sinister people

I was in the kitchen this morning when it occurred to me that there are quite a few sinister people around; sinister people like the archbishop of Malines-Bruxelles, the highest Catholic Church authority in this strange country called Belgium, who for so long, together with his other pals in frocks, has been hiding the cases of sexual abuse of children by priests. Hiding, concealing, lying, transforming reality, like the worst of Stalinist communication experts.

A man who dares compare the situation of sexually abused children with that of children raised by same-gender parents, or born through IVF. I mean, how can someone be so stupid to actually equate abuse with love?

A man who says that AIDS is a sort of "immanent justice", as if those suffering from the disease were to be made responsible for bringing it upon themselves. I know this is the obvious question, but what does he think about children, or people who were contaminated via blood transfusions, or women who are forced to have unprotected sex? But even those who engage in risky sexual practices more or less consciously, do they deserve to get sick and die? What kind of god does this cruel man serve? Sinister.

And to think that the lawyer for this shit of a person lives in our building... how does he sleep at night? Drunk with shame I would hope!

Sinister, creepy people, all around us. One must be able to say it, and to shout it to their face, so that they realise that they can't fool us with their blessed crosses and rings, their mantles of silk, like veils covering the truth. The truth always ends up coming out. I can hear them tremble. I cherish their doom.

Upstairs, Downstairs

BBC TV revisited Upstairs, Downstairs this Christmas. Three new episodes with brand new stories about the Bellamy Family, a lot of new characters and a few old faces. Thank you, thank you, thank you for this revival. I loved the new series.

I used to watch Upstairs, Downstairs as a child in Portugal in the late 1970's. It was called A família Bellamy. The whole household, well, just my parents and I really, used to stop everything to watch this quaintest of shows, so far removed from our daily reality, our history, our culture, but yet so close to us, with all the humanity that poured through the screen.

The new series was simply perfect. The actors fantastic and the story lines enthralling. It had been a long time since I had enjoyed myself so much in front of a TV set. I particularly enjoyed the more serious take on history - the situation in Germany just before War World II and the spectre of fascism hanging in the English air too (Mosley et al.).

I was getting used to the characters, but after three days in a row the entertainment stopped. I suppose it's better that way. Better to miss them than eventually get bored by it. Anyway, it was a perfect moment of TV.

Barcelona - Promenade Concert

Today I wrote to Zé (my former partner) and to Paulo Filipe (a friend of ours), to tell them this:

"I'm listening right now to Promenade Concert by Carles Santos and it brought me memories of our holidays in Barcelona, centuries ago. Do you remember? I bought this record at the Miró Foundation, on top of the Mountain, Montjuïc. Georgie loves this performance-like revolutionary music; passionate, scarlet red in the lit-up night. Who would have guessed? It's not an easy piece, but it's irresistible.

It brings back memories of the Ramblas, the profusion of flowers and birds early in the morning; of the newspaper stands open until late at night. Memories also of the small pensión where we stayed. Of the suffocating heat in the bedroom. Barrio Chino, wasn't it? I recall the infinite sun; the first "dark room" in some gay disco somewhere near Via Diagonal. I recall we had all the time in the world in front of us in the hot summer; the promenade in Parc Güell.

It brings back memories of shorts, and cheap pizzas, and "in" restaurants, unending days and the flavour of suncream on the lips ajar; ice-cream breathing rhythm. The immense will that inhabits us every summer.

I couldn't resist writing about it. What good is to feel if we can't share?

(from Brussels, with lots of snow freezing the heart outside)"

the river lit by the city lights

Why this title? Because I heard it in a song and I liked it. I still find time to feel tears gathering around my lashes when I hear a beautiful song.

Tomorrow I'll start my Winter holidays. Almost two weeks. I need it. The past four months I felt like a moth flying in the dark. I need some light to dazzle me, no matter how burnt I get.

Work has been hard. I had to learn so much new stuff it literally made my head hurt. It's a good job but it hurts. I'm not sorry for myself, I'm just saying it the way it feels.

Denise was here yesterday from Strasbourg. She always brings a load full of laughter in her bag. I love hugging her, feeling her body under my arms. I love kissing her. Denise's skin is so soft, at times it almost feels brittle; it's the absence of any stubble I guess.

I sometimes dream of a river lit by city lights, just like in the song that I heard this morning, again and again, when driving to the office with Jarl.

Georgie is in the living room with Mona, her French teacher, banging on a drum; tam-tam! I can hear their voices while writing this post. It's soothing. The light is fading and no cars can be heard nor seen outside. Mona is singing and Georgie is listening. Mona's voice like a river. Georgie's eyes like city lights.

Argentina, mon amour

I saw this new Argentinian film, Plan B, by Marco Berger a week ago and I loved it. I watched in the soothing and intimate darkness of my room.

It has become one of my favourite films ever. The acting was perfect, the love story tender and fun, and the sexual tension between the two main characters was just right.

But the filming, oh the filming, it was just like an abstract painting made real, with concrete blocks literally coming out of the ground. You don't see Buenos Aires, you just feel it, and that's what's so special about this film.

