Learning.

483. You learn to speak by speaking, to study by studying, to run by running, to work by working; in just the same way, you learn to love by loving. -- Anatole France. 

How to spend a Friday evening. Part 2. 

Stop making excuses like (a) you are feeling really grumpy at the moment, thanks to an unsolicited reminder from Facebook of what happened this day in 2009, (b) you do not have rice paper, the single most important ingredient, (c) your friends most likely have never tasted nuoc cham, the traditional accompanying sauce for Vietnamese cold rolls -- it will be too strong for them, (d) your cooking is, well, there was the "unconventional" first version of your cornbread, (e) etc. Just shop for whatever it takes and make the cold rolls. You can learn to make cold rolls only by making cold rolls. In any case, you have made them before, in your early teenage years, still living at home, protected by familial love and home-cooking. Your cold rolls will turn out OK. Even if they don't, your friends will be polite enough to smile and eat the rolls anyway. Make spring rolls too, because some of your friends prefer deep-fried entrées over cold ones. Even if you can't test the final (non-pescetarian) products, your friends will; hopefully, their politeness is boundless. 

Most likely, it will be, because they know what it is like to make the efforts to cook for someone else. Rosalina and Professor E. Gadd will shop for the French counterparts of the Italian ingredients for their delicious red wine and red chicory risotto, walk an hour to your apartment, painstakingly prepare the main meal on a proper pot borrowed from Catherine and delivered by Princess Peach, and then create both Parmersan and Camembert versions to suit everyone. Princess Peach will mix, from home, a second batch of yummy zucchini dough within twenty four hours, then bake it in your oven; the bread itself an equal success, the overall taste enhanced by creamy vanilla ice-cream, the proverbial cherry on the cake.

Somehow, between leisurely enjoying your friends' food (and, surprisingly, even your own), learning how to write the seven deadly sins in five different languages and listening to self-confessions for most and least applicable sins (the former being Sloth for all of your friends, the very same ones who have just spent all this time cooking), your grumpiness will slowly seep away, unnoticed. You will, however, feel slightly embarrassed when your flatmate, who -- after being conveniently busy when found out that you were cooking -- comes home just in time for dessert, and then promptly says out loud, without the slightest hesitation, what (he thinks) your most applicable sin is, which is not your proposed Gluttony and obviously not Sloth. Realizing the implication of your flatmate's assessment, everyone will laugh, Catherine commenting on how you should talk less to your male flatmate and more to your female friends. 

Then, you will feel really embarrassed, because when it is your turn to point out the most applicable sin of your flatmate, you say Sloth, and then, without thinking, adding that you choose it not because Yoshi is lazy, but because nothing else fits. Everyone will go, awwww, at the expense of your red face, but thankfully, they will quickly move on to other topics. Like, whether or not it is a good thing to have your child born on your own birthday (yes, from the guests, and no, from the hosts), Princess Peach teasing the hosts for having not yet developed parental feelings, Yoshi self-defending by pointing out that he is not thirty, not knowing that every single guest turns thirty at one point this year. Like, how to Mohawk and dye hair for hamsters, Professor E. Gadd, a thirty-year-old-to-be, humanly whacking an imaginary hamster onto the edge of the dining table. 

By the time the late-night monopoly game is over and the hamster killer, having almost bankrupted the bank, is crowned billionaire, you will have completely forgotten about your Facebook status on this day in 2009, just like you have long forgotten about all the subsequent online congratulations, back in the days when you knew how to love someone unconditionally. Tell your visibly exhausted flatmate, who is pushing the dining table back against the fake fireplace, that he can go to sleep if he wants to. Being a boy, Yoshi will immediately take your offer and say goodnight. As the clock strikes two, you start the dish washer and wash up pots and plates that did not fit in. Of course they can wait until tomorrow, but it would be nicer if your flatmate does not wake up to a messy kitchen. Silently thank God (or, more realistically, your parents) that you still remember how to make cold rolls. Maybe you will also remember how to love someone unconditionally, when the time comes.

