but they liked it.

Him: There may be a point to our complete photographic archive.

Me (checking camera): Oh yeah, we went to a farm.

Him: Have we lost our minds?

Me: Yes.

This morning, her highness donned her new expensive boots with great reluctance because “Safa at school has the same shoes and we might get confused”, could only wish that she had been inspired to raise this on the previous day.

A Christmas Miracle


Posted in: Belgium, Princess

Last Friday night, after her brothers had gone to bed, Mr. Waffle and I took the Princess out to experience the Christmas Market and ancillary attractions. She absolutely loved it and so did we. She was as good as gold. We didn’t get home until 11.00. I said to her “I am a little bit worried that you will be tired tomorrow and very difficult”. “So am I” she said. And so she was. We went to the Brico (DIY shop) and she screamed blue murder. We were mortified. She didn’t really catch up on Sunday either. On Monday when I got home from work, the childminder said the Princess had gone for a nap at 5.30. When Mr. Waffle came home, I persuaded him that we should leave her: she had eaten and she was really tired. “OK” he said “but what happens, if she wakes up at 2.00 in the morning?”. “She won’t and, if she does, I will get up with her”. At 2.00 in the morning, there was a knock on the bedroom door “I want to get up”. My noble, noble, saintly husband got up with her, gave her corn flakes and, most miraculously, persuaded her to go back to bed. The following morning, all was sweetness and light.

Christmas Spirit or the first weekend of Advent


Posted in: Belgium, Boys, Princess

I know that Saturday was only December 1 but I thought we’d get a Christmas tree as we are going to Ireland on the 20th. While, in theory, I really admire the Belgians for not making Christmas a two month orgy, I was, nevertheless, slightly peeved when having promised herself that we would decorate one while the boys napped, there were no Christmas trees to be had.

30 days of non-stop blogging and a nasty head cold had taken their toll on me and I retired to bed for a nap after lunch and slept until, eeek, 3.23. Catastrophe. Despite rousing the boys and chivying the Princess we only managed to get out the door at 4.23 meaning that we arrived at the Grand Place at 4.55 which, I can tell you was a herculean effort involving much sprinting and mincing the ankles of innocent tourists with our buggy. Alas, too late. Saint Nicolas and his donkey, his brass band, his little black helpers (I know, I know) and his supply of free sweets had gone leaving only a mound of sweet wrappers to mark his passing. The Princess bawled. I nearly cried myself. To add insult to injury, another Saint Nicolas was in the Grand Place surrounded by an anxious band of kiddies and their parents. Unfortunately, he and his helpers were there to do a photo shoot and didn’t want children in the way so this was, possibly, the only Santa on earth who shooed children away. My poor little mites held out their hands longingly to touch the great man’s cloak and were brushed away by angry men saying “Stand back, stand back”. If I could have found out what they were advertising I would tell you so that you could boycott it.

We pushed off to look at the live crib and they were interested in the sheep. Mr. Waffle then had the genius idea of taking them to the merry-go-round which saved our bacon and largely wiped out the memory of mean Santa.

Saint Nicolas normally comes on the night of December 5 in Belgium, however, he is a busy man and he comes to different houses at different times. He came to us on Saturday night. The Princess reverently placed a carrot for his donkey inside the door on a plastic lid. She lined up her shoes and the boys’. She agonised that Saint Nicolas might not know where to put the presents in the absence of a Christmas tree but we reassured her. We put out a special tablecloth and left out for Saint Nicolas two speculoos biscuits and a bottle of Christmas beer (this is Belgium, of course Saint Nicolas drinks beer). I put the Princess to bed and read her her story – “The Night before Christmas”. “Put it on the table for Saint Nicolas to read, big people like to have something to read while they’re eating”

Saint Nicolas and his donkey came and polished off their treats. The Princess got a bicycle. Oh the excitement. It was fantastic. The boys were slightly less entranced with their wooden toys and felt that, if he were any good, Saint Nicolas would have brought them bicycles too. Some squabbling ensued only partially resolved by distribution of the chocolate, mandarins and marzipan pigs left in the children’s shoes (the hygiene implications of this are mildly alarming but since Michael yesterday bent down and tasted the water in a puddle we probably have more serious concerns, like Weil’s disease).

The day was young, we’d all been up since 6.30. This gave us ample time to make 9.00 mass, almost on time though the Princess cycled and I walked with the boys. They were really keen to walk so I let them, a decision I had ample opportunity to regret as I marshalled them towards the church in the driving rain over a period of 20 long minutes.

