Disparu.

160. 9 am. A snapshot of a work Skype meeting.

Claire: Gazpacho-y?
Me: Claire?
C: c'est toi? 

M: Je ne suis pas Gazpacho-y.
C: ah c'est qui alors?
M: C'est sa mère.
C: Ooohhh
et elle est où Gazpacho?
M: Elle a disparu!
C: zut alors!
M: C'est très bizarre...
C: Bon, je vais dire ça à Geluck alors.
M: Donc, est-ce que tu as quelque chose à lui dire?
C: Non, en fait rien du tout, merci.
M: Bonne journée!
C: Allez, salut!

161. As customary, magazines often enlarge a sentence or a phrase out of an article, to emphasize a particular point. For this week's cover article Sex, Lies, Arrogance: What makes powerful men behave so badly? by its Editor-at-Large Nancy Gibbs, the TIME magazine highlights, "He had friends everywhere who called him far too brilliant to do anything so tawdry," a seemingly logical argument echoed by many journalists and several people I know, when supporting the hypothesis of DSK's innocence. Nancy Gibbs has written a second part to that sentence, "as though being smart and being decent were the same thing."

162. 7 pm. I come home to a complete silence. There is no sight of Gaston or Tintin. Because of a surprise birthday party for their mutual friend, our Tuesday tradition has been postponed to tomorrow. Even if we are not having dinner together, I have expected to at least see someone, given that the party is to be held at our place. Strange...

8 pm. The apartment is still eerily quiet. "Where are you guys?" I send them a message, just before getting into the shower. Turning on the radio, I try to imagine what went through our landlord's mind, when he recently replaced the warm ceiling light of our bathroom with a cold white one. Just as I get under the water, the hospital-like glow disappears. Without any window, the bathroom is pitch dark. Instead of trying to do something about it, or at least to figure out what happened, I continue to shampoo and start counting silently. One, two, three... Less than a minute later, the light comes back, yet another illustration for the theory that if you ignore a problem long enough, it will go away. By the time I start rinsing my hair, the bulb goes off one more time. "Thank you!" I yell over the loud music. The bathroom is instantly bright again. Either the landlord has also replaced our normal light switch with a voice-activated one, or Tintin is home.

Running.

154. Parc du Cinquantenaire. Turning off the iPod to listen to Queen being played at an outdoor concert. Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the Fandango...? In front of the triumphal arch, hundreds of people are sitting on the grass, relaxing and listening to live covers of classic tunes. Outside of the park gate facing Merode, several carnival trucks are blinking their festive lights, enticing kids and young adults alike to games of duck pond, ring toss, and crossbow shooting. Summer is just around the corner.

155. Genetic Engineering, in Me talk pretty one day, by David Sedaris.

...Faced with an exciting question, science tended to provide the dullest possible answer. Ions might charge the air, but they fell flat when it came to charging my imagination -- my imagination, anyway. To this day, I prefer to believe that inside every television there lives a community of versatile, thumb-size actors trained to portray everything from a thoughtful newscaster to the wife of a millionaire stranded on a desert island. Fickle gnomes control the weather, and an air conditioner is powered by a team of squirrels, their cheeks packed with ice cubes...

156. Side by side, they are running, each with one hand clutching a shared piece of cloth. What a way to ensure identical speeds! Trailing them, I can see the soaking wet back of the grey T-shirt on the left runner, whom I imagine is the would-be slower of the two, judging by the amount of sweat. As we run past the park gate facing Schuman, the grey T-shirt slightly slows down. He turns sideways and, with the free hand, holds on to the elbow of his friend, who too loses speed briefly to run down the small steps between two uneven grounds. As they repeat the whole scene at the next set of steps, I tell myself to think of a better excuse the next time I feel too lazy to run, something that beats being vision-impaired.

Briefs.

115. Each week, the World by the Numbers corner of TIME magazine features five statistics, supposedly related to important current affairs of different parts of the world.
In this week's issue: 

$10 million. Japan. Last sale price of Stradivarius violin to be put on auction to benefit earthquake victims. 

