NYC and Me IV: Columbia Homecoming

One of the other planned events of my weekend in NYC was my family’s attendance at Columbia’s Homecoming game against Princeton. My brother in law Kenny, father of Chelsea, had planned his trip to visit his daughter around Homecoming (and my visit to the City too), and my Mom and Dad, veterans of football games past, were happy to drive down from Amherst to join us all at the game.

My first week at Barnard, one of the many things I signed up to do during Orientation was join the Columbia University Marching Band. It seemed like a great way to meet people, play my clarinet, and attend football games. I’m sure somebody talked me into it, but either way, I became one of the Columbia blue-blazer-clad members of The Greatest Marching Band in the World, as we liked to call ourselves (and as our Columbia blue t-shirts shouted out). Not everyone in the band played what might be called a traditional instrument; members were just encouraged to play something that made a noise. The band’s moniker was a little pathetic, there was no effort to be a true “marching band” with any kind of organization; our most frequent formation was called “amoeba,” in which the members ran around in circles on the field in some crazy fashion, stopping wherever we were when the drum major blew his whistle. But it was great fun; the band’s program was a script of biting sarcasm directed at the opponent of the day, and the songs we played embellished the script. The program was rarely more than five minutes long, but playing in the band afforded me some road trips to Harvard and Yale, and lots of fun drinking with other members of the band.

During my years at Barnard, my Mom and Dad made more than one journey to Baker Field at 217th Street in Manhattan (at the tip of the island). Homecoming was also always an occasion for the Columbia University Glee Club, of which I was a member, to sing for returning alumni pre-game at the field. So between Glee Club and Marching Band, my parents have some wonderful memories of Homecoming. Which we would try to recreate for Chelsea that October day.

And it was a great day. The weather, at first threatening rain in the morning, turned out beautiful and sunny. Dad drove down to the City to pick up Mom (who had arrived a few days earlier), Kenny, Mac (a Thai exchange student with Kenny) and me, and we all had fun shopping for luncheon food in a NYC market I had found on Broadway and 90th Street – one of those markets where they cut up cheese for you to taste, and have fresh bread on the counter, and myriad prepared salads, in addition to the fresh fruit on the racks on the sidewalk, and everything-else-under-the-sun-you-could-ever-want-to-eat inside the store. I had discovered via the CU website that there was a fenced in “picnic” spot complete with picnic tables up at the field, so we were going to, in traditional Brose fashion, bring our lunch. After a morning or studying, Chelsea was going to take one of the free buses available to students from the campus up to the field – this turned out to take much longer than she had planned, simply because there were so many people headed up to the game (although one would have been hard-pressed to tell exactly where they all went once they got to the field; attendance at the game was not what I would call “hearty”).

Dad dropped us all off at the field, and went off to hunt for parking. Mom, Kenny, Mac and I headed for the picnic area and found an empty table to set up our lunch. Mom wandered off and found the table where students were giving picnic-goers bracelets that allowed one to pick up several glasses of free beer (but not all at once!) that were being dispensed at another table on the field. It appeared, after the game began and we were still in the luncheon area waiting for Chelsea, that our fellow picnic-goers were mainly recent alumni of the College, enjoying the free beer.

In the picnic area I ran into a fellow athlete, Rachel, who I had seen at an event the previous day on campus. Once we got to our seats, I saw one of the Trustees that I had formerly served with on the Barnard board. And right behind her were Ula and Carrie, my two CU Hall of Famers – Ula had received honors for her basketball and volleyball records two years ago at the Hall of Fame induction ceremony; Carrie received honors for her amazing javelin career at Columbia at the ceremony two days earlier. The three hour game gave me a chance to catch up with all of them, even one of my Glee Club alums, David, whose daughter was the drum major for the marching band, of all things!

The highlight of the afternoon (besides enjoying the remains of the tiramisu that Chelsea had brought, leftovers from our Friday evening dinner at Carmine’s on Times Square) was watching the Marching Band. Still crazy after all these years, the script for the show was as caustic as ever, and the music amazingly together (credit Nancy, the drum major!). There’s nothing like recreating a memory, and on this day, it was a success.

