belgianwaffle

Belgium

Back to school


Posted in: Belgium, Princess

The Princess started school in Dublin this morning.  It was very odd to see her in a school uniform.  She looked so big.  As we are still not in our house (alas) we had to leave the parents-in-law’s at dawn to get her in – they kindly minded the boys who apparently took our absence in good part. 

It was my first visit to the school (Mr. Waffle having inspected previously) and I liked it.  There was a good social mix and the teachers and head seemed very friendly.  In contradistinction to Belgium where children are rather left to sink or swim on their own, the teachers were very anxious to introduce the Princess to other children and to give her a friend to mind her.  Although it is, obviously, all the same in the end, it did make a difference this morning, I think.

The school is housed in a beautiful (though sadly delapidated) Georgian building.  Senior infants are in a large drawing room with elaborate stucco work on the ceiling.  Having myself gone to a suburban, socially uniform primary school where I received all my education in a prefab (the baby boom having taken the authorities by surprise) , I like the faded elegance and social diversity of her city centre school.  I suppose this is hardly particularly relevant to herself and she did cry pitifully when we left.  However, Mr. Waffle has just collected her and the whole thing seems to have gone off peacefully.  I will be curious to see how she negotiates the linguistic regime but the teachers seem mercifully relaxed about using English as well as Irish.  Hold your breath out there. 

Culture Shock


Posted in: Belgium, Family, Ireland

Weather 

Due to a complete failure of imagination, I am always appalled by the Irish weather.  No one could have been more surprised than I was when on the morning after leaving sultry France, the Princess was running up and down the misty deck of the ferry, splashing through puddles in her sandles.

When we went to the beach the other day I was, however, prepared and the children were warmly wrapped up and had their rain coats on.  I realised that they will need to become hardier: all the Irish children were in t-shirts and shorts.  Mostly they had retired indoors by the time the torrential rain started.

Festivals

We went to the local horse show on Monday (not an exclusive event).  It was supported by a field of ancillary stalls and children’s entertainments.  In Belgium, it was always easy to tell our blonde milky white children from others on the boucy castle.  Here it is proving more challenging.  If only we had spent more time in Uccle than elsewhere we would have had more practice.

To our surprise and delight, there was a waffle stall.  The waffles cost 5 euros each.  And  they weren’t very nice.  We were outraged.  The standard rate for a reasonably acceptable waffle across all Belgian waffle vans is 1.50 (perhaps evidence of price fixing which the local competition authorities could investigate).  It is true what they say about the cost of living here.

Sporting Life

On Saturday morning the boys and their Grandfather watched Australia play New Zealand on the television.  They have not been exposed to rugby before. “They play a football, they all dirty!” exclaimed Daniel in surprise.  My brother came to visit later in the afternoon and, having seen the boys tripping about delightedly in my high heels was anxious to indoctrinate them with the basics of rugby.  I am not sure how much progress he made; when he left, Daniel was still trying to hit the ball with a tennis racquet.

Other Children

Escaping the rain on our return from the beach the children and I ended up in a cafe (Mr. Waffle was getting the car taxed – the glamour).  The Princess got chatting to a little girl.  They bonded and jumped in the small back garden.  The boys joined them.  They were very loud.  The punters got restive.  The little girl’s parents and I brought them in.  I decided to head out in the driving rain.  The little girl’s mother wondered could I get a lift from someone.  I explained that my husband was tied up with the Revenue (something I could have phrased differently, perhaps).  She offered us a lift.  I refused, grateful but polite.  10 minutes later we were drenched and only, alas, a little further along due to the indifference of small children to heavy rain and their deep interest in pausing to smell the flowers. The little girl’s father pulled up beside us in his Saab 9-3 (which, as his daughter had explained to us earlier was a clean car because they had taken Daddy’s instead of Mummy’s) and insisted that we all hop, dripping, on to his leather upholstery and dropped us to the door.  See, it is  true about Irish people being friendly; we have to be to survive the weather. 

We went to a barbecue on Sunday.  There was a little girl called Clodagh (very common Irish name, the gh is silent). “No,” said the Princess “there is no such name, it must be Claudia”.  Meanwhile the boys had agreed that the young man called Matthew must be Matteo and spoke firmly but kindly to the other 2 year olds in French (their experience of children in groups has been that French is the appropriate language, no longer).  Incidentally, my sister-in-law is a very talented painter and one of her nudes was hanging on the wall.  Daniel examined it critically and declared, “That lady has no nappy”. 

