Here's to great fathers, past and present ...

Today, I'm elsewhere. And quite a day for it: we're in a mad rush to make appointments all over town. First at Boeing headquarters, then off to the American Mission in Brussels. Though we did meet interesting people and learn interesting things, this day is one of introspection. Today's the second anniversary of my dad's death. It strikes me as more than poetic that I should have as a roommate for this adventure a guy whom I think has the same qualities I saw in my own father. Tireless work ethic, intellectual curiosity, and restless ambition to be the best he can be.

Today I'm thinking a lot about L. and A. Unfortunately, due to some technical problems, I'm afraid they didn't get my short message. They're both in my thoughts today, no matter where I am. Je vous aime beaucoup, et je pense souvent a vous.

So that's all I'll say today: Here's to great fathers, past and present. Cheers!

Bruges! The new Cortona!

Bruges, Belgium
Music: Aigle Noir, I’m Looking Through You
Books: Heheheh
Beers: Gueuze Bellevue, Orval, Stella Artois, Chimay Brune, Wortegemse Jenever, Straffe Hendrik

What a town! I am immediately charmed by this relic of the medieval era. As we wind our way to the Main Place to meet Prof. Sherridan for another guided visit, we walk down street after street of perfectly maintained and unspoiled medieval houses. This place reminds me of Venice in the visceral, palpable sense of history that it radiates.

The tour begins where the city was founded: the first port. We are told the story of the Belgian noble who stole the king of France’s daughter, hid with her in the boggy marshes of what is now Bruges to avoid the king’s men, and bravely fought off a bear, thus earning the king’s respect—and his daughter—and went on to found Bruges as a stronghold against the vikings. Though the story seems a little far-fetched, it has nevertheless permanently associated the bear with Bruges, and this is the first thing we are shown: a bear in an alcove on the side of city hall.

Bruges, it would appear, also boasts the former residence of the Van der Burse banking family, the first to emit and deal in the trading of stocks, thereby establishing the second-oldest stock market in the world (the oldest apparently being in Genoa).
Prof. Sherridan’s devised a thorough visit which takes us to Onze Lieve Vrouwekerk—literally the church of Our Dear Lady. En d’autres mots: l’église de Notre Dame. This gothic church boasts the only sculpted work by Michelangelo Buonarotti to leave Italy during his lifetime : La Pietà.

Everything about this town makes me want for a simpler life, the kind of life that would afford me the luxury of living in a bucolic city like this one. I keep having to myself that to some people, this town is where they were born, where they went to school, got married, raised children and buried their parents …

Once the tour is finished, a few of us make our way to the Belfy in a hurry before it closes for the day. The Belfry is the town’s main tower, and its 366 narrow and tortuous steps lead to a viewing platform with stunning vistas. Again, I am hit by a deep-seated feeling of kinship for this kind of city. Should I dig deeper? Am I attracted to them because they, like me, are seemingly random agglomerations? The organic nature of this chaos, the seeming disorder—all of it makes the town even more genuine and true.

The evening begins at Le Panier d’Or, and ends at a nondescript pub featuring something that is mighty attractive in this weather: a fireplace! We spend many hours (and many Euros) here, and leave for the station in time for the last train—or so we thought.

It needn’t be reiterated here, but I’ll just say that next time, I’ll make sure I leave my fate in my own hands.

Welcome to Hand Toss, Belgium!

Antwerp, Belgium

This is a very pretty town, and this despite the fact that the weather is horrible. Prof. Sherridan once again shows an energy and general level of intellecual curiosity that I find amazing. Why is he spending a Saturday (and Sunday) with students is beyond me, but I appreciate it tremendously. And why other people feel compelled to imagine a pathetic existence for this otherwise challenging and interesting guy is also beyond me. I do admit that some of his behaviour puzzles me. It’s like he’s trying to maintain a distance between himself and us, despite the fact that he’s making himself more available than any of us could possibly expect.

So, here's a little interesting tidbit, or maybe this kind of stuff is only interesting to me. From Wikipedia:

According to folklore, the city got its name from a legend involving a mythical giant called Antigoon that lived near the river Scheldt. This giant exacted a toll from passers-by who wished to navigate the river. On refusal, the giant often severed one of their hands and threw them into the Scheldt. Eventually, the giant was slain by a young hero named Brabo, who cut off the giant's hand and threw it into the river. Hence the name Antwerpen from Dutch Hand werpen (hand-throwing). There's a statue of Brabo and the slain Antigoon on the Grote Markt in front of the town hall as can be seen on the picture of the Antwerp Stadhuis above. In addition you are apt to come across sculptures of hands in various sizes and forms throughout the city, and hand-shaped cookies can be bought in any chocolate shop.

So there's the explanation for the post's title. There's also a clever little reference to a little-known English euphemism hidden in there, but I'll let it go unstated.