NYC and Me III: Lunch with Denny

Denny is an 84 year-old woman who has been a friend to my mother, and by association, our family, since before I was born. Denny, known to me as Vi, but to most everyone else as Denny, has been my personal friend ever since I went to Barnard, and especially after I lived for a year on West 106th Street, just down the street from her apartment on West End Avenue. Vi worked in Admissions at Teacher’s College for many years, and had a lovely side-line as a tutor to child actors, including Christian Slater, for a period of time as well. She never married, and has no living relatives, but has a wonderfully large circle of friends, a circle which has widened over time as she became close to her friends’ children as well (I fall into that category). During my consulting career and my many trips to NYC, I made it a point to take Vi out for dinner on a regular basis; we always had plenty to talk about and her advice always seemed right on the mark. I gave Vi an 80th birthday party in 2004 on the Barnard College campus; there were 66 people in attendance, from all over the country, and included her childhood friends, college friends, neighbors, church friends, and at least one entire family who had all made it to the event. It was a wonderful testament to the enduring legacy of her friendship.

Vi has five goddaughters, at least two of who are named Christina (including my sister), and one of whom is Cynthia Nixon. I have known Cynthia as long as I can remember, and I dutifully saw her in movies and plays throughout the years (starting with “The Philadelphia Story” in 1979 and most recently, her Tony Award-winning performance in “Rabbit Hole” in 2006), often joining Vi for a performance in the City, and frequently Cynthia would join us afterward for a post-performance dinner. To Vi’s delight, Cynthia attended Barnard College (she entered as I graduated); she could claim that two of her favorite people attended Barnard. During my term as President of the Alumnae Association of Barnard College (AABC), Cynthia was given a Young Alumnae Award at her 15th Reunion Dinner in 2003, and it was my pleasure to invite Vi to be a special guest at the event and sit at one of the head tables with Cynthia and me. That night Vi was in seventh heaven.

To fast forward and condense a bit, it was three years ago that we all noticed that Vi was losing her short term memory, and began to be concerned that she could no longer live alone in her apartment on West End Avenue. And almost two years ago now, after a fall getting on a NYC bus, Cynthia was able to find an affordable place for Vi to live out the rest of her days, in a quasi-hospital on the Upper West Side, in which she has 24 hour supervision and whatever medical care she needs. I have continued to visit Vi in her new home, and on this trip, I had arranged to bring my niece Chelsea with me, as I hoped to pass along our family’s tradition of friendship with Vi to Chelsea.

So it was that Chelsea, Vi and I were sitting at a four-top at Café du Monde on Broadway at 112th Street (right across from Tom’s Diner, for those in the know) enjoying a bright sunny day in October. We had just ordered our lunch when we were interrupted by Cynthia, who came over and embraced Denny, exclaiming, “I’ve been looking all over for you!” Apparently Cynthia had decided this was a good day for a visit too, and with that, she joined our table for lunch.

I have known Cynthia for a long time, so I didn’t really think about it, but when I introduced Chelsea to Cynthia, I thought, OMG, Chelsea is meeting a movie star for the first time! I knew that Cynthia is an oft-spoken of alumnae of Barnard on campus, and would be known to most females of Chelsea’s age as Miranda in HBO’s Sex in the City, and most recently of the SITC movie, which I had gone to with Chelsea, my sister and mother on the opening night of the flick. She could have sat slack-jawed throughout the lunch, but no, Chelsea kept her cool, identified herself as a Barnard freshman, and then proceeded to go through the meal without once asking a question that would have identified her as some star-struck fan. I was very proud of her! Indeed, I asked most of the questions that might be considered in that latter category, but got some interesting answers (the next SITC movie will be released in 2010; her next play “Distracted” begins on Broadway in January).

It was a classic moment in NYC for me – running into people serendipitously, having experiences that are familiar, yet new, and enjoying friendships that are long-standing.

