Here Comes the Sun

When I was about 9 or 10, I was being driven home from somewhere and a song came on the radio. Now, given the ubiquity of the Beatles, I'm sure I'd heard this song before, but for whatever reason, I really HEARD it for the first time in our old Econoline van. It was "Here Comes the Sun." It was an almost mystical experience for me... I was a nerdy, introverted little kid, but hearing those words, "It's been a long, cold lonely winter" and then George Harrison's warm repetition, "It's all right, it's all right," just seemed like a reassuring hug (fromageuse, I know).

I immediatly ran out and bought my first tape with my very own money (kids, a cassette tape was like a box to hold itunes in, but it could only hold either 60 or 90 minutes of songs and it had to be flipped half way through. You could also record songs from the radio, which was sort of like illegal downloading, only you'd get DJ Terry Di Monti's introduction to the set, too). Anyway, so deeply did I love the song, that once I had bought Abbey Road, I would listen to all of the songs, and then fastforward through "Here Comes the Sun." That's right, I was such a nerdy little kid, that I already knew that if you played a song over and over again, you would get sick of it. My love for "Here Comes the Sun" was so pure that I never wanted to tire of it...

Anyway, all this to say that "Here Comes the Sun" has been running through my head these days. It's partly because, mother of pearl, we've had an amazing run of weather here in Belgica. It's been sunny almost everyday, trees are blooming with pretty flowers that I am incapable of identifying, gardens are bursting with other pretty flowers, everything is green. It truly is the best run of weather we've had since we came here.

This glorious weather has reminded me of how badly I'll miss Spring when we're back in Canada. Ottawa just doesn't spring. One minute you're shovelling out the driveway for the 8 billionth time, the next day you take your snow tires off, and then bam! it's 35 degrees with enough humidity to make your (well, mine) frizz up like the Bride of Frankenstein's.

The other reason that the song is running through my head, though, is because I am going home. While I've loved living in Belgium, and it definitely hasn't been a "long, cold, lonely winter" -- any place that serves hot chocolate this good can't be bad -- we knew we were only coming temporarily and so it never became "home." Now, we get to go home and as George would say, "it's all right."

What this means for my blog is that it's over, sweet dudes. While there are both beer and waffles in Canada, neither has quite the same meaning (although beer is pretty important). Maybe I'll start up another one, called "Black flies and Tuques" or ""Politeness and Sneakers with Business Attire," but I don't think so...

It's been a really fun experience sharing my Belgian bewilderment with you, and on this my 100th post -- coincidence! -- I want to thank everyone who ever left a comment. It's nice to know I've been read.

MoroccoPart TWO

Marrakesh was a ton of fun and we spent four days wandering around enjoying all of the exotic sights. Such as these stops signs (which we had also noticed in Dubai) that I think look just like three people in a canoe, but I don't think the Arabic world is actually trying to evoke pine forests, portages and black flies...


There were also road signs to exotic locales:



We ate dinner often at this amazing outdoor market. They'd clear the city's main square (where the snake charmers, performing monkeys, fortune tellers, henna artists, street urchins and other colourful characters would gather) and then set up tables and dish up cheap, hot and delicious Moroccan food. Andy and I both loved it, although you can't actually tell that from my expression:


This is the view from above the market. We'd go here most afternoons for sweet Moroccan mint tea and primo people watching:




Gigantic storks roost in the walls of the old buildings:



And oranges grow from the trees JUST LIKE THAT:



We didn't stay in Marrakesh the whole time, and by Wednesday I was really glad to get away from the dirt and the noise. We were headed to the High Atlas Mountains for a little hiking, rest and relaxation... Or so I thought.

As it turned out, hiking in the High Atlas Mountains in January can get complicated when you arrive in the midst of the worst snow storm they've seen in years. The eco hotel we were staying at didn't have electricity, which hadn't worried me from the safety of my Brussels internet surfing, but as the car wended its way up narrow, windy roads, with avalanche-prone cliffs on one side, and a sheer drop on the other, while snow pelted down and the winds howled, I began to doubt the wisdom of our vacation plans.

