December Update
The Santa Clause deception is deeper than I believed! Santa Clause is not Saint Nick. December 6th is Saint-Nicolas Day in Belgium and the north of France. Why? Even in tiny Belgium the legends conflict. In Flanders (the north, Dutch-speaking part), he brings oranges on a boat from Spain. Here in Wallonie (the French-speaking part), there is no sure story. He lives in the clouds according to my family's version of the story and arrives on a donkey. The night of December 5th, Belgian children (and American exchange students) put out a glass of milk and cookies for Saint Nicolas in addition to a carrot for his donkey. The next morning they wake to carrot and cookie crumbs. They see an glass emptied of milk and shoes full of friandises (treats). Saint Nicolas has passed.
Fast-forwarding through exam season (coming soon: School in Belgium), we find the streets strung with lights, and wishes of Joyeux Noël and Bonne Année on our lips. Papa and I set off one night to find a Christmas tree. We drove for close to an hour. In Belgium, by driving three hours in any direction, on can find oneself in another country or the North Sea. As we bounced into the dirt parking lot, the sun was bleeding to death. After asking where we needed to go to cut the tree, we sprinted down the long drive, racing the sun and laughing at the foolish idea of what we were doing. Grabbing a saw from the grey, wiry man with a day old beard, we searched for a Frasier Fir. As twilight fell, we waded through the sea of sapins. "Ici! Je l'ai trouvé!" I cried jubilantly. Unsurprisingly, Papa approved, as he really doesn't care about things as long as they please me. I dropped to my side and began working the saw through the soft wood. Within seconds, I yelled, "Timber!" not realizing that Belgian lumberjacks probably didn't yell silly things in English. Joyfully carrying the tree on my shoulder, we paid and contentedly marched back up the long drive down which we had so recently sprinted. I figured we had done fairly well for the night, but Papa hadn't had his fill.
The world was dark. We had made it out of the windy, country roads. Trying to send a picture of us with our find to Maman, who had stayed home as she is not one to run through a field, I had my face in my phone. Looking up, my heart jumped. In eerie beauty, it rose suddenly up like a dent in the earth. Illuminated by powerful floodlights, the 100m-high precipice framed the silhouette of a oriental cathedral. Dînant is the home of a citadel, built in 1821, overlooking the Meuse to defend the strategic bridge, the only crossing in 30km. Later in January, we returned to visit the home of the citadel and Albert Sax, inventor of the saxophone. The sight still made my heart jump again.
Fast-forwarding through exam season (coming soon: School in Belgium), we find the streets strung with lights, and wishes of Joyeux Noël and Bonne Année on our lips. Papa and I set off one night to find a Christmas tree. We drove for close to an hour. In Belgium, by driving three hours in any direction, on can find oneself in another country or the North Sea. As we bounced into the dirt parking lot, the sun was bleeding to death. After asking where we needed to go to cut the tree, we sprinted down the long drive, racing the sun and laughing at the foolish idea of what we were doing. Grabbing a saw from the grey, wiry man with a day old beard, we searched for a Frasier Fir. As twilight fell, we waded through the sea of sapins. "Ici! Je l'ai trouvé!" I cried jubilantly. Unsurprisingly, Papa approved, as he really doesn't care about things as long as they please me. I dropped to my side and began working the saw through the soft wood. Within seconds, I yelled, "Timber!" not realizing that Belgian lumberjacks probably didn't yell silly things in English. Joyfully carrying the tree on my shoulder, we paid and contentedly marched back up the long drive down which we had so recently sprinted. I figured we had done fairly well for the night, but Papa hadn't had his fill.
The world was dark. We had made it out of the windy, country roads. Trying to send a picture of us with our find to Maman, who had stayed home as she is not one to run through a field, I had my face in my phone. Looking up, my heart jumped. In eerie beauty, it rose suddenly up like a dent in the earth. Illuminated by powerful floodlights, the 100m-high precipice framed the silhouette of a oriental cathedral. Dînant is the home of a citadel, built in 1821, overlooking the Meuse to defend the strategic bridge, the only crossing in 30km. Later in January, we returned to visit the home of the citadel and Albert Sax, inventor of the saxophone. The sight still made my heart jump again.
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