So today I decided to write to the Director, just like that, and here is the e-mail I wrote:

"Dear Marco Berger,

I do hope you get to read this e-mail. There's not much to it; simply to say how much I loved your film, Plan B. I saw it a week ago and it still reverberates.

I particularly liked the fact that you don't see Buenos Aires, you just feel it in the distance, you can almost smell it. I liked the photography too and those "blocks of concrete" that come up unexpectedly in between scenes. Those buildings, caught in midair between ugly and sublime, almost moved me to tears (weird, isn't it?).

The love story was fun and tender, and the sexual tension between the two main characters was just right. And it is so hard to resist to a happy-ending...

I'm looking forward to your next film."

the pain of missing Chicago

It came this morning when I was getting to the office. It was cold, and early (7:30 a.m.). The streets were empty of people and almost of cars. In the car, Jarl and I had been listening to Griffin House ("if you want to be loved you've got to be the one taking the risk"; "sitting on the rooftop looking at the city lights"). We saw them play at Lincoln Park Zoo in August. Minutes before we had taken Georgie to the school bus (so early for our bundle of joy).

The pain came slowly, as I left the car and walked up the street. It lingered for a minute or so in my eyes, then my lips. Chicago I spelled in silence. I stood there for a nano-second breathing the winter air (there's plenty of it in Chicago too) and longed for the summer, for the trees, for our friends (they called this Sunday), and didn't want to go inside. I wished I had my sandals to take me across the ocean and back in time, to smell the summer of my beautiful Chicago. A walk down North Greenview among the familiar, unfamiliar sights. Becoming my skin, although so foreign still.

I spelled the letters and they lingered on my lips the time of a sigh. And then I stepped inside the office door and turned my computer on and Chicago was gone.

merveilles du Portugal

I'm back, not from out of space, but from Chicago, where there's a lot of space.

I started a new job on 1 September. Don't really feel like talking about it. It's OK. I will learn a lot. It's a stable job. I like my boss. Well, it sounds good actually.

What I want to write about is what happened just now. I came into the office and looked outside the window, across from the building site of the new EU building, the Résidence Palace. And on Rue de la Loi there was this huge truck with the letters Merveilles du Portugal written all over, in green and red and yellow (the colours of the country's flag). Like a personal sign to me. The sort of thing that makes you smile. Then the truck was gone. It's a kind of magic. The sort of thing that makes you happy. This is what I wanted to post today.

pause

a little break from my personal blog while I concentrate on the Chicago blog...

My father

My father was called Dario, not Dário, like everybody in Portugal - annoyingly, irritatingly - insisted on writing. How dare they correct me? I know my father's name, it's Dario. No accent, you hear me? No accent, full stop. Dario, like the Persian King of lore, the father of that other great ruler, Xerxes. From the old Persian Dârayavauš. Also known as Darius. We are talking civilisation here, people!

My father died in 1996. I sometimes miss him a lot, like some kind of physical pain that grows inside my gut and then goes up my chest, straight to my heart. It squeezes. Old Egyptians were right to think that the heart was the centre of our humanity, so many of our emotions seem to grow in there. What would our brain do without the heart and the gut? It wouldn't feel the same...

My missing him comes in waves. Like a tsunami. Like today. I was standing by the kitchen door towards the balcony watching the rain of polen be swept away in the yard, and then this yearning for my father came rushing through my body. I so wished he was there, turning the corner, smiling at me. Sometimes it happens when I'm walking in the street. I just wish he would turn up and hug me. I wish I could run to him and hug him. Hug him long and long, and still longer. I don't cry, I just feel my chest growing tight, a sort of pain. A good pain of saudades.

I don't believe in the afterlife, I never did as far as I can remember. But my father lives in me, in my gut, in my heart, in my brain. And his name still fills the airwaves of my emotion. Dario. No accent. You hear me? You hear me, you fools? How could I not know how to write and pronounce my father's name. It's the same name of a famous old Persian King. Persia is today's Iran. Persia was a great civilisation. Dârayavauš. Darius. Dario. In the name of my father.

Chicago

We were supposed to leave today, but then we got sick and decided to leave on Saturday instead. I got a phone call from the office this morning asking me what the weather was like... in Chicago! I had to say we were still in Brussels in the middle of a tapotage session in St. Josse to release Georgie's lungs from mucus. Valérie was very nice and gave Georgie two fruit toffees after the session. Georgie behaved so well.

So, here we are, still. Waiting to go to Chicago. We'll start a new blog to report on our three months in the land of the free. It will have photos and bits and pieces of what we do and think while there. We'll send it around to friends. To share. Pour partager. Para Partilhar. För att dela oss.

Wie Sind die Clowns

Brussels, 28 May 2010. My daughter wants to listen to music from iTunes in the computer. Her choice? The Swedish artist Zarah Leander singing "Wie Sind die Clowns?". Not much to comment. She's a star! Georgie that is. Well, Zarah too, of course.