593,832. China. Number of foreigners residing in China, whose growing clout is leading to a rising expatriate population. 

$960 million. Switzerland. Money frozen in Swiss bank accounts that allegedly belongs to Libya's Muammar Gaddafi and the ousted former rulers of Egypt and Tunisia. 

96.7%. U.S. Percentage of American homes with TVs, down from 98.9% last year, the first time the number has dipped in 20 years.  

12%. Australia. Percentage of men surveyed from ages 16 to 24 who say they want less sex in their lives.

116. Me: Zoeee!

Zoe: Gazpaaaacho-y! 

M: Did you swim? 

Z: Yep. Finished sleeping? 

M: Yep. Did you talk to Eggplant?

Z: Nope. Did you? 

M: No. 

Z: Our most efficient conversation ever.

117. Reason #5 why I do not drive in Brussels: Trams.

Intersection of Chaussée de Wavre and Boulevard Général Jacques.

(Reason #2: I do not have a car. Even if I do, I will not after a few attempts at Reason #1: Parallel parking. It took me four times to pass this component in the Australian driving test, and that was only because my examination officer did not want to set up all the yellow cones for the fifth time.)

Italy.

100. Waking up with lines of blue ink all over my left arm and forehead. Old married couples probably do not fight with markers while playing Wii Golf.

101. "Is Italian ice-cream actually better than normal ice-cream?" I ask him. With an sigh, Mario pats my shoulder, in the way that a father would pat a child and say, "When you grow up, you will know." Instead, Mario says, "When you are in Italy, you will know." 

The closest I have ever been to Italy, was last year's planned Venice trip, ceremoniously announced months ahead in a cheesy PowerPoint presentation that took me four hours to make. Between the advertisement of the vacation and its actual dates, my octogenarian then-landlord started to enjoy leaving handwritten notes on my table as surprises; I surprised her in return by impulsively moving out. This resulted in more handwritten notes during my last few days being there, and the exorbitant fine for breaking contract meant we never got to see Festa del Redentore. It also meant I have never tried Italian ice-cream.

This bothers me, because ice-cream is my religion, and now all of a sudden I am told that the God I know and love is not actually the ultimate God. "How is it different?" I want to know. "What is in an Ita-" then it dawns on me. The decade of overeating and overdrinking in Australia is finally useful for something. 
"Oh, is Italian ice-cream like gelato?" 
Mario stares at me, "Gazpacho, you just said, Is Italian ice-cream like ice-cream?" 
"But, in Australia, we have two types: ice-cream, and gelato." 
Shaking his head, Mario says, slowly, in the fatherly manner once again, "And now... you just said... we have two types: ice-cream, and ice-cream..."

102. The backhand wave. The one that says, "I guess you see me looking back into your office as I am passing by, so I should probably say hi, by waving my arm listlessly behind my body." 

Totally a step up from the initial wordless staring: "It's a natural reaction to look into people's open offices but I don't know who on earth you are, hence I'm not saying hi." 

Then came the almost imperceptive nod: "We've met off campus. I suppose you get to be nodded, but only ever so discreetly."

A week or so later, words were actually spoken, or should I write, a word was actually spoken: "Hello." Probably short for, "Hello. I can socialize and I can write but here at work "Hello" is all I have."

"Good morning." "Good bye."

The climax was when he waltzed into my office, delivered one full sentence, with pronoun, verb, adverb, the whole package, and then immediately left, as if scared that I might not like the sentence and ask to exchange with another one.

What comes after a climax, in most Hollywood movies, is an act of disappearance. He dutifully followed the script. After a few weeks, I finally saw him around, but it's been almost like we were complete strangers. 

Then, today, the backhand wave. It is strange how nice little gestures can be. It probably will be another four months until the next climax, but Rome wasn't built in a day. 

Books.

91. Less than twenty pages into the book, I've learnt that he was (1) introverted to the point of being at school precisely on the hour and leaving as soon as classes were done, without talking to anyone in between, (2) married by the age of 13, then promptly turning into a jealous husband, (3) lying to his religiously vegetarian parents about eating meat for a year, and (4) smoking and stealing, when still in the early teens. Not something I had expected from the autobiography of Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi.

