It’s a small square in Ghent, hundreds of years old. The tram goes right by. People wait there to get on. Others flow by, eager for the eating and shopping.

TripAdvisor knows the place. “Come see.” Here are the comments of one visitor:

Very inviting square in the heart of Ghent. Conviviality is an asset due to the location with many cafes and restaurants.

Sounds like the status quo for this day and age … enjoy your meal. But I’ve discovered something cool about certain todays here in the Sint-Veerleplein:

Consider the art of Alberto Garutti. One particular creation of his is present in several cities of the world – such as Bergamo, Istanbul, Moscow … and Ghent.

In the work Ai Nati Oggi (For Those Born Today), the streetlights of a given place in the city (a street, a square, a bridge) get brighter every time a child is born. The maternity ward in a hospital in the city is equipped with a button that can be pushed by the staff at each new birth; the button makes the streetlight system gradually increase the intensity of the light, a surge that then subsides back to normal in about thirty seconds.

Near the streetlights, on the ground, a stone plaque is placed with the engraved words:

“The streetlights of this place are connected to the maternity ward of the hospital … Every time the light slowly pulsates, it means a child has been born. The work is dedicated to that child, and to the children born today in this city.”

***

I’ve sat there under the monument, thinking about life being born, being lived and dying. And about my new home. At the back of my mind is curiosity about the history of Ghent. Hundreds of thousands of people have lived here over the last five centuries. What were their lives like?

I want to delve into the stories of my adopted city. Why not start with Sint-Veerleplein?

Here’s a photo of Ghentians enjoying this place. Maybe 1900 would be a good guess.

***

And … there’s also a deep dark past here:

From 1407 to the end of the 18th century, the square served as a place of justice for criminals. It was the only punishment place in Flanders for counterfeiters. The fact that counterfeiters were punished here had to do with the location of the count’s mint in nearby Gravensteen [a castle]. The counterfeiters were thrown into a cauldron of boiling oil or boiling water.

On March 17, 1540, nine of the leaders of the Ghent Uprising were beheaded here by order of Emperor Charles V. Five more followed on May 4.

***

Life and death

Cobblestones feeling the feet of past, present and future

In yesterday’s Dutch class, Isabel was teaching us how to say that we like or dislike certain foods.  It was marvelous to have some fun as I practiced with my partner Waleed.

Eet jij graag stoofvlees?

Do you like to eat Belgian stew?

Ja, ik eet graag stoofvlees

Yes, I like to eat Belgian stew

***

Eet jij graag broccoli?

Do you like to eat broccoli?

Nee, ik eet niet graag broccoli

No, I don’t like to eat broccoli

Our conversation got me thinking of my most unfavourite food – raisins.  Waleed’s first language is Urdu, not English, and he wasn’t familiar with the word.

“I’ll look it up on Google,” I said helpfully. I had the choice of many images of the wretched little creatures.  I showed one of them to Waleed and he got what I was talking about.

“You ask me the question, Waleed!”

I delighted in pretty much shouting the answer “NEE!”

Soon it was back to the intensity of new material.  Then at the end of our three-and-a-half hour class I was pooped as usual.  Enough Dutch for one day.

A good way for me to unwind is reading articles on my phone about cycling races.  Lounging on the couch, I opened one of those sites and picked a story.

“When what to my wondering eyes should appear” …

You’ll be happy to know that raisins followed me throughout the rest of the day as I read this and that. Talk about pollution of the soul!

Today the advertisements have nothing to do with schrivelled grapes, those tiny demons that taste horrible.

Thank God

I live alone … or so I’ve thought. 

About three weeks ago, I noticed this little creature hanging out beside the container that holds my toilet brush.  And he’s still there.

Some people in my life have had a forceful response to spiders: “Kill them!”  Then there were the folks who would run away.  I’m neither.

Part of me wants a pure environment at home, which includes no bugs.  But it’s not the biggest part.  Surely I could co-habitate with this little one.

