Stories

Now the party’s over,
feel so tired…

Avalon, by Roxy Music

This song perfectly describes my mood. I am on a slower pace right now.

We still have those long summer evenings here in Belgium, where it’s ideal to stay outdoors and read. I just started The Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway. Good to enhance my English a bit.

I also need to work on my Italian.  The past year I didn’t practice enough Italian, blame on me.   But from my niece Anouk, I received an Italian book for my birthday: Io non ho paura, by Niccolò Ammaniti. I was able to translate the title: “I am not afraid.” My abilities ended by the first page, I am afraid …

Anouk put a beautiful quote on the first page:

Il segreto per rimanere giovani sta nell’avere una sregolata passione per il piacere
A passion for pleasure is the secret of remaining young, by Oscar Wilde

I do prefer the Italian version!

Going to Puglia several times helped my Italian a little, of course. I also watched an Italian series on politics and the mafia, mingled with a lot of intrigue. It is called 1992. Set in Rome, Milan and different Italian cities, the TV series follows six people whose lives are intertwined with the rapidly changing political landscape in the early 1990s, during which Italy was gripped by the Clean Hands “Mani Pulite” investigation into political corruption. It is being shown on Belgian TV again this summer.

One Friday night I was watching it, a glass of white wine accompanying me, when Oldest came home with a friend. They were at a barbecue and it was getting cold by now, and Oldest hurried upstairs to pick up a vest.

His friend came into the living room to say hi, smack in the middle of a very explicit sex scene. It was too late to zap it away and I could feel my cheeks getting red.

“Hi, Sophie, you ok?”
“Sure, I …” while secretly watching the screen again, hoping it was over now, but no, still full action, doggy-style.
“Watching a bit of porn, are you?” Big smile.
“No! I am learning Italian, this is about politics in the early nineties and …”
“Yeah, right.”

The moment was too funny not to share with friends, but now whenever I say I am learning Italian, I get a wink in return.

One of those days…

Last Friday was supposed to be a fun day. I was spoiled with a pedicure – a Mother’s Day gift, thanks, children! – and then drove off with Daughter to Ikea, looking for some vases for my outdoor family party. I actually bought salmon pink carafes, which can be used as a vase too… Filled with some wild flowers, it should give an instant summer feeling. But more on flowers next week.

Daughter and I enjoyed a quick lunch at Ikea. I chose some on-the-spot grilled scampi (almost looked like a fancy restaurant) with rice, veggies and a coconut curry. Then we went to pick up Youngest, who was coming home to study for the weekend.

I parked hubbie’s car next to the entrance of the dorm. When all the luggage was packed in the back of the car, I asked Youngest how his last exam went. He answered while I started the car, but his response was drowned out by a strange, scraping noise, and I felt something blocking me from moving forward. I stopped the car. “The bench!”, Youngest screamed. There is a wooden picnic bench placed next to the wall (not the ideal spot if you ask me). I had hit the bench, and now it was wedged between the car and the wall. We first tried to lift the bench. It wouldn’t move, and if we forced it, we’d make more scratches on the car (hubbie’s new car!). I stepped back in the car and tried to maneuver forward or backwards, but it was obvious that moving either way would bring more damage. I saw a woman across the street and asked her for screw drivers. Not a solution either–the screws of the bench were totally rusted. Continue Reading

At the beginning of this school year, I was a little scared, dreading that new phase in life where all birdies will have flown out… The empty nest syndrome, yes! Youngest started college and would be living in another town during the week. Oldest was looking for a job, preferably abroad. And Daughter started her last year of studying, also living elsewhere. So it would just be hubbie and me on weekdays.

To comfort myself, I started listing the advantages of having more time and more freedom: less cleaning, cooking, grocery shopping, ironing, tidying up and much more freedom for hobbies, courses, friends.

Very soon I realized the list with advantages was long. Filling up that extra time was easy.

With the school year now coming to an end, I can tell you I didn’t suffer from any syndrome at all.

While the weekdays are calm, the weekends are crowded. We always have extra guests, staying overnight in our finished basement. Oldest and Daughter have a steady girl/boyfriend, and they stay for lunch, dinner and sometimes breakfast. And youngest likes to bring home a bunch of friends in the evenings.  A full nest, yes.  The birdies didn’t fly that far.

In one of my other posts I told you I wrote a diary for my children. If you still have young children, this is a very personal and special gift you can hand over to your children when they are older. We take so many (too many, if you ask me) pictures nowadays, that it becomes less special to look at. And a picture by itself doesn’t always tell enough. Written memories and stories are unique. I started writing when Oldest was four. As a young mother, I felt the urge to go back to my own childhood to compare how my parents dealt with raising children.  But it was hard to do.  My mother passed away when I was young, and memories fade so easily.  I decided it was important to capture both special and also day-to-day ordinary moments in my book. I didn’t have the time to write each day, just a page every few months: a few anecdotes, some achievements, but also events on a larger scale, how the world was changing and how things could have an impact on their lives in the future. Why we, as parents, made certain decisions, which often they could not understand being a child but hopefully would appreciate as grown-ups…. I printed a copy for each child, and gave it to them for their eighteenth birthday. They were so appreciative, very grateful, and loved rereading all those faraway memories.

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Do you have any charactaristics you’re a bit embarrassed about? I do. I am a groupie–a huge fan!–of a big writer. Now, some of you might not understand. But just compare it to being a fan of a major rock star. How would you feel spending time with him in person?

I worked for an organization and had the glorious task of inviting the great worldwide admired writer to speak to us. He would be given an award from us. Writing the invitation (signed by someone else) was a challenge all by itself. But he answered yes!

It has been two years since this all happened–when I met him, the great writer, at the Brussels airport at 7 am on a sunny Monday morning, still cold for the middle of March.

I had read all his books by then, trying to get an idea of the man behind the words. This vision didn’t coincide with the high or rather weird demands his assistant required for his stay in our country and the very stringent specifications for the speech he had to give as acknowledgement for his award. He wanted to stay in a boat. No filming during his speech. He preferred not to see the audience while speeching. I had to send a picture of myself a few weeks before his visit, with the clothes I would wear then, so he would certainly recognize me.

But I had seen his picture, so with sleepy eyes I was staring at the sliding doors, scanning every human being as they arrived. I was wearing a black leather jacket, jeans and sneakers and a long woolen scarf–the same outfit in the picture. No way I was going to stand there with a banner with his name on it. I was leaning on the railing, a brown bag with a granola bar in my hand. That was what he preferred, should he be hungry.

All of a sudden I felt eyes gazing at my back. I turned around and saw him looking at me, in the middle of the big hall, one small suitcase in his hand, a bag over his shoulder and a baseball cap almost covering his eyes. I walked over to him (almost ran into his arms, I admit) and called his name, as if to check it were really him. And I started my nervous, over concerned babbling:

• How are you?
• Were you able to sleep on the plane?
• Are you hungry?
• Do you need to use the bathroom before we leave?

He answered calmly and without mocking me.

As we walked to the car, I became more nervous by the minute. When we stepped into the black Volvo I thought: how the hell am I going to drive to Ghent, with him sitting next to me? I had prepared everything to make it run smoothly. I had already put the address into the navigation system, and I had made a nice playlist on my phone, some not too commercial background music. But after alt-J’s edgy’s voice ‘triangles are my favorite shape, three points and two lines’, the connection broke off, and a noisy Radio station spoiled the atmosphere. So much for preparation.

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