92. Heard on an episode of Coffe Break French podcasts. One teacher, and one supposedly post-highschool student. "So, Anna, see if you can tell the difference between the two following sentences. If it helps, try to count the number of words. Je viens de Glasgow, and, Je ne viens pas de Glasgow. Anna, can you tell me how many words are there in the first sentence?" "Four!"

This is going to be great. French and math, both just at my level.

93. "He's writing two books," my mother tells me. My 8-year-old nephew is? "In the first one, there are two characters. I forget what they are, but then there's a chemical spill, turning one of them into a monster. I say to him, no monster, grandma doesn't like monsters. What about Buddhists, fairy angels and good kids who help their mothers? Then he says, OK grandma, I'll see what I can do. In the meantime, if you prefer, I can write a second book. It'll be about the most intelligent person in the world. I say, good, grandma prefers that."

If my mother were J.K.Rowling's grandma, there might have never been a Lord Voldemort.

Purposes.

82. In his free time, Waldo volunteers for an organization that helps raise awareness about the situation in Palestine. 

"So, what do you actually do at your meetings?" I ask him. 

"We learn how to make bombs."

"That's all?"

"And how to throw stones." 

"Does it work?"

"The bombs?"

"No, throwing stones. But yes, do the bombs work?" 

"Didn't you see 9/11? That was our work."

"There was no bomb involved."

"So you think."

83. [28/04/11 21:38:18] shellaplank: Greetings dear!

Do you know that the most attractive ladies in the world live in my country? That's true!
I invite you to a very good international dating site where hundreds of lone I am searching forly hearts are looking for their future lovers.
I dream about meeting a charming one I am searching for for longterm relations or even marriage.

Are you the one I am searching for?

Probably not.

84. 11ish pm. Seen on Chaussée de Wavre.

Explanation A: Lab scientist got mugged; thief discarded one glove because it's contaminated. 

Explanation B: Late-night murderer tried to get rid of evidence. Unsuccessfully, it seems. 

Explanation C: Contemporary art. 

Friends.

79. Someone has picked up the mail for our apartment. A relatively thick envelope is waiting for me, with my name and address neatly handwritten. For a second, I wonder what it is, before running fingers across the surface of the envelope and realizing that the thickness is concentrated in the middle, lengthwise. I open the envelope, not to find out what is inside, but to see what type of Galler I'm receiving. Noisettes. 

80. How to get a US visa: 
Step 1. Make a good friend, preferably someone who is also going to the States. 
Step 2. Do whatever she says.

81. Realizing that it's hard to find a "third" moment of the day, when you sleep for most of it.

London II.

49. At the British Museum.

Greek Mythology 101 

English 101
"Oh look, a bathtub!"
"No, Gazpacho, it's a sarcophagus." 
"Is that, like, a fancy word for bathtubs?"

How To Make Chess Sound Less Nerdy 101

Good Life 101

50. At the Blackfriars Millennium Pier. The dangerously-named Virgin London Marathon was on. Spectators were gathering alongside the run, shouting out names of, I had imagined, their friends and loved ones. None of mine was participating, but that did not stop me from feeling and acting supportive. "Come on, PEOPLE!". Gaston pointed out that I needed to call out actual names, which, now that he mentioned it, could easily be read on the chests of the runners. Being lazy, I took the easy road and repeated whatever the little girl next to me said. 
"Come on, Pauline!" the girl yelled. 
"Come on, Pauline!" I yelled. 
"Come on, Mike!"
"Come on, Mike!" 
"Come on, lady bug!"
"Come on, lad- what?"
There was, indeed, a human-sized lady bug, running and smiling. Just as there were a Chicken Little, a cake, a pumpkin, and other colorful outfits, worn by those who must have thought running the marathon itself wasn't challenging enough, so they went ahead and added a few extra kgs of a Halloween costume. Accurate as my head cheerleader might have been, there probably is an age limit for shouting out "Come on, Chicken Little!" in public. I left the cheer squad and joined Gaston on the grass to discuss age-appropriate things like five-year plans ("So, you are 32..." "No, I'm 27." "Imagine you were 32..." "Then I would like to be King...") and intellectual masturbation. These two topics might or might not have been related.