Some days I never saw him or her.  Behind the silver cylinder must be a good place to hide.  Mostly though, there he was – perched in the air as far as six inches from home.  Usually me turning on the light meant he’d scurry back close to the metal thing.

I’m no biologist.  But my mind meanders in the presence of my spidery friend:

How long will you live?

Isn’t it boring having a world that’s so small?

What do you think about?

You don’t seem to get much exercise.  Are you okay with that?

What do you think of me?  I must be immense in your eyes

Is it hard being alone all the time?

Should I get you a wee TV?

***

I figure that these are important questions for an important being

Am I more important?

I don’t know. I really don’t

I was walking to Hema for breakfast this morning and dropped into Izy Coffee to say hi to Arjen – the barista and my friend.

Bruce: Goedemorgen  (“Good morning” in Dutch)

Arjen: Goedemorgen

Bruce: À bientôt!  (“See you soon!” in French)

Arjen: Zeer goed (“Very good” in Dutch)

Bruce:  Bye

As I contemplated the beauty of my croissant, our tiny conversation returned to my mind.  Three languages.  Five years ago it was only one.

Back then I considered myself a citizen of the world.  I cared about folks of different cultures, races … and languages.  But I was just scratching the surface of being international. 

***

In December, 2018 I went to Senegal with my Belgian friends for the first time.  Senegalese folks speak French, and not English.  Despite studying the language in high school decades ago, I’d forgotten most of it.  I struggled to communicate with my new African friends.

I’ve now been to Senegal four times and my French skills have improved.  I can compose simple sentences but when the other person speaks fast in return, I’m still lost.

I am on the French road … la route française.

***

Now I’m immersed in a Dutch course.  It’s Level One, the beginning of an immense journey to Level Five (or perhaps Level Ten, the most advanced).

I often shake my head, fascinated with how slow I am in catching on.  A classmate who studies neurology says that my 74-year-old brain is smaller than a young person’s and can’t make connections as easily as it once could.  So science is giving me an excuse!

My exam is in two weeks – Tuesday, November 7.  I’m throwing myself into the book, the audio samples and my notes.

I’m talking really simple Dutch to people like Arjen. He’s learning Spanish. I asked him how difficult that is for him. Scale of 1 to 10 (1 = easy, 10 = very hard). His response? 8! So I’m not alone in my struggles.

I am on the Dutch road … de Nederlandse weg.

***

Je deviens international

Ik word internationaal

I am becoming international

I’m a nice little Buddhist guy.  I float through life, blessing everyone.  Very occasionally I might get a tad annoyed … or even upset.

But I would never get ANGRY.  Or so I’ve said.

This morning I went out to breakfast at a very cool restaurant.  The manager was outside, cleaning tables on the terrace, which was open to the sky. We laughed for a minute or two.

I sat under an awning and fantasized about the wondrous yogurt and granola that soon would be coming my way.  I didn’t look at my phone.  I simply took in the flow of humanity and the ancient buildings.

After about five minutes, no one had come to say hi and take my order.

Something started rising in me.  It certainly wasn’t a flow.

After ten minutes my eyes narrowed and my mouth got tight.  Then a man sits down behind me.  A minute later he’s being greeted by a staff member.  Coffee appears.  For him … not me.

“Okay, Bruce.  Stop being a mellow jello!”  I got up and headed to the counter inside.

To the manager: “I’ve been sitting out there for maybe fifteen minutes, and no one has come by!  How come?”

Mr. Manager started talking about a payment difficulty he had with one table.

“I’ll give you a free latté.”  >  “I don’t want a free latté.”

I gave him my order.

I sat down again and felt the fury.  Me (Bruce!) … angry.

I enjoyed the flavours of breakfast.  And then it was time to pay.  As I walked to the counter, I asked myself if I’d said everything I needed to say.  Was I “complete”?  The answer was no.