I was right to be worried. We were the only guests at our adorable hotel, and even the hotel manager (and the only person in the tiny village who could speak a language other than Berber) hadn't made it. Her car had skidded off the narrow, wind road and got stuck in a gully.

The hike up to the hotel, which you can't drive to, shows how intense it was:

That's a raging river (fine, at least a very full stream) that we're walking in... Also, note, we're going down in this picture, because it's the day AFTER the big storm. On the day of the storm, we were hauling it up this thing, in blinding snow squalls.


This was the view out of the hotel window for the night we stayed there:


So, because we couldn't leave the hotel once we arrived, we hunkered in, played innumerable games of cards, read our books and kept our soaking wet feet literally IN the fireplace, because we were so cold (remember, the hotel had no electricity)

We wore our outerwear inside:



The hotel was sort of a rambling hobbit hole. This was the stairway to our room:



Another rickety stairway, which was lined with candles when the sun went down... Maybe a bit of a fire hazard...


This is the common room where we spent almost our entire stay:

It was a gorgeous living room, and it would have been amazing had we not been trapped on a peak in the high Atlas Mountains during a terrifying snowstorm.

At eight p.m. the fire died, and because we only had candles for light and no actual heat source, we retired, fully clothed -- long underwear, pants, toque, sweater to our icy dark bed. While Andrew was snoring almost immediately, I stayed up, listening to the wind howl around us as we sat in the deserted hotel... It was a bit like The Shining, but with couscous.


The next day the sun came out and we snapped a ton of gorgeous photos:

Andy looking intrepid

We couldn't stay at the hotel though, because the mountain passes where had planned to do all of our hiking we're completely blanketed by snow and would be impassable for days.


Instead, with our Berber guide, Mohammed, we spent an hour hiking out from the hotel, to the nearest serviceable road:






At one point, I think Mohammed asked me to dance (there was a pretty severe language barrier, so it's possible that I've actually pledged myself in marriage to him here).


This was the view out the windshield in our car during our terrifying ride back to Marrakesh. Our driver was unused to driving on snow covered roads, his 40 year old Mercedes had tires so bald it probably couldn't grip the road at the best of times, and there were these boulders littering the road, because the snowstorm had caused avalanches...




After our shortened trip to the mountains, we hung around Marrakesh. We made one day trip to Essouria, which is a seaside town famous for its seafood.




We'll end this entry with some of our (well, Andrew's) attempts at photographic artistry:

Andy won the staring contest. He is THAT intense.

The Inevitable Loss

Over our two plus years of living in Brussels, Andrew and I have done lots of travelling. We have tried to take photos of the places we have visited, but due to our own stupidity, we've often failed.

As I've documented before we've forgotten the camera at home, remembered the camera, forgotten to charge the batteries, remembered to charge the batteries, but left them in the charger, and when we have actually remembered everything, we've taken some really bad photos:

Fuzzy, impenetrable photo of weird Christmas concert in Liege, December 2007:

Random one of Andrew staring into the oven:

Weird, out of focus one of my hair:

Unidentifiable African animals, taken from a distance -- the result of being the only people on our safari who didn't have a telescopic lens

Still able to inappropriately zoom, without the benefit of a telescopic lens:

So it should come as no surprise for the vast Beer and Waffles readership to learn that we have now achieved the inevitable pinnacle of photo ineptitude: We've lost our camera. Somewhere on the sand dunes of Normandy is our crappy little Nikon filled with poorly taken and out of focus shots of our trip to Mont St Michel, Juno Beach and all of the rest of it.

That means that our recent Easter trip to the Loire Valley was entirely photo-free. I have to say it was quite liberating. While everyone else was jostling to get the perfect shot of Chambord, Azzay le Rideau and Chinon, we just strolled along, enjoying the views and not worrying if our hair looked more insane than usual or if our shirt made us look fat (well, maybe only one of us was actively NOT worrying about those things...)

