glocken und mehr glocken

My entire new wishlist is contained right here, in the campanologist's CD heaven!

And something for my lighting wishlist: A chandelier made of wine glasses at the highly recommended Brussels restaurant L'amour fou.

And a link worthwhile just for its URL: belgiumtheplaceto.be. Took me a minute.

9 sheep

"Nine sheep die in fall through ice" was worthy of inclusion in Expatica's "Belgian news in brief" today. Doesn't that belong in the "Oddly Enough" section? And what does "put down" mean?

Incidentally, educators need to spend less time worrying about clothes and more about improving learning. With enough effort, they could even make it fun.

momentous

Another landmark! This morning, I played a real carillon for the first time since the accident. The carillon of Sint-Gummaruskerk in Lier was far more beautiful and easy to play than I remembered it, hopefully evidence that I've learned how to appreciate a good European carillon. Geert disclosed the secret of how he extended the bottom register by three low, exorbitantly expensive bells with his name in relief on the bourdon. Exactly what I mean to do as a carillon rockstar.

Landmark moments happen remarkably often after a major accident. Similarly, it was right outside that playing cabin, half an hour after meeting him, that I decided to risk appearing impudent and shouted at him over the wail of bells that I wanted him to be my carillon teacher. I had no idea what playing the carillon meant until I saw him at the bench. "What?! You only teach composition? You'll still teach me to play, right?!" In fact, living in a country through which I've travelled twice, not expecting I'd move there, I've found revisiting anyplace meaningful. Conclusion: Recipe for a meaningful life consists of returning to the destination of your dreams, revisiting places, getting seriously injured, getting better, revisiting places again. Hmmm.

Discovered that Cafe Intermezzo, a mere two blocks from my house, has the most extensive mouthwatering selection of pannekoeken and ice cream in town, as well as an airy garden-like indoor terrace scintillating with the songs of canaries and parakeets and today's winter sunlight.

Was overjoyed watching the Belgian countryside as my train to Oostende parted its way through the dusk towards the coast. I had almost forgotten why I loved riding the train so much. On countless fall days, I watched beautiful foreign landscapes slip by almost in tears of gratitude for and disbelief at the reality of being here, really here, in Belgium, the future that had once been a distant, impossible dream. It's a good feeling to rediscover.

Savored a dinner of leek soup and 'Oostende Vispannetje' (not quite what I'd hoped for) after discovering that the Spanish restaurant I'd eyed in September served paella only for two or more. Hurried through blue-lighted shopping boulevards (strangely reminiscent of the Amsterdam street on which Jeremy and I bought dried veggies) to the Dominicanenkerk for Klaas and his brother's concert, with part-time Beiaardschool student Dina as one of the soloists. Small world, this country. And a heartening wonder to see the crowds of people who will turn out for a baroque concert anywhere, anytime. More wondrous still, the people who work so hard to give these concerts. There's a passion for early music here that I've never seen before; it seems to run in people's blood, as does the ability to make it.

From the church, I hurried back onto the train, where some underaged Antwerpenaar boarded at Vilvoorde and sat apart from his brother to pick me up despite my visibly intent state of meditation (mentally playing the van Noordt--humbling, to say the least). I humored him with a brief conversation that was 90% in Dutch and 10% in English, but really could be considered 50% Dutch, 10% English, and 40% ideas I didn't bother / gave up trying to communicate.

The Nederlandse Beiaardschool, with its abrupt 100% faculty turnover, is not looking so bad for a master's degree anymore. Fulbright Commission, come through for me. After all, the one Dutch city I think I'd be happy to live in is just next door: Utrecht.

NAMM Oddities: A 7.1 surround-sound 3.6 GHz organ and other otherwordly, slightly threatening developments.

Happy 250th birthday, boy wonder!

Just trekked home through the freezing cold from John Eliot Gardiner's dazzling concert of Mozart's last three symphonies on the night of that once-young genius's 250th birthday. Still have to write about last Saturday's Klara in het Paleis [photos], to which I had a crew pass from Geert. 8) The music never stops in Belgium, and it's damn good. Damn good.

orgel foto

A couple years ago, Ben introduced me to Information Society, the band that sang "Where Would I Be Without IBM?"

Today, it's more a question of where I would be without Altavista's Babe...

Finally, a photo of the organ I play five times a week in the Dekenale kerk Onze-Lieve-Vrouw-over-de-Dijle, stolen from a set of postcards, since I've never seen the organ in real life: It is entirely covered with tarps for the exterior restoration of the church. Go figure.

Today I nearly froze to death during practice. Even blazing through the Langlais pédale solo for the first time since the accident didn't get my blood flowing again, although it awoke the continued inflexibility of my leg. I gave up early, and so did Monique, who opens the church each day to visitors. Tomorrow, it's Hindemith page two.

The Yale ISM has assigned me an audition date of February 26. I'd feel much better if I could start taking organ lessons again, and if I could actually access any of the money in my American bank account to do little things like buy airplane tickets. Damn Bank of America. Why the hell didn't someone tell me to go with Deutschebank?