I told the manager how frustrated I was that someone sitting down ten minutes after me got virtually instant service.

A female server chimed in with “He’s a regular.”

I ended the conversation with “This was bad service” and “It’s not okay.”  The server said “You’re right” and I got that she meant it.  The manager was silent.

***

Hmm … this was a new version of Bruce, something I’ve kept hidden under a layer of niceness.  There’s a time and place for this foaming at the mouth.  I didn’t call people names.  I didn’t swear.  I stuck to the issue.  I said what was true.

I walked home with a spring in my step.  “I’m proud of you, Bruce.”  I’ve forgiven the staff members.  I can feel that. And there’ll be lots of delicious yogurt and granola in my future.

Years ago I taught visually impaired kids in London, Canada.  My office was in Catholic Central High School.

I’d be heading home sometime after 4:00, just as Randy was coming on shift.  He was one of the school’s custodians.  Maybe he still is.

Somehow Randy and I started the ritual of “The Word of the Day”.  He would ask what the word was and something would come into my head.  After some meandering visit with “Gregarious” or “Hypothetical”, I’d end our conversation with …

And that, Randy, is the word of the day

I’m smiling now as I remember those good times.  This morning there was a resurrection, this time with me asking the question.  Maybe in the future I’ll get into the rhythm of someone asking me, day after day.

This morning I walked into Panos on Langemunt and asked Dominique, the manager.  “Sun” was her immediate response.  What a bright answer.

Then my eyes turned to Eva, a young employee.  She looked uncomfortable for a few seconds and then “Food” came out of her mouth.  Cool.  That’s a much needed word.

“What about you?” asked Dominique.  I heard “Love” escape my lips.  The best word in the history of the world, I’d say.  Hours later, I wish something unusual had come to me … like “Outrageous”.  Next time.

On to Izy Coffee, fortified with the same question.  Jamie was the barista: “Plausible”.  And then another: “Placebo”.  I could tell that he really finds both of those interesting, worthy of reflection.  “Plausible” especially gets me thinking.  I wonder about “Implausible”, and how to shift from something unlikely to something that actually happens.

Geert, a fellow customer, is next.  “Stoofvlees”.  Translation: Flemish beef stew, a classic Belgian dish. A yummy choice.

At the table beside Geert sat a man unknown to me.  I asked him.  “Hartverscheurend”.  Jamie helped me with that one an hour later when I returned to Izy.  It means “heartbreaking”. Such a sad choice for today’s word.

***

And there we have it, ladies and gentlemen

And if I may …

What is your word for this fine Saturday?

Sometimes I like to write in a stream of consciousness … tapping away without thinking and without stopping. No sentences, no rules – just flowing with the words.

My friend Dirk posted this amazing photo yesterday. I could create nice paragraphs about it, leading gradually to my insights. But not today.

I’ll just let go in a few minutes and see what comes. I’ll correct spelling mistakes later. There’s no good or bad, just words bubbling out of my mouth.

Why not?

***

Why am I doing this? Don’t care, font know don’t want to give nothing instead ho way inside these two

Who are you, dear men from the past and present? Who are you with your friends, with your sorrows? What has you fly into the air and dance around? And who do you dance with,?

Are you in Stone really long ago or are you hear now on my heart?

And fleshy one, where have you travelled? Who ate your companions? Have you seen the Roman ruins and tge skies of tomorrow?

Both of you! What have you learned here? Do you stay in your room or throw yourself into the world,,, what do you hunger for? What throws you sideways and dims uour mi d?

Are you me Are you a woman sometimes Will you ever grow old and feeble and slow and tired?

Is there eternity here in your faces or just a passing shower? Do you emergency from the rain with your head held high or is the umbrella your best friend?

Are we brothers? Some how do you know my joys and collapses in Belgium. Do we all speak foreign languages and yet see the truth in each other’s eyes?

