concertizing in and around BXL

It didn't seem that way at first, but the Carillon of the City of Brussels in the 13th-century Cathedralis SS. Michaelis et Gudulae decisively proved itself as heavy as others had warned. It was also deceptive, fooling me initially into laughing at the naysayers when even a child could play the thing. But by the time I reached the moto perpetuo 16th-note accompaniment of my finale, "On the San Antonio River," I knew I'd need the strength of a couple of flailing children to last me to the end.

"Vous pourriez jouer encore un morceau," Thibaut offered. "Non merci!" I replied in alarm, "C'est impossible, je n'en ai plus!" The first claim was true. The second, an outright lie to prevent further kind encouragement.

Brussels and even the cathedral were buzzing with tourists that Sunday afternoon, and apparently a fair number inquired after the recital. Thibaut or the church had designed beautiful large posters and nice programs, although they only put them up moments before the concert, which seemed a waste. The construction on the "square" (such places are never really square in Europe) before the cathedral was thankfully done and had left an inviting greenspace in which to listen.

Afterwards Thibaut took me on a wondrous tour of the two towers and roof, pulling landmarks out of the skyline that were new to me. The tower with the swinging bell was more ancient and more beautiful, with even a medallion in the roof of the bell chamber where few would ever see it, but the original Van den Gheyn bell had been yoinked during the French Revolution. Its massive wooden frame stood crooked and empty as if awaiting campanological reincarnation. On the way down, we edged onto an incredibly narrow balcony and admired the oldest stained-glass windows of the cathedral face to face from the outside.

Swinging bells are Thibaut's true passion, and he works part time in an old-fashioned bellfoundry in France. He earned his degree from the Universite Libre de Bruxelles in campanology, an act of such audacity that I still haven't recovered from the blow of it. Could one possibly dedicate one's degree to a more impractical study? He was earnest about it all and somehow I could see him getting away with his impractical pursuits in the future even further than he does now; he works IRL as a secretary.

I had never paid enough attention to the Wallonian carillon world to realize that he's president of the Association Campanaire Wallonne. Fortunately, he volunteered the information, upon which I enthusiastically expressed my desire to see carillons in Wallonia. On cue, he offered to organize a little concert tour next summer. "Vous jouez avec de la sensibilite." It's my pleasure, believe me.

The bus trip to Meise swung me past the Atomium, but I didn't realize it, seeing only the puzzling vine-covered buttresses of the stadium that hides it from the road. Hoping that the Sint-Martinuskerk was on Sint-Martinusbaan, I set off from the bus stop for it away from the city center through deserted streets livened only by speeding cars, when I thought I heard my name distantly. I turned, but the only sentient life I could see comprised two cows grazing. Not a single non-bovine soul. I decided to keep to myself the information that I was going insane and continued on.

When I stopped at an intersection, who should be calling and waving to me but Mariko, a classmate from the Beiaardschool! It was the most surreal thing, to see your former Japanese classmate from Leuven pursuing you over a highway overpass in the surburban boonies of Brussels. She had come in the car with Eddy's mother from Mechelen after playing the carillon, and they'd spotted me from the car making a beeline away from the church.

Eddy hurried up the stairs minutes before my concert, as I was dusting spiders and webs off the new keyboard and trying to recover from the arachnid-filled tower ascent. I was pleasantly appalled at how glad I was to see him; the familiarity and warmth and energy he brought to the quiet suburb of deserted streets and highways finally brought back my own reality. I haven't tried to find my way through such an area since I attempted to bike to the idyllic Thimble Islands in Connecticut and ended up in the neighborhood of my worst nightmares--one without sidewalks, where you had to drive down the highway to your neighbor's house. I gave up and fled for home with a vision of where I would never want to move.

After the unevenness and unjustifiable weight of the Brussels carillon, Meise was heaven. It was a bit jarring to be signaled by beeps via walkie-talkie each time Eddy finished delivering program remarks to the audience, but the end product was surprisingly professional. After the concert, another familiar face met me in no-man's land--Marie-Claude from the BAEF had taken the time to come hear me and see me one last time. An hour of drinks in the cafe Den Beiaard followed, during which one of the audience members expounded on his not inconsiderable understanding of campanology. Then at last, Eddy drove me back to Mechelen through countryside that was new to me and lit in a brilliant post-rain sunset glow.