nostalgia

And it hit. Like clockwork. My yearly nostalgia for Europe... today in the form of Christmas in Antwerp (which ironically never even happened -- I was trapped in my room with a broken femur for the holidays). I'm longing to wander snow-covered, winding cobblestone streets and to drink genever in arcaded, candlelit underground brick cellars... Maybe Christmas in NYC and New Year's in DC will at least take care of the ill-advised snow craving.

To feel nostalgia today is particularly odd. This morning I was thinking about nostalgia quite clinically (or at least psychoanalytically) as I pondered Richard Pine's introduction to Creativity, Madness and Civilisation (2007). He points out that unheimlich really translates to "unhomely," relating it rather obliquely but intriguingly to nostalgia (Greek: nostos, the homeward journey; algos, pain). And here I am, feeling a nostalgia for an invented home, constructed in my own mind as a false memory, yet vivid enough to gravitate me towards a place that has no bearing on where I grew up. And I keep trying to critique the American carillon as nostalgic sonic mark of an invented European heritage. Maybe I'd do better if I could first sort myself out.

Belgian modesty

From the Gazette van Detroit:

The CEOs of three large breweries meet at a convention and decide to go for a drink together.

When the waiter arrives to take their order, the Heineken boss naturally orders a Heineken beer, the Budweiser boss orders a Bud, and the boss of Stella Artois orders... a Coca Cola.

To the astonished looks of his colleagues the man says, "Well, seeing as neither of you is having beer, I had no other choice but to keep you company."

"Three moves are equivalent to a fire," Andrew's father quipped. I've jettisoned several reams of paper over the past week, but only now that most of my apartment is in boxes am I throwing out the 30% DEET roll-on I purchased in Belgium. My unwillingness to part with it is less pack rat instinct, I suspect, than mortal terror. I'm keeping the rest of my arsenal stuff around to arm myself against the Groningen mosquitoes.

iPod crime

Brussels should team up with think tank The Urban Institute to discover that kids kill kids for iPods the world over. Thanks to Chip for this link.

First, Bobby and I chat for an hour in Dutch at Java's without any idea of how strange we must have seemed. Next, I find that Yale Educational Travel is hosting a Waterways of Holland and Belgium trip, and the Little Theatre is showing In Bruges. Today I manage to memorize Geert's organ piece in a single day. What's next, Low Countries?

Now I can finally make up for the fact that I never took a polisci course at Yale: Open Yale courses online. Sweet.

As the US watches coverage of the assassination of former female Pakistan Prime Minister Benazir Bhutto in indignation (during a return engineered in part by the US), let us also ask ourselves how a woman, from 1988 to 1990, led a nation as far behind the US as we perceive Pakistan to be, while we still elect our male-dominated governments smug in the knowledge that we are far more civilized that most nations in the 21st century.

Member of the 80's "Antwerp Six" Ann Demeulemeester is apparently as much of an architectural enthusiast as ever. Owner of the only Le Corbusier house in Belgium (in Antwerp of course -- always another discovery to be made in Antwerp), she's now selling her line in a remarkable new building by Mass Studies in Seoul. Reading an NYT article about her in 2006, I'm flustered at how typically Belgian her attitude is (and how uncomprehendingly the reporter capitalizes on it), and yet how delectably different this makes her as a fashion designer.

To bookmark this entry with another death, Carlos Sousa Jr. left his parents on Christmas Day and didn't come home for Christmas dinner. He was never to come home -- his parents watched the coverage splashed across dinnertime Christmas news about an escaped tiger mauling three people at the San Francisco Zoo with no clue until the next morning, when they were called in to identify the corpse in a body bag, that the victim was their own son. The Siberian tiger Tatiana was shot by police as it mauled on of his two friends -- friends who may have been taunting the tiger to provoke it as the zoo emptied out towards closing time on Christmas Day.