The tour begins at the train station, where the diamond district is centered. This section of town, though usually teeming with people, is empty today. The diamond trade is chiefly dominated by the local hasidic Jew community, and today is the Sabbath—their day off. Nevertheless, walking down these streets, one hardly gets the impression that nearly 80% of the world’s diamonds go through these buildings. Below our feet, we are told, are vaults and vaults of diamonds. But the streets are lined with unpretentious and unimposing buildings, the only common trait being the various depictions of diamonds, and the streets are lined with nothing but modest cars. Clearly, this community doesn’t believe in being ostentatious. I can’t help but to think back to that Wired article on artificial diamonds. What wil happen to this market when fake—and cheap—diamonds hit the world markets? Personally, I don’t feel too bad about it. Diamonds are behind so many well-entrenched and pretentious traditions that I can’t bear the thought of having to cow to them sometime in the future. This is simply an empire of bullsh*t, and I can’t wait for it all to come tumbling down. But I digress.

Continuing along the main strip, Prof. Sherridan tells us about Reubens and points out his former redidence and workshop. Reubens produced thousands of paintings in his workshop, most obviously not having been fully fleshed out by his own hand but rather by a team of disciples. The concept of Reubens as a “brand” is somewhat unsettling, though it shouldn’t really come as a surprise. But we are about to be treated to a great example of his brilliance: the triptychs he painted for the cathedral.

We move on, passing by the first “skyscraper” in Belgium, a modest tower apparently modeled after the Empire State Building, on our way to the cathedral This gothic structure is marvelous (and sports yet another clock courtesy of Napoleon). Gothic architecture, as with many other forms of art, was politically-charged in its intentions. Everything about the interior of this church is meant to convey the message that Jesus is “up there” and that you are “down here”. It is a glorification of Jesus’ divinity, and despite the fact that the walls have lost their former intricate frescoes, the sheer upward thrust of the main transept is impressive.

The highlight is definitely Reubens’ “Raising of the Cross”. Again, Prof. Sherridan communicates an excitement for discovery that is contagious. He’s clearly enthralled by the intricate symbols and stories behind these works of art, and he manages to spark everyone’s interest, even of only for a moment.

The rest of the visit takes us through a heighbourhood that was rebuilt after Antwerp was heavily damaged in the second World War, and to the port by the river Schelde. From here, we part ways with Prof. Sherridan, and we are left to enjoy the city on our own.

The highlight of the rest of the day is definitely the restaurant (‘t Hofke) we stumbled upon. Along with Mike Queally, Jamin and Sarah Andrews, I enjoyed a splendid meal with surprising table mates.

From there, we were picked up by the rest of the crew and spent the evening in a local bar with the crew, followed by a return home on the late train. That I would one day deem spending the whole evening sampling beers in a smokey bar the right way to enjoy a visit in a new and splendid town like Antwerp is more than a little disturbing. Meh. Just go along with it.

Chiacchieratta con Mamma Sara

Brussels, Belgium

Began the day with a lazy 9am wakeup, courtesy of Pablo, and followed that with a morning "chiachieratta" with Sara.

She’s such a sweetheart, and it’s heartbreaking how she is dealing with Sophie’s situation. I try to offer some advice, but I’m way out of my league. Oscar really seems like a nice guy, but I can’t imagine Sara’s perspective, and nor can I offer words of wisdom. But should I be expected to? I think just the fact that I sat and spoke with her, and listened attentively, is enough for her. Truth be told, it also made me feel good. She obviously trusts me enough to share this with me, and whether I offer any worthwhile advice isn’t what she was after.

Perhaps all she needs is someone to talk to.

Corporate social responsibility in Europe

Brussels, Belgium

Music: Coldplay, A Message; Paul Simon, American Tune.
Books: Not reading anymore ...
Beers: Maredsous Blonde, Maredsous Brune

A whole day devoted to Corporate Social Responsibility (CSR) in Europe. Not that I don’t see the value in studying the European mindset with regards to CSR, but this day couldn’t have been more difficult to get through if they’d planned it this way. We begin with a few episodes of the Sherridan show, followed by Prof. Murphy, who fails to hit home despite a valiant attempt. The high point of the day comes when we leave the AU for a visit to the European Council where, seated in the privileged spots occupied by member state representatives (I was Italy), we have the honor of XXX’s company. Up to this point, I’m making a valiant attempt to remain interested, but the day’s tedium is catching up to me, and I must admit to having little to no energy to get involved in this particular discussion. But, as should have been expected from this bunch, the question period generates but one question, from Frei. He is absolutely indefatigable, and his stamina and mental clarity are both impressive. I’m trying to keep up, I really am, but at this point I’m fighting more than fatigue.

Back at the AU, we have a visit from David Jerome from the Inbev corporation, the world’s largest brewer, to discuss CSR as he practices it. He is genial and engaging, and he manages to get some reactions from the group (Jamin and Isabelle perk up at this point), but once again, I feel as though we are tragically misusing this opportunity. He provokes some thought when he challenges us to question whether CSR should matter to corporations. He does manage to connect on some other points, but the most immediately beneficial takeaway from his lecture is just how much the corporate world needs to take a moment and think things through from time to time. Nothing he says seems otherworldly in inspiration, but the poise he shows in his approach, and the intellectual discipline it takes to see solutions through to measured and careful implementation is admirable.