We're not going to buy another camera before we go home... Everything is cheaper in Canada and since we'll be home in little over a month, we don't see the point. You definitely discover your inner cheapo when you're about to leave a place. We ran out of salt two weeks ago, but I refuse to commit to another big box. That means that we've been living on slightly flavourless food since then, but it's probably better for our health. We also need more laundry detergent and I'm wavering on that... Surely we've got enough clothes that we can cycle through them all without having to wash new stuff. I'm also annoyed because I foolishly bulk bought an enormous amount of toilet paper. I'm trying to go through it as quickly as possible (I'll spare you the details) but it's hard going.

Dry Hair

To my mother's annoyance, I have changed my Facebook profile picture. The new pic is a self-portrait I took while wearing a koala bear shower cap that some Aussie friends of my mother gave me as a joke.

There is a backstory behind the picture... As you may know I've been doing lots of swimming in my beloved NATO pool lately, which is glorious in all respects, except for the havoc it wreaks on my hair. My hair is thick, curly and dry dry dry at the best of times, add a 4 times weekly submersion into chlorine and it becomes something very akin to hay.

So, you can imagine my delight when I read about a home beauty remedy in the paper one weekend... All you have to do is heat a little bit of olive oil in a saucepan, rub it into your head, wait forty-five minutes and then wash it out. According to the article you're left with beautiful silken locks instead of staticky fuzz. Hurray!

One morning when I was feeling a little bored, I decided to give it a whirl. I heated the oil up, but then realised that it would drip down my neck if I didn't wrap it in something. Not wanting to ruin my towels, I dug around until I found the Koala Bear shower cap:



I then spent the next forty five minutes, sending emails, emptying the dishwasher and reading, all the while praying that the mailman didn't turn up with a package and that no one dropped in unexpectedly.

I also spent that time with warm olive oil slowly cooling and inching its way down my neck, and, having forgotten that olive oil actually has quite a strong smell, fighting an increasing urge to whip up some pasta or something.

I was delighted when it was finally time to shower it all out because it was kind of giving me the willys.... Except, it didn't wash out. Even when I shampooed my hair TWICE, i could still feel all of the oil clinging to my hair. I finally gave up, and got out of the shower. I then spent the entire day with limp, draggly, greasy hair, still smelling faintly of bruschetta.

Although, to be fair, the next day, after I had gone for my swim, and I'd then shampooed the chlorine out, my hair was wonderfully soft and manageable, as promised. Still it doesn't seem like a practical hair care formula: Apply oil, wait 45 minutes, shampoo twice, soak for an hour in chlorinated water, shampoo and voila! Perfect hair.

Anyway, since I'm an equal opportunity blogger and don't want to hog all of the embarrassing hair-related photos for myself, here are some pics of Andy, as he removed his Christmas beard in stages. Firstly, isn't he handsome with a beard?

Yes, yes he is.

STAGE 1

a bit of a goat, not too bad...


STAGE 2

Kind of nerd biker, here.

STAGE 3

I don't think he can pull of the moustache, the nose neighbour, the lip foliage, the soup strainer


STAGE 4

There was a final stage where he did a very short, sort of rectangular bristly one just under his nose but I decided not to take a picture of that one. We don't need photos of Andy cavorting with a Hitler moustache floating around on the internet... It might ruin his political career or his chances of international stardom.

Morocco Part 1

So, throughout January and February I whined about my HOOOOORRRRRIBLLLLLEEEE thesis which was sucking the life out of me, destroying my will to live and making me seriously doubt my ability to string a sentence together or talk about anything other than the representation of disabled soldiers in Canadian fiction of the First World War. Blargh.

I wasn't entirely honest, however, because amid all of my drama and groaning, there was the tiny fact of our week-long vacation to Morocco in January. Yep, we went to Marrakesh and the Atlas Mountains for seven days and while I did BRING my Introduction to edit, I didn't actually look at it until we were on the Ryan Air flight home. All this to say, that I know I really shouldn't moan too much about writing my thesis. Anyway, the stupid thing is out of my hands so who cares.

