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.