The Return of the Exiles


Posted in: Belgium, Ireland, Travel

Tuesday, 29 July, 2008

We left home at 10.45.  Our departure only slightly delayed by the need to declare to the police that we had lost a document for the car (the curse of the car).  All the police computers in the commune were down.  They advised trying the neighbouring commune.  We decided that the declaration could wait until Mr. Waffle goes back to Belgium later this week to oversee the packing (no scoffing please).  It also appears that our protracted leave taking will involve a further trip to Brussels at the start of September to undergo the dreaded etat des lieux and reclaim some small part of our deposit from the landlord.  Sigh.

By 12.15, we were ready to break the journey for lunch.  We are not good travellers.  We stopped in Cambrai. If you ask me, Cambrai has nothing to recommend it.  This is particularly true of the cafe in the main square where we chose to eat lunch. I had a Welsh Flamand which was sold as a Flemish version of Welsh rarebit.  Not nice.  The local speciality is a boiled sweet known as the betise de Cambrai.  Very appropriate.

At 2.00 we were on our way to Brecourt.  We went to a wedding there when the Princess was three weeks old and we retain fond memories of it.   It took us a long time to get there but at 6.00 we rolled up.  Mr. Waffle reassured me that it had only added another 200 kms to our journey to stay there, so where is the problem?  When we got there, it was lovely.  The Princess flew the kite she got as a going away present from our lovely Italian neighbours only mildly impeded by her brothers.  Meanwhile, staff put a linen tablecloth and silver cutlery on the lawn for her and her brothers to eat dinner.  Dinner was some rather umimpressive pasta but the surroundings were impeccable.  That night we left the children to a babysitter and went to dinner in the hotel restaurant.  We noted that the couple who had been desperately trying to avoid eye contact in the garden were Irish and they were clearly trying to ignore us and enjoy an authentic French holiday experience.  It pains me to say this but though the surroundings were very beautiful with magnificent views over the grounds, the food was only alright.  As we returned to our room at 10.30, I heard voices and said to Mr. Waffle that I hadn’t noticed the television in our room.  There was no television: it was herself chatting to the babysitter who despite, one would have thought, having had a surfeit of the Princess, was kind enough to turn up the next morning with a book for her.  Our girl can be charming when she gets her way.

Over breakfast, they were, so we were informed by our loving daughter, piping out the Magic Flute over the stereo.  We had sent her to a one week music course and she had studied the Magic Flute in detail (middle class heaven) and was confidently identifying Papageno and the Reine de la Nuit.  Of course, she could have been completely wrong as we, not having had her advantages, had no idea what the different parts of the piece sound like (we only know the famous bit – I am, perhaps unreliably, informed that this is the Reine de la Nuit).

Wednesday, 30 July, 2008

We spent the morning strolling around the grounds and watching our children put on performances of the Magic Flute in the ruined chapel (the Princess’s efforts somewhat undermined by her brothers who thought they were re-enacting Kung Fu Panda).

At lunch time we went to Giverny and looked at Monet’s garden which attracts hosts of elderly French and English garden enthusiasts and some tired looking American families.  We had lunch in the car park which was, in fact, our only good meal in France.  Who would have thought?  Afterwards, we had ice cream which, as it was hot, melted.  I licked Daniel’s into shape and he was furious and inconsolable to the immense amusement of some Chinese tourists waiting behind us in the queue to get into the gardens.  It felt like a real holiday: hot, sticky and everyone just a bit cranky. 

When we left at 3.00, Mr. Waffle announced that Cherbourg was not as he had thought 2 hours distant but 3.  Cue much angst and a genuine worry that having taken two days to do a six hour drive, we might actually miss the wretched boat.  We did not miss the boat.

The boat was packed full of Irish people.  They were pale, they were square.  They had brown hair and freckles.  They were friendly.    I had an epiphany: these were my people.  I was back where I belonged.  Our very luxurious ferry (things have changed since I was a child), the Oscar Wilde, had previously sailed in Nordic waters which was, I suppose why they chose to decorate our cabin with a picture of a ski jump which the children found almost as exciting as bunk beds.  The family retired at 9.30 to explore all of their thrilling functionalities.

Thursday, 31 July

In the morning, we took ourselves off to the cinema.  The only thing showing was Kung Fu Panda and, frankly, once was probably one time too many for the boys to have seen that film but I had to get them away from the common areas where a stranger had reprimanded them.  The humiliation.