51. Maya Angelou once said, that you can tell a lot about a person by the way he handles these three things: a rainy day, lost luggage and tangled Christmas tree lights. I would like to add, that you can also tell a lot about a person by the way he handles a missed train, especially when he missed it because of someone else. While the real reason for the missed train is still not funny to write about (yet), I am glad that I got to see a new side of Gaston's, the side that, after being escorted out of Eurostar check-in area by security, calmly walked along Euston Road and said, "Look, full moon! How many times do we get to see a full moon in London..."

Restrooms.

40. London St Pancras Int. Station. At the queue for restrooms. 

In January, I stayed in Poland for two weeks. Whoever has been to Chopin's birthplace, no doubt, remembers many wonderful things from there. Me, I remember the toilets. The Poles, out of either minimalism or laziness, simply draw a circle or a triangle on each public toilet door, depending on the gender. Which symbol represents which gender, I never actually figured out. When I first saw these signs, I spent several minutes pondering. ("Is, mmm, it supposed to be of a triangular shape? That would fit, but what about the circle? I am somewhat familiar with this particular branch of biology, but a circle would not be how I draw certain things. Maybe from that angle?") In the end, I just gave up and used the parents-kid restroom. Here in London, the British would not do this to me. 

There she stands, one hand resting on the end of a mop, the other free to serve as a visual aid. Meet - I shall call her - the Toilet Director. 

"You, move forward just a little bit, juuuust a little bit, thaaat's it. Wait. Ok, that door is open. Now you go. Yes, over there. You, move forward. No, not too much. See the line? You stand right there. Oh, that one is open. Now go. Darling, darling, are you coming inside? Are you? Good. No, you, don't rush. It's too early in the morning and everyone's rushing. That would make things chaotic. You wait. Oh, two doors. Two, can we get two people to go? Gooood. Darling…" 

Poland, take notes.

41. Seen on a conference bag (which looks like a BORDERS canvas tote bag):

"After the conference, please feel free to use this versatile bag for any of the following alternative uses: 

BAG FOR BOOKS - BAG FOR FOOD - LAPTOP CASE 
BOARD WIPER - FANCY DRESS [w. picture of the bag on someone's head, with two holes cut out] - PILLOW 

And many more, like... shopping bag, gym bag, flag, dust cover, gift wrapping, oversized mitten, tea towel, frost cover for a very small windscreen, handkerchief, transportation of highly classified government documents, a really cheap present, ineffective water container, a solution to the economic crisis."

42. Where the wild things are. 

Friendships.

25. Two little boys, around six or seven years old, are wedged tightly in a 1.5 seat, the kind that seems to be on every bus here in Brussels and that never fails to puzzle me every time I see. (Why 1.5? Is it for lovey-dovey couples who can neither bear the thought of being separated into two seats, nor physically squeeze into one? For the Hulk? Or, perhaps, for the Iron Man and his chunky suit, when he is in town and needs to travel by bus?)

"Comment tu t'appelles?" sings one boy, an arm draped over his friend's shoulders, the other waving in the air, loosely to the music. "Je sais pas ton nom." continues the friend, giggling while drumming fingers on the other boy's leg. "Comment tu t'appelles?", the invisible microphone is passed back to the first boy, who, too, is now drumming, but on his friend's head. "Je sais pas ton nom.", sings the second boy, switching to tapping. "Comment tu t'appelles?"... Completely oblivious about the creepy Asian girl who watches them from afar, the boys merrily perform their little musical, two-line double act for the rest of the bus ride. 

26. The English Literature section at FNAC. Seen on a little green circle sticker on a book's cover (presumably to increase readership): an arrow piercing through a heart, and below that, 
  "GREAT ROCK! 
      MUSIC! 
CRAZY PEOPLE! 
       LOVE!" 

I need to get one of these stickers for my papers. It might work. 

