Old Books, Fresh Oysters and Friendship

Nowadays, the American popular trend is to read books online. I am from an early generation and still cherish paper books. Do not get me wrong, I think online technologies and their capabilities are magical. I venerate trees. As a writer, new online technologies appease my fear. I agree with not cutting millions of trees just for the sake of creativity.

In any event, while planning my return to the Bay Area in California I wanted to travel light. Two years earlier, I had moved boxes of books across the planet. At the time, the country of Belgium was my ultimate destination. My family lives there.

Books can be heavy, and especially the ones I brought back with me to my native country. A boat leaving San Francisco and heading for Antwerp had carried my too many boxes throughout different time zones and oceans. One of my boxes contained a variety of dictionaries. French and English literatures telling great stories were also part of the voyage.

Without a doubt, I am a big fan of paper books of all kinds. Hard-cover dictionaries give me great pleasure while I learn new words and their meanings. Paper-book novels enable me to travel the world without moving an inch from the sofa.  

Eventually while planning my move back to California, I sadly accepted to depart from some my books. Today, most of my dictionaries are still with me. I only gave one away. As Christians might say, my dictionaries are my bibles.    

Fortunately, my Belgian girlfriend, Françoise, knew a few places in Brussels where I might sell my beloved books written in English. With years passing, the three national languages of Belgium seem to have endorsed English as a fourth language, for a better tool to communicate. At the border of Brussels, the town of Waterloo inhabits a high population of English speaking immigrants. Yet Belgium and Brussels inhabit immigrants from all over the world. Most newcomers are not trilingual. To speed communication and understanding, the English language is often spoken.

This cold winter while meeting Françoise in the Belgian Capital, we took my girlfriend’s car into a district of Brussels I did not recognize, even though I was born in that specific Commune. I felt lost in the capital. All the small streets looked the same.

We found a parking spot right in front of a second-hand store that supposedly bought and sold books and CDs. Françoise also had books – written in French – she wanted to try to sell. Two young men managing the buying section of the store attended us without losing a minute.

“Can I give you the books and CDs you did not buy from me,” I asked the friendly staff.

“No thank you, I have plenty of books to read at home and CDs of all kinds,” the young man said. “But you can donate all you have left to Les Petit Riens. The store is right nearby. I would have to recycle your items, or destroy them.”

“I do not want my books to be shredded,” I declared abashed. “That sounds horrible. I want my books to stay alive.”

We were out of the second-hand shop in no time. Before exiting the large room filled with books up the walls, we each had a few euros in our hands. In the meantime, our eyes were busy catching the scenery.

“What a place,” I said.

“Yes. They even have old vinyl records for sale,” Françoise noticed.

“Long-playing are back into fashion in Belgium,” I responded. “Cool.”

“One of my daughters enjoys listening to old recordings.”

“Does she own a vintage needle-phonograph?”

“Yes. I found one.” my girlfriend explained. “I know Brussels like the back of my hand.”

“Where are we going now?”

“We are going to a recycling warehouse and next to a donations store. Both are close by. Zut. Shoo,” Françoise said in French. “I forgot to feed the parking meter.”

“Oups.”

“No parking-ticket on my dashboard though. That is good news.”

Back into my girlfriend’s sizeable car, Françoise drove a few times around the small and busy streets of the Belgian capital in search of another parking spot. Our venture of the day was not over yet. Twelve o’clock was approaching on my watch, and at the same time Belgians stopped working to take a lunch break.

Accordingly, miniature cars made in Europe invaded the old narrow streets of Brussels. We had no luck. While driving around one more time, I spotted a well-known Brussels’ restaurant.

“I would love a bowl of onion soup,” I noted, “with melted cheese on the top.”

“That sounds good,” Françoise replied. “Do you want to try La Quicaillerie?”

“I have been there once, a long time ago,” I said. “I do not remember when and with whom though.”

“There is a public garage nearby,” my friend continued. “My car is too big. We will never find a parking spot around here.”

“Ok,” I answered. “Let us treat ourselves. We did well at the second-hand book store. And this might be the last time we are together, just the two of us, and for a while.”

“Yes, it might be the last time,” Françoise said sighing. “But I will come to visit.”

“I would love for you to come,” I will show you the California wine country, up north where you have not been yet.”

