topotales

Didier Berthod is a hero despite zee veeerhhhy strounggghh and ehm, ok- slightly annoooyyyinggg frenzch aczzeeent. I’m glad he finally figured out (mankind, are you listening?) that the combo-move with the whole hand and not just the finger curl alone was the secret to…”blovvwing maaind”: know what I mean, ladies?  Not to mention that it finally fit… climbing… the crack… ah… nevermind.

Climbing and ethics aside, I think (in case you hadn’t guessed) it’s critical to point out: any woman could appreciate this video. YUM!!

(But Didier - saving seconds - even just a few - isn’t the greatest way to stay in it in real life.  Being first and solid is, as you say, universally important.  I guess egos are egos no matter where the crack resides.)

My dog knows not to
ever pass up a good kiss.
She loves her human.

GUEST POST BY HANSOSAN.

Do you know that beer used to be just an alternative way to store grain, and make drinkable liquid available in an environment that got more and more polluted ?  The stronger beers were only developed later as a way to evade the taxes on spirits.  As always, we have a historic background - more lies and falsifications than facts, still - enough years to accumulate the myriad of details that builds up the fractal richness you taste now.  But indeed - in the open-sewer industrializing cities like Gent, the clergy advised women to give their kids beer rather than the horrible water.  It was sound advice then - and profitable too for all those brewer-monks.  Figuring out how to control the yeast and bacterial processes involved came only very late - so don’t believe for a second that our current beers with the ancient sounding names like “Vieux-temps” and “Emperor Charles”, taste anything like the acid stuff our ancestors drank out of the stone jugs while working in the fields.

Beer drinking is learned young here.  My pregnant wife was still advised to drink lots of fortifying stout, my small kids got to stick their fingers in the foam at parties - I drank my first glass way before I needed my first razor, in the youth house in the old converted city hall of Werken.  Low-alcohol “table” beer was present everywhere, often instead of fancy waters, cola or wine.  Somehow I suspect this led to a more mature use of alcohol later on.  It wasn’t the forbidden fruit, or less the macho-potion or the oblivion drug it often is in more ‘regulated’ area’s.

One way I survive boring family parties is to go sit next to the oldest person alive and ask them to tell stories about beer when they were young.  Those were the days that brewers were more common than bakers - in the tiny village my dad grew up in, there were already 7 pubs.  There is one left now.  The only brewery in the neighbourhood (Esen) almost closed, if a bunch of independent louts hadn’t stepped in and revived it all (the Dolle Brouwers, or Mad Brewers).  They now brew some of the most creative concoctions around - I suggest you start with Dulle Teve (Mad Bitch).  That brewery visit guided by their Mom I consider one of the best tourist trips you can take here.  And this is the scale that seems to fit us : a small firm, making a living, and a unique, rich product.  Whenever we try to grow beyond that (look at Hoegaarden), often the uniqueness disappears, the magic is gone.  It’s this special link, me knowing someone that is related to the brewer, or knowing the order of the abbey, or weird facts that celts developed coopering for their beers while the romans were still using amphora’s for their wines, that makes beers special to me - not just something filtered out of the chemical industry, pushed on me by a marketing bureau.

I realised student life was over while slowly getting dizzy from the second or third Grimbergen Triple, under the jade shade of Ginkgo leaves in the garden of the Blauwe Schuit in Leuven, chatting to an old teacher friend.  How long this beer culture will survive, I don’t know.  Economics for slow food are all wrong - no wonder Interbrew is Brasillian now.  Belgians evidently suck at protecting what’s theirs.  The orchards producing the cherries in Schaarbeek, essential for the real Kriek taste - are all swallowed by the sprawling city.  They are now coming from Pepingen or Gooik - if not from Hungary - if at all from a cherry tree… .

But, I once learned in a winecellar in Alsace, from the daughter of a long line of winemakers making the unique Rouge d’Ottrot: it does not matter that unique knowledge might disappear - it is the now that counts - so live to the fullest now.  That is the only obligation we have.  So I will open my 3 different bottles of geuze, taste each next to the other and compare.  I’ll let my kids try them all, and ask their opinion too: so they may learn that details matter, that there is a level of quality you cannot measure with a stick, but that is perfectly noticeable with a bit of experience and openness to all your senses (yes, cheers to Christopher Alexander).  Why don’t you pull up a chair and try it - there is still enough for all !

He tells her secrets:
daily magic from his life.
She always wants more.

I like few singers passionately.  Most of them, admittedly, are women.  All of them write poetry which sounds like music.  I actually have quite a few friends who are making this kind of music - what I consider magical, true music that seems so rare this day.  The kind of music that goes right to your heart with a wrench and the toolkit.  I guess it’s what they used to call ‘folk’.

What I find hardest to believe about these amazing friends of mine is their lack of fame.  Not that I want to see them on the red carpet anytime soon; for purely selfish reasons: I love to secretly love the artists I enjoy.  I like to cuddle up with them when I’m sad or depressed or lonely.  I stick them in my ear buds and somehow that equals my heart.  But it occurred to me that you guys might have friends making music like this too, and maybe we could work out some kind of a deal?  Because I’m feeling needy and raw lately.  And I need as much soul-harmony as I can get!