Zinneke Parade

Senne or Zenne is the river that runs through Brussels (that's right, the same name as the bigger one in Paris). The river was covered over in the XIX century because of its foul smell from rotting animal carcasses and all sorts of domestic and industrial sludge. It now runs under Boulevard Anspach. Jules Anspach, the Brussels' bourgmestre whose name was given to the Boulevard after his death in 1879, wanted it to be a showcase of modernity. He built beautiful apartment buildings à la parisienne that no one wanted to live in. The Belgian bourgeoisie couldn't really part with their maisons de maître unifamiliales (a sort of national obsession).

Anyway... zinneke is also Brussels' dialect for mutt (many of them ended up in the river) and by extension anything that isn't pure, that is mixed. Like Brussels today.

The Zinneke Parade happens every two years and has been going on for the past 12 years. It's the parade of the mixed, the parade of the mutts. I went there yesterday with my cousin Andreia who was visiting from London. I loved it. It was one of the best Zinneke Parades ever. We stopped by the bar Au Soleil (my hangout in my early days of Brussels in 1996) and watched group after group of ravellers go by. All the mutts of Brussels in a beautiful swirl of colour and fun. I was glad my daughter is growing up here in this town. We are all mutts in here. Yuppeeeeee!!!

Georgie threw paper petals into the air. Some ended up inside a man's beer glass and they both laughed. A lot. We danced to drums and ran away from giant spiders. We saw a cloud that had been caught and brought down to earth. We touched the cloud. I wonder if they released it in the end. I so hope they did.

middle-age

I now realise I'm getting into middle-age when I notice the beauty of youth. Casually. It can happen in the tram, or coming out of the cinema. Or just standing at a corner watching people go by. There's no lust involved, just a pang in the stomach and the tightening of my jaws.

The realisation that their muscles are supple, their tummies are flat, their necks don't flap, their eyes wrinkle only when they smile. Their hair is all on top of their heads and not coming out of their ears, nor sprouting in bushes of grey in unexpected places. Yes, lately I started noticing the beauty of youth. Not before. I felt part of it. Not anymore.

There's no sadness. Maybe a bit of jealousy. Then again that pang in the stomach, sometimes a nervous twitching of the mouth. Or just the intense look of the eagle. I observe how laughter seems to inhabit the body of youth, how they jump with each step, how the sun shines brighter on their skins. The beauty of youth makes even the not-so-handsome young look beautiful. And that's how I realised I'd come to middle-age.

Lisbon in bullet points

• we went to Lisbon in April for a week and a few more days.
  
• we crossed the river and went to Barreiro to eat Magnum ice-cream.
• we spent 7 hours queuing in Sta Apolónia train station in Lisbon to get tickets for Paris because of an Icelandic volcano that decided to erupt and spew ashes all across Europe's skies.
• I had marmelada with bread for breakfast every morning.
• my mother was having one of her good spells and was really helpful.
• Guida was feeling down. I hadn't been to her flat in ages; apart from a new sofa it still felt the same. We had corn biscuits and tea for dinner (my dietitian was thankful, I'm sure...); it felt like the old days at university but then it used to be me complaining about life and seeking her shelter. I wish we could have been to her birthday. It hurt not to be there, and all for just a couple of hours.
  
• at Manuel's and Gonçalo's I had dinner with some Portuguese friends and arguments were hurled across the table like a tennis match. It felt good. I still think I don't know how to show appreciation for the good food they always cook, I wished I knew how to, but my paltry palate doesn't seem to help.
  
• Guilherme gets annoyed with Georgie's attention, but she so looks up to him.
• Zé was in good shape and fun to be with.
• Carla has brown eyes that shine, or smile, or both, or something in between.
  
• we had my cousins for dinner and I wished we could do it more often.
• we went for lunch with my grandmother to a fish restaurant near São Bento; we were all happy.
• the usual pleasure of bookshops where most books are in Portuguese.
• strange to see so many newspapers in Portuguese and so many news of which I know so little.
• Gloria's apartment continues to be a home from home; I sometimes forget it isn't ours.
• we spent many hours at El Corte Inglès; the place is a shopping trap but it was convenient and there were a couple of rainy days when it served of refuge (and their toy section is very entertaining for small children and you don't have to buy any of it).
• we went to Palácio da Ajuda where Georgie was treated like a princess by the staff; apart from two other visitors we had the rooms all to ourselves.
• we ate pastéis de nata almost every day until we got bored.
• we went to Portugália for lunch and had a look at the lobsters in the aquarium; they didn't look happy nor very appetizing but I'm sure a lot of people don't care.
  
• we bought hair combs at Martim Moniz, surrounded by ghosts from Portugal's former colonies and all the new people that came with them; it was exciting and it was weird.
  
• we went to the zoo and got rained upon; like waterfalls raining from the sky; then came the magnificent sun.
  
• Georgie got a gold bracelet with butterflies and stars.
• we are now positive that the sun in Lisbon is not the same one that shines over Brussels.
• Manuel, Gonçalo and their son Guilherme confirmed that they would come and visit us in Chicago at the end of August.
• I learned that my cousin Ana Luisa has breast cancer; I wish she could stop smoking; I wish her laughter won't go away.
• I wrote my "China in Africa" report in a cyber-café near Chiado called Fábulas where 90% of the customers are foreigners stranded in the blue of Lisbon, this time further stuck by the epic revenge of the Icelandic volcano many miles away.
  
