It's taken me a while to come up with a paean to my beloved Brussels, mainly because it's such an easy place to live, and because so few of my readers have actually lived there.
Paris, on the other hand, provides a bold point of comparison, one much more familiar as a destination and as a city of significance. Now, on my first decent stay in the City of Light since returning to Europe in 2007, I am finding some help in telling the story.
Brussels is no Paris, in much the same way as Washington is no New York. While Paris (and New York) overwhelm with a density of world-class museums, ethnic and home-country eateries, and beloved visual landmarks, Brussels has a few showstoppers (the central Grand Place key among them) but they are delivered on a far more modest scale. Indeed, when I have visitors, I recommend that they spend their days outside Brussels in the more telegenic Brugge, Ghent ot Antwerp, unless they are true museum hounds. That much being said, I have yet to go to any Brussels museum.
Paris, of course, is a great place to visit. The shopping's world class, the museums, the landmarks, and the river, which creates breathtaking views, particularly after nightfall. The dining in Paris is superb, not only for all of the French standards, but because of the immense variety of ethnic places (I am writing this from an Afghan place on the Left Bank, having not had the cuisine de Karzai since leaving Washington in '07).
It's funny to go to Paris to eat ethnic. But in a way, that's a testament to the strengths of the Brussels eating scene as well as its weaknesses. Brussels is considered an outpost of traditional French cuisine, and it is hard to get a bad meal in Brussels, to the delight of my palate and chagrin of my waistline.
My favorite Brussels restaurant, Le Petit Pont in suburban Uccle, can go toe-to-toe with anywhere I've eaten in France (or anywhere, for that matter). But Brussels is the capital of a continent, not a capital of a diverse, fallen empire (and the cuisines of Congo and Rwanda have yet to build a following among non-members of the African diaspora). Asian cuisine in Brussels tends to be pedestrian, Indian inconsistent, Jewish nonexistent, and even Turkish, while widely available, suffers from a dumbing down of ingredients.
Brussels does do a good job of serving its big expatriate populations. Fat Boy's Sports Bar has the best hamburgers and BBQ wings in Europe. Western European restaurants abound, Balkan grills are on the rise, Italian and Greek are ubiquitous, and Brussels' longstanding Spanish and Portuguese communities have loads of cheap standardbearers in a number of enclaves.
Moving from eating to sleeping, the story becomes clearer. Property is at least twice as expensive in Paris. A small 20 sqm (220 sq ft) apartment in a prime Paris location costs EUR 1100. My larger 70 sqm apartment in a comparable Brussels location costs EUR 720, including the (intermittent) heat.
Paris has 19 metro and regional express rail lines. Brussels has four metro lines, though two were artificially created as part of a rebranding exercise. But while Paris has only four tram lines, Brussels has more tram lines than one can shake a stick at. And what's more fun. Dark, dank, underground Metros or romantic, elegant, and ever-so-European trams?
Paris is in France. No one can credibly dispute its Frenchness. But while many Bruxellois like to think of their city as a bastion of la langue de Moliere, the legions of French-hating Flemish civil servants who descend on Brussel daily, and the growing number of East European EU staffers who eat, work, socialize and above all socialize in la langue de Shakespeare have other ideas.
Going to Paris and seeing everything in French awakens my inner Francophile. But living in Brussels stirs my inner Flandrophile, who is larger, meaner and drinks more heavily.
Paris is 80 minutes from Brussels by high-speed rail, and reachable for anywhere from EUR 30 to EUR 150 round trip depending on traffic. Having Paris so close--and not having to live there--is priceless.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Our Herb Brooks Moment
With the World Cup draw having been so ably handled by the gorgeous if ultra-leftist actress Charlize Theron last night in South Africa, we now know where all 31 of the qualifying countries will be playing, and we know where France will be playing as well.
For the United States, my first love in the game of "football" even if it is a place I prefer not to reside in, the draw could not be better. For not only does its group involve two of the last countries to qualify from their respective continents, Algeria and Slovenia, it also requires that the US kick off the account against England.
Fearsome England. Birthplace of The Game and home of the vaunted Premiership. Thanks to Charlize and the Football Gods, American soccer has been given the one opportunity it has sought, pined for, and ached for--a money game against the world's most storied football power on a Saturday afternoon in June.
For American Soccer, this game is for all the marbles. A draw, or improbably but not impossably a win, and this game will not only mark America's true arrival as a first-tier footballing nation but of soccer as a first-tier American sport. A humiliating shut-out, and it's time to forget soccer once and for all and start considering how many NFL rejects we can recycle into rugby players for the following year's Rugby World Cup.
Great games deserve great speeches. So, here is my adaptation of the famous speech by the last US Hockey Coach Herb Brooks to his charges before the epoch-changing match against the Russians in the 1980 Olympics, with apologies to Kurt Russell's performance in the movie "Miracle":
Great moments...are born from great opportunity.
And that's what you have here today, boys.
That's what you've earned here today.
One game.
If we played 'em ten times, they might win nine.
But not this game.
Not today.
Today, we play with them.
Today, we stay with them.
And we shut them down--because we can.
Today, WE are the greatest footballing nation in the world.
You were born to be footballers.
And you were meant to be here today.
This is your time.
Their time is done.
I'm sick and tired of hearing about
What a great football side the English have.