“We have Skype to see each other when we want.”

“Yes we do.”

“I will be nine hours ahead of you. Send me some pictures of your new home.”

“I love to take pictures.”

The small public garage solved our parking dilemma. With our warm coats, hats and gloves still on, we entered a former hardware-shop dating back in the days, and converted into a Belgian restaurant. Inside the Brasserie, a giant vintage clock faced us while standing proudly in the middle of the spacious eatery. Wrought iron railings divided the restaurant into sections but also levels. I counted two other upper levels, with row of tables looking down unto the main dining-room and the entrance door.

Right next to the entrance door, an oyster-bar displayed a variety of oysters coming from France. We both stared. A female hostess showed us to an empty table. Our modern napkins were identical culinary magazines specialized in French Oysters.

“Yum,” I uttered. “I might have to order some oysters.”

“Oui. Yes,” Françoise said in French. “I will have some too.”

Quickly, a waitress came and took our orders. Shortly after, two plates filled with shaved ice revealed six medium oysters per order and pieces of cut lemons. A plate staging well-buttered pieces of bread also accompanied our orders.

“I am glad we came,” Françoise said.

“I am glad too. This is great. I love oysters with a zest of lemon.”

“I prefer my oysters with pepper.”

Time stopped as we began eating our sea food. For a few minutes, my mind traveled to Northern California and the Seafood Peddlers Restaurant. While living in San Rafael, with a friend I often sampled Pacific oysters in the popular eatery that has acquired a new name.

New diners entered the Belgian restaurant occupying empty tables near us. I traveled back into reality. More plates of oysters passed us by.

“I will have a light beer on tap with my oysters,” Françoise asked our waitress.

“I will take a Verveine tea,” I said. “I am cold.”

“We need to treat ourselves,” my girlfriend retorted. “Even though we both felt tired this morning, we were both very effective today.”

“Absolutely,” I replied, “we deserve a treat.”

That morning, Françoise and I had both lacked motivation and energy. Around eleven o’clock we had eventually aimed for a cold outing in the crowded capital of Brussels.

The books we did not sell to the second-hand books store were given to a Belgian organization I translated into: The Little Nothing. The second-hand shop only accepts donations, and then sells back to the public a large array of donated things: clothing, furniture, literature, music and probably more.

Without hesitation, our unsold books and CDs were accepted at the very large recycling shop. Françoise’s old skis and boots were also accepted at no cost at the Brussels’ governmental recycling organization.

We had a good day. The oysters we ate gave us the extra energy we needed to continue a day that was moving forwards. Yet the oysters Françoise and I shared made me forget about the books I had sadly left behind. Our trying venture and celebration in Brussels will stay and travel with me.

 

A Summer Without Bees

 

            Last year, rain frequently visited Belgium. By summer constant rainfalls turned everything green in the Belgian countryside. Trees got taller, shrubs and green grass thrived while transforming my sister’s garden into a lush and back to wild landscape.

 

A variety of birds reside in Mariane’s large yard, chirping out loud throughout the seasons. By early summer, the giant leaves of a Catalpa tree standing tall and wide in the middle of her green garden offered an ideal refuge for birds waiting for the rain to stop falling so hard.

 

 

During wet summer days, frogs in search of food also wandered the lush green grass my sister seeded years ago. Last year’s brief summery season was especially warm and the air infested with mosquitoes. Sleeping with an open window became a challenge for me. The miniature pests loved feeding on my skin.

 

Not many Belgians use mosquito-screens in their homes. I do not understand why. Hopefully the Nile virus that is now affecting Northern California has not reached Belgium yet. For a short amount of time, last summer sun smiled on the Northern European country mimicking the tropics. The temperature reached 90 degrees Fahrenheit, all the while exuding extreme humidity.

 

On the rare occasions the sun did shine, birds seemed especially merry. While rising with an early sun, diverse Belgian birds daily performed a variety of morning songs and calls while humans were still in bed and perhaps trying to stay asleep. Each day, the early birds’ songs awoke me and kept me awake. Unfortunately, the European summer sun did not radiate for very long. Rain and cold temperatures quickly returned into the Belgian forecast.

