Sometimes I get lost in observing the misery of countries, and in the things that people are prepared to do to each other in the name of nationalism, God and anything else they can pull out of their hat in an attempt to downgrade their fellow human being to the point where they can carry out all manner of judgements and/or atrocities on him.
I was sent a quote by Bruce Chatwin, and there in the heart of the quote, he said this:
Why do wandering people conceive the world as perfect whereas sedentary ones always try to change it?
Politicians and judges often don't get out much, they are bogged down in the business of running 'their' country, 'their' city, 'their' village ... just as religious zealots have their daily duties in every country in the world and so it goes that people keep shouting threatening and renaming things ... a man fleeing a life of struggle becomes an 'illegal immigrant'; a barrier higher than the Berlin Wall is called 'the fence' ... names are changed and enemies are created.
Sometimes it's difficult not to lose hope ... here in Flanders, I just read that the extreme right still hold second position in the opinion polls, even after I thought it had been proved that both their rhetoric and their newspapers incited racial dysfunction and had created a climate where the recent spate of racial beatings and killings could occur in Belgium.
and that to rediscover his humanity, he must slough off his attachments and take to the road.
Bruce Chatwin
from Songlines
Maybe those who seek to judge a man based on his country of origin, his skin colour, or his beliefs should spend a little time amongst the people he wishes to judge ... to be sure that he isn't condemning someone who laughs, cries, breathes, dreams, gives birth, raises family, celebrates the same god as him and passes his day in much the same way as himself. To test the water of a country where life is cheap and there are those who would kill him ... just to be sure he wouldn't leave all he loved and owned to become one of those 'illegals'... just to be sure
He needs to be sure that he understands his fear, to check that his fear has a real basis, that he hasn't developed neuroses attached to an imagined ownership of place.
Saturday, June 03, 2006
The New York Times writes ...
In America the Justice Department is asking Internet companies to keep records on the Web-surfing activities of their customers to aid law enforcement, and may propose legislation to force them to do so.
The Justice Department is not asking the Internet companies to give it data about users, but rather to retain information that could be subpoenaed through existing laws and procedures, Mr. Roehrkasse said.
It also wants the Internet companies to retain records about whom their users exchange e-mail with, but not the contents of e-mail messages, the executives said. The executives spoke on the condition that they not be identified because they did not want to offend the Justice Department.
The Justice Department is not asking the Internet companies to give it data about users, but rather to retain information that could be subpoenaed through existing laws and procedures, Mr. Roehrkasse said.
It also wants the Internet companies to retain records about whom their users exchange e-mail with, but not the contents of e-mail messages, the executives said. The executives spoke on the condition that they not be identified because they did not want to offend the Justice Department.
Friday, June 02, 2006
The JCB Song.
I was visiting over at Nerd's Eye View and she has linked to the cutest music video I've seen in a while ... have a look if you have a little time.
You can read about the jcb song here.
Thanks Pam.
You can read about the jcb song here.
Thanks Pam.
Would you hire this guy?
Ms Baker just pointed me in the direction of this rather incredible, and yet 'kind of makes sense', advertisement.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Poetry Thursday
Perhaps you are wondering about the appearance of more poetry than usual ... (maybe not) however wanderingwoman in Spain introduced me to the concept of Poetry Thursday .
In its simplest form, Poetry Thursday is an online project that encourages bloggers to read and enjoy poetry, as well as sharing it with others.
Here's the link to their FAQ section .
Let's see if I can keep up with a poem per Thursday ...
In its simplest form, Poetry Thursday is an online project that encourages bloggers to read and enjoy poetry, as well as sharing it with others.
Here's the link to their FAQ section .
Let's see if I can keep up with a poem per Thursday ...
Dinosaur Times
by Sarah Quigley
You have brought me closer
to extinction than I have ever been
in the whole of my middle-sized life.
You, who were not even extraordinary!
With your round-toed shoes,
your polite well-modulated voice,
and your way of sometimes using
the word quiet instead of quite,
after which you would bite your lip.