Back at Pablo and Sara’s, we arrive just in time for dinner: the much-awaited polenta! I really am starting to feel sorry for our classmates, who aren’t even collectively achieving the levels of comfort and culinary delight that Sara offers so effortlessly. I feel so privileged and fortunate to have been allowed to benefit from their hospitality. This has so many elements of my first few weeks in Italy that the similarities are evoking powerful memories from all those years ago. Even the way Sara greets me in the morning reminds me of Valentina …

Sophie joins us after we finish off the flan, and after making some conversation, we head out for Chelsea bar. What should have been an opportunity to regain what is mine turns into a quiet conversation with Jason and Jin Tae. Far from boring, this conversation spans subjects of a political nature, and as usual in Frei’s company, exceeds anything that would have been discussed with the expected crew. Not a value judgement, but I have to mention it because I have some level of admiration for Frei’s focus: the man is determined to push himself at all times, and is always ready and capable to participate in the most enlightened of conversations. I’m not used to that very much, and it’s actually nice for a change. He alone, it seems, is responsible for my continued intellectual vigilance at Notre Dame.

(Wow. Is that really true?)

Dodgeballing a social scene

Someone mentioned something in a way that I hadn’t yet conceived of. During our Metro ride to the Plaza, Sara Andrews mentioned that since she has a mobile phone, she hardly makes any concrete plans anymore because plans can just be made on the fly with mobile phones. And she’s right. This is not a new insight—it’s just that it was stated in a matter-of-fact way that betrays just how much of a social instrument a mobile phone has become.

Dodgeball, a social networking offering, plays right to this aspect of mobile telephony. It has many blue-sky potential, and these issues are addressed more in depth in my Social Capital blog.

At long last, mussels!

After visiting the European Parliament, we had a couple of hours before to kill before we needed to head to a cocktail held by the American Chamber of Commerce. We followed Professor Sherridan’s advice and headed to Place Jourdan for some fries at Maison Antoine. And at long last, this image I’d had of mayonnaise-covered fries served in a cone of wax paper, was realized. Delicious. Especially when chased with a glass of Grimbergen Blonde (yes, not original, but meh).

The AmCham cocktail was a bust, though it did produce an interesting discussion with Jamin on which I’ll probably write a sidebar. But the champagne flowed freely, and by the time it was done, we were happily meandering through the twisted streets of Brussels, headed for the Grande Place area for—at long last!—some mussels and fries.

The people which comprise our Brussels delegation probably couldn’t be a more eclectic bunch if we’d planned for it to be this way. We have all kinds, and all kinds is what was assembled for dinner at Chez Vincent, yet another recommendation from Professor Sherridan. I had Roquefort moules, along with golden crispy fries, and a few (?) glasses of Maes. The evening ended at the Ugly Duckling Fun Bar, with the breathless retelling of a rather sad story. Meh. You never really can account for taste.

Oh, and I lost my passport. More on that later.

All paths go through Notre Dame

Brussels, Belgium

Music: Audioslave, Getaway Car; Lynyrd Skynyrd, Free Bird
Books: Alexis de Tocqueville (“Democracy in America”), Thomas Friedman (“The World is Flat”)
Beers: Grimbergen Blonde, Maes

Today, we visit the European Union Parliament. And but for a strange and serendipitous turn of circumstance, it would have been just another visit—albeit an interesting one. A student at Notre Dame, Kristina, an undergrad, knows Professor Sherridan very well, and happens to like him very much. She is senior, and a member of the varsity tennis squad at Notre Dame. She also happens to be the daughter of an MEP—a Member of European Parliament—currently in office. In fact, this girl’s brother Yan also attended Notre Dame. He played hockey for the Irish for two seasons (20-20-40) before leaving after being drafted by the Boston Bruins in 2003. These connections are how we came to have the opportunity to not only visit the European Parliament, but also to meet an MEP personally.

Now, these Notre Dame connections would have been impressive by themselves, but it doesn’t stop there. It turns out this MEP was also a professional athlete before turning to politics. He is from Slovakia, one of the smaller countries that was recently admitted to the EU (May 2004). Slovakia is a country of 5.4 million people, and hence he has been able to parlay his well-deserved notoriety into a new career. He defected from Czechoslovakia in the late seventies, and began a Hall of Fame hockey career with the Quebec Nordiques.

I know this man very well—in point of fact, everyone in Quebec does. He is Peter Stastny, the man who formed the head of a trio of talented Czechoslovakian brothers (Anton and Marian were the other two) who came to play for the Nordiques in the early 80s.

I can’t hide that I was very excited when I found out we’d be meeting Peter Stastny . I thought of those Saturday evenings at home in Candiac when my father would scream “Est d’dans!” whenever the Nordiques would score against the Habs. He was introduced by Petra, a pretty Slovak intern at the EU Parliament, whose job it was to repare us by giving us a brief introduction to the EU’s Parliamentary structure.