NYC and Me II: Central Park Runs

I started my competitive running career in Central Park in 1983, and after running 10s of races in the park, including two NYC Marathons, it holds a special place in my heart. Running in the Park is always my way of “touching” the City when I am visiting; and I am always astounded (but perhaps shouldn’t be) when I run by someone I recognize.

I had three runs in the Park this visit. The first 5 miler on Thursday morning was capped off by a stretching warm down with my host Clara and friend Jay with their personal trainer in the Park. (I was sore the next day!) The second was on Saturday morning – the NY Road Runners Club was sponsoring the Norwegian Distance Races that morning, and I ran past runners as they took off on a 1.87 mile race around the south end of the park. As I ran past Tavern on the Green, I heard the finish line announcer give the crowd the news that five-time NYC Marathon winner Grete Waitz was standing at the finish line – which gave me a little thrill, as Grete was a significant icon in my early racing career (although Joan Benoit Samuelson has always been my hero). On that Saturday run I also noticed runners training for the NYC Marathon, which occurs on November 2nd. My friend Jean Yves will be running the race this year. Run #3 was on the morning I left the States; it was a crisp sunny morning and I was feeling fast, and had the lovely ego boost of passing most of the runners on the road during my 7:30 a.m. run. On this run, I ran around the north end of the Reservoir, which provides one of the most spectacular views of the City, especially as the sun is rising.

A fitting way to say good bye to the City.

NYC and Me

Last week I was in New York City and Massachusetts, visiting friends and family, and attending events at Columbia University. I had planned this particular trip home around the October 2nd Columbia Athletics Hall of Fame Dinner; I had been on the selection committee for the awards, and I thought it would be appropriate to be in attendance at the event (besides, I love black tie dinners – why else does one have a short black dress and three-inch-heeled pumps?). And it would be the first time I would see my niece, Chelsea, as a freshman at Barnard, and frankly, I needed to manage a visit out of the country during the Fall to make sure I was not in violation of the three-month stay rule in France. (I can’t be in France longer than three months at a time without a visa. I don’t have a visa.)

But as I stood in the Nice Cote d’Azur airport on October 1st, getting ready to board my Delta flight to JFK, along with a bunch of other chatty Americans (looking like the AARP crowd), I realized that I was not really ready to leave France quite yet. It felt like I had just arrived; and indeed, it had only been five weeks since I had left Dulles Airport for Nice. But I was scheduled to go, and had a long list of visits planned, things to buy, and correspondence to catch up with (where I wouldn’t have to pay overseas rates for calls or postage). JFK beckoned.

Before I left, Priscilla had commented that she wondered what culture shock I would experience when I arrived in the States. Given my short time in France, I have to admit, not much. In fact, arriving in NYC felt like coming home. Not only was I going there to see people I wanted to see, but the City itself has felt like home to me for a very long time.

My family has a long history in Manhattan: at the turn of the century (1900, that is) my Dad’s family first settled in the north of Manhattan (the part that is currently Central Park), before moving to New Haven and Westchester County; my Mom’s father attended Union Theological Seminary on the Upper West Side; my Dad’s father and uncle worked at Schumacher Fabrics on Lexington Avenue most of their business careers; my mother was living on Claremont Avenue behind Barnard College when she met my Dad (who was an East Sider); and then I went on to attend Barnard, and lived in the City for two years after college. And as a management consultant, I spent nearly half of my ten years in consulting working for NYC clients – and commuting from Washington to work in the City five days a week for them. My ex-husband’s first question, after we decided to separate, was, “Are you going to move to New York?”

Memories of my brief stay in the City became separate postings here. They are numbered, but in no particular order, above.

La Vie en Rose

Even before I had the idea to move to France, I had the idea to improve my French, in a nod to my then French boyfriend. I looked for a French tutor on Craig’s List, but didn’t get any responses to my emails (why, then, were they advertising on the List?), so my friend Erick suggested I check out the Alliance Française. He didn’t know it in Washington, but he said that the Alliance was a French-sponsored organization in most foreign cities; when I looked for it online, I found it with no problem.