You led me to the very edge
of a ravine on a day so cold that
breathing felt like a payback
for some kind of happiness.
Together we looked down
on road markers of mist
and the grey metallic fingernails of the gulls —
a sight seen more often from below.
And although my lungs hurt
you made me stay and look down further
still to where a desert lay,
scattered with white chalky remains.
Once I had acknowledged the bottom
of the world, you pointed out how far away
from it we were, and how close the sky was
to our faces on that particular day.
If you climbed on my shoulders,
you said, I expect you could touch it.
Then, after we had stood for quite some time
where no one (we believed) had ever stood before,
you took yourself away: neatly,
surgically, with the greatest of skill.
You, who were not even extraordinary!
After your removal I lay quiet
among the bones, listening to the birds cry.
Each day had the potential
to become an age.
And I would say this to you now:
if it were not for my constant vigilance
over the state of my heart,
if not for the hard-won years
stacked at my back like a wall to lean on
in times of fright
— well, let’s just say that
for the first time and because of you,
there was nearly no more of me.
You have brought me closer
to extinction than I have ever been
in the whole of my middle-sized life.
You, who were not even extraordinary!
With your round-toed shoes,
your polite well-modulated voice,
and your way of sometimes using
the word quiet instead of quite,
after which you would bite your lip.
You led me to the very edge
of a ravine on a day so cold that
breathing felt like a payback
for some kind of happiness.
Together we looked down
on road markers of mist
and the grey metallic fingernails of the gulls —
a sight seen more often from below.
And although my lungs hurt
you made me stay and look down further
still to where a desert lay,
scattered with white chalky remains.
Once I had acknowledged the bottom
of the world, you pointed out how far away
from it we were, and how close the sky was
to our faces on that particular day.
If you climbed on my shoulders,
you said, I expect you could touch it.
Then, after we had stood for quite some time
where no one (we believed) had ever stood before,
you took yourself away: neatly,
surgically, with the greatest of skill.
You, who were not even extraordinary!
After your removal I lay quiet
among the bones, listening to the birds cry.
Each day had the potential
to become an age.
And I would say this to you now:
if it were not for my constant vigilance
over the state of my heart,
if not for the hard-won years
stacked at my back like a wall to lean on
in times of fright
— well, let’s just say that
for the first time and because of you,
there was nearly no more of me.
The old man at the supermarket
I just had the most delicious thing happen while out at the supermarket ...
I walked in front of a lovely old man pushing his trolley, I smiled and apologised saying I was sorry. He replied with a very English 'That's quite all right' ... words that plunged me down into Alice's rabbit hole.
You see, sometimes when someone unexpectedly speaks English to me it almost seems that I have suddenly become fluent in Dutch, so fluent that I imagine it's English ... my secret dream, learning to speak Nederlands without all this pain.
The old man caught up on us in the frozen food section and began chatting. He had arrived in Belgium during the war and stayed on. He was surprised to find out I was a kiwi ... his grandson-in-law is too.
Despite the fact that there are only 4 million kiwis, we're everywhere ... even on that plane crash in some remote corner of the Himalayas.
We talked a while and I gave him my phone number and email address. He thought his grandson-in-law just might like to give me a call.
I walked in front of a lovely old man pushing his trolley, I smiled and apologised saying I was sorry. He replied with a very English 'That's quite all right' ... words that plunged me down into Alice's rabbit hole.You see, sometimes when someone unexpectedly speaks English to me it almost seems that I have suddenly become fluent in Dutch, so fluent that I imagine it's English ... my secret dream, learning to speak Nederlands without all this pain.
The old man caught up on us in the frozen food section and began chatting. He had arrived in Belgium during the war and stayed on. He was surprised to find out I was a kiwi ... his grandson-in-law is too.
Despite the fact that there are only 4 million kiwis, we're everywhere ... even on that plane crash in some remote corner of the Himalayas.
We talked a while and I gave him my phone number and email address. He thought his grandson-in-law just might like to give me a call.