Potentially aggressive young men attacked by a Siberian tiger in California on Christmas Day splashed across the media -- another day in our globalized, violent, voyeuristic society.

Despite my frustrating status as an errant publicist, I have been offered the privilege of joining the recently established Society of Friends of Belgium in America for a tour of the spectacular Tapestry in the Baroque: Threads of Splendor exhibition at the Met. My old BAEF cohort Ben Gateño will play guitar at the reception following at the Consul General's residence. I am curious to know what a Fifth Avenue residence looks like, as well as to meet the Friends in attendance. The Society's website has an excellent introduction to Belgium.

According to De Post in Belgium, which transmitted the info to DHL, my name is now TUFFANY NE. Brilliant.

The (B) for the Belgian Rail may look a bit outdated, but its history is distinguished: it was designed by leading Art Nouveau artist Henry van de Velde.

The Young Listener's Guide to the Organ

I was beginning to wonder if Paul Takahashi was still alive, considering his long email silence. He had good reason to disappear, however. On September 15, he'll give the world premiere of his latest work, "The Young Listener's Guide to the Organ" at the Church of the Place de la Chapelle in Brussels on September 15, 11:00 - 12:00 - 14:30. Go if you can, because I wish I could!

The Big Concert

My most important carillon recital since my diploma recital in Mechelen is tomorrow, and I am nervous because I know I'm just barely on the verge of being prepared--as I was for that recital. I will perform some of the most beautiful and difficult repertoire I have, including the second performance of Paul Coleman's complete acoustic Tiffany Sketches (the European premiere having occurred today in Brussels), and possibly multiple good carillonneurs will be listening. If this goes well, I'll be on my way to a three-important-concert roll with Berea and EROI lined up next.

I'm frustrated because, as last year before my recital, I haven't access to decent recording equipment. I realize now that for Christmas I should have asked fo a pocket digital recorder, because I am on the verge of going out and buying one in the afternoon. Why are musicians here so badly equipped to record? Even the carillon school has nothing besides a cassette or DAT (I forget which) recorder that's been kaput for years. And of course it's here that I sound best (the only exception perhaps being in Lier, but in any case, I don't find myself often in Belgium).

My concert in Brussels went as well as it could go on such a heavy instrument, though in retrospect I didn't have to program those pianistic pieces for a carillon that's nearly impossible to play with flat hands in the lower register. The Beethoven worked surprisingly well, and although the overtones made a ruckus in the playing cabin, Paul Takahashi said the timbre was practically relaxing on the ground. I seem to have missed befriending a kindred soul while I was living in Belgium last year; I knew we were both organ and carillon students of Joris Verdin and Geert D'hollander respectively, but I didn't realize we were also both cycling spelunkers, incurable sweet tooths, insomniac artists, insatiable travelers, fascinated by everything from early English keyboard repertoire to middle eastern and eastern music (although he knows far, far more about the latter than I probably ever will in my life), and that we are similar in less tangible ways as well. He owns a fair number of instruments, some exotic, as well as the piano of my dreams: an early 20th century Steinway grand. It was so beautiful to play and made it so natural to play beautifully; if I had such a treasure, I would return immediately to playing the piano and never stop. The Kawai at home hasn't this effect on me. Clearly I am still destined to find my way to a Steinway grand (in addition, now, to a yacht etc.)

A beautiful full yellow moon was hanging over the skyline as the train took me back to Mechelen, strains of "Hide and Seek" whispering in my ears. How long has it been since I really noticed the moon? The downtown Rochester skyline obscures or disguises it.

Sleep now. Rehearsal from 11:30 to 12:30 tomorrow. Must figure out how to work everything out on the 40-ton carillon of St. Rombouts in that hour. Wish me luck.

Tonight I play my first concert in Belgium since last year, and it's probably my most important concert--how do you ignore 28 tons of bronze? Way to start out a tour. Antwerp, here I come. Please love me, and don't rain too much.