Ensconced on Wyoming Avenue in a lovely townhouse just north of Dupont Circle, the Alliance Francaise of Washington (http://www.francedc.org/) offers French classes, tutoring, an active library of books, CDs and DVDs, and lots of programming for its members. I joined it in January 2007, and immediately signed up for a mid-level French class. (The class, held on Saturday mornings, was an interesting mix of Washingtonians, mostly foreign-born, in which I was by far the best speaker – most of them were learning it for the first time. I gathered that many of them were being sponsored by their workplaces as well; although the class began at 10 and ended at 1, my classmates took a liberal view of when they actually needed to be in the classroom – some actually showed up at noon at times. Fascinating!)

Among the programming offered by the Alliance Française is a variety of French film viewing opportunities. It was through the Alliance that I was introduced to the E Street Cinema, in downtown Washington. For some reason, after years of watching foreign flicks at the Shirlington movie theater, I was unaware of the E Street offerings – and frankly, E Street was far more convenient by Metro (Metro Center)! The movie that I signed up to attend at the cinema was “La Vie en Rose,” telling the compelling story of the French chanteuse, Edith Piaf, her music and her early death. I think I was motivated to sign up for the ticket after seeing the listing in the weekly Alliance-emailed newsletter; this was June 2007, and I was in my mode of wanting to submerse myself in all things French, and here was a free opportunity to do so. Also, when I went to the Alliance to pick up my ticket for the movie, I got a free CD of the songtrack, which was pretty cool.

I enjoyed the movie, with Marion Cotillard in the lead role (she received the Oscar for Best Actress for the movie in 2008), which was shown in French, with English subtitles. I sat next to some other Francophiles in the movie theater, who were equally entranced by the movie. It was dark and disturbing, but it was the music that was captivating and Marion’s performance was compelling.

In January 2008, the Alliance again offered a viewing of “La Vie en Rose” at one of its Monday evening Ciné evenings at the Wyoming Avenue location. Interestingly, I almost didn’t remember having seen the film nine months earlier; and later, once I had, wondered why I had signed up to see it again. But I was happy I had; this time, I watched the movie in French, with French subtitles. At this point too, I had decided to move to France, and had signed up for private French tutoring lessons (my first session would be that same week). Knowing the story already, I didn’t need the English to follow the story line, and given the slangy French spoken by the lead character, it was immensely helpful to read what was being said on the screen. I’ve often thought during my first weeks here in France, I wish I had French subtitles!, as I’m trying to understand conversation around me. Being a visual person, this would help. But I’m getting along…

So, given my introduction to and immersion in Edith Piaf, when I was walking along a street in Nice a few weeks ago, a flyer stuck on the parked cars in the street caught my attention. It advertised a Mass in celebration of the 45th anniversary of Edith Piaf’s death, at a nearby Catholic Church, scheduled for early October. The flyer also indicated that there would be music before and after the church service. I knew from the movie that Edith Piaf had spent her final days in Grasse, the city where Priscilla lives, northwest of Nice. So the affection for her in this region made some sense. But another part of me thought that such an event would be a little over the top. But I took a flyer with me, anyway. I’m looking for ways to get to know my new city, and this would be one way to do it.

So, yesterday at 5 p.m., I put on a respectable outfit, and headed over to the Église Saint Pierre d’Arène on rue de France, about 10 blocks from me. I found the church, and as advertised, a woman was performing songs made famous by Edith Piaf on the church steps, accompanied by an instrument called a limonaire (not found in my French dictionary). The limonaire is essentially what many Americans would recognize as a player piano, except that the player is a box, which the singer, Domino, wound with a crank as she sang, and the “recorded” music played as she cranked. I noticed people going in and out of the church as she was singing, so after a few moments, I too walked up the steps into the church. I found the church full of people sitting in the nave, awaiting the start of the 6 p.m. mass. In my concert-going with Priscilla in France, she has typically encouraged us to be at church concerts well ahead of their advertised start. And this has served us well in securing seats, as free concerts in France, as just in about any other place, are well-attended. So, seeing the crowd in St. Pierre, I quickly found myself a seat about mid-nave, and hunkered down for the 40 minute wait. I had brought a paperback book with me, in case of this very situation, and although the church was pretty dark, managed to get in about 20 minutes of reading. (am reading a first novel written by a Barnard alum and a former consultant who worked for me at PwC, Marisha Pessl, called "Special Topics in Calamity Physics").