He came in the room, and rather than launch into a prepared speech, he spoke softly, modestly, about the work that was being done and the part he was playing. He is now the head of Slovakia’s 14 members of Parliament, a task to which he seems to have added every possible other learning opportunity that he could manage to fit into a schedule that now requires him to live between his home country of Slovakia, Brussels for this EU duties, and St-Louis, where his family still lives. Above all else, he spoke of the profoundly human business that lies at the heart of all the EU’s efforts. After all, humans are, as it was once put, “walking piles of biases,” and the picture he painted was that of a collection of people who are trying to move beyond these biases, as well as prejudices and general ignorance, to create something new and lasting. The EU may be somewhat of a dream, but it’s not because of a lack of will. Sometimes, the legacies of millenia past can’t be erased at the pace we have come to expect.

I would have made it through the whole thing without openly mentioning hockey but for the fact that someone pointed it out towards the end. He recounted his favourite moment in what he deemed one of the most intense rivalries in professional sports: the goal he scored in the seventh game of the Stanley Cup playoffs—the eighteenth meeting between Montreal and Quebec that year—which won the series for the Nordiques.

I don’t remember the goal, but he, of course, does. So would Andre.

Fun at the Sudden Death Café

Brussels, Belgium

Music: Paul Simon, American Tune; Pearl Jam, Off He Goes; Dire Straits, On Every Street.
Books: Alexis de Tocqueville (“Democracy in America”), Thomas Friedman (“The World is Flat”)
Beers: Grimbergen Blonde, Mort Subite

Once again, woke up to a cold house and an unsatisfying shower. Still not quite getting the hang of it, but making the best of it anyway. And again, the day begins with a quick homemade breakfast with Sara and Pablo, and after a few wrong turns in the Metro (I won’t discuss it, so don’t ask), we get to our lecture room. The day is oriented towards the EU’s legal system, and we are visited by an American ex-pat lawyer who specializes in the intricacies of Belgian commercial law. He is interesting, but fails to bring it home to this room of MBAs—or at least to me.

A few questions towards the end do manage to elicit the insights we were looking to get: that though it may hold certain advantages from an individual’s point of view, the system is less amenable to rip-roaring entrepreneurship like we see in the US. Employment law, in particular, has to be a huge point of concern for any US firm seeking to establish European operations. But enough of this stuff. The real noteworthy details of this day are out of the classroom, and found in the storied Café À la Mort Subite.

After another spectacular dinner courtesy of Sara (chili con carne), we set out to meet some drinking buddies on the Grande Place, but first, we stopped for a quick gaufre on Place d’Espagne (flambée au Grand Marnier with ice cream, and that “rough-looking” girl from Quebec seated behind me). We then go on to meet up with Mike Queally, Professor Murphy and Ann Casey. It’s there that we’re informed that we will be meeting Brian Lohr at the Café À la Mort Subite, and that he’ll be bringing an MBA graduate from the class of 2000, a Ukrainian girl named Alla Giabovska, who now works for Johnson & Johnson international in Antwerp.

Well, this is one of those situations where you almost wish you hadn’t met, but not because the person is unappealing. Quite the contrary: Alla, on top of having a beautiful name, is absolutely charming. What’s more, she wears the same perfume that CCMS wore (“Rush”, by Gucci). Now, I’m not of those poor saps who gets lost in the numbing haze of nostalgia, but smells have always had a powerful effect on me, and this one hits me right in the gut. All at once I’m overwhelmed by memories of Paris in the spring of 2003, and though these particular memories have an underwhelming ending, it takes nothing away from the potency of the feelings that come flooding back.

And though this would have been enough on its own, Alla also had to be completely charming and adorable, just to make things worse. She’s off to Martinique now, a perfectly poignant obstacle to any further progress, which makes me think this meeting was either inevitable but star-crossed, or just plain unlucky.

And I think I know which one it is …

First day of EU class

Brussels, Belgium

Music: Bright Eyes, Interpol
Books: Alexis de Tocqueville (“Democracy in America”), Thomas Friedman (“The World is Flat”)
Beers: Delirium Tremens Blonde, Rulles Triple

The day begins as it used to in the Tiepolo House during winter: a cold house and a fairly unsatisfying shower. I got used to it in Italy, so I figure I’ll get used to it now too. Downstairs, Sara’s got breakfast ready for us. She makes everything from scratch, as one would expect from any self-respecting Italian mamma. The cheese, jams, bread and yogurt are all her confections, and it’s delicious. The day is fairly uneventful, as it’s our first full day of lectures. The topic is interesting, but I personally feel as though we’re being force-fed. Thankfully, our host, Prof. Sherridan, is genial and engaging, and really makes the topic come alive. We touch on the history of the EU, and the reasons it came about, and the day is concluded by a visit to the EESC. I can hardly stay awake by the end of the day, but it’s not by lack of interest—I’m just plain beat. I do what I typically do when I’m struggling like this during a lecture (and when I commit the mistake of sitting upfront): I scribble down everything I hear. Useful, useless; it doesn’t matter in the least, I capture it all. And though this usually works admirably, this time the forces of jetlag and a steadily rising tide of boredom make it impossible to combat this overwhelming urge to peter out.