27. "It is purple, see?" said Mario to Luigi, while tilting his head towards a tram passenger, who was, indeed, wearing purple. "No, I am still not going to wear purple," replied Luigi. "What if Princess Peach is going to wear a pink dress?", I generously offered a bargaining chip. "I am never going to wear a pink dress," Princess Peach spoilt my deal. On the tram at almost midnight, the four of us, scientists by training, were trying to convince each other to dress up as our Super Mario Bros characters; to which end, Luigi would need to wear a green and purple suit, Princess Peach a pink dress, and Mario something red and blue. We did not, in the end, succeed in making each other look ridiculous, but we did have a very pleasant evening together.

Some four hours earlier, nine boys and girls had met up to have a leisurely dinner at the cozy Pizzeria La Bottega Della, where starter plates were mismatched and individual menus were unavailable, but the antipasti, the pizzas and the tiramisu, oh the tiramisu, were delicious. To quote Hugo, "Tonight, we are in Italy..." As we traded slices of pizzas and passed around the bottles of wine, conversations flowed easily, switching from one language to another. Between us, there were at least six nationalities, and even more languages. At one point, having graduated from the How-to-read-one-line-on-the-chalkboard-menu and the How-to-count-from-one-to-ten classes, I asked Mario for his mother tounge's version of "Whassup, maaan!"; the question later went around the table. The Italian version was, by far, the best ("Come butta, amico!"); the Portuguese version was probably as so-so as the French one (respectively, something like "Yeah-ee!" and "Zee-va!", the latter apparently supposed to be the reverse of "Vas-y!"); and the German version was... well, whatever it was, it was by unanimity the lamest. 

The good Italian wine at dinner and the Belgian beer outside a corner bar afterwards probably contributed to making the evening enjoyable, but whatever the factors were, the evening couldn't have been anything but enjoyable, after its lovely start. When Mario and I arrived at the restaurant, Gisele, Hugo and his former flatmate have already been there. After the typically European hello kisses, Mario and I took our seats, mine between Gisele's and Mario's. Wordlessly, Gisele slightly leaned over across me and showed Mario her right hand. Looking at the sparkling diamond ring on her middle finger, I wanted to say congratulations but no word immediately came. The last time I had congratulated Mario for his "engagement", it had turned out that engagement in his country did not mean the same thing as engagement in, well, the rest of the world. So now, I thought, maybe diamond rings in Belgium did not mean the same thing as diamond rings elsewhere. Maybe Gisele had bought herself an expensive ring and wanted to show Mario her great taste in jewelry. But, I knew that Hugo had planned to propose, and there was no mistaking the joyous expressions on the faces of Gisele's and Hugo's, so I congratulated the engaged couple. Later in the evening, Gisele would make fun of Hugo for his choice of vacations ("Why would you want to go on holiday to suffer, camping out in the cold and sleeping with guys?"), and Hugo would joke about to whom he wanted Gisele to pass on the engagement ring (his sister, not her mother), in the unlikely case that he would not survive the upcoming hiking trip. Listening to them bantering through the evening, I felt a sense of happiness and hope. May they have enough love, patience and kindness to be with each other for the rest of their lives.

Maybe we should campaign to get them have a Super Mario Bros-themed wedding, where Luigi will actually wear a green and purple suit. 

Tango.

13. Decision, decision. Headphones on for yet another hour of Chopin, or headphones off for some free graph theory lessons, broadcast live and loud along the corridor? As I theatrically feign annoyance to myself, it occurs to me that I am going to miss this when I'll be on the other side of the world, at a place with modern glass-walled offices, all of which are completely see-through yet each fish closes his own tank, swimming in isolation.

14. I can't help it; I am a sucker for smiles, and he is smiling at me sweetly, with his dark hair thick and curvy, his cheeks slightly chubby and pink. He's holding my fingers tightly, not ready to let them go. Looking at him dreamily, I reluctantly say my goodbye. Looking back at me, also dreamily, he slightly parts his lips, dripping milk down to the chin, slowly along the neck and finally all over his bib, and there goes the image of my Prince Charming. 