The mass started at 6. This was my first French Catholic service, and I thought, fittingly focused on a singer. It was a standard mass, but with Edith Piaf’s music sung throughout, “Mea Culpa” and “Les mȏmes de la cloche” sung by Domino; “Les 3 cloches” by a young boy, and a recording of Edith singing “Jerusalem.” It was pretty moving. The service included a presentation of a plaque naming a street “L’Allée Edith Piaf” (not sure where in the city it will be) to the Conseil Générale of the region.

After the service, the crowd stayed in their seats for the recital to follow. The program listed eight selections that were to be sung by Domino and another singer, Gil Florini. The selections included the most famous songs of Piaf, including “La vie en rose,” “Padam,” and “Rien de rien” (at least those are the ones I know from the movie!). This was what many of those in the audience had come for, I think, as the applause following these performances was enthusiastic and sustained. The singer Gil Florini, a man past middle age, reminding me of someone like Neil Diamond, drew the most applause, for his belt-it-out style – which was pretty Edith Piaf-like. (I have since learned that M. Florini is a priest in the church; which explains the exhuberant applause.)

I left the church happy to have taken part in a Niçoise event; also to have participated in my first French mass, and having been inspired by an evening of uplifting music.

Visit to the States

With apologies to my Washington friends, I was in the States this past week, visiting friends and family in New York and Massachusetts. It was a whirlwind visit, that included attendance at the Columbia Athletics Hall of Fame Awards Dinner (with my mom), the Columbia/Princeton Homecoming game, lunch with my friend Vi (with a surprise appearance by Cynthia Nixon, her goddaughter), time with my niece Chelsea, a Barnard freshman, and her dad, Kenny; golf with my Dad, an afternoon with my brother, Eric, and his wife Jan, and my nephew Ned. And catch up phone calls with several of you! Pictures are to the right. Other memorable moments: runs in Central Park, watching the VP and Presidential debates, mailing in my absentee ballot, and catching up with Ula, Carrie, Rachel, Philippa, Judy, Clara, Christine, Laura and her new son, David.

My next trip to the States will be in December when I fly into Dulles for visits with my Washington friends!

Brugges

When Joanne suggested a visit to Bruges (as I was thinking of it then), I said, Bruges? Although the name was familiar, and I knew that it was in Belgium, that was about all I could raise out of my memory bank. But I was game for an adventure, and Joanne is well travelled, so I figured that her suggestion was not completely out of left field, and probably worth following. And I was not disappointed.

Brugges, as it is know in Belgium, was the hub of European commerce starting in the 10th through the 14th centuries. It was never governed by a king or queen, but by a council of merchants, and kept its commercial qualities all the way into the 15th century, and, one could argue, today. In 1000, the city was actually a port on the ocean, and ships could sail right into the Markt in the middle of town to unload their wares. But over the next 200 years or so, silt built up in the water ways into the town, and eventually choked the water back about 10 kilometers back to the sea shoreline. (The ocean is visible from the Belfry in the center of town – see photo.) Today, the town is almost purely a tourist attraction; in the late 1900s, the English, many of whom had settled themselves in the town across the Channel, convinced the townspeople that its history was worth preserving, and the effort to renovate the medieval town was begun.