So, available for a limited time only (until 3 February), my theme song of the week: Chronisch Pleite by Die Prinzen.

forgotten

A survey from the insurance company of the driver who knocked me over asks for "Kledijschade" (damages to clothing). And I don't know why I find it so disturbing that I don't remember which shirt I was wearing.

Photographic, panoramic salve for the homesick soul.

gimp racing

Tonight I'm speed-limping across the Grote Markt, minding my own beeswax, when some drunkard starts limping in my general direction. I limp faster while keeping a suspicious eye on him. Mechelen never saw two cripples limping more intently in the same direction.

Then he limps straight into the side of a car, which promptly changes his trajectory. It's all I can do not to laugh.

After our expedition to the HyperCarrefour, Elvo asked about my dream vehicles. It was a question I hadn't considered for a while. I did some rethinking and "settled" on the following: A blue Honda Insight as a starter car (to minimize my ecological footprint of 3.9 global hectares, which would still require 2.2 Earths if everyone lived like me), the BMW 650i Convertible in metallic silver for roadtrips and events (obviously not with the intention of minimizing anything), and the Ducati Superbike 999 in black for...the hell of it. Yeeeah. When I become a filthy rich carillon rockstar.

gimp trippin

Guilt-tripping myself for not having practiced on Friday and Saturday, I practiced for three hours tonight to find that the Thornock and van Noordt had magically improved themselves during my absence, the van Noordt after two weeks of neglect. The generosity of the carillon deities is an infuriating gift. I practice myself silly and stay frustrated, and when frustrated with guilt for not practicing, I'm actually improving. We can never be happy, can we?

Tom was two blocks ahead of me when I left the school. Huffing and puffing, I caught up with him and yelled "TOM!!!", shaking him out of iPod bliss. "Had no idea a gimp was limping madly after you for the past two blocks, eh?"

Relearning to walk has been going surprisingly slowly, but tonight I had a revelation. I have to exaggerate swaying my hip to the right so I don't always look like I'm about to tip over to the left. Whether this is an aspect of normal walking remains a mystery; it surely feels unnatural, like trying to do the "woman walk." But even that would be an improvement over the gimp strut.

frisbee!

Marty McFly: [holding up a plate that says "Frisbee"] Hey, look, Frisbee, far-out.
Seamus McFly: Wonder what he meant by that?
Maggie McFly: It was right in front of him.
Yalies invented the Frisbee!

Happiness is letting time fly at the carillon until quite suddenly you realize that it's time to go home and you're hardly ready to stop. I had almost forgotten how it felt to be mentally prepared to practice several more hours only to realize that physically, I had already practiced too many.

Tonight I surmounted the worst of the learning process for Thornock's "Motorhythmia." I still have a long way to go, but this unexpected victory made my other pieces seem suddenly like child's play.

"One doesn't really need a teacher," Geert told me. "You can do all of the work yourself." I disagreed, but I wonder how far I would be now without him. And without the accident. It's a curious thought, but taking a complete break from the carillon has enabled me to learn faster and more efficiently. I got better without doing a thing! If only life was always this easy.

I had forgotten how passionate I was about playing the organ. For the past two weeks, practicing in OLV-o/d-Dijlekerk has been hell--frozen over. Imagine sitting in 4°C weather for two hours, moving only your arms and fingers. Wouldn't you associate the organ with torture? Today, the rain brought warmth, and I felt as if I could have practiced all day.

Absurd and necessary conclusion: My performance in music is dependent on the weather. Not a reassuring thought in an overcast country.

het antwoord

Better yet: Discover that your ü83r-1337 h4x0r friend and his motorcycle-repairing uncle are also handy with bicycles. When a new fork arrives, my sleeping beauty may well awake in better condition than I am now. Thank you so much!

People are asking whether the insurance of the (possibly) liable party would cover the repairs. Unfortunately, the answer is maybe. It may be over a month before the full police report can even be released to my attorney. Hooray for red tape.

A couple shots from the travel film Ijsland during a Cultuurcentrum screening, and I had resolved on yet another "lifetime-goal" carillon campaign: To build a carillon in Iceland in the stunning Hallgrímskirkja tower, the tallest building in the country.


There appears to be an automatic chime, but come now, a great nation of 300,000 people (less than half the population of San Francisco) deserves a carillon!

And I thought I was living in an incredibly tiny cool country. Which leads me to random facts gleaned from Wikipedia: The population density of Belgium is eighteen times less that of San Francisco but only seven times less that of New Haven (which incidentally, although he denies it, is the birthplace of our current 'Texan' president). SF has a surprising number of sister cities, ranging from Paris to Ho Chi Minh. And in 2002, SF had as many homeless people as New York even though it had one-tenth the population, and the number of people who died on the streets was twice that of the state of Florida. Do we mistreat them so badly, or do they flock to SF because the city is less hostile to them? Or do we San Franciscans just tend to end up homeless?