Cultuurcentrum Mechelen has a stack of 70-page glossy color catalogs of 2007-8 cultural events just sitting there for the taking in the foyer of the Beiaardschool. Flip one open to p. 65 to find a 10-lesson breakdance course in September and October. The positive glut of culture in this little town amazes me, but what's more, some of it is edgier than the grey heads crowding the coffee houses would suggest. Who takes these courses? I suppose the only way to meet them in Mechelen is to take the course. Because there doesn't seem to be a hangout or a scene.

terug in Mechelen

I first caught glimpse of Sint-Romboutstoren set against one of the most beautiful post-storm sunsets I'd ever seen over the city. Although one wonders if it was just such lighting that gave the Maneblussers their name. In the night, Mechelen greeted me with fireworks. I could stand right under them with my ears plugged, still hearing the ooohs and aahs of the Mechelaars around me. (Oh wait, was it the national holiday?) Sint-Romboutstoren was as magnificent as ever; I was nearly overwhelmed standing at the foot of it, as I have always been. It has a monumentality in its incompleteness and white stone that even its completed sister, the OLV-Kathedraaltoren, lacks. Again the tower looked to catch fire. Is it not funny that the two cities I've occupied this year in Europe are both home to Maneblussers who tried to extinguish the conflagrations in their towers, only to find that the towers were backlit by a foggy moon? Perhaps citizens the world over who love their carillons react this way.

After shopping at the GB in Sint-Katelijne-Waver, which to my amazement now stocks rice milk, and picking up some homegrown produce by bicycle, I made some fresh pasta sauce and then took off for the Beiaardschool. It soon became clear that the iMac G4 in the archive could not be updated because it could not download any executables at all -- thanks to WatchGuard HTTP proxy, courtesy of the municipal ISP. Grrr. I was really pleased to find, however, that I did not mind practicing on the attic's Clavion practice keyboard at all--it is a Ferrari in comparison to Rochester's. This in contrast to last year, when I usually opted not to practice at all than play that maladjusted thing. Why doesn't somebody adjust it?

I was just getting to the Beethoven piano concerto transcription in preparation for my terrifying concert in Antwerp when I found myself so physically exhausted that I could hardly move. After forcing myself to play through it once, I packed my things--and realized I'd been practicing since 16:00, and it was now 20:30. Even as a full-time carillon student, four hours had been my limit, although I wasn't this exhausted afterwards. Still, it was rewarding to realize that with a decent instrument, I could practice for hours without even noticing the passage of time. Perhaps the environment also helped. There are few distractions, and the rooms are spacious (in contrast to the UR practice pod), relatively comfortable, and have windows and honest-to-god sunlight.

With the house mostly to myself, I've had great fun taking over the kitchen and in fact the entire first floor. It's almost as luxurious as occupying an entire condominium on Memorial Drive in Cambridge. And for the first time, I'm riding a hybrid that's closer to a road bike than to its mountain counterpart. The wheels are bigger than Lucky's, and the bike is quite light. In other words, I'm zipping along with ease at record speeds. Although zipping over cobblestones is more unpleasant than ever.

my contributions to Belgium

include being one of the over 200 million passengers who traveled by rail last year, setting a historic record, and wearing out the Brussels sewer system (only a tiny bit), which is going to take a century to replace.

the most ridiculous and awesome campaign ever

Everyone who reads this blog is going to be reminded periodically until voting ends to muddle your way through the Flemish-language pages of Monumentenstrijd (Monuments Contest) to cast your vote for funding to restore the clockwork of St. Rombout's Tower and... to install a golden clock face. The Germans destroyed the clock mechanism during the war, and it's none other than the clock- and bell-maker etc. around the corner from where I lived last year, Luc Michiels (to whom I gave some anonymously-caused work fixing the practice consoles when I first started to learn van Noordt's Sonate voor cimbalo...shhh!), who's partnering with an architect on this project. I know it sounds ridiculous to coat a tremendous mechanism in gold, but IIRC, Antwerp's clock faces are golden. Nothing wrong with a little materialism once in a while (especially in Flanders, as our lavender ice cream friend Jean might add...)