Out of desperation, I reach for the heavy ammunition: I ask a question. Unfortunately for me, our speaker doesn’t understand my question, and spends the next five minutes meandering in the dark while trying to address it as best she can. This is agony. Worse still, I have opened the floodgates: now everyone has a question, perhaps as eager as I am to remain lucid at the end of this long day.

But relief comes in the form of a home-cooked meal back at the host house. Tonight, Sara, perhaps inspired by J.'s past residence in San Diego, prepares some chili con carne, italian-style. It is, of course, excellent. And once again, not to be outdone by this town, we head for the Delirium Tremens cafe for a few drinks. This time, we bring along our housemates, Andrew and Steve.

The Tiepolo House, Belgian edition

Brussels, Belgium

Music: Audioslave, Out of Exile album; Jeff Buckley, “Hallelujah”
Books: Alexis de Tocqueville (“Democracy in America”), Thomas Friedman (“The World is Flat”)
Beers: Primus (simple and tasty), Leffe Blonde (a little too tasty for my taste), Stella Artois (still the same)

Scheduled arrival time: 8:40am. Actual arrival time: 8:55am—and we’re still rolling on the tarmac. I’m starting to worry, but not the kind of back-of-mind concern that you feel when your chances are still good. This is the kind of worry that makes you wish everyone in front of you would just shut up and move out of the way. And the kind that makes you hate fussy children, of which there seem to be far too many around me right now. The plane taxis for what seems like en eternity, and when I get off, I realize we’re nowhere near the terminal: I have to take a bus to, well, where I don’t know, because we’re so far from everything that I can’t tell which speck on the horizon will turn out to be Terminal 2. Andd when I do get to Terminal 2, there’s still the nagging problem of customs to get through (somehow I’d forgotten about that too), and of course, by the time I get there, the line is massive. Time: 9:33am. My train leaves at 10:09am. This line is easily a half hour. I won’t make it. All sorts of bad thoughts creep into my mind, but none so shameful as the thoughts directed at that whiny English child. The one who brayed simply because she was tired. And the one whose parents I would have liked to tar and feather for letting a child behave like such a brat.

So, in the end, after running through the terminal to get my luggage and sprinting to the TGV station, I actually do get to the train on time (I can’t imagine how I managed to do it), but only because I neglected to withdraw the ticket I’d purchased online at an automated teller. The controller informs me that the solution to this problem is going to involve bending over and grabbing my ankles, so I opt for the next train, which leaves in 45 minutes and actually gets into Brussels earlier. Sweet. Now I can go to the washroom and wash some of the traveller’s smell from myself.

Arrival time in Brussels: 12:05. I’m not at Centraal Station. There’s always a hitch, right? So after a short ride by way of the Metro (they actually call it the Metro here too), I finally get to the destination I set out for on Sunday morning. Total travel time: 24 hours and 20 minutes. No sweat. Except for the actual sweat that now covers my stinking body and lends the characteristic traveler’s smell to my clothes. Here’s an idea: they make disposable baby wipes to quickly clean babies, why doesn’t someone out there make the equivalent for travelers? On Air Canada, they give you that warm towelette to refresh yourself before they serve the meal, and I always thought that was a classy thing to do. I’d like to see one-shot, disposable towelettes, of varying fragrances, that travelers can use to wash off the grime of an 8-hour flight. Something hand towel-sized, a little thicker but still compact, with an imbibed solution of some deodorant agent. Not an actual shower, mind you, but the closest thing to it. You could even use this after short gym visits. I’m not a big fan of the disposable craze, but this one’s a winner, people.

So, here I am in Brussels. I’m greeted by the kind of weather I remember from Milan in the winter, which is to say, cold, damp and grey. But hey, it’s Europe, and I’m happy to be here! I make my way to our meeting spot. Through the Meridien, right on l”Enfant Isabella, across Place d’Espagne and into Gallerie St-Hubert, a covered shopping arcade, very much like Milan’s Galleria Vittorio Emmanuele, with good reason it turn out: it’s from the same architect. As I got there early, I make my way back to Place d’Espagne, where I indulge in some people watching. Belgians are intriguing, but perhaps only because I’m so happy to be back in Europe that I infuse my perception of everyone I see with my romantic notions of what it means to be European. Jamin walks by, and I flag him down so I can share an inaugural beer (the Primus). Socha, Isabelle and Fritz also arrive, fresh from Amsterdam, and we make our way to Café Vaudeville, where we’re meant to have our welcome lunch.

Jerry Sheridan, our host and the director of the American University campus in Brussels, is an energetic guy. He’s a Notre Dame alum, and has now been in Brussels for 15 years. He’s obviously fascinated by what he teaches, and more importantly, he loves talking about it. We have the traditional Belgian dish of Watrzooi for lunch, accompanied by a general survey of Belgium’s geography and history. Belgium is the site of more historical conflicts of great importance than almost anywhere else in Europe, being located as it is between the traditionally warring empires of France, Britain, Germany and the Netherlands. Belgium, if we can believe our host’s characterization, has no national identity, which is a condition I can understand and sympathize with. And it makes sense: having been repeatedly invaded, and having served as the launching point for so many war campaigns, the country hasn’t had time to develop the iconoclastic centuries-old traditions of its neighbours. Another interesting tidbit concerns the language issue. Belgium, contrary to what I had thought, is not a bilingual country. It is firmly divided into two unilingual halves: Wallonia in the south, which is mainly francophone, and Flanders in the north, which is exclusively of Dutch expression.