 

One wet day, while on one of my morning outings and visits to my neighbors, the elderly couple welcomed me with a Belgian beer. Willy served me the amber beverage in a specific beer-glass. For the first time I tasted a Belgian beer made in a town called Silly. While sitting at the kitchen table and sipping my ale, I said: 

 

“Do you know what the word Silly means in English?” 

 

“Hmmm?” responded Gilberte.

 

“Stupid could be one synonym. It is the same word in English and French,” I explained.

 

“Ah,” the red-hair lady said slightly puzzled. “I do not speak French very well. My first language is Flemish.”

 

“Your French is fine. My Flemish is not that great,” I responded.

 

“I speak Walloon,” Gilberte’s husband interjected while heading to a backroom connecting to the kitchen.

 

“I do not speak Walloon but I can guess some words,” I said smiling at the old man who proceeded to ride a stationary bicycle located in an area that looked like a storage room.

 

“How do you like the rainy Belgian climate?” Gilberte jokingly inquired. “My right leg is giving me a hard time right now.”

 

 

“I am having a hard time too, and I am not the only one,” I retorted. “I do not like rain, and my sister’s vegetable indoor garden is not doing well either. The two eggplants I planted in the glass house are not producing, the tomato plants are diseased, and the lettuces are eaten by slugs.”

 

 

“There a no bees out there,” Gilberte further explained. “Like you, I do not think bees like rain.”

 

“Did you put nettle-leaves in the soil before planting your tomato plants?” the aging man asked while pedaling on an indoor bike that couldn’t move forward.

 

“I did not know that nettle-leaves prevent mildew on tomato plants,” I replied. “There are plenty of nettles growing wild everywhere around here. Great advice. Thank you Willy.”

 

“I already told your sister,” he said while sipping from a large glass of French Pastis and still pedaling.

 

“My sister is very forgetful nowadays,” I said. “She did not tell me.”

 

“I always put half-orange peelings near my growing lettuces, even inside my glass house,” Gilberte added. “We each drink a glass of orange juice every day. Slugs love it too, and then they die.”

 

“How interesting,” I retorted. “My stomach does not agree with orange juice. But I do like beer.”

 

“Slugs like beer too. You could place a bowl filled with beer near your small growing lettuces,” continued my hostess. “It works.”

 

 

“Have another glass of beer,” interrupted my friendly male-neighbor who had just finished his daily exercise.

 

“No, thank you,” I answered. “I enjoyed the Belgian beer you just offered me. I had not tried that variety yet.”

 

“Come again,” said the gray-hair man.

 

“I will help you to the door,” continued Gilberte while limping to her entrance door.

 

“Have a good day. See you next time. Thank you for the beer,” I finished saying, “Goodbye.”

 

“Rex. Sit,” the lady voiced towards her rambunctious dog, meanwhile turning the key and opening the locked door. “See you next time.”

 

Feeling relaxed after ingesting a beer before lunch, I went back to my sister’s home and started preparing a midday meal. I made a salad, with the lettuces I had saved from the voracious slugs. I did not know about the deadly power of oranges. Every morning I had hunted for slugs, picking the slimy visitors one by one, while disregarding them at the end of my sister’s outdoor property and where farmlands began. The next day, the crawling creatures were back.

 

Instead of using half-orange peelings to divert slugs’ insatiable appeal and appetite towards lettuces, I covered each shoot with a transparent globe that included a hole at the top, to let air in. The French children book called “The Little Prince,” gave me the idea. But I did not use a glass-globe to protect a precious rose. Instead, I used a variety of empty plastic containers – recycled one-gallon plastic water-bottles – that protected my growing lettuces from hungry invaders.

 

Yet the eggplants I had planted gave me great concern. The small shrubs garnished of many light-purple flowers all died instead of growing into good looking vegetables with smooth skins and a burgundy coloring. I reflected awhile on the subject and eventually remembered.

 

 

While still living in Northern California, I had seen a documentary on China. One part of the documentary focused on a region in China where pears used to grow in abundance, thanks to an affluence of bees. Amidst a large orchard of pear trees, one old Chinese man explained to a camera that all the fruit-flowers in his orchard were now pollinized by hand. On camera, the wise man also revealed the small brush he used to perform his delicate and tedious work. He looked proud of his accomplishment. Pollinized flowers turned into pears.