The reason we went to Morocco was that we scored a sweet deal through a discount airline -- our tickets to Marrakesh cost 75 Euros total... Of course, travelling on a discount airline means that you have to pay for any extras and they're super strict about carry on. Andrew and I prefer to always carry on, rather than stowing luggage, since we've had so much luggage lost over the years. Anyway, I didn't think travelling to Morocco would be such a challenge, so I packed only one pair of pants, my hideous MEC hiking pants, and one thick fleece thing. I knew it wasn't stylish, but I figured it didn't matter that I would look like this for the next 7 days:

I mean, the woman couldn't be fashionable in Morocco. It's a Muslim country, so they'd be all veiled and covered up, right? Ah, I'm an idiot. The women were gorgeous, dressed to the nines, some wearing full veils, but many others wearing western dress. All of them we're stunning, and me? I was in hiking pants and shcleppy clothes. I felt like a complete bum the whole time I was there. To the point, where, when Andy and I were going out to our one nice dinner in a fancy restaurant (I had my birthday while there) I asked the guy at our hotel if what I was wearing (see above) was okay. He looked at me, kind of sighed and said it was fine, because "you are a tourist."

Aside from my poor wardrobe choices, we had a fun time. Morocco is hands down the most exotic place I've ever been to. I mean, we went to Dubai, but it's just basically Kanata (for those of you not privileged to know, Kanata is one of Ottawa's sprawling pre-fab suburbs) in the desert. Morocco was genuinely foreign... There were dudes selling spices and herbs and magical things:


There were beautiful ancient mosques:

Snake charmers:

Yes, SNAKE CHARMERS:




and mysterious robed men feeding the hundreds of stray cats (shudder).


Since we saved so much on our tickets, we splashed out on where we stayed (Well, splashed out for us). Our Riad was super cool.

They gave us slippers to wear:

And robes:


And breakfast on their rooftop patio:


This was our first room:


and this was our second when we came back from the mountains (more on that in the next post):




The hotel put fresh roses all over the place:


Still, even though the hotel was quite swish. I take no chances. I'm insanely paranoid about bedbugs and so no matter where we stay, I investigate:

Also, just so you don't think our life is one of unending glamour -- we ended up playing a lot of cards on our vakay, but though the hotel was cozy and intimate, it meant that the lighting sucked. Luckily Andy had packed head lamps for our stay in the Atlas Mountains so we used those in the room:

And, when you drink a bottle of Moroccan wine all on your own while gloating about how you're beating your puny husband at cribbage sometimes you get the hiccups:

Ah, Moroccan glamour -- if only the hotel clerk had seen me... He might not have been as confident that I could just say I was a tourist and get into the chichi restaurant...

Done Diddy Done Done

So my precious dudes, I'm done.

I'm moving to Done-caster, I'm riding on a done-key, my favourite character on old school 90210 was Done-a, I'm a blood done-or.

I'm finished my effing thesis! (470 pages, 140,000 words, 11,000 lines and 1,380 paragraphs, the thickness of a McDonald's quarter pounder). Hurray!

Andrew took photographic proof as I was reviewing the thing for the last time :


It's quite glorious to be finished with it. While I have no confidence that it's actually any good, what matters is that I don't have to think about it anymore (or at least until the defense... oh God, the defense. Barf...)

My friend Monica (who defended her doctorate in November) came along to help me carry the necessary six copies to the secretariat where I submitted it and she brought along her camera, so even that is recorded for posterity (or blogerity, at any rate):

Just to be clear, what I am holding in my hand is only volume ONE -- it was too big to be bound in one volume, so it's in two. Have I ranted before about how insane the Belgian system is... It's all about providing bulk -- volume is what matters ... oh well, I didn't have to write comprehensive exams, so I should shut up. Also, it doesn't matter anymore, because I'm now eating done-cakes with a generous dollop of maple done-rup. Also, as a further aside, are you admiring my glorious yellow leather bag? I am.

So, that's it. Now I just have to wait to defend it, which will be in mid-May. Tra La La.

Your friend,
Done-y Brasco, Done Corleone, Done-y Osmond, Done-attella Versace

Home

So, we're moving back to Canada in June, which is very exciting and thrilling and wonderful, but also sad and nerve wracking and terrible.

When we were back in Ottawa over Christmas we had lots of glorious moments of reconnecting with home. Obviously being near our family and friends is the best thing ever. Many of our friends have managed to produce teeny tiny little babies and it will be very terrific to be closer to those new people and watch them grow and strategically leave the room when it's time to change their diapers (babies', not friends').