After this introduction to the program, and, we are treated to a tour of Grande Place by none other than our fearless host. It seems there is no limit to his enthusiasm for the subject matter, and his eagerness in sharing it is impressive. Grande Place, the centerpiece of Brussels, is simply magnificient. It features three distinctive buildings (the mid- to late-gothic town hall with the heretical clock added by Napoleon and the pendentifs, the church rebuild 400 years after town hall and looking distinctly less well-preserved, and that symmetrical one by the guy with lofty ambitions), along with a series of elegant old guild houses, all rebuilt within four years of the December to January bombardment of 1695.

The tour also takes us by the fabled Manneken Pis, which itself has several alleged origins, but none authoritative. There’s the story about the child who helped put out a spreading city fire and who was thus immorialized. There’s the other one about the warring general who took his family to a battle site (a common practice, it appears), and whose child ambled out into the chaos only to blithely perform that most poetic and natural of acts (I like that story). It turn out that they actually dress the little fella up with various costumes throughout the year, and for the right price, one could even manage to have him dressed like the Irish Leprechaun, if one were so inclined …

The tour eventually wraps up, as the weather is getting increasingly nasty (it’s snowing now, fer chrissakes), and we take the Metro out to the University campus (Alma stop). Once there, we are introduced to our host families, and after some confusion, I am paired as desired with Frei, and our hosts Sara and Pablo take us back to their downtown home. It is immediately obvious that these people are unique, but we won’t have any idea how unique until we see their home. It is a 150-year old Tenenbaum kind of house, with 30-foot ceilings and walls covered with momentoes accumulated over the 27 years they have lived there. Our rooms are on the very topmost floors, and given the fact that the building is three stories high with such high ceilings, it feels more like we’re on the sixth floor. Despite its idiosyncracies (wonky bathrooms, streetside furniture and the years of neglect), the house, like its owners, is warm and welcoming. As dinner is being readied, Pablo takes us on a whirlwind tour of the neighbourhood, which takes us by St Michel’s church, Centraal Station and that other massive church, and it is now more than at any other time that the weariness of the past days sets in: I’m tired.

Unfortunately for me, one of my greatest pleasures is about to be sated: we are about to have a dinner with all the house members, and this is making me think back to my days in the Tiepolo House. We share vegetarian lasagna with Steven, a youg kid from Bethel College in Massachussets, Andrew, from Maine, our hosts Sara and Pablo, and soon enough, their daughter Sophie joins, along with her boyfriend Oscar. In all, there are four languages being spoken at the table by eight people, and the conversation is engrossing.

And, though I thought I’d never get there, at long last I get some sleep.

As easy as going to San Sebastian ...

London, ON, to Toronto, ON, to Newark, NJ, to Paris, France, to Brussels, Belgium

Music: Audioslave, Out of Exile album; Jeff Buckley, “Hallelujah”
Books: Alexis de Tocqueville (“Democracy in America”), Thomas Friedman (“The World is Flat”)

Rough morning, but again my ability to recover is impressive. Bassin drives me to the airport, and I settle in for what I hope will be a stress-free and relatively peaceful journey to Brussels. First leg, London to Toronto. So far so good. Starting to feel the weekend catching up with me, but feeling otherwise amazingly spry after such a rough weekend. Spoke to sister at London airport, and she sounds good. Charlie is finally beginning to work on a schedule, and Ann’s starting to get the hang of it. She’s completely infatuated with her son, and though it’s understandable, it really makes me anxious to see this little marvel.

Once in Toronto, I get the urge to call a few people. I speak briefly to Jon, as one can expect. I briefly toy with the notion of calling D., but think better of it, reasoning that the first call in months shouldn’t come when I’m bored in an airport. These gentlemanly notions, however, are cast aside as I call La Poulette, and once again I’m pleasantly surprised at just how well he’s doing. I miss him, and I’m so impressed and proud of how solid he is. His voice is confident, strong and full of purpose. After all he’s been through, he’s still managed to emerge solid and peaceful. Sofia’s due on May 5th, and in preparation for this, it seems as though he’s managed to center himself and focus on what really matters, which is something he’s always been able to do better than most, but has now elevated to a high art.

Gotta make it a point to call him more often.