Screw 'em.
This is your time
Now go out there and take it.
For the United States, my first love in the game of "football" even if it is a place I prefer not to reside in, the draw could not be better. For not only does its group involve two of the last countries to qualify from their respective continents, Algeria and Slovenia, it also requires that the US kick off the account against England.
Fearsome England. Birthplace of The Game and home of the vaunted Premiership. Thanks to Charlize and the Football Gods, American soccer has been given the one opportunity it has sought, pined for, and ached for--a money game against the world's most storied football power on a Saturday afternoon in June.
For American Soccer, this game is for all the marbles. A draw, or improbably but not impossably a win, and this game will not only mark America's true arrival as a first-tier footballing nation but of soccer as a first-tier American sport. A humiliating shut-out, and it's time to forget soccer once and for all and start considering how many NFL rejects we can recycle into rugby players for the following year's Rugby World Cup.
Great games deserve great speeches. So, here is my adaptation of the famous speech by the last US Hockey Coach Herb Brooks to his charges before the epoch-changing match against the Russians in the 1980 Olympics, with apologies to Kurt Russell's performance in the movie "Miracle":
Great moments...are born from great opportunity.
And that's what you have here today, boys.
That's what you've earned here today.
One game.
If we played 'em ten times, they might win nine.
But not this game.
Not today.
Today, we play with them.
Today, we stay with them.
And we shut them down--because we can.
Today, WE are the greatest footballing nation in the world.
You were born to be footballers.
And you were meant to be here today.
This is your time.
Their time is done.
I'm sick and tired of hearing about
What a great football side the English have.
Screw 'em.
This is your time
Now go out there and take it.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Pro Choice on the Environment
OK, I’m back in blogging form and, as much as I love travel and beer (and am indeed writing this on an airplane with a newly malt-fortified Maes Pilsner in hand), headier matters come to mind.
This past weekend, I attended a conference called the European Summit for Global Transformation (www.europeansummit.org).
For the most part, it was an inspiring weekend spent with social entrepreneurs and activists from around the world. Included—women who founded high-performing schools in Nepal and Tanzania, a fellow who is spearheading an effort to buy 20 million hectares for reforestation (and thus suck and store CO2 out of the atmosphere--www.weforest.com), and a 23 year old from New Jersey who is now the “mother” of twenty seven orphans in the foothills of the Himalayas.
But I found one section of the event particularly disturbing—a three hour video session portending imminent environmental doom, and asserting that the only viable choice was some undefined notion of global economic “justice”.
I used to joke about being “pro-choice on the environment”. I accept it is no joke now. I believe that the current environmental crisis is the greatest threat to life on this planet since the ice age. But I also see its potential for enabling the greatest assault on human liberty since the end of World War II.
It does not need to be this way. Both extremes in the environmental debate—those who oppose any meaningful solutions for reasons of profit, inertia or laziness, and those who see the green banner this century as a way to achieve the totalitarian nirvana they failed to achieve under the red and brown banners of the last—are at cause for this duality.
But imagine this: what if the money, effort and energy being spent to refute right-wing denials of a problem could be spent on identifying viable alternatives and choices that can make a big difference for relatively little cost in terms of money and freedom? And what if people could see a viable environmental future that doesn’t require giving up cars, air conditioning, t-bone steaks and a child’s dream of being an airline pilot? What would be possible then?
A lot would be possible. Making some choices available would take some paradigm-shifting thinking. Some of this thinking is already going on—in aviation for instance, research is underway into bean-based jet fuel and high-capacity, fuel efficient turboprop airliners.
From a food standpoint, it is only starting to be well known that chicken production is far more carbon-efficient than beef production on a kilo-by-kilo basis. People are giving up some snobbiness towards boxed wine. Japanese breweries are brewing in Canada and trucking their “imported” brews over the border to the US. And Soda Club machines (www.sodaclub.il) are becoming increasingly popular, saving dozens of plastic bottles and eliminating the shipping involved in delivering sparkling water to the home.
Will a choice-based approach be enough? Are we really too far gone? In my view, free people will never be too far gone to fight for their freedoms, and even if things become dire, some choices will remain available, even if their cost may escalate to the magnitude of real sacrifice.
But at the same time, we also have the right to ask whether the world envisaged by those who place an environmentalist (and/or redistributionist) agenda ahead of human liberty is one that would be worth surviving in. And we certainly have the right to ask if there are indeed other ways of saving the planet that preserve those things we think make life worth living.
This past weekend, I attended a conference called the European Summit for Global Transformation (www.europeansummit.org).
For the most part, it was an inspiring weekend spent with social entrepreneurs and activists from around the world. Included—women who founded high-performing schools in Nepal and Tanzania, a fellow who is spearheading an effort to buy 20 million hectares for reforestation (and thus suck and store CO2 out of the atmosphere--www.weforest.com), and a 23 year old from New Jersey who is now the “mother” of twenty seven orphans in the foothills of the Himalayas.
But I found one section of the event particularly disturbing—a three hour video session portending imminent environmental doom, and asserting that the only viable choice was some undefined notion of global economic “justice”.
I used to joke about being “pro-choice on the environment”. I accept it is no joke now. I believe that the current environmental crisis is the greatest threat to life on this planet since the ice age. But I also see its potential for enabling the greatest assault on human liberty since the end of World War II.
