Tot Ziens

Somehow this journey has come to an end. Although we have ahead of us several weeks’ experiment in unplanned holiday-making in France, our time in Belgium is essentially up. And it would not seem right to end In Belgium, in France.

So, tot ziens!

Thank you for joining the ride, perhaps I will be able to offer you another sometime soon.

Now, onto life’s next adventure, in . . .

Germany Dispatch: Rained Out

It Has Been a While Since Visitors Passed This Way

Although I would like to pride myself on being a hearty traveler, I suppose everyone has their breaking point. Late May,wearing my winter coat, in the rain, Bamberg, Germany, I hit it.

The excursion to the eastern Franconia region of Germany was to be a practice run for our campsite routine and an opportunity to sample the legendary brews at the outdoor kellers, or beer gardens. The weather reports depicted low temperatures with the chance of rain, but we had prevailed over an Ireland-like trip through Italy with daily showers and were confident we could do so again.

Rothenburg ob der Tauber

Then it began to rain. It did not stop. My fingers grew cold despite my gloves — gloves! May! These were followed by my nose and toes. After 24-hours of saturation even the dependable little tent sighed as its seams began to weep. After a long winter and the coldest spring in 60 years, the weather had beaten us down and we retreated, by way of a detour to the “Romantic Road,” back to Belgium.

Perhaps we should have known better than to try our luck at another tourist destination during an excursion bogged down in ill fate. Or perhaps we are the kind of couple of irony who, looking to redeem a trying trip with a little romance, find the Romantic Road closed.

Apparently, as part of the country-wide infrastructure stimulus package, the Romantic Road is under construction.  The detour signs lead us away from the promise of charming towns and idyllic views, past visitor information signs crackled with time and outdated with irrelevance.

Meistertrunk Festival

Eventually we made it to Rothenburg ob der Tauber, called the best preserved medieval city in Europe, with which I could not disagree. It was there that we were reaped the rewards of our weather-induced travel traumas.

The only draw back to this gem is that it suffers from serious overcrowding
–Frommer’s Germany

Warm and Welcome

Unless, that is, you are there at 5 p.m. on a gray, wet and cold Thursday in May. Why, then you have the city wall ramparts entirely to yourself (they are covered too, conveniently enough). And it will be just you and a handful of random other soggy visitors who catch part of the city’s annual celebration of itself: a parade of locals — men, women and children — dressed up in medieval costume who parade around town and congregate at the Rathaus (city hall) all for their own amusement and not for ours.

Of course, all this whining is meant in jest, at least partially. We saw lovely towns, sampled some of the best beers in the world, enjoyed the historic beer hall culture and ate hearty meats laid atop mounds of sauerkraut. But my memory will be struck with that sense of appreciation for the fact that the locals seemed as peeved about the weather as me. In response, and to my relief, they cranked up those ceramic-tiled ancient wood stoves and kept their places cooking.

Godfrey All Around

Most people have been in this place before: You obsess over some particular subject/object/person and they keep appearing before your eyes. Only, typically, what you think you see is not what is actually before you.

In a twist on this, I have discovered that Godfrey is everywhere. To refresh the memories of those whom I have not dulled into a stupor with endless yammering, Godfrey of Bouillon is the subject of the book that I am writing. It is a novel, but based on the lives a several real people, including Godfrey himself. Although work proceeds slowly, I do think about it a lot. When I am not actually writing or reading through medieval history, in my head I replay scenes, untangle unnecessarily complicated sections and develop dialogue.

In the last few weeks, however, I have become eerily aware that my characters keep getting up and walking out of my head and onto the street in front of me. Here in Belgium, a Godfrey statue in Brussels or certainly Bouillon is expected. But he keeps showing up elsewhere as well.

In Rome, at the Vatican Museum, I was diligently reading through the Blue Guide descriptions of the Raphael Stanze and Loggia when Godfrey waved hello, sitting beside Ethelwulf of England — as well as a few tourists.

But it is not just Godfrey who keeps popping into my life; other characters are making unexpected appearances.

In the ruins of the Orval Abbey, I stepped up to one of the explanatory tables to read about the abbey myth of the lady, her ring and a fish. The story I knew already from the logo on the Orval beer bottle: a fish with a ring in its mouth. Evidently this unnaturally thoughtful trout delivered the ring back to the lady after she dropped it in the spring. There before me was the so-called spring (still used to feed the revered brown bottles of Orval brew) and the place where, upon receiving her ring back, Mathilda, declared that the waters must be sacred indeed and . . . Wait. That Mathilda? As in the daughter of the evil stepmother to Godfrey and the one who is married off to his hunchback uncle? Yes, indeed. And Mathilda waves hello.

Then, last night, we were watching Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, so that I could point out to a certain non-aficionado where the Venice square in which we sipped cappuccino appears in the film. The Jones boys have escaped Brunwald Castle when Dr. Jones, Sr. explains the threat of holy grail booby traps.

But I found the clues that will safely take us through, in the Chronicles of St. Anselm.

I am pretty sure Anselm was not writing choose-your-own-adventure material back in the Middle Ages. He was, however, corresponding with a certain Ida, Countess of Boulogne, also known as the mother of Godfrey of Bouillon. In my own novelization of his achievements I have him gliding in at the right moment to help save the day, not that far off from writing clues to hidden treasures.

“Hello!” Anselm hails me from the screen.

Belgian-African Dinner

Belgian cuisine typically evokes images of frites and mussels, waffles and chocolate. Less commonly does the visitor think of the international suggestions on a potential Belgian menu, suggestions that come from far further than France or Germany.

I enjoy the friendship of a Belgian who grew up in the Congo. As with each of us, she holds deep nostalgic hunger for the foods of her childhood. Fortunate for me, this takes the form of a Congolese meal of moambe,  broiled bananas, sauteed manioc leaves and rice. The main dish consists of chicken stewed with onions in a spiced palm oil. (Click here for a recipe.) My friend adds a bay leaf and thyme for an authentically Belgian touch. The manioc are leaves of what Americans may be more familiar with as the yuca plant. (Click here for a recipe.) The trick: these greens are poisonous. A hearty dose of boiling eliminates the toxins, and a handy prepared can of the vegetable alleviates the need (and evidently foul odor) of having to do that yourself.

The resulting meal may not plate pretty, but the indescribably luscious and new flavors even re-imagined now trigger stomach growls of desire.

Personal Souvenirs

The clay class that I joined in town has drawn to a close. We have finished sculpting, then firing, glazing, then firing again. This weekend I picked up my pieces, which remarkably survived the threat of cracks and breaks in the preparation process.

The primary project was the previously mentioned clay chicken. She became known as the 50-pound chicken, based on the fact that both firing/glazing fees are calculated by weight and I must somehow carry this lady over the Atlantic. She is glazed in a lovely dolomite recipe created by the artist who runs to class, Christiane Zeghers. I look forward to demonstrating her silliness and that of each of her half-dozen chick-size egg cups.

At the end of class, with about half a session to fill, I decided to also create personal souvenirs from our stay in the form of ceramic magnets. Each subject I selected for its nostalgic appeal  to different eras of Belgian memories: the house in which I lived as a child, the chapel where my husband and I were married and the front door of our home these past few months. There is something very satisfying about both making your own souvenirs and also tailoring them to your emotional imagination.