Voting commences on 15 January. It was none other than my former landlord who emailed me (for the first time) a link to the campaign -- how sweet! Elvo sent me articles a couple months ago; I was clearly fated never to fully part from St. Romboutstoren. If you can read Dutch or a Germanic language, enjoy this brief article about the campaign.



Incidentally I opened my window this morning and the sound of several kinds of birds chirping floated in with the sound of leaves rustling. Why can't I wake up to this sound every morning?

't Stad

Belfry
Originally uploaded by carillonista.

People take such good care of me!

Elvo: "Early December, when I told my mother about your operation, her reaction was: 'Maybe we should send a wrench to the American surgeon, cuz I don't think they have metric hardware there?'"

I feel like a carillon. Background: Elvo and I went out of our way to find metric wrenches to send to the Yale Guild to fix up the clavier.

Damn I miss my third home. Was invited by a globetrotter to visit the Antwerpen Dierentuin... forgot to relocate my Dutch social networking profiles. Oh 't Stad, I'll see you again soon. Hold those diamonds for your best friend.

As if that wasn't enough, Expatica is back online to remind me of the classiness of Belgian cuisine (even if they torture turkeys and ducks/geese to prepare it), the great cycling weather this year (although I missed the best of it in fall 2006), the continuing and redoubled efforts to improve the already remarkable cycling in Flanders, and Ijssculptuur Brugge, where they've done an icy mockup of the Sagrada Família. Sigh. Sigh. Sigh.

In short, Belgians may be crazy but they're happy.

So summarized the writer of an article about how Belgians are rated amongst the happiest and yet most in-therapy European citizens. That actually describes my condition by the end of the year pretty well, minus the therapy. Apparently I took part in a national experience.

Beiaard Witte Ros beer?! I need to get me some of that!

Why are so many beers labeled "Belgian" when they're not? This particular "Belgian white beer" is brewed in Amsterdam. Folks, Amsterdam is not in Belgium. Neither is Belgium in Brussels -- a little-known fact. Paul picked up a "Belgian beer assortment" from Costco the other day (first Leffe I've had since leaving the country) that included Hoegaarden, a beer no longer produced in Hoegaarden because it's cheaper to produce it elsewhere, but nonetheless a Dutch beer. I suppose Belgian beers are so good that even the Dutch want to masquerade as Belgians when it comes to selling their drinks. It's a good Dutch money-making scheme. ;)

In real "beiaard" news, an article appeared in the New Haven Register about adjusting the clocks on Harkness Tower. Guess that's not just a hobby of Skull and Bones after all. A perfect article for my clock-inclined friends (it's surprising how many there are, once I tally them up). By the way, every clock fan must visit the Nationaal Museum Speelklok tot Pierement in Utrecht, the Netherlands one day. Even clock-uninclined Ingrid was utterly charmed by it!

vrijheid

I unintentionally practiced seven hours today. At times I was barely able to stay conscious, and a few times I felt trapped and had to leave the practice room.

But now I feel strangely free. Even despite all the other things I've ignored today and need to address now.

I didn't realize how much worrying about practicing has been weighing on me. I've also just shown myself how rapidly I can learn if I set myself to the task. Dr. Porter was right; I am completely capable of graduating in two years. But at some point the seesaw will tip in the other direction, and the responsibility of all the other things will become too heavy a burden. And then what? Ulrika told us that we can't expect ourselves to do everything perfectly here. She's right. But I'm already cutting corners. Maybe just not in quite the right places.

Apparently there is a population of Walloon descendants in Wisconsin who celebrate "Kermiss." Their Dutch spellings are funny, and apparently their language was originally unwritten anyway. What happened to this funny-Flemish-speaking Walloon population? They definitely don't like learning Flemish south of the border anymore.