It does not need to be this way. Both extremes in the environmental debate—those who oppose any meaningful solutions for reasons of profit, inertia or laziness, and those who see the green banner this century as a way to achieve the totalitarian nirvana they failed to achieve under the red and brown banners of the last—are at cause for this duality.
But imagine this: what if the money, effort and energy being spent to refute right-wing denials of a problem could be spent on identifying viable alternatives and choices that can make a big difference for relatively little cost in terms of money and freedom? And what if people could see a viable environmental future that doesn’t require giving up cars, air conditioning, t-bone steaks and a child’s dream of being an airline pilot? What would be possible then?
A lot would be possible. Making some choices available would take some paradigm-shifting thinking. Some of this thinking is already going on—in aviation for instance, research is underway into bean-based jet fuel and high-capacity, fuel efficient turboprop airliners.
From a food standpoint, it is only starting to be well known that chicken production is far more carbon-efficient than beef production on a kilo-by-kilo basis. People are giving up some snobbiness towards boxed wine. Japanese breweries are brewing in Canada and trucking their “imported” brews over the border to the US. And Soda Club machines (www.sodaclub.il) are becoming increasingly popular, saving dozens of plastic bottles and eliminating the shipping involved in delivering sparkling water to the home.
Will a choice-based approach be enough? Are we really too far gone? In my view, free people will never be too far gone to fight for their freedoms, and even if things become dire, some choices will remain available, even if their cost may escalate to the magnitude of real sacrifice.
But at the same time, we also have the right to ask whether the world envisaged by those who place an environmentalist (and/or redistributionist) agenda ahead of human liberty is one that would be worth surviving in. And we certainly have the right to ask if there are indeed other ways of saving the planet that preserve those things we think make life worth living.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Rejoining the Human Race in Luxembourg
The brasserie at the Hotel Koener in Clervaux, Luxembourg seems an unlikely place to rejoin the human race. But I chose to head for the Luxembourg Ardennes for some rest, relaxation and rejuvenation following a turbulent period in my career--to draw a line under it and contemplate the next adventure.
Following a four hour trip--which included a two hour journey through the Belgian Ardennes on a rail replacement bus, I arrived at the Clervaux train station, only to find I had missed the bus connection to my hotel, the Chateau d'Urspelt, a few kilometers away from this little town of 1800 souls.
The idea of staying at a Chateau had considerable appeal, not for the least to arouse jealousy among those I told. I also liked the idea of being in a completely different environment than anything I'd experienced in recent months--different languages, menus and beers.
When I arrived at the Chateau D'Urspelt after an hour-and-a-half bus layover and a non-descript omelet at a similarly non-descript lunch spot half-filled with Luxemburgers speaking Letzebuergesch, I found the place quite tasteful and modern. Not surprising, given that the place was restored in 2008 following 300 years of gradual but relentless dilapidation.
The Chateau has two spas, one of which I visited immediately upon arrival. There is nothing like a jacuzzi to make one forget what one seeks to forget.
It also has one restaurant, making it the only eatery within 3 km, a challenging statistic when one is without wheels amidst bucolic splendour. As the Chateau restaurant was booked, I had to take a hard-to-find taxi and head to the clutch of hotels in the centre of Clervaux, bringing me to the schnitzel at the Hotel Koener, washed down with the mild-but-tasty Diekirch Grand Cru, a local brew.
Going to Luxembourg, as much as anything, is a bid to reconnect with that which is Continental that I love.
A country with less than a half-million people, the size of a modest American county, with an affluent population that switches between four languages (including fair English), de-Luxembourg allows one to acclimate quickly and comprehensively while being sufficiently different from its neighbors topographically and architecturally. It feels more German than anything else, but less German than Germany.
A scene at a tavern near the Koener exemplifies. I can hear all three local languages, as American rock blares over the soundless broadcast of Schalke vs Bayer Leverkusen. Beers from Belgium and Luxembourg dominate the beer list, along with something called Humpen, which I've never heard of but feel compelled to order next. (As it happens, a Humpen proves to be the local equivalent of a "pint" of decent draft pilsner.)
Of course, spa-ing, eating and beering have not occupied the whole day. I also got in an uphill walk along the road from Urspelt to Fischbach, which intrigued me because I had a dorm-mate at Wisconsin named David Feshbach. Alas, Fischbach was a collection of a half dozen buildings, making Urspelt, a collection of two dozen buildings plus the Chateau, seem like a thumpin' metropolis.
One missing hygiene factor--Urspelt lacks a little shop, which was a bit of an irritant (the Fischbach walk was out of hope I could find a six-pack and some peanuts). But I'll take jacuzzi over peanuts if forced to choose...
Following a four hour trip--which included a two hour journey through the Belgian Ardennes on a rail replacement bus, I arrived at the Clervaux train station, only to find I had missed the bus connection to my hotel, the Chateau d'Urspelt, a few kilometers away from this little town of 1800 souls.
The idea of staying at a Chateau had considerable appeal, not for the least to arouse jealousy among those I told. I also liked the idea of being in a completely different environment than anything I'd experienced in recent months--different languages, menus and beers.