Sandra Balsells, photographer and journalist
I was reading cafebabel.com just now and discovered this interesting interview with Sandra Balsells, photographer and journalist.
How do you go about photographing scenes of pain and death? The answer flows from her mouth without a second's hesitation. "You can do it if you believe in the meaning of your work, if you are convinced that it has personal significance. And it is also crucial to be quite tough emotionally." It is not the desire to change the world that motivates her work, but the conviction that she is doing what she loves and is emotionally connected to.
Working in a war is tough, but "it has its rewarding moments", she confesses. "You can have some very intense experiences with people." Perhaps what proves so addictive about war is the special bond that a photographer can forge with the person on the other side of the lens. "It is a very odd kind of communication. You can't even talk to the person you are photographing. You are immortalising them and you know nothing about them", she explains
How do you go about photographing scenes of pain and death? The answer flows from her mouth without a second's hesitation. "You can do it if you believe in the meaning of your work, if you are convinced that it has personal significance. And it is also crucial to be quite tough emotionally." It is not the desire to change the world that motivates her work, but the conviction that she is doing what she loves and is emotionally connected to.
Working in a war is tough, but "it has its rewarding moments", she confesses. "You can have some very intense experiences with people." Perhaps what proves so addictive about war is the special bond that a photographer can forge with the person on the other side of the lens. "It is a very odd kind of communication. You can't even talk to the person you are photographing. You are immortalising them and you know nothing about them", she explains
Is Google's Gmail Safe?
Poynter Online is full of interesting things like this post on Making Gmail Safer . You'll find links to the secure server information he mentions by clicking through to the Poynter post.
Did you think your Google Gmail was safe? I thought it was safer than other Web-based mail services, but according to Andrew Lih you can choose to connect to Gmail via a little-noticed link to a secure server.
Lih describes these benefits: "Not only is your password not passed over the Internet in the clear, the entire session is encrypted and untappable. This will prevent anyone from snooping on your e-mail as it travels from Google's server (likely in California) to where you are. Gmail is so quick, you'll never notice the difference in speed."
Fons Tuinstra
Did you think your Google Gmail was safe? I thought it was safer than other Web-based mail services, but according to Andrew Lih you can choose to connect to Gmail via a little-noticed link to a secure server.
Lih describes these benefits: "Not only is your password not passed over the Internet in the clear, the entire session is encrypted and untappable. This will prevent anyone from snooping on your e-mail as it travels from Google's server (likely in California) to where you are. Gmail is so quick, you'll never notice the difference in speed."
Fons Tuinstra
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Kashmir: Missed Chance: Oh, Hello Dalai!
What do you do when one of the world’s pre-eminent religious leaders sits behind you on the plane? Dish on China? Share your iPod? Pretend to levitate? Or maybe, nothing at all?
So begins Kevin Sites latest diary entry ... I couldn't help but smile.
He continues:
Location: The aisle of Jet Air 737 making a stop in Jammu, Kashmir.
You: Bald-headed and bespectacled, wearing an off-the-shoulder scarlet and orange robe, smelling of sandalwood incense and lotus flowers and toting a briefcase with a "Free Tibet" sticker.
Me: Long-haired, bleary-eyed foreign correspondent, wearing a dirty black T-shirt, khaki pants, smelling of last night's curry and toting a look of unrivaled disbelief.
If intrigued, read on here
So begins Kevin Sites latest diary entry ... I couldn't help but smile.
He continues:
Location: The aisle of Jet Air 737 making a stop in Jammu, Kashmir.
You: Bald-headed and bespectacled, wearing an off-the-shoulder scarlet and orange robe, smelling of sandalwood incense and lotus flowers and toting a briefcase with a "Free Tibet" sticker.
Me: Long-haired, bleary-eyed foreign correspondent, wearing a dirty black T-shirt, khaki pants, smelling of last night's curry and toting a look of unrivaled disbelief.
If intrigued, read on here
Did you know ...