After a slight delay where my flight was moved from a convenient gate to a spectaculary more inconvenient one, I fly to Newark, a flight during which it dawns on me that I have far more to do for the next leg than to just walk over to the next gate. Things like pick up my luggage and check in all over again. Why these things escape my attention is beyond me. Meh. Whatever. I pick up my luggage and head over to the Air France check-in counter, where I’m greeted by a huge line. It is 5:30, and the flight leaves at 7:30. This line looks like it could take more than two hours to liquidate, and I’m left to wonder whether the flight will actually leave on time. But this situation gives me some time to call mom. She’s planning a trip, either to Egypt or China. I gotta side with China on that one, not only because of the price, but because it may be one last chance to see a country which will undergo a sea change during the coming decade. I’m excited for her, though at the same time, I worry that I can’t be there more for her. Yet another reason that my flubbing of the McK interview irks me. I miss our interactions, and I miss making her laugh.

My mother: The easiest audience in the world.

She chats me up for the duration of my stay in the check-in line from hell, and I feel better about having spoken to her before I left. Final result is that the plane—as expected—leaves an hour late, and now I’m starting to worry whether I’ll make my train once I get to Paris ...

News Flash: There are Hot Women in Ontario (I know, I was shocked too)

London, ON

Music: Audioslave, “Heaven’s Dead”; Coldplay, “Talk”

Day two starts with a dry mouth and a mild headache. All in all, a pretty soft sentence for yesterday’s abuses. Smitty and I drive to the rink for our game, and we suit up for our first game against Ivey guys. Drew’s also on that team, and though we lose again (6-1), this is way more enjoyable and friendly. Our tally comes from a goalmouth scramble by Brass. I have my own opportunities, but I unsurprisingly fail to connect. That talent thing again. But no one can fault me for heart. I hop on with the ND boys for a jump back to the hotel and a bite to eat. After an unimpressive chicken tenders plate, but a surprise and quite welcome “oops!” moment from our waitress (Leala, pronounced “Lee-lah”), we eventually make our way back for the second game at the main rink, this time against the Ivey alum team that beat Drew’s squad yesterday, and which tied Harvard 3-3 earlier in the day. Quite obviously, they’re gunning for a second consecutive run at the cup, and the general feeling in the room is that they’ll come out swinging with all they’ve got to make up for the large goal differential that Harvard built at our expense. Ben, Drew’s team’s tender, agrees to play for us, which allows Caleb to play out for the first time. As expected, Ivey comes out firing, but something funny happens. Someone overhears them call us the “weak team” before the game, and just as though we collectively decided to show them what heart truly is in the absence of numbers, we also come out firing. DeHond and Karsten are stalwarts on defence, Ben’s standing on his head, and far from just cocooning to weather the storm, we also have our opportunities.

They land the first blow, a cheap fluke goal. But before the period’s out, in a sequence that will be replayed in my head numerous times again before the end of the weekend, we also manage to connect. I’m on defence, and we’re on the powerplay. I keep the puck in at the point by tossing it back to Caleb in the corner. I loop out of and then back into the zone, and Caleb has a clear lane to pass it to me for a one-timer from the high slot, a play that I’m not known for completing with any amount of success. But as though guided by instinct, I skate out to the puck, clench my teeth and lean into the shot as hard as I can—so much so that a last-minute hook by an opposing player has no effect. The stick shudders in my hands: I’ve made hard contact. I lift my head to see the shot go for the far post, hit the inside of it and loop around the inside of the net. 1-1, with 4 minutes to go in the first. We may tie this period which, by the way the tournament’s accounting procedures go, will mean that the Ivey team will not be able to overtake Harvard, no matter the final score.

The minutes tick away, then the seconds. They pull their goalie and throw everything at us, but we hold it down. We tie the period, effectively eliminating Ivey from the final. They are not pleased, and will make this plain for the rest of the game. We hear chatter on the ice about us “falling asleep against Harvard” and showing up unexpectedly for this game, and the chippiness index goes steadily up. Guys are taking runs at Karsten, hooking, slashing, holding and generally acting like idiots. The whole situation finally culminates in a hilarious invitation to “go” by one of their older (and bigger) guys of the last face-off. For the record, I will state that I did decline this invitation, though I’ll confess that I felt nothing but pity for this guy, that he should feel this is an appropriate way to conclude a friendly tourney.

We celebrate this minor victory with lukewarm Buds, and American beer never tasted better. From there, we head back to the hotel for showers, and head back to the rink for the final. Back at the rink, I am entertained by the lovely Kara, who turns out to be quite a find. Bassin’s instincts are right on again: former ATK consultant, now going to BCG with a head full of balanced knowledge and wisdom. Plus, she’s not bad to look at, on top of being a lively conversationalist. So there are interesting women in Ontario after all, not that D. didn’t prove that already. And lo and behold, another interesting woman joins us shortly, the lovely Coille (pronounced “Coyle”), who’s Dutch and quite breathtaking as well. Okay, she’s blonde and hot. As for the game, the ostensible reason for our presence at the rink, those damn Harvard boys won it handily, 4-0. Ivey was never really a threat, making the other Ivey team’s childish rage at us even more laughable.

In keeping with last year’s established “tradition”, we head out from the rink to hit Solid Gold, but it’s a little early to be expecting any real action (8:30). And sure enough, we get there and it’s completely barren, both of talent and customers. Only as we’re getting ready to leave does anything ressembling a crowd form, and DeHond makes a last-ditch attempt at salvaging the evening with a girl who looks as though she just got collagen lip injections. Meh.