We had intended to go to Antwerp Zoo to meet the Dutch Mama and her family (it being a half way point between Brussels and the Hague) but the cold driving rain had really put me off even though the children were very hyped up. We took them home and put them in front of Barney while we telephoned back and forth to the Hague to decide what we would do. I think it was in Dooce that I read that it’s not Barney that’s sinister but those stage struck children who play with him. This is true. My daughter is turning into them. She’s a great little mimic (she does an excellent English accent based on her friend L’s diction which she just puts on all the time except when I want to record it for youtube ‘before cars everyone had hosses’ ‘horses’ ‘yes hosses”) and it’s slightly terrifying. I digress. The Dutch Mama’s husband is some kind of nuclear engineer and when the nuclear disaster comes it is he who will be limiting the damage. It is therefore comforting that he is a precise and thorough man but I still had some difficulty believing his claim that though it was raining in Brussels and the Hague “the rain in Antwerp stopped three minutes ago”. In the end, we went. We had no alternative plan and we feared being rent limb from limb by the children, if they didn’t get to the zoo.

I’ve never been to the zoo in Antwerp before. It’s next door to the station and, therefore, right in the centre of town, overlooked by apartment buildings. It is very odd but strangely endearing. It has an out of town arm (Plankendael) which I have never liked (memorably we once paid 42 euros to get into Plankendael and wallow in the mud and a further 16 to make our own sandwiches) but is strangely popular with other people. I did like the Zoo though. Since it was mostly pouring rain, we largely had the place to ourselves. The children were delighted to meet again and so were their parents. While the parents were somewhat unenthused by the icy driving rain, the children didn’t seem to mind. And we had the burger restaurant to ourselves except for a couple of pigeons (again, those niggling hygiene concerns). I know zoos aren’t really very nice for the animals but as we stood there huddling together (the adults, the children were haring around delighted with themselves) in the rain looking in at the monkeys in their nice warm dry climate controlled glass boxes, it was hard not to feel a tiny bit envious. I’d still go back like a flash though.

The Dutch Mama and I have a thriving system of clothing exchange for children and I had brought her a big bag of things (mostly hers now going back to her to kit out her extremely cute new baby – quite possibly the best child in the world – she spent her time at the zoo smiling or sleeping, mind you, she was in her buggy with its waterproof cladding). Having brought them all the way to Antwerp, I was determined to hand them over. Once Michael slipped on his bottom in the mud in the zoo our time there was up. We decided to cut our losses and head for home. We entered into a complex arrangement whereby Mr. Waffle would hand the bag of clothes over to Mr. Dutch Mama at the zoo gates. He did so while I stayed with my children in the car and the hardy Dutch children continued their exploration of the zoo with their Mama. I would like to say now that I appreciate that a paper bag full of clothes and weighing a ton was probably not the best container for a wet wet wet day. I am hoping that a) the bag didn’t dissolve and b) the Dutch contingent will some day forgive me.

Christmas belongs to the Germans


Posted in: Belgium, Family, Reading etc.

Everything that we associate with Christmas was, essentially, imported by Queen Victoria from her German relatives and exported from there to a waiting world. I was forcibly reminded of this today when I went to the Saxony-Anhalt Christmas market in Brussels. It was absolutely beautiful. They had lovely things for the children, singers in odd costumes who sang to them, not a single tacky stall and the most wonderful wooden toys and decorations. It was without doubt the most perfect Christmas market I have ever been to. It helped that the whole thing seemed to be fairly uncommercial. They were selling things but in a very relaxed way. We were all enchanted. There is absolutely no way I am taking my children to meet Santa after they have seen his workshop at head height in the Saxony Anhalt Christmas market.

I think we can take it that the festivities have begun.

NaBloPoMo – OK, W tomorrow, no really.

Freedom of Speech


Posted in: Belgium, Reading etc.

The local nasty extreme right wingers stuck a brochure through the door. I see that they are concerned that freedom of speech has disappeared. Under the liberal consensus no one can criticise Islam any more. Don’t worry they have a solution; send all those nasty people back where they came from. In the case of the very nice Muslim women who work in the boys’ creche, I think that would probably be Etterbeek.

NaBloPoMo – Are we there yet? P is for Parker, Parks and Pratchett

Parker, that’s Dorothy Parker, obviously. Do I need to say more? “If all the girls who attended the Yale prom were laid end to end, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised”

I have always liked the idea of Tim Parks rather more than the result. He is an English man who married an Italian woman and lives in Verona. I find his books about growing up in the midst of what is, essentially, an Italian family with a funny English father, insightful and sometimes amusing. His writing can be a bit convoluted for me. The best of his books is “A Season with Verona”. Although Verona is famous in the English speaking world for Romeo and Juliet, it is famous in Italy for being the most racist town in the country and having the roughest football fans.  He spent a season bonding with the roughest of them.  It is enlightening and surprisingly touching from time to time.

Terry Pratchett is great.  He can be a little hit and miss but as my favourite aunt who reads everything says, why get something new from the library when you know you can rely on Terry Pratchett to deliver the goods.  Mildly humourous fantasy set on a fictional planet called Discworld which resembles our own in many ways.  I have them all.

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