Since the start of the war in 2003, 71 journalists have been killed in Iraq, a figure that does not even include the more than two dozen members of news media support staff who have also died, according to the Committee to Protect Journalists.
That number is more than the 63 killed in Vietnam, the 17 killed in Korea, and even the 69 killed in World War II, according to Freedom Forum, a nonpartisan free speech advocacy group.
The New York Times is running the story.
That number is more than the 63 killed in Vietnam, the 17 killed in Korea, and even the 69 killed in World War II, according to Freedom Forum, a nonpartisan free speech advocacy group.
The New York Times is running the story.
Rethinking Borders
There was a link in Foreign Policy online to an interesting article in the Washington Post .
The article was written by Moisés Naím, editor of Foreign Policy magazine and author of "Illicit: How Smugglers, Traffickers, and Copycats are Hijacking the Global Economy".
Governments and citizens are used to thinking of a border as a real, physical place: a fence, a shoreline, a desert or a mountain pass. But while geography still matters, today's borders are being redefined and redrawn in unexpected ways. They are fluid, constantly remade by technology, new laws and institutions, and the realities of international commerce -- illicit as well as legitimate. They are also increasingly intangible, living in a virtual and electronic space.
The article was written by Moisés Naím, editor of Foreign Policy magazine and author of "Illicit: How Smugglers, Traffickers, and Copycats are Hijacking the Global Economy".
Governments and citizens are used to thinking of a border as a real, physical place: a fence, a shoreline, a desert or a mountain pass. But while geography still matters, today's borders are being redefined and redrawn in unexpected ways. They are fluid, constantly remade by technology, new laws and institutions, and the realities of international commerce -- illicit as well as legitimate. They are also increasingly intangible, living in a virtual and electronic space.
Cindy and Immigration
Cindy, the American lawyer who was recently deported from Belgium, has continued to update her blog back home in San Diego ... she had me laughing over her most recent post this morning.
Here's a link to it and a small sampling of what she wrote.
She explains Like the good global citizen that I aspire to be, I tore myself away from the disaster I know as my own immigration crisis to check out the differences between the US visa application and the Belgian one. (You just might be surprised by the answer to that question - I was.)
She goes on with the piece that had me laughing: Still unsure as to which US visa application should be completed for comparison purposes, I pulled up Form DS-156. It is 41 questions long, not including, of course, the subparts.
Following are REAL (i.e., I swear I did not make these up!) questions copied from US Visa Application Form DS-156, to which the applicant is to check either Y or N:
Do you seek to enter the United States to engage in export control violations, subversive or terrorist activities, or any other unlawful purpose?
Are you a member or representative of a terrorist organization as currently designated by the U.S. Secretary of State?
Have you ever participated in persecutions directed by the Nazi government of Germany; or have you ever participated in genocide? (If you are smart enough to know the definition of "genocide", it pretty much stands to reason that you are smart enough to answer "no" to the question. Hell, even if you can't tell the difference between genocide and pesticide, you'd think context clues would kick in. Nazi = no! We call this question a "give-me" or a "freebie.")
Here's a link to it and a small sampling of what she wrote.
She explains Like the good global citizen that I aspire to be, I tore myself away from the disaster I know as my own immigration crisis to check out the differences between the US visa application and the Belgian one. (You just might be surprised by the answer to that question - I was.)
She goes on with the piece that had me laughing: Still unsure as to which US visa application should be completed for comparison purposes, I pulled up Form DS-156. It is 41 questions long, not including, of course, the subparts.
Following are REAL (i.e., I swear I did not make these up!) questions copied from US Visa Application Form DS-156, to which the applicant is to check either Y or N:
Do you seek to enter the United States to engage in export control violations, subversive or terrorist activities, or any other unlawful purpose?
Are you a member or representative of a terrorist organization as currently designated by the U.S. Secretary of State?