So here is one of my good friends for you, Carrie Lennard.  I first met her when she came with her dad in the early nineties to Finca la Mota, the B&B I managed in South Spain, on a bicycle tour.  One evening, late and (most of us) drunk, she sat at a barful of tough, working farmers and horsemen from Alhaurín el Grande.  All of these guys know their Flamenco; this is how we spent most of our late evenings - singing and telling stories (all of us speaking over one another at full volume) with flamenco guitar-chords providing emphasis from the corner.  After a lot of yelling, negotiating and hand-gestures, somebody finally, hesitantly loaned her a guitar.  Within thirty seconds flat Carrie had all of those guys yelling “OLÉ” and every single one of us in the bar had tears in our eyes.

Will you make the trade even for me?  If you feel like it, send me music or poetry from one of your friends who should be famous but somehow, mysteriously hasn’t “made it” past you into as many hearts and souls as they can… yet.  And please, if you send anything- make it something that will balm the ragged parts of a soul.  I need it right now.

For more from Carrie, drop me an email and I’ll be sure to put you in touch.  Her first album; Kayla (my favorite) is available as linked in the name.

(post to be edited later to add pics)

Fuck this depression;
I’m not here to make you smile.
I’m here for my life.

Mangio la pizza
perchè è buonissima;
cresce la panza.

Passing Thionville,
a wave of raw sentiments:
bright, technicolor.

Me: But seriously babe, look at this picture of the poor little snail-ey.  Isn’t he sweet?  Doesn’t it make you feel bad?  I don’t think I can ever eat escargot again.

Paolo: Topo, first of all, you didn’t never eat escargot.  Second of all, you have something sick because you are always feeling bad for everything.  It’s a snail!

Me: … [blink, blink] …

Paolo: It’s sweet though, I like it.

Me: Now I’m going to have to blog you.

Paolo: That sounds like a sort of a threat.

Some pointers on eating and food consumption in general, here in Belgium…

1.  Milk: Refrigerate!?  Have you gone mad? Keep it in your cupboard until it turns green, then move it to the fridge as cheese.

2.  Fries (Fritjes or frites):  Invented in Belgium, not France (wink, wink), so it’s really nationalism to have them with every meal.

3.  Asparagus:  Why buy it green when you can starve the plants in the dark underground and then eat them with a clammy, sickly-white glossy sheen?

4.  “Haute Cuisine”: Requires nothing more than a trip to your garden, where you may find rabbits, frogs, snails, slugs and any other manner of creature to trap.  Throw it in some butter, garnish with garnish, and charge a ridiculous price.  Goooood eatin’!

5.  Mussels: Jean Claude Van Damme is from Brussels, did you know that? Yep, they call him the “Mussels from Brussels”.  Don’t let that scare you off, though.  Just remember, mussels are best eaten in months ending in “R”.  Van Damme ends in “E’.

6.  Chocolate: Some places in the center of Brussels, you can see it in shop windows for hundreds of Euros per muffin-size cake.  Lots of small chocolate boutiques with yummy (free!) stuff to try.  If you live here, you’d better scope out the nearest shop to your house because you’ll need to bring a box to every damn occasion, including your own birthday.  And this is a Catholic country.  That’s a lot of chocolates.

7.  Waffles (gaufres): Only the tourists eat the (delicious, warm, melty, sweet) loaded ones with Nutella, whipped cream, strawberries, banana, chocolate sauce, … hold on… funny feelings happening… ahhhhh yes!  Real Belgians eat them out of the converted ice-cream trucks, plain.  Still good, I guess, … just not orgasmic.

8.  “Ethnic” stuff: Oh, you mean like a late-night Pita?  They can also be plonked on cous cous.  ‘Cause that makes it - you know - exotic.

9.  Breakfast: War rations of the business age, apparently - you are allowed one croissant (this could maybe be replaced by a brioche if you ask real nice) + a coffee.  And NO YOU CANNOT TAKE THE COFFEE WITH YOU.  You have to drink it right here because we have never heard of carry-out cups. [I'm not bitter, really!  But if anyone wants advice on how to open a Starbucks - I used to hate Starbucks- in my building, let me know!]

10.  Beer: Helloooo.  This requires its own special list, and vocabulary, which is why I will let a real, live Belgian guest-post on the subject (if they don’t all hate me by now).  Plus, this is the one positive point regarding nourishment in Belgium but since I’m almost entirely a (cheap, shitty) wine person it’s totally wasted on me.

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In case you actually wanted to know what to eat that’s “really Belgian” while you’re here (it’s pretty obvious what you’ll be drinking), I recommend waffles, chocolates and mussels as listed above.  Also, the following dishes: Carbonnades a la Flammande (Flemish beef stew cooked in beer), Stoemp (mashed potatoes and sausage), and Waterzooi (creamy chicken). Really, considering the high concentration of Michelin-star-rated restaurants and great chefs in Belgium, it’s a disappointment that a common man on a budget can’t easily find excellent food.  Excellent food - for me - means something more interesting than meat and potatoes with the occasional side of that nasty white asparagus.  I know somebody who will argue this point with me, and I welcome it (hansosan)!  So if you have a suggestion for a great place in Brussels to eat for under €20 per person (that includes my two glasses of wine), I promise to try it out and then write what I thought.