I spent Saturday in Belgium. I love living in a place where I can take a day trip to another country. It’s only about an hour and a half away on TGV (train de grand vitesse, literally, "really quick train"), so I went to Brussels by myself and spent the day wandering the town. Even though it’s a big city when it comes to population, the city is pretty small area-wise, so it still has that small town feel to it, which was cool. My main goal in going was to see Tassel House, this building I wrote a paper on for an architecture class one time, arguing that the construction of it began the modern architecture movement. Once I got there, I found out it is kilometers outside of town, and since I didn’t even know if it was open, I decided to forego it. BUT there was the most amazing Christmas market going on all through the city, so I spent most of the day wandering that. Christmas markets are a European invention, I believe, and happen mostly only in smallerish towns, because I suppose in big cities there are too many people who do not celebrate Christmas to pull off a successful one (speaking of which, I couldn’t believe how many mosques and Arabic stores there were in Brussels, WHO KNEW?? Unrelated but still odd: the city also apparently has a vibrantly booming gay population...). So I wandered the Christmas Market, which winds its way from one end of the city to the other, chatting in French with chocolatiers and people who sold reindeer pate. Reindeer pate. From Norway. Which means it is legit, because everyone knows that Norway is called NORway because it is where the NORth Pole is, and thus Santa, and thus his reindeer, who are native to there. I wanted to buy some because it was so unbelievable, but the former vegetarian in me could not support it AND it cost as much as beluga caviar, so I gave up on that. BUT from the Norwegians I did buy, I kid you not, a "lingonberry polar express drink," which is basically lingonberry cider, heated, with lingonberries sprinkled through it, and vodka. I thought it was just CIDER until I saw the woman pull a fifth from behind the counter, at which point I was like, "Um, peut-je boire ça sans le vodka, s’il vous plaît?" Can I have that without vodka, please? Because it was about 5degrees below zero Celsius, and the last thing I wanted was to be drinking spiked lingonberry juice as I walked around Belgium, a country with three official languages including FLEMISH, which sounds like nothing and has got to be the most useless language to be fluent in. All that detracts from the important part though. I ATE A LINGONBERRY. I didn’t even actually know they really existed, I always kind of thought they were some sort of mythical thing and that lingonberry syrup actually came from kohlrabis or something. But no, they exist, and apparently are a prime staple of the reindeer diet. (This place also sold reindeer furs. At least they weren’t letting it go to waste. But I am still not ok with that.)
Yesterday I made my first phone calls for the band promoter/tour manager "job" that I have somehow scored. I still can’t talk about it without giggling, because not only is it so cooooool, but it’s also exactly what I want to do for a living and it’s just so ridiculous that I somehow ended up with a job like that in another country. Now, let me remind you of something that happened a very long time ago and may or may not have been covered here.
I got sick. And when I did, I had to go to the doctor. So obviously, I had to call the doctor to make an appointment to see her. And when I did, I conducted my first PHONE conversation in french, and promptly swore off using the phone in french, ever, at all, no matter what. Because the receptionist couldn’t understand what I was asking for, or what my name was, or when I wanted an appointment for, or whether I was french, etc. But then I got this job, and all bets were off.
So I started calling Parisian nightclubs yesterday. Most of them I had already sent an email to, but a few of them were brand new. Not only is calling nightclubs intimidating anyway (because the people there are always so cool) but this time I was doing it in FRENCH. It went better than it potentially COULD have... I managed to make myself understood (this "my-name-is-Blair-like-Tony" trick works WONDERS; they understand what I am saying, they always laugh, and then they are like my best friend. It doesn’t hurt that it probably makes them think I am British too, which is always good.); left messages for the "programmateur," a word that is KEY when I call places and which I am still excellent at mispronouncing; AND I even managed to understand when one secretary explained to me that the programmateur refuses to consider bands unless he is sent a CD and press kit.
BUT no callbacks yet. And I am not discouraged by that as in, "maybe this band is not good" but as in "maybe they think I can not speak their language, so they are not calling." But I suppose this is really an excellent way for me to practice, because my comprehension of French is through the roof, since all I do is eavesdrop on people’s conversations in the Metro and take classes in French, but my actual SPEAKING skills? Still lacking. A lot. So now I am getting thrown into this crazy world of French slang, words like "booking" and "management" and "gig" and "amp" and "sound system" that I know in English but am now having to learn in French... it’s fun because it is something I enjoy, but it is wicked hard because I have no idea what I am doing, and have to do it in another language. But the band has been nothing but helpful... I got an email from the lead singer on Saturday morning giving me more advice, and they have all been cool about the fact that this is my first time doing this in my second language.

Today I went to Angelina (a ritzy cafe near the Louvre) that is well-known for it's hot chocolate. This place is in every French guidebook I have ever seen, and I had been there once with my dad (years ago, before I had heard of it or spoke French), so I returned today... and it was exactly as amazing as I remembered it. The building is amazing-- all crown mouldings with gilt trim, one wall with a pastoral 19th-century mural painted on it, the other floor to ceiling mirrors, a wide staircase leading to the upper floor, and cases upon cases of viennoiseries, patisseries, etc. So cute, directly across the street from the Tuileries (the huge garden that abuts the Louvre), and full of people brunching after mass or before a visit to the biggest museum on the planet, in their fur coats and Prada bags... I paid 6,50 Euros for a hot chocolate-- that's about $9. But it's not terribly outrageous for a specialty drink in Paris, and this hot chocolate... well, it served as my lunch, so take that for what it's worth. I ordered a "chocolat chaud blanc" (white hot chocolate), which was brought to the table in a pitcher (solid white), with a pitcher of warmed cream (because this stuff is too rich to drink straight), and a teacup to pour it in. And, literally, I think there is a good chance it is nothing but melted white chocolate with whole cream stirred in. It's hot, thick, sweet, and gooey, and tastes like eating a white chocolate bar.

And, on a random note: Tonight I went to a Lessons and Carols service at an Anglican church here in Paris. All the Christmas Carols they sang were some kind of weird reverse remixes, where everything is made more... classical. The only "american" one they sang was "Go Tell It On The Mountain," which is a song I have never really liked without knowing why, until tonight, when in the midst of them singing it, I suddenly remembered my kindergarten Christmas pageant. Now, granted, I probably had pitched all kinds of fits about this pageant because I hated things like this when I was young, but that is not the point of the story. I have this distinct memory of that song being the song my class had to sing by ourselves. And we had to dress up like we were from another country. I don’t know if kindergarten was assigned the middle east and the older kids got something cooler, or if my family just decided to dress me as an Arab woman, but I am quite sure I did not decide it myself. I distinctly remember wearing this shawl/scarf thing as a dress, all wrapped and pinned around me, that my dad had bought in Turkey or India or Ghana or something, and I remember thinking even as my teacher re-pinned it around me for the 30th time before we went onstage that I looked ridiculous. (I probably did, but it is also insanely weird that someone decided having 38 suburban kindergartners dress up like middle easterners to do a Christmas pageant was a good idea.) Anyway, we sang that song, and I have retained a dislike for it ever since.
I am, as always,
over the hills and far away,
B