The day before

It has always rained in Brussels the day before holidays.
It feels like a kind of tradition after so many years.

The sky is grey. The feet are wet. The heating is on. Steve McCurry's exhibition will close soon.

You still need to finish way too many things at work before going home packing and sleeping a couple of hours.

And then you go.

Countdown

It is August again
I am in Brussels again.

That time when the perspective of holidays coming up is what keeps you going.

But also walking through the park, several times a day, and smiling at the ever changing sight of a familiar view.

 It is also getting darker earlier, but the reverse Magritte effect can still take place 

In the meantime, the stone lady at the Schumann entrance of the park hints at the kind of summer I am soon quitting the city for.

Primo agosto

E cosi' il primo agosto c'era il sole a Bruxelles.

C'era persino qualcuno in giro, macchine nei tunnel, ausiliari del traffico a Flagey, cercatori di Pokemon e nonni con bimbi nei parchi. C'era la lentezza dei movimenti e delle decisioni, in risposta all'urgenza di fermare il mondo durante le vacanze. C'erano matasse da dipanare grandi quanto piramidi egizie, a settembre però.

Tu non c'eri, eri su un altro pianeta a fare lunghe camminate nei boschi o ragionevoli riflessioni in riva a un mare estraneo.

E c'ero pure io a Bruxelles. A salvare il mondo, una briciola alla volta, piano piano. Forse troppo.

Il due agosto ricominciò a piovere, il traffico tornò nel tunnel Cinquantenaire.

Io me ne andai.

Senza parole

A city I did not want to visit.

A wounded city, with panic and fear, sadness and anger. Anger at the terrorists, at the Belgian intelligence service, at foreigners altogether.

A city where you show solidarity by writing on the walls of your only monument. And yet, maybe 50 nationalities are standing there and lighting candles. Welcome to Brussels, capital of Europe, capital of jihad too. Where the police of a different commune had the address of the most wanted man for months but did not communicate it to the other office. Where terrorists order a big taxi for their suitcases full of explosives but the taxi company sends a too small one. Where they ask you to go at the airport 5 hours in advance for a 2 hour flights.

In other parts of the world controls are everywhere I am told. But we are in Europe, we built it on peace and solidarity, we cannot turn it into a war zone because different governments cannot get to work together. People do not want to give up their right to go for a beer with friends. Keep drinking your beer but police in the street, border checks, fear of the foreigner is a new normal which takes us back 100 years.

Scents

This morning smelled like a chilly winter morning in Strasbourg, where I was cycling and playing frisbee many years ago.

The hallway in my friends' apartment building smelled like that damn hospital room where I spent some sleepless nights, hoping to steal days to the inevitable.

A stranger at the bus stop had that smell of tobacco and musk I am trying to forget.

Today I am not where I though I would be, the smell of where I was stays.

Le baiser du Cinquantenaire

Love in Brussels mid-summer night does not go unnoticed, especially during the just discovered Noa Moon's cheerful Paradise.

Moon? You serious? After the post from a couple of days ago?

Half-moon

Tonight my friends ordered half-moons for dinner at the usual Italian restaurant. And tonight that I feel no interest in sleeping, a half-moon rose at east, big, hazy and in the colour of amber.

I always loved the moon. I used to dream that from a little door hidden behind the sink in the bathroom of my childhood home, you could go directly to the moon. And it was peaceful and nice up there. It was never clear if there existed a way to go back to my bathroom but, in truth, in my dream there was no hint that I was even thinking of looking for a way back.

And then there are the memories of a splendid moon seen from a desert in the middle east, an implacable one during a sleepless night in a hospital, or a bright one shining through the window of someone who could have been special and never wanted to be.

But today there is no full moon. Today this is a half-moon, like this half-baked story, or this half-hearted message. Beautiful still. Fully beautiful, I dare to say. Rising and shining. And yet half. And so will she remain. For a while still.

Un tempo piccolo

Stavo per dirti che ho smesso di provare a dare un senso alle cose che succedono. E avrei aggiunto che le bastonate prese ti insegnano la serenità per prendere la vita come viene.

E avrei mentito. Forse solo per non perdere l'occasione di dire una frase a effetto.
Perché invece non sopporto le cose che non hanno spiegazione. Un padre che muore, un uomo insistente, uno che non insiste, un no grazie di fronte a un'offerta che non si poteva rifiutare. E continuo ad perderci la testa e le notti, finché il tempo, galantuomo, mi passa una tazza di tè e nuovi indovinelli da risolvere.