When I arrived at the Chateau D'Urspelt after an hour-and-a-half bus layover and a non-descript omelet at a similarly non-descript lunch spot half-filled with Luxemburgers speaking Letzebuergesch, I found the place quite tasteful and modern. Not surprising, given that the place was restored in 2008 following 300 years of gradual but relentless dilapidation.
The Chateau has two spas, one of which I visited immediately upon arrival. There is nothing like a jacuzzi to make one forget what one seeks to forget.
It also has one restaurant, making it the only eatery within 3 km, a challenging statistic when one is without wheels amidst bucolic splendour. As the Chateau restaurant was booked, I had to take a hard-to-find taxi and head to the clutch of hotels in the centre of Clervaux, bringing me to the schnitzel at the Hotel Koener, washed down with the mild-but-tasty Diekirch Grand Cru, a local brew.
Going to Luxembourg, as much as anything, is a bid to reconnect with that which is Continental that I love.
A country with less than a half-million people, the size of a modest American county, with an affluent population that switches between four languages (including fair English), de-Luxembourg allows one to acclimate quickly and comprehensively while being sufficiently different from its neighbors topographically and architecturally. It feels more German than anything else, but less German than Germany.
A scene at a tavern near the Koener exemplifies. I can hear all three local languages, as American rock blares over the soundless broadcast of Schalke vs Bayer Leverkusen. Beers from Belgium and Luxembourg dominate the beer list, along with something called Humpen, which I've never heard of but feel compelled to order next. (As it happens, a Humpen proves to be the local equivalent of a "pint" of decent draft pilsner.)
Of course, spa-ing, eating and beering have not occupied the whole day. I also got in an uphill walk along the road from Urspelt to Fischbach, which intrigued me because I had a dorm-mate at Wisconsin named David Feshbach. Alas, Fischbach was a collection of a half dozen buildings, making Urspelt, a collection of two dozen buildings plus the Chateau, seem like a thumpin' metropolis.
One missing hygiene factor--Urspelt lacks a little shop, which was a bit of an irritant (the Fischbach walk was out of hope I could find a six-pack and some peanuts). But I'll take jacuzzi over peanuts if forced to choose...
The Family
Clervaux, for a town of 1800, is well endowed in a number of areas. Aesthetically, it is hemmed in between the Our River (if there was a local hydroelectric station, it would give new meaning to the phrase Our of Power) and the steep pine-covered Ardennes hillsides.
This stretches the town along the river making it seem bigger than it is. It also has a good number of traditional small hotels, whose dining rooms constitute the main atmospheric eateries in town, but Clervaux also has two Chinese places, a relative diversity in a town that has no identifiable Jewish population.
But the one thing that Clervaux has that no one else does is a castle that is the home of the Family of Man photographic exhibition. Commissioned in 1951 by New York's Museum of Modern Art, this collection developed by Edward Steicher, a Luxembourg-born American photographer, and seen by more than 9 million viewers during its travels, includes hundreds of images of the human condition before, during, and shortly after World War II.
Arranged in a procession of sections commemorating human existence--starting with the bonding of lovers and progressing through childhood, work, eating and playing--and then into war, religion and politics, the collection is inescapably moving.
While I found two photos most compelling--Orthodox Jewish kids in an old-style religious school on the one hand, and a German child walking with his schoolbag through a bombed out city on the other, the most powerful thing about this exhibition was its datedness.
To a certain extent, the Family of Man is a bit of time travel--incorporating the kind of images one would see in postwar editions of Life and Look magazines, the great publications which provided Americans with a visual context for world events in the days before television took hold. But to a greater extent, humans and the human condition remain remarkably unchanged in the last sixty years, and there are elements of the exhibition that demonstrate this dramatically.
The castle also is home to a cozy cafe, whose proprietor offered me a complimentary glass of red wine shortly after finishing a local beer (Diekirch Grand Cru). On figuring I was American, he gushed about President Obama, and was quite surprised that I joined in the gushing. It's a pity that the Dems weren't running a candidate for Governor of Luxembourg--Obama still has coattails here.
This stretches the town along the river making it seem bigger than it is. It also has a good number of traditional small hotels, whose dining rooms constitute the main atmospheric eateries in town, but Clervaux also has two Chinese places, a relative diversity in a town that has no identifiable Jewish population.
But the one thing that Clervaux has that no one else does is a castle that is the home of the Family of Man photographic exhibition. Commissioned in 1951 by New York's Museum of Modern Art, this collection developed by Edward Steicher, a Luxembourg-born American photographer, and seen by more than 9 million viewers during its travels, includes hundreds of images of the human condition before, during, and shortly after World War II.
Arranged in a procession of sections commemorating human existence--starting with the bonding of lovers and progressing through childhood, work, eating and playing--and then into war, religion and politics, the collection is inescapably moving.
While I found two photos most compelling--Orthodox Jewish kids in an old-style religious school on the one hand, and a German child walking with his schoolbag through a bombed out city on the other, the most powerful thing about this exhibition was its datedness.
To a certain extent, the Family of Man is a bit of time travel--incorporating the kind of images one would see in postwar editions of Life and Look magazines, the great publications which provided Americans with a visual context for world events in the days before television took hold. But to a greater extent, humans and the human condition remain remarkably unchanged in the last sixty years, and there are elements of the exhibition that demonstrate this dramatically.