 

“One flower at the time,” the Chinese man said. “Since bees have stopped coming.”

 

I wanted to try, and I did. Using a small painting brush, I delicately touched each flower growing on one eggplant. With the same brush-pencil I furthermore touched the other eggplant also garnished of flowers. The little yellow flowers timidly surviving on the tomato plants faced the same treatment, while tomato mildew kept on creeping.

 

A few weeks later, I saw the results of my labor on some of the plants growing in Mariane’s green house. Small dark purple eggplants started becoming. My sister was happy. I was happy too. Unfortunately, we ate very few organic tomatoes that summer. The invasive mildew refrained tomato plants from developing into healthy vines and tasteful fruits.

 

 Nevertheless, learning from the wisdom of my elderly neighbors and an old Chinaman, I hold now a few farming secrets.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Hunters, the Chickens and the Fox

 

One evening, I heard guns firing in the near distance. Hunting season had just begun in the Belgian countryside. While on one of my regular outings, I saw a gathering of hunting men wearing gears dyed in the colors of falling leaves. I saw human predators long riffles in hands – hunting dogs waiting at their knees – encircling a large piece of farming land dressed in a wintry brown coat. Listening to the sound of guns, I remembered the story my neighbor Gilberte told me.

The country lady lives with her husband a few doors down the street or more exactly down a countryside road. Farming lands surround the Belgian landscape, including fenced fields with grazing cows, horses but also sheep and geese.

One morning, while visiting my neighbor with the intention of buying fresh organic eggs conceived in her garden, a conversation begun.

“Hunting season has just begun,” the Belgian lady said in French.

“What do they hunt?” I asked.

“Pheasants and hares,” the elderly woman explained.

“Can I have some eggs today,” I inquired. “I’ll take whatever you have.”

“I have plenty of eggs right now. You can have as many as you want.”

“Your chickens must be happy.”

“Yes, my chickens are feeling better. They don’t seem traumatized at the moment.”

“What happened?”

“My poor chickens stopped producing eggs for a while,” Gilberte explained. “A fox came to visit. I lost three of my young chicks. The fox took them.”

“There are still wild foxes in Belgium?”

“Too many foxes around here,” the elderly lady proclaimed. “My chickens can’t come and go as they wish anymore. Now I have to call them at night and lock them into their den where they are safe from that fox.”

“The fox entered their enclosed den?”

“Yes, through the cat-door my husband had built,” Gilberte further explained. “I wish the hunters would kill a few.”

“Foxes need to eat too,” I retaliated.

“There are plenty of pheasants to hunt in the neighborhood. Foxes should leave my chickens alone,” the lady proclaimed a little aggravated.

“I guess coming in your yard and stealing your chicks is easier than chasing pheasants for kilometers on open lands.”

“My poor chicks,” she exclaimed sniffling. “And the few survivors left had to witness their kin killed in front of their beaks. My poor babies, just born and already dead.”

“Your chickens have been traumatized by the big bad fox,” I jokingly replied while smiling. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you. You can have six eggs,” Gilberte said smiling back, “fresh from today and still warm.”

“I can’t wait to have a soft egg for lunch,” I finished saying.

While walking with a limp, the red-hair lady escorted me to the entrance door, her bulky furry dog following close by. I left my neighbor in good spirits and headed back to my sister’s home. Outside the air was cold and I walked fast, ready to be indoors again.

That evening while reflecting on Gilberte’s words, I saw the world with a different eye. Of course, I meant to speak for the sake of the big bad fox that proudly tries to survive amidst humans and limited territories. Yet at the same time, I also felt sorry for the death of Gilberte’s chicks and the post hunting trauma the surviving chickens had endured. I do enjoy eating eggs.

Laughing out Loud

 

It was a typical Northern California winter, with heavy rain and high humidity. My bones were cold and in need of warmth. I wanted to hibernate. Sitting in front of a blazing wooden-fire burning with high flames, a pleasant heat pervaded my living room. I didn’t want to go out. But I was supposed to have lunch with my girlfriend Laurie at the Bon Air Shopping Center. Courageously, I affronted the tempest. We met at Noah’s Bagel and ordered our favorite food. While savoring a poppy-seed bagel and sipping a hot latte, I started complaining about being cold to my girlfriend. She listened and said:

“It is not that cold. I thought you were born in Belgium, where the weather is much colder than here.”