Tattoo.

328. "sings, 'All my friends are gettin' ma-rried...", reads a Facebooker's status, which sums up perfectly the recent shift in the Facebook contents of your friends. One blink, and instead of posting "Last night was so wicked we should totally hit da club again!!" and "NO MORE VODKA!!", your friends are now uploading wedding photos and, in some cases, videos of their toddlers crawling on the floor, nose dripping, face smeared with baby food in a way that is completely hilarious to the parents but awfully gross to everyone else. After the first one or two videos, you learn to stop watching, and politely coo, "aww", when the parents ask if you have seen the videos, then, without waiting for your reply, describe to you something else, also completely hilarious, that their children did today.

And then, once in a while, a friend shows you a picture of her children -- or monsters, as she lovingly calls them -- and you find yourself asking her, sincerely, if you could steal one of her monsters. Reasonably enough, she turns you down, so you settle for staring dreamily at the photograph, wondering where you can kidnap monsters like hers.  

329. On the way back from lunch. "So what did your parents get you?" I ask the birthday girl. Without missing a beat, Zoe replies, "a tattoo", and both of us dissolve into laughter. "This would be such a great line, in many decades to come. Remember that year, when I turned thirty... " I paint the picture. "And I got so many tattoos," Zoe continues. "The one on the left arm is from my parents..." I point at an imaginary tattoo on my own left arm. "And the one on the right arm is from my friends..." Zoe smiles, and I am relieved at how well she has been reacting to the full-service Body & Piercing voucher, a birthday present that the collective twenty of her friends have lovingly chosen and prepared. 

In the two weeks since my initial email, fifty emails have accumulated (and this is only counting the ones that included myself) and numerous hours of debates in person have passed (admittedly almost a third of it was more or less along the same line of, "This will be an AWESOME present! Make sure you take photos!"), during which, among other remarkable things, the usually controversial Bowser demonstrated a hitherto hidden sweet side and the timid Pierre actively participated in the contribution of gift ideas. Earlier today, even the elusive FL came out of hibernation to join us at lunch. Unbeknown to me at the time, he also brought to work his fancy camera, which was left behind in the office due to miscommunication with me about when exactly the present would be given. As it was, we only had my toy-like Nikon during lunch, and the few photos that I took of the momentous moment when Zoe received her present speak more about the reactions of everyone else (trying, and failing, not to laugh) than of Zoe, who hid from my camera behind the birthday card. This probably says it all about the present selection, especially when five of us voters were at the dinner where Zoe, asked if she would ever get a tattoo and in an attempt of appearing brave and life-embracing, feebly suggested that she might one day.

In all likelihood, she probably will not, but I hope that this memory will stay with her like an indelible tattoo. And, just in case Zoe gets a personality transplant between now and the end of her life and decides that she wants a dragon tattoo after all, there will always be that 200-something-euro voucher that she received for her thirtieth birthday. Her parents are probably cursing themselves for not having thought of such a genius present.

330. By Professor E. Gadd and Rosalina.

Alternate reality

Everything started with Toadette trying to arrange «her Mario party», we happily embarked ourself in this adventure, but little did we know about the fact that it was going to be a "real" Mario party.

The astute Toadette asked Rosalina and me if we wanted to join Princess Peach to play Super Mario Party on Tuesday evening. The location was already set: the castle of Princess Peach, the invitees also: Rosalina and me, Toadette, Princess Peach and Yoshi, and of course Catherine. Toadette was so enthusiastic of having all these Super Mario characters under the same roof, that she immediately called Catherine to press her to borrow a copy of Mario Party from the local library for that evening.

Only later we discovered that it was a real party and that we were celebrating Princess Peach's birthday. Toadette cunningly sat us down in our predetermined seats, the play started, and we were all unwitting pawns in the hands of a concealed puppeteer, oblivious of the fact that we would never play Super Mario, at least not with the Wii-motes.