• at FNAC the staff is so friendly I always feel like hugging them or even crying a little.
• in Lisbon we never get stuffy noses, it must be the air.
• after Lisbon the first days back in the office are difficult; I feel like turning all day long in my office chair and going out for long walks.
  
• I'm glad I'm healing my wounds and Lisbon is starting to feel good; I know the rages won't disappear but it's good to feel them subsiding.
• we tried (almost) all the food that they make at El Corte Inglès.
• we went to Lisbon's Castle and learned about Dom Afonso Henriques and his mother Dona Teresa. Georgie was impressed that the son could tell the mother to go away forever. She learned that Galicia is in Spain.
  
• the peacocks in the Castle were covered in light.
• we saw Paulo Filipe and enjoyed the evening together; he says his flat is crumbling down, but he sounded resigned.
  
• I don't remember any pigeons this time, only water in the fountains; where did they go?
• we learned that there's a saint called Filomena. Her tiny statue is inside a little casket made of glass in an old church near Casa dos Bicos, by the river. She was wearing real earrings and a ring with a diamond. We learned that there's a Virgin Mary that protects the staff of the Portuguese customs and that she lives inside that church too.
• the church had a statue of Jesus with real hair carrying the cross, and Georgie thought he was alive.
• we came back to Brussels quicker than we expected, when the sky opened up and we could fly.
  

mirror, mirror on the wall

In the morning, sometimes I don't recognise my face. It's only late at night, under the mirror's light that my face comes back to life. Purple eyes, fleshy lips. What does my face say? I look, I look, I look. I look some more. My face remains silent and yet it seems to speak. Wished I could hear what it has to say. I'm sure I'd understand. If only I could hear it. I try, I try, I try. Purple eyes, fleshy lips. Going to sleep. I never recognise my face in the morning. It must be the light.

the films that shape me

I decided to list those films that I believe have shaped my way of feeling, looking, understanding myself and the world around me. They're part of my cerebral DNA. Their images and words are kept inside that miraculous ovaloid box of flesh and blood, and chemical reactions that we call the brain. It hosts the soul, or our idea of one. I must have forgotten so many films that deserved being listed, but the good thing is that I can always return to this post and add a few more. There's no priority in the list, and it will always be under construction. How did this come about? Well, just a walk through my bookcases checking the DVDs and Videos that they contain, and a bit of a game down memory lane too. And anyway, why do we Westerners love writing lists so much?

TORCH SONG TRILOGY BY PAUL BOGART
LA LEY DEL DESEO BY PEDRO ALMODOVAR
QUE HE HECHO YO PARA MERECER ESTO? BY PEDRO ALMODOVAR
LES UNS ET LES AUTRES BY CLAUDE LELOUCH
THE COLOR PURPLE BY STEVEN SPIELBERG
E.T. BY STEVEN SPIELBERG
TU MARCHERAS SUR L'EAU BY EYTAN FOX

THE BLUE LAGOON BY RANDAL KLEISER
PINOCCHIO BY WALT DISNEY
THE 101 DALMATIANS BY WALT DISNEY
MARY POPPINS BY ROBERT STEVENSON
THE WIZARD OF OZ BY VICTOR FLEMING
THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING ERNEST BY ANTHONY ASQUITH
LAST EXIT TO BROOKLYN BY ULI EDEL
FAME BY ALAN PARKER
A STREETCAR NAMED DESIRE BY ELIA KAZAN
CAT ON A HOT TIN ROOF BY RICHARD BROOKS
ZERO PATIENCE BY JOHN GREYSON

LONGTIME COMPANION BY NORMAN RENé

AN EARLY FROST BY JOHN ERMAN
PARTING GLANCES BY BILL SHERWOOD

EDGE OF SEVENTEEN BY DAVID MORETON
THE ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW BY JIM SHARMAN
HEDWIG AND THE ANGRY INCH BY JOHN CAMERON MITCHELL
SOME LIKE IT HOT BY BILLY WILDER
SECRETS AND LIES BY MIKE LEIGH
SHOOTING THE PAST BY STEPHEN POLIAKOFF
SIX DEGREES OF SEPARATION BY FRED SCHEPISI
MY BEAUTIFUL LAUNDRETTE BY STEPHEN FREARS
BLADE RUNNER BY RIDLEY SCOTT
THELMA AND LOUISE BY RIDLEY SCOTT

