Prego, Grazie, Ciao

I recently spent three weeks in Italy (that's a total of 21 days...


3 days: Cinque Terre, La Spezia, natural beauty, Gelato, charming hotel, relaxed life, intense hiking, hundreds of photos, laughing with Megan, perfect pesto & pasta, water, earth, sky...

2 days: Napoli, new way of life, fascinating city, more photos, Gelato for all, more sunshine, hilarious train ride, friendly hostel managers, castles, more to come...

1 day: travel

6 days: ROMA, history meets present, days alone, meeting new friends - hurray for Canada!, more sunshine, some rain, Ben Harper on Earth Day, time for reflection, night photos, cappuccino, fountains, plazas, life in Italy!

7 days: AMELIA, Martin Keogh Contact Improvisation Intensive Workshop!, home-cooked meals, family living, beautiful land, beautiful bodies, great dancing, incredible community, a stuggle to leave...


1 day: travel home to the Motherland

Le Club: Wednesday, May 13th, 2009

Greeks, Italians, Americans...BELGIANS!
where else can you find all of these - LE CLUB, Boitsfort Bruxelles.

It all started when I met Ashley after school for drinks, at a place where she met a few friendly (MEN) Belgians a few days earlier while wandering. So, I arrive with Megan from ISB, we shake hands with the owner and comrades near the bar, then proceed to order drinks and sit at a quiet table near the window. It was an excited atmosphere, music blaring, sun shining, drinks refreshing. We couldn't help but feel like we were somehow providing this curious energy - causing grown men to dance and strangers to become friends. It wasn't long before the waiter came over and poured another drink...this one, would be on the house (he probably said that in French)

And that's when the fun began.

Ashley and I strolled to the bar, drinks in hand, smiles flashing... there we met Louis, Jean, the charming Greek owner and a few other kind-spirited Belgians. It seemed were we part of this great theatre interaction. And before long, our glasses were filled again.

The men were playing this strange dice game of adding and rolling and trying again. It seemed fun enough and they invited me to play. I stepped up to the plate and made a strong impression. I've always had my way with dice (all those years shootin' with Sky Masterson and Nathan Detroit finally paid off). Then, the drinks were filled again.

Conversations to follow: lives lived and lost, true love, distance, mother-son connections, french-speaking Belgians living in America, international education, artists, time and circumstance, BEER, the Greek life, this life. It was incredible to think that two wandering Americans (ages 23-24) could feel so at home with a crowd of drinking Belgians (ages 45-65). The conversations were genuine, funny, heartfelt, slurred, articulate, confusing, enlightening and inspiring. We were enjoying ourselves. Then, the drinks were filled again.

By now, the time is 1930...high bar stools are becoming a danger and we realize food is of the essence. We take a few trips back to the kitchen and share some of the preparations for Musaka (to be served Friday). We all eat from the same spoon and I can't help but laugh (oh yeah, and WHY is it that I'm always the LAST one in times like these!?!). oh well, by now we're like family. We continue laughing, finish our drinks in a flurry and skip out the door, kisses and salutations first of course. We shall return... but for now, it's off to Ciccio Bello and incredible pasta :) I love my life.

before I leave for Italy (again)...here's a pic from Greece

things that happen to me...really...

last week, I was riding the tram home from Gare Midi after a contact improv jam, and the most unusual events unfolded: your average, elderly drunkard stumbled onto the tram, LA Lakers backpack, grocery bag filled with misc possessions, a wet dog following on a dirty scrap piece of rope and a Jupiler dangling dangerously from his hand...

this man approached a good-looking young man (near me, but NOT me) and started up a casual conversation...in what i can only assume is slurred French. The man seemed pretty entertained and even laughed a few times while interacting with the old man. Until the young man exited the tram and door closed, I was quite surprised...but this is not the story. its just the beginning...

then the man turned to a woman, who seemed less interested. But somehow this man could make people smile (although I was making a sour face in response to the aroma coming from his motion about the tram). After the woman exited, another victim was spotted, sitting quietly, dressed in business attire, reading a glossy-print program from some art event in the city. This man did everything in his power to ignore the drunk...but soon enough... they began conversing. By this time, there are only a few seats between me and the action so I try to alternate between bobbing my head to my I-pod, looking out the darkened window and staring blankly at a quite unusual social encounter (this STILL isn't the story). The conversation carries on with this well-dressed man until even after the tram door closes and the old man looks back curiously... at this point, I'm REALLY wishing I knew some french. My I-pod has been paused for awhile now, and I'm just waiting for the man to make his next move...Unfortunately there are only three poor souls left on the tram...why was I one of them...

The man looks at the tram doors and sees two mirrors, one on each window. One mirror reads something in French, the other in Flemish (as many things do in Brussels). I found out later that the message on top of the mirror meant something like 'can you see your hero today?' or something like that. Anyway, this interesting tram man starts laughing and ranting (STILL IN FRENCH) about something I don't know. I can only assume he's looking at himself and losing his mind. I'm thinking about getting off at the next stop, but I still have five more to go. Why aren't there more people on here? The man gets closer to the mirror and tries prying it off. No luck. He tries peeling it really roughly. Doesn't budge. Then... (this is where it gets weird)... the man opens his smelly, yellow coat, reaches deep into a cargo pocket of his worn khakis and pulls out a long object wrapped in plastic saran wrap. He unwraps and peels away layers until it reveals a long, solid metal knife. (WHY AM I STILL ON THE TRAM). The man continues to laugh cynically, scream over his left shoulder to no one behind him, and pause to make sure no one is watching. Several times we almost lock eyes. The tram man starts working his glorified butter knife behind the Flemish version of the hero mirror. This thing is not coming off easily. Minutes of wrenching and prying and screaming and its still on the window. Eventually the other passenger of the tram walks quickly past the old man, pausing to say something in French. My guess is, "What the hell are you doing?" The old tram man paused, but then quickly tried to finish the job as the good Samaritan walked up towards the tram driver. Words were exchanged (in the Early Childhood Center we would say, and the nice man taddled on the crazy man). The tram man finally yanked the mirror off, quickly re-wrapped his weapon of choice, and turned to hid the mirror strategically between some magazines, food, old picture frames and coupons. Then the tram stopped. Oh shit.

The tram driver opened his door and screamed some French in "our" direction. The crazy tram man hollered back. He was obviously refusing to get off the tram even though it was a pretty strict request from the conductor. Tram man slurred something about Boondale Gare (which was the next stop and the one stop before mine). After a long pause, the driver conceded and resumed the operations. This was the slowest 47 seconds of my life...but when we reached the stop, the tram man tripped over his poor dog, grabbed the rope, grabbed the bag, gripped the beer and lerched off the tram. I think I'm safe. The door closes. This must have been a dream. And then the tram jerks ahead. Unusual. I look at the driver, waving his arms at a drunk man in a yellow coat - standing directly IN FRONT OF THE TRAM. The man is screaming and kicking and refusing to move. The driver is making quick, jerking movements ahead and honking the horn with more anger than I've ever heard. It seems I'm on a tram that's about to intentionally flatten a drunk man on the tracks. The man backs up a bit at a time as to not...DIE...but the driver is not playing games. The old man quickly hops off the tracks as we jolt past the man (missing him by at least 4-5 feet). The old man chases his dog and drops his bag of goodies and we ride ahead to the Hippodrome de Boitsfort.

That's where I get off.