Mario was the most notable absentee, he was probably busy fighting against evil enemies, and Bowser had carte blanche to handily conquer Peach’s castle. When he arrived to the party, he quickly monopolised our attention stealing all the spotlight from the birthday girl. He knowingly lost a bet he could never win. Of course he did not put money on it. Instead he smartly managed to make TPC to beg him to remove his clothes. He never removed them, he just kept amusing himself with TPC asking for his furry torso the whole evening. He is such an old sea dog…

But the real objective of Bowser was to conquer the heart of Princess Peach, that’s the reason why he always kidnaps her in the game, isn’t it? [Moreover Yoshi was gone, and] all this continuous arguing between them has to be rooted somewhere...

He was trying to make her jealous by peeving Catherine, or by cooing with Toadette romantically enshrouded by the dim warm light behind the table. When he started to sing «On s'en fout, on n'y va pas, on n'a qu'à se cacher sous les draps…», Princess Peach glanced at him with a sly look, she joined him in the song and we all thought it was in the bag. But then something unexpected happened. After the song, he stood up, he walked offhand towards Toadette, he swiftly took her hand in his, with such nonchalance as it was completely normal, as it was the only very thing to do in that moment… Toadette couldn’t believe it, she was visibly thrilled, radiant with a smile no one before us ever witnessed; one hand in his, and the other adjusting the hairs behind her ear, in a typical female quirk that revealed all her delight.

In the end there was just an unanswered question, why did we not play with the Wii?

オヤ・マー博士

New York, New York I.

217. Feeling incredibly excited, as reality has finally sunk in. I am back to one of my favourite cities. Nevertheless, jet lag soon catches up, and instead of writing eloquently about how incredibly excited I am about being in New York, New York, I sent her a one-word email, "Zoeeeee!" 

Some ten minutes later, Zoe wrote back, with an important message. "Gazpaaaacho-y... Catherine wants a light-sabre from Times Square... she lost the second one in her first divorce :D"

218. "Can I borrow your converter?" she asks. Having brought with me a (borrowed) European-North American converter, I am for once actually more organized than Anna. "Sure, why not?" I tossed it over. As she caught the converter, something came to her mind. "Do you remember that getting converters was the first thing we did together?" "Uhm, what?" Jet lag is getting to her too, I think to myself. "In Belgium, I meant." 

October 2009. My international converter broke down on my first night in Brussels. A few days later, after patiently explaining to me where the cemetery, the GB and consequently the electronic store were and worrying that I would still get lost, Anna took me there. Since that day, the converter has remained in my office; Anna and I have become good friends, and are now beginning our sixth trip outside of Belgium together.

219. 8ish pm. Returning from 5 Napkin Burger and eager to sleep, only to find out that our swipe cards can no longer open the hotel room. 

Five minutes later. A phone call from the reception. "Geluck? It's me, Gazpacho. We are locked out of our hotel room, because apparently it has not been paid. Could you please come down and help us?"

8.30ish pm. Still at the reception. "At 3 pm," Geluck begins the story once again, after having been interrupted several times due to various phone calls to the reception, "I paid for one night for my room, and one night for their room. At 5:30 pm, we were informed that our rooms have been paid for, for the whole trip, an-" 

"Sir, you are yelling, and I don't appreciate that." 

"I am not yelling." Geluck says because, well, he is not yelling. 

"The room is not paid for," the African-American receptionist responded icily. 

"I signed two pieces of paper." Geluck can count. 

"I can't find the second one."

"So if you haven't found my piece of paper, I would be locked out of the room and out on the street too?" 

"You are not locked out of the room. Your room is paid for."

8.45ish pm. They have seemingly reached a compromise. 

"Can you please write down what you are telling me? Then I will pay for their room." 

"OK, sir, what do you want me to write?"

"Just what you have been saying."

With a slight shrug, the receptionist grabbed a nearby pen, started scribbling down on a small piece of paper. A few seconds later, a small poem was born.

    Room 508

    is not paid

    for I need a

    payment.