THE KINGDOM BY LARS VON TRIER
EUROPA BY LARS VON TRIER
LOST HORIZON BY FRANK CAPRA

ARSENIC AND OLD LACE BY FRANK CAPRA

TARNATION BY JONATHAN CAOUETTE
FANNY AND ALEXANDER BY INGMAR BERGMAN
BABETTE'S FEAST BY GABRIEL AXEL
MIDGNIGHT COWBOY BY JOHN SCHLESINGER
THE BOYS IN THE BAND BY WILLIAM FRIEDKIN
THE PIANO BY JANE CAMPION
FARGO BY JOEL AND ETHAN COEN
THE ROPE BY HITCHCOCK
THE BIRDS BY HITCHCOCK
STRANGERS ON A TRAIN BY HITCHCOCK
THOROUGHLY MODERN MILLIE BY GEORGE ROY HILL
BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY'S BY BLAKE EDWARDS
KISS OF THE SPIDER WOMAN BY HECTOR BABENCO
TOOTSIE BY SYDNEY POLLACK
LA CAGE AUX FOLLES BY EDOUARD MOLINARO
BILLY'S HOLLYWOOD SCREEN KISS BY TOMMY O'HAVER
EDUCATING RITA BY LEWIS GILBERT
ANIKI BOBO BY MANOEL DE OLIVEIRA
A CAIXA BY MANOEL DE OLIVEIRA
O PATIO DAS CANTIGAS BY FRANCISCO RIBEIRO
TRÊS IRMAOS BY TERESA VILLAVERDE
UNA GGIORNATA PARTICOLARE BY ETTORE SCOLA
ANGELS IN AMERICA BY MIKE NICHOLS

LOVE! VALOUR! COMPASSION! BY JOE MANTELLO

MAURICE BY JAMES IVORY

ROOM WITH A VIEW BY JAMES IVORY

DEATH IN VENICE BY LUCHINO VISCONTI

QUERELLE BY RAINER WERNER FASSBINDER

THE BITTER TEARS OF PETRA VON KANT BY RAINER WERNER FASSBINDER

ORANGES ARE NOT THE ONLY FRUIT BY BEEBAN KIDRON
THE LIVING END BY GREG ARAKI
FAHRENHEIT 451 BY FRANçOIS TRUFFAUT

...

the first boy I kissed

This morning I woke up thinking of Antônio. He was Brazilian. I was 17. He was 18. We were both doing a year of academic exchange in Belgium with AFS. One night, in Brugges, at another exchange student's house (was it Hege from Norway? At least I still remember she was from Norway), we kissed. I asked him to kiss me. And he did. It felt like sugar, there was something bitter too underneath. My first kiss with a boy. I wonder where Antônio is nowadays. I never really thanked him for that clumsy, long, sweet, warm, sexy kiss in the middle of the night. How he held me tight and tenderly, how he whispered and licked softly in my ear. How he kissed me twice.

teachers-parents conference

We had the Spring teachers-parents conference this morning in Georgie's Montessori school. She is doing very well on the academic side, reading, writing and maths.

She seems to play more with the younger children than with the children from her own class. I wonder why. Lately, Georgie has been talking a lot about having a younger brother or a sister, could that be the reason? I hope she is well liked by the kids in her class. Children can be nasty sometimes when one is a bit different from the rest, there's this kind of "pack mentality" and it starts early. She used to play a lot with another girl named Justina (Polish-American), but lately they seem not to be getting along so well anymore. Oh well, maybe it's just a phase.

The teachers said that Georgie is becoming more autonomous and that she enjoys dancing. I don't see her dancing so much at home, so this was interesting to know.

Georgie needs to become more organised when doing her tasks. Well, she is only 4,5 years old, so no need to worry too much about that, but I guess we can help her a little bit more in that direction.

I wished the teachers had said something about her personality. I think Georgie is so lively, bright, fun, talkative, engaging, friendly. Don't they see that too? Maybe Marcel doesn't, but I bet Mona does too (if only Marcel had let her talk more during the meeting...)

European school

We are more and more inclined to enroll Georgie in the European school already this year. It will allow her to start getting used to the new rhythm and to make friends before her first year in primary class. It will also help her to get a better level of Portuguese. Yes, Jarl and I have decided that this would be the best language section for her. Her vocabulary seems to be a bit wider in Portuguese than in Swedish. Jarl's mother also said that Portuguese is a language with a bigger international projection, which is true. Let us see how Jarl will react when Georgie starts speaking Portuguese most of time... I hope he won't feel left out.

The school looked huge (there are some 3000 pupils), but the nursery section was a bit more secluded with a special playground and entrance. We liked it and we think Georgie will enjoy it and adapt fast to it. We were a bit worried about how the teachers would react to the fact that she has two fathers, but this seemed to go down well.

Of course, as expected, the question about diversity didn't really ring any bells with the deputy-director. It's like she had never heard the word before. But I liked her answer about the school being inclusive, about there being other adopted children from non-European countries, and about their strict policy on bullying. She sounded reassuring.

So, we have filled in the papers and will bring them next week to formalise the inscription. A big step for our family. Our little baby is growing!

majority thinking

I was at a birthday party for one of Georgie's classmates yesterday afternoon. It was very nice. The children were clearly enjoying themselves. There's was even a lady doing face painting just for the occasion. I wished I could join the line and have my face painted the colour of Spring. The cup-cakes were lovely. I tried one before the children ate them all!

The non-whites were my daughter, myself, and a Japanese girl and her dad. We were all middle-class, comfortable in life, good jobs, good income, nice houses, nice cars.