My historical perspective is based on readings from Joanne’s guide to Belgium and from the tour we received from Marie-Paul, a professional colleague of Joanne’s (had been at the conference in Wales with her the previous week), and a professional tour guide in Brugges, as well as a Brugges native. Marie-Paul picked us up at 5 p.m. the day we got into the town, and took us on a two-hour walk through the town, and then we persuaded her to sit down with a glass of wine, during which we got another hour of personal and historical conversation out of her (stories of her family, best place to buy chocolate, etc.). Apologies in advance for any gross misstatements of fact, but I am writing this in my breezy way of remembering things, perhaps not quite exactly…

Joanne and I took the train from Paris to Lille and then into Belgium on a Thursday morning. (See previous posting on Paris adventures, with description of train rides to and from Belgium.) It was a bright sunny day, and we arrived in the Brugges station by 10:30 a.m. I was struck immediately, as we left the train station, by the enormous number of bicycles parked outside the station (see photo). This was clearly a biking town! I learned later from Marie-Paul that bikes are king in Brugges (car use is discouraged), and a biker can go in any direction on any street in the town, and ALWAYS has the right of way over a vehicle. This appealed to the biker in me, of course. We took a taxi into town, however, to our hotel, Koffieboontje. (No idea what that name means or stands for – it’s Flemish for something!). (http://www.hotel-koffieboontje.be/) The hotel was exactly in the middle of town, right next to the Belfry, the highest structure visible for miles around.

We attempted to check in early to the hotel, but were told to come back at 1. Joanne was a little eager to check in, because on the train she’d discovered her clothes were all wet in her overnight bag as a result of a water bottle not being completed closed when it was shoved in the bag early that morning. So, forced to wait for our room, we left our bags at the hotel and wandered in to the main square, the Markt. This is where things happened in the early years of the town, where commerce began in the Medieval era. According to Marie-Paul, the bourse, or stock market, had its beginnings in this town, as the merchants engaged in business transactions amongst each other in the town. The Belfry, towering over the Markt, with its 366 stairs, beckoned to me. Now a working carillon clock in the town, it was depository for vital town documents in the Middle Ages, as well as the main trading location as ships unloaded their wares in the nearby dock. The dock is no longer there, but it was an innovative place for unloading, given its protective roof that allowed ships to unload even in bad weather (not uncommon in this northern clime).

Leaving Joanne in the square, I climbed up the 366 stone stairs, negotiating past other tourists making the climb. It didn’t take me very long, and frankly, I wasn’t even winded. Darn, I was looking for a little workout! But the view from the top was pretty interesting, and I took a bunch of photos of the town (without really knowing at what I was looking at that point). (Its climb reminded me of a similar tower in Bologna, Italy, I had climbed with my sister and niece, with a wonderful view of the town.)

We were in Brugges for a few reasons. Joanne had been reading the Dorothy Dunnett House of Niccolo series, in which Niccolo (a fictional character) has adventures with Anselm Adornes (an historical figure) in 15th c. Brugges. In that spirit, we made a pilgrimage to the Jersualem kerk (church) in Brugges built by the Adornes family and where Anselm and his wife Marguerite are buried. (see photos). The other draw for Joanne was the art of several Belgian artists in the several museums in town – those artworks known specifically as the Belgium Primitives (which all acknowledge is a strange decription, but it differentiates them from a later period, I gather). I have to acknowledge my own ignorance with respect to art, and in this instance was happy to explore the town without spending time in art museums.

Coming back down the 366 stairs (quite a bit faster, of course), I joined Joanne in the main square. It was chilly, but manageable in the sun, so we took advantage of one of the many open air cafes and enjoyed an al fresco early lunch, whiling away the time (and following the quarterly updates from the Belfry carillon) until we could check into the hotel.

Finally, we walked back across the square to the hotel and were given the key to our double room, just inside the hotel courtyard. It was a small room, but sufficient for our needs for one night, with a shower and water closet, a TV, and two beds pushed together. During lunch, we had decided to head toward the museums in town, but, given her need to minimize foot travel, Joanne decided to rent a bike from the hotel to bike to the museums, and I would walk. I left Joanne at the bike rental place, and headed off on foot to the designated museum, which took me about 5 minutes. I figured it would take Joanne a little longer to figure out the bike and such, so expected her in about 15 minutes. But then the 15 minutes stretched into 20, and then 30 minutes. At that point, I had walked into the museum, making sure she hadn’t slipped past me, and checked out the particulars, and, noting the 8 € entry fee, decided that I wasn’t really that interested in the art. Joanne finally showed up at the museum, admitting she had gotten hopelessly lost trying to the find the museum. I told her that I was going to let her do museums on her own, and that I would walk around, and then go for a run before our planned rendezvous with Marie-Paul at 5. My thinking was that I should go on my run while the sun was still out and bearable in shorts and a long sleeved t-shirt; I had not brought my running tights or hat, and I was pretty certain that early morning temperatures the next day would require some serious outerwear.