Diventare grandi.

Sitting on an unstable tabouret

At the end, not more than two months did spring last.

In some parts of the world (or is it just for some people?) it is not summer which comes after spring but a new winter. After hopes have been blossoming together with nature, everything froze again and disappointment is all the more bitter. And all the more compelling the question: will I be able to endure yet another winter?

Another hour, another day, another week slowly go by, swinging between the acknowledgment that the brightest memories of this out-of-season spring will stay with you and the frustration for not getting the reason why all this had to abruptly finish.
Hanging in the balance as if sitting on a too tall barstool.

In Place du Jeu de Balle a broken saxophone lies abandoned on a bed of old cutlery. Will someone who understands a sax ever get the idea of looking down, knowing it is just a cutlery stall? Who could ever think they all were just pieces of the same metal?

For a moment I wished I understood saxophones.
Now I wish someone understood we are not all the same piece of metal.

That time of my life

Strange time it was. What time was it? Time of wishes and expectations. There were struggles and fights too. And high temperatures. With mood swings, unbearable weakness and unstoppable energy.

D'altronde, così sembrava pensarla anche il cavallo emo dello Chateau de la Hulpe.

Blame it on the unexpected sun, on the sudden outburst of pollen, on the yellow light - or maybe on the purple leds. A day feels like the end of the world, another one feels like the beginning of life. Which is actually the same thing.

Alla fine era solo un compleanno a Bruxelles.
Oppure: all'inizio era solo un compleanno a Bruxelles. Dice: it's my party and I cry if I want to. Ma non è che si deve per forza piangere.

In fact, at the end, a smile is just right, because of happiness or because of an unforeseen song from many years ago.

26

Life at 26 was really cool: travels, friends, experiences. Great memories.

Life on the 26th, in my new office high up the tower is not too bad either.
After three weeks, the amazement continues at the great views of a clear day, a red sunset, or the urban beauty of the city lights at night.

They say: you will get used to it and soon you will not notice any longer.
But what do they know, all these people sitting on the 4th floor?

Oh yes, life with 26 (Celsius) would also do the trick.

Let it shine, just one more time

 St. Martin's summer coming earlier due to the latitude? Veering winds? Gobal warming? Whatever, it was a great October day. 

On a busy working day, obviously. Just like a free ride when you've already paid.

Idyllic also the park and not crowded like in the "real" summer (note for the reader: real summer in Brussels = towards end July, after weeks of rain and 15 °C max, one afternoon the sky suddenly turns blue, the city starts smiling and despite the grass is still wet everyone feels compelled to go to the park and sit in the sun, possibly with some sun screen just to be safe - as if the sun up here would actually tan you)

A solitary nun, a few single parents with their babies, some teen-age couples on the grass, two secret lovers kissing in the shadow of a tree - too much passion to be legitimate.

And the leaves that kept falling.

Tomorrow it will already be -1 °C, soon there will be no more leaves and no more lovers in the park. 

Where will I be then? Maybe in a place where the sun shines. Just one more time

Good riddance

There is something special about September lately.

I have seen people for whom it is like a new spring, their coming back to life, full of energy, ready to conquer the world.
I have seen others falling in love in September, sometimes with an old friend, sometimes with every person they meet in the morning train.

For most it is a struggle. A struggle not to look behind, at the lost summer, a struggle not to look ahead too quickly - and resisting getting the winter duvet for the bed. A struggle against the first cold of the season. Or a struggle to plan the next move, take the next decision, figure out if it was worth the while.

I think we need a break after September.

August

And so it finished. Dark and cold as it started. Belgian kids will go back to school in a couple of days, traffic is becoming heavy again, we are already back to work. The pouring rain did not change, whether it is July, August or January.

Not many complain about the end of the year, great expectations colour the new beginning. Instead, a lot of whining about the end of summer, although September does bring a new beginning too.

I used to like September better than August: that sparkling air bearing the promise of a new start, the riddance of that sticky feeling of the impending end of season. And, after all, there were more things to do, more people to see, more plans - and even a new TV season - in September.

I do not watch TV any longer. Probably that is the problem.

And "I am never gonna leave you" is what we need to hear.

Going nowhere

Yesterday the metro service was disrupted. People kept waiting for a train for quite a while.

Why were we waiting?
Probably for some of us there was no suitable alternative: they live far away and the taxi is too expensive.