I couldn't help overhearing a conversation between an Italian colleague of mine and one of her American friends. They were talking about diversity. It prickled my ears. The American said that he was "so surprised" that there weren't any black children at the European schools in Brussels. The Italian said that she was not really so worried about it "because being in Brussels made you aware of all kinds of people, just by walking in the street". To which the American retorted, "sure, but how many of your children's friends are black? How many of our friends are black?". To which the Italian responded, "but surely, you don't think that adding 10 blacks to a European school would solve the problem, do you?". To which the American said, "yeah, but shouldn't we put our children in Belgian schools instead, there they would meet so many more kids from a diverse background, and after all we are in Belgium". The Italian then said, "well yes, that's true, but there are other considerations to take into account, I'm not going to choose my school just because it is diverse, there's the language and the academics too".

I suppose my Italian colleague has a point, we are not going to choose schools just because they are diverse in terms of backgrounds and colours, but surely that should also play a role, at least to make the school authorities aware that this is an issue and that it deserves to be looked into.

I joined the conversation at some stage and explained that we were planning to enroll Georgie in the European school of Woluwe, but that we were concerned about it being too white. I explained how important it is for us to feel validated by others who look just like us. And this applied to a variety of identity categories. Women enjoy the presence of other women, and so do men, people of a certain nationality enjoy the presence of other nationals from the same country, and this feeling of "community" applied also to aspects such as skin colour and sexual orientation. Becoming ourselves implies finding in others a mirror where we can also see reflected our experiences and our individuality, even though this sounds like a paradox. What surprised me was that she was surprised by this, that it had never occurred to her because in her world she almost never has to think of herself as different, as the odd one out. She takes it for granted.

One example made her realise what I meant better than anything else. I told her, take your hair for example. You are surrounded here by women whose hair is very similar to yours. When you get together you can exchange tips on what shampoos to use, what kind of care to have, etc. My daughter's hair is different from everyone's in this room. She wouldn't be able to join a conversation like that, because the products that work for your hair for instance wouldn't be the rights ones for her hair. Do you get it? Silence and large eyes. I think she got it!

I also explained to her that living in a diverse town doesn't mean that you are significantly engaged with diverse environments. Seeing lots of non-white people in the street, doesn't mean that you know who they are, how they feel, that you can relate to them and see them as equal. People are not meant to serve as decoration, they are for interaction. Somehow, I feel I didn't make a friend...

O Tal Canal

I watched this evening on DVD, O Tal Canal, that revolutionary comedy programme of early Portuguese TV. The year was 1983, and I was 12 going on 13. No one had ever seen something like that on TV in Portugal. It was hilarious, nonsensical, challenging, a total riot! Could we actually manage to be that funny, so intelligently funny? So modern?

Watching it this evening for the first time after more than 25 years, I realised - with emotion - that Herman José, the creator and main actor of O Tal Canal, was my first teacher in the art of Camp. And that was lifesaving. It brought me a lot of sanity. It was a most needed vehicle to express so much of my own difference, in tragedy and in comedy. Still today, my inspiration for Camp comes from Marilú (the simple servant girl who was a man after all), Filipa from Cozinho para o Povo (the posh female Chef who, still today, brings me down with laughter), Tony Silva (the cheesy super-star of the Americas), and all the other dozens of fantastic characters that he and his team were able to bring to life.

And what would life be like without Camp? High Camp à la portugaise? Oh, life without it would be ever so boring. Goodness gracious!

I don't have a lot of sympathy for the man behind the actor - his personal and political views do not fit with my own - but chapeau to him for all the fresh air, indeed the storm, the tornado, that his comedy acting represented in Portugal throughout the 1980's and still much of the 1990's. You know the caliber of an actor, when so many of the expressions he made popular in his programmes have become part of my generation's own jargon.

With O Tal Canal colour TV became real!

Uganda and anti-gay legislation

I recently read on BBC News that a Ugandan clergyman, Pastor Martin Ssempa (I actually saw him the other day on TV), decided to show gay pornography to his congregation in an attempt to gain support for a proposed law which would see some gay people facing the death penalty. Apparently, some 300 people gathered at his church to watch it, and the audience included children! He wanted people to "learn" what gays actually do.

Why would someone use these radical measures is simply baffling, to say the least. Equating homosexuality with a pornographic rendering of sexual activity is dishonest and mentally sick. Would he portray heterosexuality the same way?

The situation in Uganda is extreme, but it somehow reflects the general position of those who so vehemently repudiate homosexuality. They tend to concentrate on the sex side of it. It makes me wonder if that is all heterosexuals think about when they fall in love, the sex. Maybe it is. Maybe heterosexuals are so obsessed with sex, they project it on everyone else (no, I don't really think this way, I'm just trying to make a point). Sex is often the corollary of being in love and wanting to get emotionally closer to the subject of your affection through physical contact. Sex is a medium, not a goal in itself. Of course, there's sex without love - and there's nothing wrong with that - but this touches all sexual orientations and is not exclusive to gays and lesbians. It sounds obvious, but not to everybody.

I believe the Ugandan pastor in question should in fact be the one condemned for obscenity and moral corruption. I mean, there were children in that church! What does he expect to achieve with this? I know, to create revulsion at what the nasty, monstrous gays get up to in bed. But how can he possibly justify showing pornography to children? I suppose someone like pastor Ssempa does not use logic very often, nor intellectual honesty. Or maybe he's just crazy and abusive. Likely all of these!