The castle also is home to a cozy cafe, whose proprietor offered me a complimentary glass of red wine shortly after finishing a local beer (Diekirch Grand Cru). On figuring I was American, he gushed about President Obama, and was quite surprised that I joined in the gushing. It's a pity that the Dems weren't running a candidate for Governor of Luxembourg--Obama still has coattails here.
Venison Sashimi
I've been of two minds about my Chateau-hotel in Luxembourg, the Chateau d'Urspelt. On the one hand, having been renovated to a modern, four-star (competent but not over-the-top) standard, the place reminds me a bit of a Chateau Novotel. On the other, it is self-consciously a family-run place, with references to the owning Lodomez family more visible than references to the mayoral Daley family in most parts of Chicago.
Where this place departs from the four-star into the stratosphere is its restaurant. Opting for sublime Luxembourgeois bubbly over an intriguingly unfamiliar Belgian beer, I've departed on a breathtaking culinary journey (which I am experiencing as I write, having my blackberry as a poor substitute for a date).
I could tell I was in for a ride when my first course was brought. I ordered "a tartare of smoked venison.".
What emerged looked at first like a lab experiment--a beaker that seemed a bit cloudy looking. But when the waiter lifted the "beaker", the fragrant smell of smoke enveloped the table--for the dish consisted of cubes of smoked-while-u-wait raw venison served on a bed of razor-thin sliced pears and red peppercorns. For the uninitiated, kinda like venison sushi, or more precisely, sashimi.
The main-a very-robust looking Magret de Canard, one of my favorite dishes of the Franco-Belgian-Luxembourgeois kitchen, served with a red peppercorn sauce. Interestingly, it was served with a side of fennel, my favorite vegetable, after fish. Excellent, if more conventional than the first course.
The wine list is interesting, more because of its presentation than its contents--it is printed as a label on a three-litre wine bottle. The vaulted ceilings do well as well. As for the clientele, they are all conversing in a number of languages, none of which I competently understand.
Hungarians have long been fond of saying that "Hungary is the only country in Europe surrounded by itself in all directions.". But they are wrong. Today's Rhode Island-sized Luxembourg is also a rump version of its former self, which once also included Belgium's (larger) Province of Luxembourg, and adjoining parts of Germany and France.
I ponder this as I ponder the dessert menu, which, written in French and German, offers but few clues about what is on offer. To be fair to my Level III London Business School French, this is more because I have no clue about what a "Fantasie autour d'un fruit d'automne" is than it is that I don't understand "fantasy" and "autumn fruit". Inquiring of the waiter, he says it involves a pear, but finds it otherwise difficult to describe. Convinced, I order it.
Another glass of Cremant de Luxembourg arrives. Cremant is a French-authorized term for "good sparkling wine that ain't Champagne.". I have long prized "Cremants" from around the world, partially because they are far better value than Champagne, and mostly because they marry the magic of effervescence with more varied grape styles (such as Riesling and Macabeo), and even colors (try sparkling Shiraz).
But this one beats Champagne at its own game--a full-blooded Pinot Noir rendition vinted less than 100 miles from Epernay, at less than half the price of the most basic chain-store Champagne.
It serves as a good complement to the Fantasie, which consists of a poached pear, a small chocolate-filled wonton, a tiny scoop of gingerbread ("speculoos") ice cream and a slash of raspberry sauce. Everything is excellent--but the ice cream is off the charts.
I am well and truly sated--a really first rate meal with intelligent, attentive and clinically multilingual service. And the location, overlooking the courtyard of Chateau d'Urspelt, could not be better. Particularly since it means only a short forklift ride back to my quarters.
Where this place departs from the four-star into the stratosphere is its restaurant. Opting for sublime Luxembourgeois bubbly over an intriguingly unfamiliar Belgian beer, I've departed on a breathtaking culinary journey (which I am experiencing as I write, having my blackberry as a poor substitute for a date).
I could tell I was in for a ride when my first course was brought. I ordered "a tartare of smoked venison.".
What emerged looked at first like a lab experiment--a beaker that seemed a bit cloudy looking. But when the waiter lifted the "beaker", the fragrant smell of smoke enveloped the table--for the dish consisted of cubes of smoked-while-u-wait raw venison served on a bed of razor-thin sliced pears and red peppercorns. For the uninitiated, kinda like venison sushi, or more precisely, sashimi.
The main-a very-robust looking Magret de Canard, one of my favorite dishes of the Franco-Belgian-Luxembourgeois kitchen, served with a red peppercorn sauce. Interestingly, it was served with a side of fennel, my favorite vegetable, after fish. Excellent, if more conventional than the first course.
The wine list is interesting, more because of its presentation than its contents--it is printed as a label on a three-litre wine bottle. The vaulted ceilings do well as well. As for the clientele, they are all conversing in a number of languages, none of which I competently understand.
Hungarians have long been fond of saying that "Hungary is the only country in Europe surrounded by itself in all directions.". But they are wrong. Today's Rhode Island-sized Luxembourg is also a rump version of its former self, which once also included Belgium's (larger) Province of Luxembourg, and adjoining parts of Germany and France.