“I was born in Africa where the weather is always warm,” I responded, waiting for my friend’s response.

“You were born in Africa? I didn’t know that.”

“My Aunt Lucy was born in Africa.”

“Really!?”

“Today, Aunt Lucy is a little over three thousand years old,” I explained with a smile.

“Ha, ha, ha …,” my friend laughed understanding my joke.

“Aunt Lucy is supposedly your Aunt too,” I explained with a big smile. “She’s the Aunt of all human beings. She is one of the known links in humanity’s ancestry that started in Ethiopia.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that theory before,” Laurie answered poking me with her elbow and continuing to laugh.

Seeing her laughing, I started laughing too. Laurie’s laugh was as contagious as a yawn. The contagious laugh didn’t clear easily either. Then, it was time for paper-tissues as my nose started running. One might have thought we had smoked a joint but we hadn’t. It was all genuine and innocent. We couldn’t stop laughing. We laughed a very long time while tears of joy invaded our eyes.

On another outing with my girlfriend, Laurie and I went to the movie theater in San Rafael. We were going to see a French movie.

“The movie is in French with English subtitles,” my girlfriend continued. “It should be easy for you.”

“Yes, I should be fine,” I replied. “It will be good practice. I’m losing my French these days. I can’t find certain words in French when I talk to my mother on the phone.”

“That is not funny.”

“If you don’t use it, you lose it,” I said remembering a famous American expression.

In the dark amphitheater of the movie house, we sat in the back rows popcorns in hand.

Movie trailers started unfolding onto the giant screen. The Northern California movie-theater advertised for new movies that would be showing in a near future. The theater room was packed with Marin residents in search of an evening of entertainment. As it happened, a violent film was eventually promoted on the screen. The trailer for the movie didn’t appeal to me. Without a conscious control of my thoughts, my mouth exclaimed out loud:

“I don’t think so.”

Laurie started to laugh, everyone in the room started to laugh.

“Oups,” I said softly to my girlfriend.

 Staring at Laurie, I started to laugh as well.

When the next advertisement for another movie came onto the screen, Laurie and I were still laughing. Waves of laughs bounced back between us like a ping pong ball. Again, we couldn’t stop. Tears began to drip down my cheeks while my hand desperately searched for tissues.

“Shhhhhhhhhhh,” said the crowd.

Our French movie was starting and we were able to stop our compulsive behavior. While eating warm popcorns, we stared at the big screen. The title: “La Vie en Rose” appeared in gigantic letters and the famous Edith Piaf song began to play. With my girlfriend, I discovered the tragic life story of the notorious French singer. I was glad to have extra tissues with me. I hadn’t cried in a movie for years. Walking out of the theater Laurie said:

“You know. You are part of our family.”

“My adopted family,” I responded with a smile. “A very nice one.”

And we hugged.

Back in Belgium for more than a year, I miss Laurie’s hugs. I miss all my California friends’ hugs. Belgians don’t hug, they kiss. In Belgium one kiss on the cheek is usually the custom. On the bright side of life, laughing seems universal and a human need. Most humans enjoy a good laugh. Yet laughs and tears seem of opposite forces. While tears often come from sorrow, sometimes tears are pearls of joy. I miss great laughing with Laurie.

 

 

 

The End

 

 

Best Friends

While growing up in Belgium, I had a few friends. At the time, my girlfriend Catherine was my best friend. For a while we shared a small apartment at the edge of Brussels. One summer afternoon, Catherine phoned me at work.

“Can you stop by my mother’s work and convince her that I’m fine,” my best friend said. “She’s worrying about me.”

“Ok,” I answered. “I’ll be home around 7pm. I’m so glad you are feeling better.”

Arriving home that evening, I found my best friend in bed. Her face was colorless, her body inert. At first I thought she was asleep. Then I worried.

“Catherine,” I exclaimed. “I’m home.”

But Catherine wouldn’t wake up. I touched one of her hands. Her hand felt cold. Hastily I phoned 911. Ten minutes later an ambulance arrived. A few men tried to reanimate my friend but without success. So they took her to the hospital.  