Pastor Ssempa may have been playing with fire too. Maybe some of his audience became titillated by what they saw and will try it later in the secrecy of their homes... if they manage to escape their spying neighbours willing to denounce them to the police (the new law, if passed, will make every single Ugandan, including family members, an anti-gay spy, otherwise they too may end up in jail for collusion. They'll have to build a lot of new jails...).

As US President Obama put it, the projected law is "odious", and what is really upsetting is that some US-based evangelical groups are backing it, and supporting people like pastor Ssempa to promote this agenda of hate. Is that what these groups want for the rest of the world, including in the US? Imprisonment and even the death penalty? These people are crazy, but dangerous because so well organised and funded. Watch out! Human rights is really an ongoing battle.

I hope, almost pray, for this law to be defeated, but I fear that it will be passed - with a few changes to keep international donors "happy" (maybe without the death penalty for "aggravated homosexuality", for instance) - but still increasing the punishments for homosexuals in Uganda and basically rendering their lives even more nightmarish than they already are. They really need a merciful god to help them. It's a pity god is always looking the other way when these things happen (I'm an atheist, thus I only believe in human mercy).

Pastor Ssempa's desperate tactics seem to indicate that he is close to a nervous breakdown (or he has already had one). The man needs psychological treatment soon. Hatred of this kind usually indicates a sick mental state.

The US and the EU

The BBC said this week that the EU had been snubbed by US President Obama because he didn't show up for the last bilateral summit. Here is what I had to say à propos:

The US has difficulties to understand the EU because it is a concept that indeed is difficult to grasp. Not quite a state, not quite just an institution. It's a bit of a cliché, but the word hybrid is still the best one to describe this project of unity in diversity. Those who want reality to be always described in terms of black and white, will always find it difficult to accept the EU.

People are fast to criticize the EU, but they forget that as an operational concept it has only been in existence for little over 50 years, which is really nothing in the larger historical context, particularly if we take into account what preceded it (xenophonic madness and genocide anyone?).

I'm always amazed that, with our historical baggage, we can actually keep talking and struggling to find common solutions in a peaceful manner among Europeans. Yes, sometimes it results in an awful waste of time and resources, but isn't peace worth the price?

People must reconcile themselves with the fact that the EU is not just work in progress, but also the result of forces pulling in opposite directions: national interests on the one hand and the common European good on the other. Sometimes the result is more unity, sometimes more division, sometimes just diversity. That's who we are.

The EU will never be like the US, or any other country in the world, and that's fine. We don't have to imitate anybody. Our chosen path is innovative, challenging, revolutionary, unique, imperfect. It's good that we keep trying, and those who want out of it, well, they are always welcome to leave and let the rest get on with their vision (it is sometimes a bit tiresome to hear the nagging when no better alternatives are presented, unless of course it's the "free-for-all" pre-EU Europe that they want; or a Europe dominated by a few imperial powers, some of which have clearly not yet gotten used to their more humble place at the table... Well, not for me, thank you!).

health

We have been all sick at the start of the year. I had a bronchitis, then Georgie developed a pneumonia, now Jarl has tonsillitis. And the weather continues cold and inhospitable. And there's snow or rain. And lots of grey. And I'm just really sick and tired of all these bugs!

Aya de Yopougon

It's my favourite bande déssinée. Yopougon is a middle-class neighbourhood of Abidjan, the capital of Côte d'Ivoire. Marguerite Abouet (author) and Clément Oubrerie (cartoonist), have created a universe full of humanity and joie de vivre.

Aya is the central character. She's serious, engaged, intelligent, gracious. A bit like the cricket in Disney's Pinocchio, she's everybody's conscience in Yopougon. "Give a little whistle, give a little whistle..."

It's hard to remain insensible to the characters, their problems, their dreams, their hopes and their achievements. Yopougon seems miles away from my corner in Brussels, but yet I feel it so close, dêh! It's a wonderful way to learn more about Africa and to realise, if need be, that wherever there's people, our love, our hatred, our happiness, our sadness, our blood, are really the same. Cliché? Well, it doesn't make it less true, does it?

I found the BD by chance. I was coming home some time ago and passed by the BD shop in rue vanderkindere. I had never been inside it in all these years of living here. I looked at the cover of tome number 1 and was transfixed. This looked good, my goodness! A real story, with credible characters, in Africa. Not about wars and famine, but about the daily lives of people I could identify with. The drawing was good too. Full of nerve, and colour, and humour. So I bought the whole 4 volumes and came home. I devoured them.

Today, I bought the fifth one in a BD shop in Boulevard Anspach, that happens to be open on Sundays, and the anticipation in the tram coming home was just so nice to feel. To sit on the sofa and open one more tome of Aya de Yopougon and travel far, and feel so close to home.

snow

Snow. Again! I'm sick and tired of this white mess!

Division Street America

The title is from a book by Studs Terkel (1912-2008), a best-selling American author and journalist who lived in Chicago. It's a book of interviews published in 1967, in the midst of one of the hottest periods of XX century cultural transformation in the US; the civil-rights movement is one good example of that transformation, to mention just one major thing.