But what about the rest of us? We could have walked, for example.
We did not know how long it would take before a train arrived, we were getting anxious and annoyed. Yet, we gave it more and more time to start functioning again.

Had they made a formal announcement, we would all reorganise ourselves - move on with our life, so to say. But, in the metro, as usually in life, there was no formal statement "hey you, stop waiting, it doesn't work".

Under uncertainty, why do we give it more and more chances when we see that things don't work and waiting is going to be a waste of time? Is it because we still like to hope? Or is it because of laziness?
Perhaps it's inertia: keeping a conduct we always had (although it has become pointless) requires less effort than facing a new challenge.

Until when? At which point do people realise that walking up and down the platform, making phone calls, reading a book, thinking about life may be a more or less nice way to kill the time but is not a way to arrive at destination? How long does it take until we finally take action?

Abul... quoi?

On a fast road, in the middle of a park, a stone's throw from some posh clubs, stands a little theatre. Low profile, old style, a bit uncared: Belgian style for coolness.

Invasion! is on as of today, telling the story - better, the stories - of Abulkasem.

Abulkasem is a character in a play, is a terrorist from the Middle East, is a word in youngsters' slang (a noun, a verb or even an adverb), is an illegal immigrant in Sweden.

It is a tale of identity and prejudice. A tale of points of view and of manipulation. And a tale of language and misunderstanding: we have expectations, we make assumptions, we think we get the point but maybe we are not even listening really. Then every person or every word can be Abulkasem, it won't matter.

Hey you, reading this, why do you abulkasem me like that?

Pas de deux

Today I fulfilled one of those childhood wishes, which are rooted so deeply that they have become just another part of you. Today for the first time I watched Čajkovskij's Swan Lake.

Sure, I could have a word for the too lateral seats, the stinky neighbour, the unflattering theatre. But then the lights went off, the oboe started playing the Swan theme, the harp gently accompanied the dance and nothing else was left to feel, just the harmony of the music and the melody of the moves.

Ballerinas' tutus are one of the most beautiful human creations, the perfect body of the dancers is one of the biggest human achievements, the tense muscles are among the most elegant sources of emotion, Odette and Siegfried's pas de deux is one of the most touching representations of love.

Most amazing of all, all this was there, inside me: it had always been there, with that amazed little me who first heard the leading theme, a couple of decades ago, and remained hypnotised forever.

Out of mind

You think, you decide, then you take action. Or, at least, that is what we believe.

Scientists have tried telling us a different story, that is that you do not really decide what you do.

Then, tabloids tried to sell us that if you (a woman) take too many decisions for somebody else (your man), thou shalt suffer by means of sex deprivation (nonsense, it was just the usual mysoginist scam).

Station House Opera's play shows, instead, what happens if the decision to act is taken out of your mind.

What does it look like when someone else is spelling out loud the action you are going to perform (make a cup of tea)? What if that person is telling you not just what you are going to do or say but also what you are going to think? It becomes too slow, or too hectic and confused. Surely it becomes surreal (and therefore arrives in Brussels). Can you not like the rules of the game? Of course you can. Just like the lady-in-red-dress in the play: some external voice is telling you to be happy ever after with the blue prince you just found, what if somehow this does not look right? Not a problem: let the voice talk about love and family life but you push the guy into a jute sack bag, tying the knot (literally) around his ankles and disappear from sight.

Sunday glow

I love the wind.
It's blowing through my hair, when I'm on a boat in the middle of the Mediterranean heading towards the next beautiful island, or we are riding in an open jeep in an African park to reach the top of the crater to watch the dramatic sunset from above.

I hate the wind.
It's blowing through my hair when I am crossing the big boulevard to get to work, it's making us freeze on a wide grey beach on the North Sea, it's passing through several layers of warm clothes making me curse the day I went north of the 42nd parallel.

I love the rain.
It's pouring on a Sunday morning and I'm in bed, warmth and softness around, listening to the melody of its hitting the roofs, or it's washing up a muggy summer day and making the air fresh of oxigen again.

I hate the rain.
It's pouring incessantly from a sky of lead, it's soaking my feet, ankles and legs, all the way up to my soul, feeding rather than washing up pain.

I love the sun.
It wakes up my day, my house, my grandma. It wakes me up. Me, my spirit, my body, my memories and my imagination. My glow.

I do not think I'll ever hate the sun.

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?