Land of surrealism

After a while you live here, maybe you think to have seen enough not to be so easy to impress any more.

You have seen shop attendants expecting you to be grateful for their being so kind to pay attention and serve you - instead of minding their own business. And of course you have been given appointments: "we'll come to fix your problem in 4 weeks, any time between 8 am and 5 pm".

Perhaps you have have been to a café, ordered a pancake with jam and have been told that before 4 o'clock you can have it only with sugar. And you may have tried again, asking for an omelette instead, and been told that you cannot order it before noon (never mind it's 11:45).

But then, one day, you put 1 € in an automatic vending machine in a lonely metro station and when it doesn't work, you get your 1 € back. Transferred directly to your bank account.

That day, you know that the question has become: when will the next paradox hit you again in this Neverland of our imagination?

The same, but different

There are days when you don't really have travelling plans but you end up somewhere new nevertheless. This weekend was the turn of Matongé and St.Gills. In fact, I was just meant to go for coffee but ended up in a discovery. 

Blessed by the sun, my descent into little Yaoundé took me among not very well kept buildings and small shops selling cheap stuff but everywhere the colours of African dresses and the cheerful atmosphere of the "locals" was overwhelming. For some reason, Africa never makes me feel unsafe. Not even in Europe.

St.Gilles was another game. You go buy fruit at the market, turn right into a small street where a man is loading his olive-green Peugeot 404 and a lady is taking pictures with a Polaroid, walk up to a white party-house for elderly-only use, ending up in a small park where people outside time and space are reading, laying on the (wet) grass, and a girl is sitting on a bench with an iPod in her hears and tap-tap-tapping on a 70s typewriter.

It will be hard, going back to ordinary Brussels, the same, but different.

To the East and back

Went on a trip on Saturday. A trip into the pleasures of the middle east - and of relaxation.

It didn't take long to get there: pleasures - and surprises - are closer than one would expect. Just off the Canal, basically.

Sweating was never so enjoyable as in a Calidarium smelling of spices and quasi-blind of vapour. When the Algerian lady appears to take you to the next stage of regeneration, it feels like coming from a dream. True, the subsequent scrubbing experience could never be mistaken for a dream, but it's the outcome that matters, isn't it?

Relaxation with mint tea and dried fruits, massage with jasmin oil and a second descent into the secrets of the hammam to let the essential oil penetrate the regenerated skin. Where am I? Where was I going?

But here I am, back on earth, long nights, long drinks, and - most of all - a long way to go to reach my destination. Or to fail.

Bits and pieces

What does it take to make someone happier?

A surprisingly warm night, no wind, no chill, no winter feeling. A clear sky with full moon and such a light air transporting the music seamlessly from the stage to your hears and to your heart.

A lighthearted chat with friends, while sipping a fresh drink. A slow walk downtown, with the music fading away in the back and the lights and views of a (usually not so charming) city surprising your imagination.

Sharing that feeling with someone you love, wherever they are.

And then another day comes, out of space and time, and we are watching through the window the hypnotic pouring rain hitting the familiar, yet stranger, roofs. What are we doing here?