Brugges is really a small medieval town, that was surrounded by a canal in its early days, but it was never a town that was fought over, so the type of garrisons typical of medieval towns are missing. A town of about 20,000 today, its population was nearly double that in the 1400s. Today the older canal surrounding the city is built over in places, and a larger canal surrounds the larger more modern town. For my run, I scrutinized a town map, and figured out how to make it out to the outer canal, on which it looked like there was a biking or running path. And indeed, there was – one can almost always count on European cities for this type of outdoor activity convenience. My run took me up past several windmills on the Canal, and then back toward a water park (at least that’s what I took from the name); a good 40 minutes by the time I was back at the hotel. Along the canal I found a few runners, but mostly bikers, and school kids on their way home from school, older people out for a stroll, and tourists lugging cameras and ogling the windmills. Joanne and I would take bikes out to the canal path the next day, and do the same exact thing – ogle windmills.

I showered and changed in time for our meeting with Marie-Paul. She was a lovely woman, and shared her very extensive knowledge of the town and its history with us. I gave her credit; she had spent the day speaking French with another town client, and then had to switch to English for her tour with us. Flemish is, of course, her native language; and she described learning the Brugges dialect from her mother, but how she decided not to burden her own daughter with having to learn a language that no one ever uses…

At the end of our walk and talk with Marie-Paul, Joanne and I looked for a place for dinner. We didn’t want to walk back to the restaurant we had seen along the way and recommended to us (it had already been a long day of walking), so we ended up at the main square, with its many cafés. In the chilly evening air, we sat ourselves directly under two heaters in the café we arbitrarily chose (closest to the hotel), so we enjoyed our shared Flemish beef stew and Goat Cheese salad and a few Belgian beers in relative comfort.

The next morning, we luxuriously slept in, although I made sure we were up and on our way to the hotel breakfast before it closed down at 10. We had a 3:30 train back to Paris, and on the list of things to do before we left was a bike ride and a visit to the Jerusalem kerk – also a visit to the recommended chocolate store. The hotel had one of those wonderful European hotel buffet breakfasts, including coffee and warm milk you could pour into little carafes to take to your table, a full cereal offering, plus hard boiled eggs, a selection of breads and rolls, yogurt and fruit juice, and of course, cheese and sliced meats! I suggested to Joanne that we “take out” some cheese and bread for our lunch; the 50€ dinner from the night before was more than I had expected to spend on food on this trip. She was agreeable and we wandered out of breakfast with lunch in hand.

By the time we had finished breakfast, it was nearly 10:30 and checkout time was 11, so we packed up our things so we could check out and leave our luggage in the hotel lobby. I rented a bike for four hours for 7€ (Joanne had rented hers for 24 hours the day before), and we headed out for our meandering on wheels around 11. As mentioned, we took in the Jerusulem kerk and the Canal, also the Minnewater – not a water park per se, but a crossing of the canals, creating a fairly large water body around which a park had been built. We found the chocolate store and spent quite a bit of time and money there too. We finished up our bike ride near the St. John’s Hospital (built in the 1400s, and a working hospital for the indigent until the 1970s) where we sat by the canal and enjoyed our cheese and bread sandwiches, as well as some fruit brought on the train from Paris.

We returned our bikes around 2 p.m. and wandered back to the main square and our café from the previous day’s lunch to have a farewell beer in the hour we had to kill before leaving for our train. It was the fitting end to a lovely two days.