Have you ever participated in persecutions directed by the Nazi government of Germany; or have you ever participated in genocide? (If you are smart enough to know the definition of "genocide", it pretty much stands to reason that you are smart enough to answer "no" to the question. Hell, even if you can't tell the difference between genocide and pesticide, you'd think context clues would kick in. Nazi = no! We call this question a "give-me" or a "freebie.")
A Short Post
A word of warning ... if a friend offers to let you use their Canon EOS 350D, just say no if you're not in a financial position to immediately go out and purchase one.
Save yourself the heartbreak of having known something sublime ... and if you're dithering about purchasing one and you do have the cash, just go and get it.
Okay, so you'll never be home due to an overwhelming need to always be out and using your EOS but it doesn't matter ... you'll be really happy. I'm almost sure of it.
Save yourself the heartbreak of having known something sublime ... and if you're dithering about purchasing one and you do have the cash, just go and get it.
Okay, so you'll never be home due to an overwhelming need to always be out and using your EOS but it doesn't matter ... you'll be really happy. I'm almost sure of it.
Flower Mandalas
I just wandered over to David Bookbinder's blog and was stunned by the flower mandala images I found there.
He had written: Help Wanted: The Flower Mandalas Project! For the past two years, I've been taking pictures of flowers and manipulating the images to form mandalas. I'd like to assemble these images into a book, and I'd like your help.
What I have in mind is a book of 52 images, with one page containing a flower mandala and the opposite page a quotation that in some way complements the image. What I imagine is a collection of quotations, some of which relate to the flowers and their importance in literature, culture, art, and so on, while other quotations are simply thoughts or feelings the images evoke.
I welcome any and all responses. I will include, in the book's forward, how I came to the quotes I eventually end up using.
Thanks in advance!
He had written: Help Wanted: The Flower Mandalas Project! For the past two years, I've been taking pictures of flowers and manipulating the images to form mandalas. I'd like to assemble these images into a book, and I'd like your help.
What I have in mind is a book of 52 images, with one page containing a flower mandala and the opposite page a quotation that in some way complements the image. What I imagine is a collection of quotations, some of which relate to the flowers and their importance in literature, culture, art, and so on, while other quotations are simply thoughts or feelings the images evoke.
I welcome any and all responses. I will include, in the book's forward, how I came to the quotes I eventually end up using.
Thanks in advance!
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
A Favourite Poem of Mine
Blue Vigour
I think, if you have lived through a war
or have made your home in a country
not your own, or if you've learned
to love one man,
then your life is a story.
Eight thousand feet about the sea's devotions
sail the four Ngong hills.
The East Wind - "King Solomon's favourite horse" -
rides over the plain to the foothills;
you follow the monsoon's path to my farm,
desert in your clothes and hair.
If you love a man who's not your husband,
your life becomes the story everyone tells.
For months we were still as animals
alert to an enemy. We stalked each other with the charged
passivity of the inevitable.
With the patience and impatience of obsession.
I learned about you
the way I learned about the river
at the edge of my farm -
I can't see it from the house
but know its path by the acacias
that grow along it.
What I couldn't foresee
led me to you.
During the act of greatest trust
my husband gave me a lasting gift.
I was rotten with his mal d'amour;
they had to send me home.
Almost thirty, back in my mother's house.
When I could walk again, her narrow arm
steered me through the garden,
green peony hands glistening
like the acres of coffee I'd left behind.
I leaned against her,
missing her youth as well as my own.
Home, yet not home.
Although the marriage was over,
I had the farm.
Although we hadn't touched yet,
I longed for Ngong and your body.
Sleepless on the boat
I pressed against the railing,
leaned into my future.
To deny another's happiness
by denying your own -
that could only be an adult misery.
I know your value
because you give yourself
just as you're leaving.
Each sojourn refines our feeling -
together we are stones tumbling to jewels,
beans polishing in the coffee-dryer,
gleaming under the lanterns.
When we stayed at your house
on the Takaunga, the moon was firm
in the shaking sky.
We were alive as coral pools,
where water shapes the rock
and rock shapes the water.
Each time you return
you ask for another story.