What colour are here? You look bright, vivid, alive. Nio dull browns. No washed out half-assed efforts to fit in. Give me your red sobright give me your swathes of the brush on the canvas. No walls just flowing around f the circles of the world. Who is there in China? Do you see your friends sitting so far away?

Butni- not far away. Right here on the tip of your nose. Can you feel each other’s breath so warm on the cheek?

Will you stay for a vist or will you fly off home, never to be seen again? Is there a beginning here or so.e conclusion- so.e moving on from. This now to the next?

Willoughby be full of life or empties too easily? Will you k ow e erythi g or nothing?

Will we all die or is that just a mistake in judgment? Are you here u til time wi ds down? Will we laughed and cry forever?

Let’s findout.

***

I went non-stop. Just finished now. I can feel my head dipping down a bit with silliness such as “Was it any good?” And now that thought has flown.

There’s freedom here … floating up into the sky. A few spelling corrections and I’m on to the next.

Or … how about no spelling corrections? I guess that runs the risk of you not understanding me, but so what?

I just got it – I don’t need you to understand. And so I publish. Ah yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll publish without reading what I wrote.

Why not?

There is a fragile beauty in not being good at something, in not understanding, in having the world blow by you in a blur.

On the surface it’s all bad.  There’s always someone better at the task.  The head starts bowing in despair.  All is poop.

But there is indeed a light at the far end of the tunnel, if only I have eyes to see the glow.

“Really look at what you’re doing here, Bruce.  You’ve thrown yourself into a new country and a new language.  You’re returning to the cello, the piano and the guitar.  Well done.”

Thank you.  I needed that.

I’ve just returned from three hours of my Dutch language class.  Isabel, the teacher, speaks slowly and clearly.  And I don’t understand 80% of what she’s saying.  When we listen to audio conversations, the speakers are fast, and I get close to zero.  We get paired up for simple dialogues.  I need coaching from my partner.  We’re asked to write e-mails, such as responding to a wedding invitation.  And then I’m glued to Google Translate.

There … that’s enough moaning.  My friend Paula says that of course we get lost in class.  If we were good at Dutch we wouldn’t be taking the course.  She’s right.

What did I expect?  A walk in the park?  Not for this language learner.

This writing is helping.  The overwhelm is lessening.  My eyes are open again … and there’s a horizon out there.

I walk on

Thanks for listening

I often eat breakfast at the Hema cafeteria and I always take a spoon for my coffee.  For many months I would rummage through the spoon container until I found a perfect one (unbent).  Voilà:

It was simple, elegant, a stainless steel work of art.  I needed even a spoon to be an expression of me.  I wanted my life to be a work of art.

You have to admit … this is what a spoon should look like.  The best restaurants and dinner scenes in movies probably all have ones like this.

One day last week, as I searched for the right spoon, a voice inside simply said “Don’t.” That there was another way. It was a quiet voice, one I’ve come to trust. So … first spoon touched was mine.

Here’s what today’s spoon looks like:

Perfectly imperfect. Twisted a bit, weathered, used. Yes, that’s it. I have walked the streets of life for 74 years. Of course there’s wear and tear. My tummy seems to be growing, along with my nose hair. I have a delightful bag of skin hanging under my chin. My hip often hurts.

I look at the faces passing by the window of Izy Coffee. Hardly a Hollywood image to be seen. Ordinary bones, skin, hair. Showing the athletic or the sedentary. Just starting out in life, approaching the finish line or in between. Plain folks.

Not a perfect spoon in the bunch

But all ready to sip on the next delicious flavour

Here are three boats, each with two chairs. Which one do I love?

Oh, the red! The rounded wooden door. The house plants. How can I resist?

Those gears are so cool. And the chairs are perched at the stern of the boat, giving wide open views of the water. This must be the one.

The colours are more muted than Number One, the view more enclosed than Number Two. But this is my favourite. The coffee cup is nice but there’s something else happening here.

And so I am home