I ponder this as I ponder the dessert menu, which, written in French and German, offers but few clues about what is on offer. To be fair to my Level III London Business School French, this is more because I have no clue about what a "Fantasie autour d'un fruit d'automne" is than it is that I don't understand "fantasy" and "autumn fruit". Inquiring of the waiter, he says it involves a pear, but finds it otherwise difficult to describe. Convinced, I order it.
Another glass of Cremant de Luxembourg arrives. Cremant is a French-authorized term for "good sparkling wine that ain't Champagne.". I have long prized "Cremants" from around the world, partially because they are far better value than Champagne, and mostly because they marry the magic of effervescence with more varied grape styles (such as Riesling and Macabeo), and even colors (try sparkling Shiraz).
But this one beats Champagne at its own game--a full-blooded Pinot Noir rendition vinted less than 100 miles from Epernay, at less than half the price of the most basic chain-store Champagne.
It serves as a good complement to the Fantasie, which consists of a poached pear, a small chocolate-filled wonton, a tiny scoop of gingerbread ("speculoos") ice cream and a slash of raspberry sauce. Everything is excellent--but the ice cream is off the charts.
I am well and truly sated--a really first rate meal with intelligent, attentive and clinically multilingual service. And the location, overlooking the courtyard of Chateau d'Urspelt, could not be better. Particularly since it means only a short forklift ride back to my quarters.
Lux City
My intention was to keep my trip brief, with two nights at the Chateau and then back home to start the job-search jihad in earnest. But the fates--in the form of a nationwide rail strike in Belgium--intervened. I thought another day in Clervaux would be a bit much, and after seeing an EUR 49 hotel special in Luxembourg City, I decided to head for the capital.
Much of the trip was spent on a bus, as the tracks between Clervaux and Ettelbruck were "gefuckt", as they say in Letzebuergesch. Buses in rural Europe offer better views and countryside than trains generally, so I hardly minded.
The journey finished on a train, which meant a ringside view of the spectacular cliffs and fortifications that make Luxembourg one of Europe's most visually spectacular capitals. Off the train, meandering through its cobblestone streets, you get the idea it is one of its richest, though it's low value added tax rate means good deals on the everyday and luxury items found in its many shops.
There is one beef I have with Luxembourg City--the vast majority of its hotels are located in the neighborhood by the train station, which, while not dangerous or possessing of really seedy businesses, lacks the attractiveness Lux City otherwise possesses in abundance.
My favorite hotel here, the Parc Plaza, is a notable exception-overlooking the ravines in a nice neighborhood near the centre-ville. But at EUR 120 midweek, that seemed excessive after two nights of Chateau at EUR 89. So I opted for the Hotel Delta at EUR 49, including breakfast.
The Delta has four stars on the outside, as did the Chateau. Its renovation, however, has been more selective, as I noted in a quick look at the unlocked rooms. Mine was unrenovated. It was much more reminiscent of the one and two star rooms I stayed in on earlier Europe travels. But somehow I liked it--it brought me back to the time when Europe was just an adventure.
Much of the trip was spent on a bus, as the tracks between Clervaux and Ettelbruck were "gefuckt", as they say in Letzebuergesch. Buses in rural Europe offer better views and countryside than trains generally, so I hardly minded.
The journey finished on a train, which meant a ringside view of the spectacular cliffs and fortifications that make Luxembourg one of Europe's most visually spectacular capitals. Off the train, meandering through its cobblestone streets, you get the idea it is one of its richest, though it's low value added tax rate means good deals on the everyday and luxury items found in its many shops.
There is one beef I have with Luxembourg City--the vast majority of its hotels are located in the neighborhood by the train station, which, while not dangerous or possessing of really seedy businesses, lacks the attractiveness Lux City otherwise possesses in abundance.
My favorite hotel here, the Parc Plaza, is a notable exception-overlooking the ravines in a nice neighborhood near the centre-ville. But at EUR 120 midweek, that seemed excessive after two nights of Chateau at EUR 89. So I opted for the Hotel Delta at EUR 49, including breakfast.
The Delta has four stars on the outside, as did the Chateau. Its renovation, however, has been more selective, as I noted in a quick look at the unlocked rooms. Mine was unrenovated. It was much more reminiscent of the one and two star rooms I stayed in on earlier Europe travels. But somehow I liked it--it brought me back to the time when Europe was just an adventure.
Remembering Private Levine
Figuring out what to do on the last day of a trip is always a challenge. Sometimes it becomes a jihad to see all that is unseen, other times a shopping trip to pick up local goodies. But one compelling destination had eluded me on previous Luxembourg trips-the US Military Cemetery in Hamm, Luxembourg.
The Cemetery is best known as the final resting place of General George S. Patton, buried under the marble Latin cross engraved with name, rank, regiment and home state common to the vast majority of the 5000+ soldiers buried here. But 116 of those soldiers are marked by a Star of David, and, as I walked around the stones, I inevitably was drawn by those markers.
Before I entered the cemetery, I gathered a handful of stones--commonly used as a mark of a visit to a Jewish resting place. Most of the Stars of David already had a stone or two on them already, and I ran out quickly as well. But I saw one Jewish marker with no stone, that of Private Stanley Levine of New York, who fell-like most here-at the height of the Battle of the Bulge.
What must it have been like for Private Levine? Did he he realise the contribution he was making for his country, his people and indeed for freedom itself? Or would he have rather been home watching the Yankees win yet another baseball World Series? His stoneless headstone offers no clue.