At lunch time, we packed up and drove off the boat into driving rain.  Ah, home again, home again, jiggedy jig.

Nice neighbourhood as our American friends would say


Posted in: Belgium, Family, Ireland

On Friday morning, I said goodbye to an old friend who married another old friend.  They moved from London to a house a short walk from ours seven months ago.  Rejoice.  Now we’re leaving.  Alas.
On Friday night, I said goodbye to my friend down the road.  We met because we kept seeing each other pushing twin buggies : she has a five year old son and two year old twin girls.  She is Canadian though her mother is English.   I think her mother felt that it was fate that we should be friends so made a point of chatting to me every time she came to Brussels.  Her mother was right.

On Sunday, we said goodbye to our ex-upstairs neighbour who now lives in a very large and beautiful art nouveau house around the corner from the old friends in which he kindly let our children play chasing.  His own six month old was safely in Prague with her mother which makes the invitation to us all the more virtuous.  Imagine bringing children into your life when your own are not there.

We were promptly back at our house at 11.30 to sell our car to a nice Indian family.  There two girls (6 and 6 months) were exquisitely behaved and at least two of my children ran into the room naked (it’s hot, I let them play with running water in the sink, lethal combination) before I hustled them out (Princess’s interesting excuse: you said that you didn’t want me running around half naked in front of the people who were going to buy the car so I took off all my clothes).

Down to the end of the road, to play in the paddling pool in a school friend’s back garden.  Screaming, excitement.  Buns too.

Upstairs to tea in current neighbours’ flat.  I feel mildly depressed every time I see their flat because it is so beautifully decorated and immaculately tidy but otherwise identical to ours.  Despite their perfect flat they are immensely child friendly and our children adore them.  How much do I love Italians, let me count the ways?  She is an academic and off for the Summer; she took the Princess for two hours this morning while I negotiated with the bank and went to get back our documents from the Indian family.  Turns out that they didn’t want our car after all (associated with too much nudity?).  Mild bitterness.  Would anybody like a peugeot 306sw, only 72,000 kms?  Just asking.

Tomorrow, we leave for France, where we are staying in a  nice chateau to break the journey (6 hours total journey time but we are puny).  On Wednesday evening we will sleep on the ferry and on Thursday morning we will find ourselves in Ireland where I fully expect it to be raining.

Pink to make the boys wink


Posted in: Belgium, Ireland, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Reading etc.

When I was a child, little girls did not wear pink all the time.  I was a child of the 70s, so orange was the dominant tone of my childhood.

When did pink take over?  Little boys don’t have to wear blue all the time.  Why should little girls have to wear pink?  My loving husband would be the first to point out that when the Princess was a baby, I went out and bought a range of pink things.  Well, I’m tired of it now.  I note that in Belgium, pink does not dominate in the same way as in Ireland though after spotting a number of girls in hot pink at the foire du midi this afternoon, I may have to reconsider.  I am informed that in Italy, it is not uncommon to dress baby girls in black.  Trendy but a little alarming, I imagine.  I bet they get through a lot of pink all the same.
Is it all Walt Disney’s fault?  Is it easier to market to little girls, if everything is pink?  Is there a conspiracy?  Do I only care because my daughter looks better in blues and greens?

Weighty questions for a Saturday evening while my husband is off emptying out his office.  Rather ominously, he feels it will take all evening.  Where will we put everything?
In a related packing question, my husband and I were discussing what we would take with us in the car rather than leave to the mercy of the movers.  “Only important things” we agreed.

“Like the family photo albums,” I said.

“Like my degrees,” he said simultaneously.

This neatly sums up some sexist assumptions.  I don’t even know where my degrees are, I should have left them in Cork with my mother where they were safe.  Maybe I should wear more pink.

Le plat pays


Posted in: Belgium

In the mornings in the car, I often catch a programme on Belgian radio called “Mon grand-père, ce héros“.  It’s a clever little programme which has descendants of famous people talking about their famous antecedents (famous Belgians, I know).  There was a lovely one earlier in the week about the Chinese artist who worked with Hergé on “The Blue Lotus” and a slightly more prosaic one on Jules Destrooper.  But, today, as I drove up towards the Avenue Louise with the Etangs d’Ixelles in sunshine in my rearview mirror, they had Jacques Brel’s daughter talking about her father and, of course, they played one of his songs.  Plus Belge, tu meurs.

Anyone tired of the advance nostalgia yet?