15. 5 pm and the phone is ringing. I glance at the Caller ID and wonder whether I should answer it at all. Given the amount of time we are around each other in person, Gaston almost never calls me, unless it's because the internet no longer works, or because I have, as usual, misplaced some important document that he needs. As I dread the potential news about a flooded bathroom or maybe even a reckless daytime robbery, I almost miss what Gaston is asking me, "Do you want me to cook dinner tonight?". It's Tuesday, I suddenly remember. Most weeks, we cook dinner together on this day, but Tintin is away making some serious stuff up in Strasbourg, so somehow I must have assumed that the tradition was temporarily discontinued for tonight. Looking at the piles of paper on my office desk, I said, "Yes," as fast as I could.

Fast forward a few hours. It's post-Carbonnade-à-la-Leffe and post-Bordeaux. The table is now pushed against the fake fireplace, the chairs arranged clumsily around the table, the carpet wedged underneath the radiator, all to create a makeshift dance floor in the middle of the living room. As Assassin's Tango plays on Gaston's Mac, we dance together, counting the steps as we glide on the wooden floor, "One, two, three, four...". It's been half an hour and we are still not getting this whole tango thing right. "One, two, three, four...". Completely focused on his feet and not aware of the surroundings, Gaston banged his left leg against the table. "Damn!", he jumped. "We need a bigger apartment!". Looking at him all frustrated, I laughed, nodding my head in agreement, even if I don't agree with him. I don't need a bigger apartment; at its current size, this apartment is already the best place I have lived in Brussels. 

Words.

10. Wondering how I can casually insert my new favourite word, ad libitum, into a conversation. I have always known that its abbreviation, ad lib, as an adverb means "spoken or performed without previous preparation;" but I only find out today that ad libitum, in Latin, means "according to pleasure." Most academics who have to give conference talks would tell you that these two meanings are not quite the same, but for now, I am trusting Oxford Dictionary. "Ad libitum," it just rolls off the tongue. I imagine my next conversation:

     "How are you?"
     "I am doing ad libitum."
or, maybe, 
     "Have you heard about Yemen's recent protests?"
     "Yes, yes. Clearly the whole situation is not going ad libitum."
or, even,
     "Did you see the new Mac vs PC advertisement?"
     "No, I haven't, but do you know what else also starts with ad?"

11. Feeling guilty, because as I watch Ngozi Okonjo-Iweala, a former Finance Minister of Nigeria, talking about aid versus trade, all I can think of is, "Wow, you are the first Nigerian I am aware of who is not trying to retrieve 20 kgs of gold from a safe and asking me for my bank details."

12. "First. You cut." Mario presses the knife vertically around the plum. "Then. You twist." He twists the right half, magically separating the plum into two at its core. Keeping the half still connected to the core, Mario continues matter-of-factly. "Then. You cut.", he halves the half. "Then. You twist."

Watching this minimalist demonstration, I am slightly embarrassed at my uncultured just-bite-into-it approach. As I start to practice the cutty-twisty method on my half-eaten plum, Mario waved his hand dismissively, "It's too late." And so I wait. At the cafeteria, for each lunch you can get two plums. When it is time for my second plum, I cut. That part is easy. Feeling proud of my quick learning, I try to pull the two halves in opposite directions. Mario, Luigi and Princess Peach chimed in, "Twist. Twist. You have to twist!".

Flowers.

7. Humming to a tune of Emilie Simon at the flower corner of Place Jourdan, I tried to decide which colour tulips to choose as a present. It's an important decision to make, because the fact that my recipient was to receive pink or yellow tulips, at the tender age of three months, may shape the rest of his life. As I contemplated potential psychological effects pink tulips might have on baby boys, I was reminded of a certain statistic. Citing a research study, a speaker had said that people have no recollection of memories before the age of four. I almost decided on the pink tulips, fully prepared to share this statistic to the parents, were they to question my present for their baby boy, when I recalled that, in the same breath, the speaker had used the statistic to justify the idea of duct-taping his noisy toddler. Wondering whether the parents would appreciate this little piece of advice, I went for yellow, just to be on the safe side. 