At the other end of the notoriety spectrum was Patton's cross, reluctantly exhumed from the main group of graves and positioned to the front and centre, as the flow of visitors wreaked havoc on the neighboring gravesites. Seeing the real gravesite of Patton inevitably reminded me of George C. Scott's portrayal of him in the eponymous biopic, Patton, which deptcted the General as crusty, brilliant and psychotic.
Yeah, Patton was a bastard. But he was our bastard. And does anyone disagree that the world and its current challenges could't benefit from a few (and I do mean a few) leaders who are a bit crusty, brilliant, and perhaps a little nuts?
The Cemetery is best known as the final resting place of General George S. Patton, buried under the marble Latin cross engraved with name, rank, regiment and home state common to the vast majority of the 5000+ soldiers buried here. But 116 of those soldiers are marked by a Star of David, and, as I walked around the stones, I inevitably was drawn by those markers.
Before I entered the cemetery, I gathered a handful of stones--commonly used as a mark of a visit to a Jewish resting place. Most of the Stars of David already had a stone or two on them already, and I ran out quickly as well. But I saw one Jewish marker with no stone, that of Private Stanley Levine of New York, who fell-like most here-at the height of the Battle of the Bulge.
What must it have been like for Private Levine? Did he he realise the contribution he was making for his country, his people and indeed for freedom itself? Or would he have rather been home watching the Yankees win yet another baseball World Series? His stoneless headstone offers no clue.
At the other end of the notoriety spectrum was Patton's cross, reluctantly exhumed from the main group of graves and positioned to the front and centre, as the flow of visitors wreaked havoc on the neighboring gravesites. Seeing the real gravesite of Patton inevitably reminded me of George C. Scott's portrayal of him in the eponymous biopic, Patton, which deptcted the General as crusty, brilliant and psychotic.
Yeah, Patton was a bastard. But he was our bastard. And does anyone disagree that the world and its current challenges could't benefit from a few (and I do mean a few) leaders who are a bit crusty, brilliant, and perhaps a little nuts?
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Bulgaria--Var and Away
The last day in Bulgaria began inauspiciously enough--with the intent behing my 9am alarm easily overcome by vivid dreams with well-placed Cyrillic characters.
I didn't fully rise into action until the Riu called to chase me towards checkout, at the more holidaylike hour of noon.Varna beckoned, and I sprung out of the hotel towards the closeby Autogara, where, fortunately, the midday minibus was to leave in ten minutes.
Noticing the 2 hour trip and that I opted not to claim my all-inclusive lunch, I scan the surroundings to find a snack counter offering TOCT, cyrillic for "toasted sandwich". Mine-mild, rubbery kashkaval cheese on toast slices the size of a clothes iron. EUR 1.10 please.
The 90 minute drive to Varna was the most attractive and intriguing of my various Bulgarian segments, particularly after the Vegas-like sprawl of Sunny Beach gave way to smaller, posher resorts like Obzor and small hamlets like Banya where newly-built and painted villas and decades old traditional homes that haven't seen paint since ex-local Party boss Todor Zhivkov was in charge.
Pine forests give way to sweeping bay views. Old Varna was aesthetically compelling. Fairly untouched by highrises built of bad Commie concrete, it is very much a product of its Black Sea envioronment--with a few Ottoman touches and ornate pastel-painted buildings evocative of Ukraine and Russia.
Indeed, if I were to come up with two words to describe Bulgaria, I'd say "Russia Lite." Weather is somewhat better, food more reliable, flags are the same save for the middle stripe (Russia's Blue vs. Bulgaria's green). Corruption and organized crime are pervasive, as is the all-pervasive cyrillic alphabet. Bulgaria is more tourist-friendly (no visas required). And Bulgaria can be seen in a week--though I did miss Plovdiv and Veliko Tarnovo, which are both world-class sites.
What's missing--Bulgaria doesn't have the nationalist edge that its Balkan neighbors have. An upcoming July election is drawing lukewarm passion, particularly following last month's EU poll which equalled a test run. (One observer said that the election offered voters a choice of which mob family they dislike least.)
Even Folklor TV, the all national-costumed-24-hour satellite Bulgarian ethnic kitschfest seemed more melancholy than defiant, particularly when compared to its Serbian sister station. Ok, there was one exception, a song where the word Bulgaria was invoked in pious tones, and images of Orthodox icons were interspersed with those of brave Bulgarian patriots hurling barrels down at fez-clad Turks on the slopes below. But Bulgaria last played smackdown with the Turks in the late 1800s, and since they are now both NATO allies, Bulgaria doesn't have anyone to chuck barrels at right now.
I didn't fully rise into action until the Riu called to chase me towards checkout, at the more holidaylike hour of noon.Varna beckoned, and I sprung out of the hotel towards the closeby Autogara, where, fortunately, the midday minibus was to leave in ten minutes.
Noticing the 2 hour trip and that I opted not to claim my all-inclusive lunch, I scan the surroundings to find a snack counter offering TOCT, cyrillic for "toasted sandwich". Mine-mild, rubbery kashkaval cheese on toast slices the size of a clothes iron. EUR 1.10 please.