Her poetic talent, like Geluck's apparent yelling, is not appreciated either. 

"This is not good enough." 

"What do you want me to write?" 

"What you hav-" 

"Here, why don't you write it, and I'll sign?" 

On an A4 sheet, Geluck tells his story once more time. 

"Please sign this. I need your name, your signature, and your ID."

"What am I signing?"

"This."

She glances at Geluck's essay for two seconds. 

"I'm not signing this." 

We are back to square one.

Mysteries.

193. Saturday morning. Waking up. You slowly gain awareness of the world around you and of you yourself. The good thing is that you recognize the room you are in -- always a good start. The bad thing is that your head feels a little heavy, and you are hungry. These two feelings are not meant for each other, because then you want to sleep in a little more, and, at the same time, to get up to eat. Finally, food wins. Food invariably does. Carefully, you step out of bed, and, for once, you immediately get changed into something half-decent. A black pair of (short) shorts and a red top. The sort of clothes in which you could even leave the house. And, for once, you immediately comb your hair (still long at this stage). Looking at the mirror, you congratulate yourself for successfully hiding your hangover. Your flatmates will not know.

After all of that, at the sight of you casually walking into the living room, your flatmate -- himself lying on the couch watching cartoon on TV like a six-year-old boy -- starts laughing, without even so much as a "hello" or "good morning", even if he hasn't seen you at all since the day before yesterday. Or... has he?

194. Olivier Dachkin. On a comfy barber chair and in a ridiculously oversize barber coat. Waiting for the coiffeuse to start chopping off your long hair, you are flipping through a copy of Paris MATCH, a French weekly magazine. This issue's front cover features the most famous married couple of the year sitting in the royal carriage and waving hands in tandem, so, obviously, there are numerous pages devoted to the minutest details of the wedding. Pipa vole la vedette! La robe! Les baisers! Just as you are trying to figure out what is written about the bouquet (something something appelés "Sweet William"), your coiffeuse tells you, "Debout!" You are confused, because you think you know what debout means, and you think you hear correctly what she says, but putting the two together does not make sense. Seeing your hesitance, the coiffeuse motions you to stand up, and so you do, after reluctantly putting the Paris MATCH down.

She just wants to readjust your barber coat, you think to yourself. So you stand where you are. But, seemingly not interested in your barber coat in the slightest, she says something and -- seeing that you are completely lost -- impatiently taps on your shoulder, signaling you to move. As soon as you do, she pushes the chair forward and then directs you to where the chair was. As you switch places with the chair and now stand next to your coiffeuse, two realizations come to your mind: the first, slightly pleasant, is that you finally find someone in Brussels who is shorter than you, the second, slightly unpleasant, is that your coiffeuse now begins to work her scissors through your hair. Confused, your post-tequila brain halfheartedly attempts to formulate a French sentence, something along the line of, Why on earth do I have to stand, but you cannot work out how to say "Why on earth", and "Why" just does not seem sufficient, so you give up, and let she do what she wants. 

As your mind wanders in La La Land, suddenly, her thumb pokes your chin. "Pardon!" she hastily apologizes, then, remembering your complete lack of French, she tries, "Sorry!" "It's okay," you tell her. "No speak French?" "No, sorry." This news seems to disturb her, because the very next second she cuts herself. "Merde!" Without offering the English translation, she examines the bleeding finger, in a surprisingly calm and rather curious manner, as if she was wondering whether she could simply ignore the cut and get on with it. Watching her, you frantically try to say, in French, that you are very sorry for her bleeding finger but could she please not touch your hair with it, before she has the chance to actually do it. Unfortunately, if pre-tequila your French speaking is already at the speed of a snail, post-tequila it is at the speed of a snail who takes a nap after every second step. By the time you say, "Je suis d-", she is already walking off, leaving you alone, still in the ridiculously oversize barber coat, standing behind the barber chair, mouth open in mid-sentence and generally looking rather stupid. 