Also, of course, Canada is very simple and easy... It's a cinch to drive around places, no one cuts you off, drives on sidewalks, tailgates (much), the roads are big and straight and parking lots are huge. Andrew and I actually had a moment where we pulled into some big parking lot (maybe out at Bayshore) and were stunned by all of the wide, free spots available (and this was Christmas, remember). We sat in the car and actually laughed with joy at how easy and non-crowded it was.

At one point while we were home I had to activate a credit card that we'd had for a couple of years, but never turned "on." I steeled myself for an ordeal of explanations, rudeness and horror. Especially because I couldn't remember the security information I had given them two years ago -- My old office phone number? Dudes, I forgot that the minute I walked out of the building... Miraculously, however it all went like buttah. The girl I was dealing with was pleasant and she activated my card just like that. I didn't have to get forms signed in triplicate, I didn't have to go to the Town Hall to prove that I was who I said I was, I didn't have to wait three weeks or pay 10 euros... it was just done over the phone... The best part? It actually worked.

Of course it wasn't all peach blossoms and lifesavers... Mother of mother of mother, it gets really really cold! Cripes. I had forgotten just how horrifying minus 20 can be. Also, all of that snow, even on wide lovely roads filled with non-crazy drivers, is still a pain in the arse when you're trying to go somewhere. You have to put boots on, coat on, hat on, scarf on, mittens on... You have to shovel off the driveway, scrape off the car, then you have to sit in the freezing car and negotiate slippery ice filled roads to get to your destination only to have to take you boots, hat, mitts, scarf, coat off for an hour or two only to do the whole process again. Exhausting.

Still, even with the cold, we managed to enjoy the snow. We were little winter wonderland troopers. We went skiing behind Andrew's dad's place:


Hee! Andy was amazed that I managed to take a photo of him skiing and completely cut off his actual skis... Being a bad photographer is a gift, I tell you.

We saw hockey games, hiked in the woods, hot tubbed under snowflakes and Andy even managed to squeeze in some ice skating (not on the canal, unfortunately which still wasn't open. I mean, it was minus 20, guys, how cold does it have to be before that sucker is opened up?) We went to Andy's niece and nephew's skating lesson and he got to skate with them as well as our sister-in-law Ellen).



We also went out and hunted for the Bertrand-Horrall Christmas tree. Here's a snap of two tall Horrall men, and one on his way to great heights:

Finding the tree was much less painful than the tree hunts that the Tector clan would embark on in our childhood. Back in the day we (well, my dad and the kids, my mum very wisely stayed home making hot chocolate) would troop out into a neighbours woodlot, which was not in any way designed to harvest Christmas trees, but was just a woods on the guy's property.

We would look everywhere for a suitable tree, falling into the snow, getting increasingly cold, whining, fighting and crying until out of desperation my dad would just grab the nearest Christmas-tree-like thing possible and stuff it into the van. Inevitably it would always be a scraggily monstrosity. We were the kings of Charlie Brown trees -- my father would actually cut branches off in some parts and glue/tape/staple/drill them into other "bare" patches elsewhere and then we were only allowed to put the lightest ornaments on those branches. Also, one year, we chopped down a tree that had grown into some barbed wire, so it was both a symbol of Christmas and a deadly implement.

Anyway.
Besides partake in many different winter sports, dance in cougar bars and eat an enormous amount of food, the other thing we did was buy a house. We take possession March 31. Tra la la.

Very exciting.

Pretty fireplace and lovely mantle:

Sink in the basement that Kathryn suggested we get re-finished and use as our kitchen sink, which would make our kitchen sort of industrial and cool -- like we're welders by day, exotic dancers by night with secret hopes of becoming ballerinas...

Staircase with fab green carpet, which we're really psyched about.

The back room off the kitchen where the current owners have chosen to hang their stuffed partridge, but where we'll probably hang our moose head.

So, yes. The place obviously needs lots and lots of work, but our friend Zip (http://mainrenovations.com/index.html) is on the job.

Hurray for HOME.