A few weeks earlier, Catherine and I had spoken.

“I dreamed about you,” I’d said. “In my dream, you told me that you were dead even though you looked alive and talked to me.”

“That’s funny,” Catherine had retorted laughing. “I’ve been thinking about committing suicide. I know the right pills to swallow.”

“Are you joking? What about your family, your friends,” I’d said. “What about me.”

“Yes, I know,” she’d retorted. “But I’m in so much pain. I don’t feel like living these days.”

My girlfriend’s laughs and words had startled me. I knew Catherine wasn’t well. Her boyfriend had left her for another woman. A psychologist was supposedly helping her deal with her heartache. In a way, I thought she was safe. I was mistaken.

For weeks, Catherine stayed in intensive care at one of Brussels’ hospitals. She was in a coma. While her body looked rosy and healthy, her brain was presumably dead. Every other day I went to visit my best friend at the hospital. Holding one of her hands in mine, I talked to her. I begged her:

“Please wake up.”

But my girlfriend wouldn’t wake up. Eventually, the doctor in charge disconnected her from life support. In a few minutes my best friend was gone.

The death of Catherine changed my life. I felt guilty for not being able to help my best friend. I felt guilty for arriving home too late. I should have taken my dream seriously. Shortly after Catherine’s funeral, I talked to my mother.

“I’m going to quit my job and leave Belgium,” I simply said. “I’m going to America.”

“You are?” she replied. “You know your father wouldn’t approve.”

“But dad is dead,” I continued. “He died last year. I need space. I need to see the world.”

“Do what you have to do then,” my mother finally responded.

“Thank you,” I finally replied. “If I don’t go, I’ll die too.”

Before leaving Belgium, I didn’t have the courage to say goodbye to some of my friends. I was feeling sad, angry and lonesome. In Europe, psychologists were only starting to become popular. Catherine was seeing one before she died, and what help did she get? Thus, I left my native country like a thief, fleeing away with my sorrows.

By the beginning of autumn, I was heading towards Northern California. I had a friend there. Michaela and I had met a few years earlier, while I was backpacking along the California coastline.

“You are welcome to stay with me in Mill Valley,” explained Michaela when I phoned her.

“That’s sounds wonderful. Thank you.”

Mill Valley is located in Marin, north of San Francisco and the Golden Gate Bridge. The small town features a large square, with various shops, restaurants and cafés. Hills and redwood trees also share the town’s landscape.

While my new life felt therapeutic, I often cried. My dreams where loaded with my best friend’s memories. Catherine’s ghost was playing tricks on me.

“Did anyone in Belgium tell you that I didn’t die after all,” the ghost in my dream said.

“No, no one told me,” I replied. “I’m so happy. I’ve been crying over you for months.”

“I’m alive and well,” the ghost explained.

Yet as soon as I awoke, reality returned. For years I kept on dreaming similar scenarios, until one night.

“Take me to California,” Catherine’s ghost once asked me.

“You’ll have to ride on my back,” I replied. “Where do you want to go?”

“To Stinson Beach,” she said knowing where I had been.

This time in my dream, I was a Bald eagle. Catherine sitting on my back, we flew together across the Atlantic and towards the Pacific Ocean. Our journey only took a few seconds. Quickly my sharp bird’s eyes located Stinson Beach while discerning a few miniature human buildings along Highway 1.

“I need to eat,” I said to Catherine.

“I’m hungry too,” she replied.

“Let’s go to The Sand Dollar Restaurant,” I explained. “I want salmon.”

Although I had metamorphosed into a bird, my girlfriend had remained human. She was holding my white neck with her two hands, her feet and legs tightly embracing my feathered body.

“There it is,” I said. “Hold on tight. We’re going to land.”

Adjusting my claws, I landed smoothly on the one of the tables in the restaurant’s outdoor terrace. We sat in the two last empty chairs. A waitress came fast. She didn’t seem startled about my transformation. The many customers already sitting and eating didn’t seem to care either. Catherine couldn’t speak English, so I ordered.

“Two bagels with cream cheese and lox please,” I said to the waitress.

After ingesting our lunch, we left the beach café and headed east towards Belgium. While flying away, we slowly vanished into annihilation. Today, often still, Catherine and I meet in a reality solely existing in my dreams.