Your expectation lets me love you
when you're gone.
My wanting would have both encased me
and driven me out of my skin
like an insect under the canopy at night -
were it not for words.
Each day I write to greet you.
Those mornings when one side of my bed
is cool with your absence,
I rise to the window and loving you,
the Ngong hills gather me in.
With each parting
my heart is forced to grown,
because the only way to love you
is to love each particle of green and
each animal part of life -
muscle, skin and bone -
that dots and darts and hides
in the view from my room.
And now that you've learned to fly,
and really ride King Solomon's East Wind,
I have to love the air.
Anne Michaels
The Weight of Oranges Collection
I think, if you have lived through a waror have made your home in a country
not your own, or if you've learned
to love one man,
then your life is a story.
Eight thousand feet about the sea's devotions
sail the four Ngong hills.
The East Wind - "King Solomon's favourite horse" -
rides over the plain to the foothills;
you follow the monsoon's path to my farm,
desert in your clothes and hair.
If you love a man who's not your husband,
your life becomes the story everyone tells.
For months we were still as animals
alert to an enemy. We stalked each other with the charged
passivity of the inevitable.
With the patience and impatience of obsession.
I learned about you
the way I learned about the river
at the edge of my farm -
I can't see it from the house
but know its path by the acacias
that grow along it.
What I couldn't foresee
led me to you.
During the act of greatest trust
my husband gave me a lasting gift.
I was rotten with his mal d'amour;
they had to send me home.
Almost thirty, back in my mother's house.
When I could walk again, her narrow arm
steered me through the garden,
green peony hands glistening
like the acres of coffee I'd left behind.
I leaned against her,
missing her youth as well as my own.
Home, yet not home.
Although the marriage was over,
I had the farm.
Although we hadn't touched yet,
I longed for Ngong and your body.
Sleepless on the boat
I pressed against the railing,
leaned into my future.
To deny another's happiness
by denying your own -
that could only be an adult misery.
I know your value
because you give yourself
just as you're leaving.
Each sojourn refines our feeling -
together we are stones tumbling to jewels,
beans polishing in the coffee-dryer,
gleaming under the lanterns.
When we stayed at your house
on the Takaunga, the moon was firm
in the shaking sky.
We were alive as coral pools,
where water shapes the rock
and rock shapes the water.
Each time you return
you ask for another story.
Your expectation lets me love you
when you're gone.
My wanting would have both encased me
and driven me out of my skin
like an insect under the canopy at night -
were it not for words.
Each day I write to greet you.
Those mornings when one side of my bed
is cool with your absence,
I rise to the window and loving you,
the Ngong hills gather me in.
With each parting
my heart is forced to grown,
because the only way to love you
is to love each particle of green and
each animal part of life -
muscle, skin and bone -
that dots and darts and hides
in the view from my room.
And now that you've learned to fly,
and really ride King Solomon's East Wind,
I have to love the air.
Anne Michaels
The Weight of Oranges Collection
Clare's Last Day in Antwerp
Yesterday ... Clare's last day in Belgium and many many things went slightly and/or very wrong.We had been saving Middelheim's Open-Air Museum of Sculpture until Monday ... the park that has no visible staff, no entrance fee; the big beautiful park full of stunning sculptures but you know what ... it's closed on Mondays!
But why????
A smug woman with 4 slightly embarassed looking guests unlocked the entrance gate briefly, looked over at us and the two other hopeful park wanderers, looked outraged when Clare moved towards the gate, quickly locked it, then smiled at the privileged ones.
Walking away, I had to come up with some very convincing arguments about why we shouldn't just hop the fence ... winning the day with my description of my first run-in with Belgian rules and regulations and the fact a simple illegal road-crossing almost resulted in jail time.
Like most seasoned travellers, Clare doesn't carry her passport when a country seems safe and she's out with a local, and in doing so avoids worry about theft of passport. My imagined hopping the fence in to park scenario ran something like ... so we climb the fence, smug woman with key and guests spots us, calls police, they catch us, melt some when they discover we're Antipodeans then find out that Clare is without identification ... sigh.