Another coiffeuse comes along. You ask if you could sit down, and, as if the whole standing episode never happened, she says yes, why could you not. Once you sit down, the new coiffeuse continues cutting off the other half of your hair. You wonder whether you should ask this girl why on earth you had to stand, but you still do not know the French translation of "Why on earth", so you pick up the magazine and go back to reading about the bouquet instead. You want to know what they wrote about "Sweet William."

195. "I like them blooooob," Catherine says, hands stretching imaginary bread dough to make a baguette, in a completely non-food-related conversation. Laughing at Catherine's description, Zoe comments, "Living with her is like a week's worth of blog posts." As I try to figure out in my head what I prefer, baguettes or bagels, I realize that I have never really thought about the question before. This is only one of tonight's numerous entertaining topics, most of which I rarely encounter at home, as both of my flatmates are boys. There is a lot to be said about being in a girls-only company. Some of the pluses, apart from stumbling upon the soul-searching question baguettes-or-bagels, include being fed yummy pasta alla carbonara and, some four hours later, being walked to the bike station under the "It does not smell like it is going to rain" rain. A minus, however, is that the name Luigi no longer simply refers to either a Super Mario character or our slender Danish colleague.

Catherine.

88. Scenes from a professional poker game. 
Zoe fills up her Brita. Sound of water trickling down. 

"That's funny," says Charlie, looking at the Brita. 

"That's funny?"

"Actually, that sound often makes me want to pee," says Miss I-Am-Sorry.

...

Bored with his cards, Charlie looks around. 

"Dry garlic! That's funny." 

"I'm having a feeling that you find everything funny." 

"You are not funny." 

...

Hugo takes a walk on a wild side and mixes his glass of water with 5ml of Coke Light. He tries to tempt Charlie into doing the same thing. 

"Want a Coke-tail?"

"That's not funny." 

89. Catherine comes home. "So, I was watching the wedding again today..."

90. Near midnight. On the way to a party. Things we share with every fellow tram passenger:

& Catherine is now relaxed, after having risked her life running across Boulevard Général Jacques to pee. 

& Catherine's colourful descriptions of USA-Anthem-Singer's relatives. 

& At the Longchamp stop, there is a dead bird. And a stone next to it. This is how we know the bird is dead. 

& Some onions apparently did not get caramelized. 

& We care more about USA-Anthem-Singer's relatives and his brother's hot girlfriend than about onions.

& USA-Anthem-Singer does not have with him a picture of his brother's hot girlfriend. 

& We are very disappointed. 

Red.

28. After twenty minutes of playing Set, in which we stare at cards of different colors and patterns to pick out specific combinations. 

The physicist: “I’m gonna fucking dream about this tonight.”

The computer scientist: “Yeah, I get that. Sometimes I dream about Tetris, rearranging all the blocks…”

The economist: “Me, I have these dreams after I play Mario. In my dream, I press all these buttons, and then I jump around, you know. And the music is playing in the background…”

29. The yummy but rather unfortunate-looking flan.

"It looks like brain," said Zoe. "Really? I hope this is not what my brain looks like," said Catherine. As she slightly pushed the plate around, the flan wavered back and forth. "So this is why I don't get any work done!" 

30. A rare sunny afternoon on a grassy lake bank at Place Flagey. We are testing out Zoe’s theory of sunglasses being categorized into three types: the ones that bring out the red element, the ones that bring out the green element, and the neutrals. Zoe’s oversized green-rimmed sunglasses apparently belong to the first.

As he passes me the sunglasses, FL: “Look at that guy in the red jacket.”

Turning around to see, me: “Which guy?”

Zoe: “I think it’s a woman.”

FL:  “I know he’s wearing a skirt, but…”

Me: “Is it a skirt?”

Zoe: “Yes, it is a skirt, and she is a woman.”

You be the judge.

While the gender of its owner might not be immediately clear, there’s no denying that the jacket is perfectly red, and so is my shoulder bag lying nearby. But, what is the best red item to test the sunglasses? 

FL’s head. 

(And not because of his flaming red hair.)