8. Feeling, for the first time, like I totally get Brendan Fraser. Near the end of The Mummy, he holds Rachel Weisz's hand, jumping from one rock to another as the ancient Egyptian city Hamunaptra starts collapsing just behind them, successfully escaping nanoseconds before the whole place completely sinks into the sand. In a life-imitates-art moment, I hold my shopping basket, limping (thanks to a bloodied heel) from one aisle to another as the supermarket starts turning off its lights just behind me, successfully making it through the checkout as the last customer.

9. As I try to figure out why my two limits don't cancel out like they should, I suddenly notice that, softly in the background, Bob Dylan is singing about my profession. About is probably an exaggeration: out of 594 words, he mentions the name once, the same frequency that he has ax, fishing, beer, and topless. Still, I am excited; it's not every day that one discovers the first (and probably the only) song about that mentions what one does for a living.

I want to buy you flowers. It's such a shame you're a boy. But when you are not a girl, nobody buys you flowers. [Emilie Simon, Flowers.]

Colours.

4. I’m pressing my nose against the windowpane, looking at the wide canvas of Brussels that my fourth-floor apartment affords me everyday. Usually, sitting at my desk, I can only see out to the left: the assorted arrangement of red, ceramic roofs at different heights, spreading out to the horizon; the gigantic, glass-walled European Parliament that for the initial many months I have embarrassingly mistaken for the Schuman Building; the lone modern building in the far left standing out not only because of its shape and size, but also because of its bright neon lights that used to read, “The Hilton”, but have recently been mysteriously changed to, “The Hotel”; the dome of Palais de Justice, possibly the only part currently not obscured by the building’s seemingly continual renovation; and, a necessary component to any picturesque landscape, a crane. When I stand next to my bookcase, I can only see out to the right: the treetops of Parc Félix Hap; more ceramic roofs; a partial snapshot of, I believe, the Schuman Building; and, to compete with the left, three cranes.

This morning, Brussels is uncharacteristically blue. Delaying my breakfast ritual, I stand directly in front of the bedroom window, taking in the complete view. What I haven’t - and couldn’t have from the desk or the bookcase - seen before is an explosion of pink. In the backyard of a nearby house, a little girl in a pink sweatshirt is immersed in her little pink world: a scooter with pink handles and pink wheels, a tricycle with pink pedals and a pink front basket, a mini pink stroller, and various other pink objects that I can’t quite make out from my window. She is busy arranging little items into a pink briefcase, when that’s done, she authoritatively put on her pink-rimmed sunglasses. One hand carrying the briefcase and the other clutching the protective fingers of her father, who has just come out to collect her, off she went, leaving the explosion of pink behind, and watching her go, suddenly I wish I were four again.

5. The weather broadcaster is sweeping her arm across the map of Belgium, explaining something in French. Her audio commentary seems unnecessary, as there is already a little caption, "Nuit", and white raindrops populate indiscriminately all over the map. This seems to distress Waldo. 
"No. No. Nooo. Noooooo!"
"She can't hear you." 
"NOOOOOOOO!" *pauses, then grabs the BlackBerry* "I'VE GOT TO CALL HER."

6. Doing the swan dance to Seven Nation Army. Laughing uncontrollably at the sight of Zoe and Pierre jumping up and down, yelling in unison, "Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me." Doing the swan dance to pretty much any song we don't know. Singing at the top of my lung with Zoe, "Breaking my back just to know your name. But heaven ain't close in a place like this." Have I mentioned doing the swan dance?

The night had started out with a vague sense of déjà vu: two girls and a guy getting lost on the way to Windows, a small bar near Gare du Midi with a dance floor separated by three adjacent windows, which explain the name; keeping up the annual tradition, I came in my trench coat. Nevertheless, losing myself on the dance floor next to Zoe, me in a pink floral dress and her in a red spaghetti, I glanced through one of the windows, picturing us last year standing near the corner where the Tartes de Francoise were, and thinking to myself, what a difference a year has made.