It's a book about Chicago, and it's part of my evolving love affair with this town. It's a great selection of testimonies, by people from all walks of life, and a fascinating way to get inside America, and inside a city that shaped so much of what we know about the US as a whole; free-market capitalism, sky-scrappers, post-Bauhaus functionalist architecture (by the German-born Mies van der Rohe), the industrialisation of meat production and its consequences on civilisation as we know it, racial zoning laws and Black ghettos, labour and anarchist movements, the birth of urban sociology, the invention of futures and derivatives in agriculture, gangsters (remember Al Capone?), the melting pot, the Blues, anti-Vietnam war protests, a new concept of community work with Jane Addams and Hull House. NYC, move over!

Part XXI, called The Inheritors, a series of interviews with young people, opens with the following lines by Lucky Miller, aged 19, "I love life. I only wish some of it would come my way". Ah, Lucky you, to make poetry so easily!

butterflies in a powerpoint

And what if butterflies came flying into your powerpoint? Then what? Would you leave the office with the softness of flowers in your eyes? Would you cross the street and see a river? Would you caress the walls? Would you sleep inside a tree? Would you?

Just imagine, you are doing a powerpoint presentation. The world is grey. And suddenly butterflies burst into your powerpoint presentation. Then what? Would you carry on oblivious? Would you flutter your eyelids? Would you sing a love song to your boss? Would you kiss the geranium in its pot? Would you make a bed of twigs? Would you become like light? Would you fly? Would you hold my hand? Would you?

Imagine a butterfly, then two, then three, then four, then five, then six, then seven, then many, invading the screen, one after the other, running, flying. Then what? Would you scream? Would you go outside and lay on the grass? Would you eat a sandwich? Would it be Times Square in New York? Would you become a neon light? Would you sigh? Then what? Then what? I know, I know. What good is there in telling? No good, no good at all. Just butterflies, butterflies, butterflies inside your eyes, into your life, in your powerpoint presentation. Everybody mesmerized. And alive. Alive. Alive. Like in a dream.

Today, I watched with Jarl a short film called Futures & Derivatives by Arthur Halpern of the USA. It lasted 18 minutes. And I agree with Caetano Veloso when he sings that Americans bring lots of happiness to this world. Just 18 minutes. Oh, wow!

Uma Casa Portuguesa

Uma Casa Portuguesa (A Portuguese House), is an iconic Portuguese song, made famous - I mean stratospherically famous - by Amália Rodrigues, an icon herself of flesh and blood, and miraculous powers some would say...

But I read in one of my recent book explorations - Angola, Terra Prometida (Angola, Promised Land) - that the song was first created in former Lourenço Marques, now Mozambique's capital Maputo, and sung there in 1951 by Sara Chaves at the age of 19 (an Angolan-born, white Portuguese singer). This was two years before Amália would make it known.

This so-very-Portuguese song of all times, was first heard in a contest for young singers in a small theatre house in the neighbourhood of Lhanguéne. This is Portugal the way I like it. Creole. 'Nha Terra.

Brussels was beautiful tonight

I was walking home tonight after an office New Year reception at the house of my Director General. Entertaining to say the least. All the ambitious people, me included, trying to mingle, get information, be on top of the game. We played a lottery, with all the gifts he gets from foreign visitors and which he doesn't wish to keep. I wonder if they ever heard about this... Some people were lucky. I came away with a book about Raphael's Villa Madamma (chosen from an ad hoc selection; first come first served), which Jarl says costs 60 euros on the Internet. Anyway, this doesn't really deserve a post.

My post is about discovering the beauty of Brussels. It took me 13 years to find it. Yeah, I'm slow in love. I was by the Royal National Library. There's a garden there, with two rows of trees, a fountain, several sculptures, an equestrian statue. It was all covered in snow and there were supertroopers in rainbow colours shining from the roof of the library onto the bushes below. And then, to the side, there was a square of blue transparent glass coming out of the earth. It's the entrance to the new Brussels Conference Centre. It looked precious. Like a cube of ice.

One of the buildings in the garden had been transformed into a Chinese pavilion. Europalia is about China this year, it seems. A bit odd, but there it was, with thousands of yellow and red paper lanterns, like a dream in the night. There was absolutely nobody around. Just me and my footsteps. In the distance I could see the steeple of the Hôtel de Ville, illuminated from within and the Flemish brick houses around it. It smelled of calm and silence. Of order too.

Brussels looked beautiful for the very first time. It spoke to me for the very first time. I could recognise in it a little of my home. I was touched. Goodness, it took me 13 years to get here, to find its beauty. To find it beautiful. For it to speak to me. For me to understand it. Can you imagine? A momentous moment. It really deserves an alliteration.

My footsteps sounded like felt on the pavement. The snow has the power to erase all ugliness. The cold creates a feeling of awe. The empty garden was suspended in light, and glass, and night.

1st thought on new year's first day

My first conscious thought this morning just out of bed was "ser é uma batalha para a vida inteira", "being is a battle for one's entire life". It came to me while walking from the bedroom to the bathroom. 2010 has started under the aegis of being. It was, is and will be my life's enduring battle. Ser.