From there, it’s off to Bassin’s to begin the real evening: Phoenix. Not much happening there either, though once again, the women of Ontario turn out to be surprisingly charming (and yes, by "charming" I mean "hot"). I meet the talkative Anna, and the, umm, manicured Kit. Later, after some interesting talk with Anna about relationships, we head out to hit the Frog just as I get an SMS from Rachel announcing her arrival at Phoenix. Oh well.

The Frog is creaking full of people. Once again, the lovely Natalie goves me a superlative hug, which I want to believe is motivated by something else than burgeoning enebriation. Who cares, though? After some carousing, I end up upstairs entertaining Kit, who is growing hotter by the moment, and just as I think this could turn into something, Rachel shows up with Jen. Damn. The rest of the evening is spent trying to push the envelope, but never really eliciting the desired reaction. We top off the evening with bad pizza and a hasty retreat to the Bassin pad.

Ivey Cup, Part II

South Bend, IN to London, ON

Music: A selection from Brass’ iPod, including a fantastic live 20-minute version of “Cortez the Killer” by Built to Spill and Interpol’s “Turn on the Bright Lights”. Must ask Brass for other names. Turns out the guy’s got a pretty wide range of interests, a lot of which are very interesting indeed.
Books: Alexis de Tocqueville (“Democracy in America”), Thomas Friedman (“The World is Flat”)

Spent the morning preparing, doing laundry and handing in my CC&M final paper. Didn’t quite make it to see M., though the way I feel right now about the whole Adjoined thing, it’s better for me to stay away. Did manage to drop in to see K., though, with an offering of coffee, and was once again surprised at how easy it is to just go along with the flow with her. She has a charming accent, and flawless written French, which is always a good way to earn my admiration. Must remember to take a picture of those eyes.

And now, game on! The second edition of the Ivey Cup is upon us, and this year’s contingent, if not superior in numbers, is at least superior in talent. It’s me, DeHond, Caleb, Brass, Karsten, Mikulec and Prentice. Rambaldini bailed on us at the last moment, citing “the flu”, and for that, he’s cut off for life. I can’t believe a countryman would do that. No big loss, as it turns out, just annoying in the way it happened. So Caleb’s going to play goal. Thankfully, one of us can take on those duties, and I’m glad it’s him.

But talent doesn’t really matter, as it never really does at this tourney. What I’m most looking forward to is further cementing some bonds with Ivey folk, Bassin in particular. It’s only dawning on me now that the Toronto foul-up—that’s what I’ll call it from now on—looms a little bigger in light of the plentiful reasons why Toronto would have been an ideal place to start off in business (Zakarow, the Ivey bunch, D., the fact that it’s in Canada and close to Montreal, etc.). But I’m moving on, no looking back.

First game: Harvard, on olympic-sized ice. We were looking forward to “fuckin’ up some smaht kids”, but as it turns out, they’re fresh from a successful run at the Tuck championship, laden down with talent of questionable academic affiliation, and boast a domer goaltender (Charron) with, apparently, no conscience at all. Final result: 13-0 for the “smaht” kids. We held it together for the first period, and then for part of the second, but in the end, the legs just weren’t there and they started running up the score without mercy. Which brings to mind an observation: what does it say about me that I would have taken the foot off the gas pedal at, say, 6-0 or 7-0 to avoid humiliating the other guys, while they plowed ahead unabated? Am I not competitive in the sense needed to be a winner that takes it all? Or is it just that they’re a bunch of vainglorious tools who wanted so bad to win this tourney as well that they took the opportunity to cement their standing at our expense? Whatever it was, it wasn’t a fun game at all, for obvious reasons. Bassin and Kara were in attendance, and there appears to be something there, but we’ll get to that later.

Post game, I go back to Bassin’s for a shower and to prep for the evening’s festivities. We’re going to the Barking Frog, same place as last year where I drunkenly declared my love for probably the youngest undergrad in the place. Not intentionally, mind you, but I’m sure that was the case. So we chill out at Bassin’s a little with Smitty, drink some beers and chat about Smitty’s recently defunct relationship with the tall and elegant girl (whose name eludes me right now). I tell them about “confession girl” and K., and we’re now knee-deep in the kind of bullshitting session that seems to be so commonplace for these Ivey folks, yet so alien to me. These people live in a kind of winter version of Melrose Place, with all the attendant scandals and social intricacies. Really fascinating.

At the Barking Frog, I meet up with my teammates, who are trying to appeal (unseccussfully) to Charron’s sense of loyalty. I move on. These guys seem so intent on either getting drunk or clustering together, despite all the women around, that I think it’s best for me to explore other people. Enter Jen, Rachel and Crystal. Not anything to howl at the moon about, but they’re sassy and friendlt and, most importantly, not hockey players. Bassin effortlessly plays the part of the sidekick, and though the details are neither salient, memorable nor saucy, the evening does end on a positive note, and we retreat to the Bassin stronghold.