We walked past the spot where, on our way to the park (an omen for sure), a girl duck had flown too low on her approach, smashing into the wire fence her boyfriend had cleared. I had never seen a concussed duck gather its dignity until that moment but she was quickly on her feet and walking towards her boy on the other side of the fence, albeit a little wobbly, slipping through the barred gate in a most enviable way.
So we headed into the city and oh what a bus ride!
I have never had a bus ride like that ride. We chose the back seat for spacious comfort but as the bus pulled away we realised we were sitting directly over the bus engine which sounded like a 50cc motor scooter on full throttle, although once hearing loss set in we both noted it also brought back memories of lawn mowing sessions back home; variations were the chainsaw on idle and/or that slow drill the dentist uses to grind out old fillings.
And perhaps that wouldn't have mattered but Middelheim back to the city seems to involve many stops, many streets, many many kilometres and so much of Antwerp city. It was a little depressing when we passed close to home. We shouted to each other over the engine noise, discussing the possibility of disembarking but there was always this feeling that 'just 5 minutes more' and we'd be there.
Ahhh, it wasn't to be, I should have guessed. The bus parked in a side street and the driver turned off the engine without an announcement. Bewildered passengers got off ... they were the Belgians, they knew where they were. I heard an English guy speak to the driver, asking 'what, where and why' but nicely.
I joined him ... clearly annoying the bus driver who eventually pointed out a tram line, not saying anything more than he wasn't going to the city ... perhaps he was unaware that his bus read 'Centraal Station'.
The British guy was lovely and we three talked all the way to the city. He too had been brought down by a policeman for incorrect road crossing, threatened with a 100euro fine and was made to cross the road twice with the lights. Interesting difference between his fining process and mine, did I mention he looked Turkish ...
We lunched then headed back out onto Antwerpen streets, pleased that we'd packed our umbrellas and pleased that they opened and closed easily due to the 37.5second showers every 17.2 seconds ...
We checked out two chocolate shops; world-traveller Clare found the Del Ray shop assistants just a little intimidating ... probably still suffering from the impact of the Brugge chocolate shop sign that said don't come in unless you are buying. I assured her this wasn't the case here in Antwerpen however the 52euro per kilo of chocolate moved us on anyway.
Burie Chocolatier was lovely, as usual however the shop assistant was frosty and there was some concern that she might tear the purse from Clare's hand, just to check that she wasn't lying about not having a 50cent coin. The chocolate was very very good though.
Then came the hail ... we were sheltering from that and when Clare said something about wine and home. I thought I must have spoken aloud.
Back home was lovely ... an island of calm for the shipwrecked.
It was sad sending her off on VLM's Fokker 50 last night; sad because she was leaving and she was a incredible guest ... and sad because she wasn't so sure about flying to London on a plane with propellers.
She's home safe and we've had heavy rainshowers, one hail storm, high winds and sunshine this morning ... ahhh Belgie.
Sunday, May 28, 2006
What Clare and Di Did Today ...
Clare and I wandered over to Brugge today ... all of my guests are taken to Brugge. Clare was toting her Canon EOS 350D. She shared it with me ... I took some photos and have added Canon EOS 350D to the 'things I must have when I am working list.
It's a stunning piece of machinery. I had hoped it would be too complicated but no, it was lovely.
I used to adore my Canon EOS 300 but my ongoing incoming immigrant status has caused me re-evaluate film processing costs and unsurprisingly, I want to go digital. Anyway, we put my 75-300mm Canon lens, with image stabiliser, onto Clare's digital camera and had fun finding out what was possible.
Above are just a small sampling of photographs Clare took today ...
Postscript: the woman was making lace dressed in authentic costume seated in the doorway of her home.
The musicians were part of some kind of Morris dancing display that we came upon as we wandered the squares and streets of Brugges. One never quite knows what they will discover while out walking in Belgium ...
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