The 90 minute drive to Varna was the most attractive and intriguing of my various Bulgarian segments, particularly after the Vegas-like sprawl of Sunny Beach gave way to smaller, posher resorts like Obzor and small hamlets like Banya where newly-built and painted villas and decades old traditional homes that haven't seen paint since ex-local Party boss Todor Zhivkov was in charge.
Pine forests give way to sweeping bay views. Old Varna was aesthetically compelling. Fairly untouched by highrises built of bad Commie concrete, it is very much a product of its Black Sea envioronment--with a few Ottoman touches and ornate pastel-painted buildings evocative of Ukraine and Russia.
Indeed, if I were to come up with two words to describe Bulgaria, I'd say "Russia Lite." Weather is somewhat better, food more reliable, flags are the same save for the middle stripe (Russia's Blue vs. Bulgaria's green). Corruption and organized crime are pervasive, as is the all-pervasive cyrillic alphabet. Bulgaria is more tourist-friendly (no visas required). And Bulgaria can be seen in a week--though I did miss Plovdiv and Veliko Tarnovo, which are both world-class sites.
What's missing--Bulgaria doesn't have the nationalist edge that its Balkan neighbors have. An upcoming July election is drawing lukewarm passion, particularly following last month's EU poll which equalled a test run. (One observer said that the election offered voters a choice of which mob family they dislike least.)
Even Folklor TV, the all national-costumed-24-hour satellite Bulgarian ethnic kitschfest seemed more melancholy than defiant, particularly when compared to its Serbian sister station. Ok, there was one exception, a song where the word Bulgaria was invoked in pious tones, and images of Orthodox icons were interspersed with those of brave Bulgarian patriots hurling barrels down at fez-clad Turks on the slopes below. But Bulgaria last played smackdown with the Turks in the late 1800s, and since they are now both NATO allies, Bulgaria doesn't have anyone to chuck barrels at right now.
Bulgaria--Finnish Karaoke
My desire for a congenial environment causes me to stumble into an American-style pub-restaurant called the Vagabond. Unlike most of the venues on Sunny Beach's seaside promenade, the Vagabond was more than half full, but no one was eating.
Instead, as I started to piece together from the amateur singing and ubiquitous television screens, this was a. Karaoke venue. But not your usual Gloria Gaynor, Mick Jagger and Frank Sinatra karaoke. No this was Finnish Karaoke.
One of my favorite TV shows ever was "Raid", a 12-episode Western set in and around Helsinki. And its themesong, "Vain Rakkaus", occupies a well-used slot in my Ipod. So, sensing a true once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, I examine the song directory and duly find Vain Rakkaus.
I sign up. I endure an agonizing wait of 90 minutes. It could have been shorter, for I was actually called after 45 minutes but the Bulgarian presenter thought my name was Mila instead of Mike.
The delay gave me the time to download the Vain Rakkaus lyrics to one of my Blackberry devices. I practiced in the back, attempting to partition the small but pesky number of 10+ letter words in the appropriate places.
I offer to pay a barmaid 20 leva (EUR 10) to video the occasion. (I have yet to watch, and have conveniently misplaced the carmera, but the requisite memory was eaten on the memory card, so I hope it took). Once called, things take a turn towards the silly when the DJ cues the wrong song, a Finnish remake of I Will Survive.
I protest loudly, which convinces the organizer of my seriousness. Vain Rakkaus cues.I start singing when the words appear.
Of course, that's 2 seconds before the music begins. I resynch by stretching the vowels in "korventaa.". My volume picks up with the chorus, and one of the Finns in attendance runs to the center of the floor and starts bowing at my feet.
I continue undaunted. My singing of Vain Rakkaus was hardly the stuff of an award winning performance on Finland's Got Talent. But after inviting myself to the booth of the prostrate Finn and getting the reaction of him and his buddies, the shock and amazement was palpable.
"We knew you weren't Finnish, but it was obvious you knew the song," said Uki, inadvertently bemoaning the extent to which his nation's patrimony fails to travel much beyond its borders. More amazement followed when I shared how Raid became a cult Public TV classic in Washington, DC back in 2005. And how I own two sets of the DVD and the soundtrack.
But what I was left with was more shock and awe that I would actually find it within myself to sing Finnish Karaoke. And get a standing O.
Instead, as I started to piece together from the amateur singing and ubiquitous television screens, this was a. Karaoke venue. But not your usual Gloria Gaynor, Mick Jagger and Frank Sinatra karaoke. No this was Finnish Karaoke.
One of my favorite TV shows ever was "Raid", a 12-episode Western set in and around Helsinki. And its themesong, "Vain Rakkaus", occupies a well-used slot in my Ipod. So, sensing a true once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, I examine the song directory and duly find Vain Rakkaus.
I sign up. I endure an agonizing wait of 90 minutes. It could have been shorter, for I was actually called after 45 minutes but the Bulgarian presenter thought my name was Mila instead of Mike.
The delay gave me the time to download the Vain Rakkaus lyrics to one of my Blackberry devices. I practiced in the back, attempting to partition the small but pesky number of 10+ letter words in the appropriate places.
I offer to pay a barmaid 20 leva (EUR 10) to video the occasion. (I have yet to watch, and have conveniently misplaced the carmera, but the requisite memory was eaten on the memory card, so I hope it took). Once called, things take a turn towards the silly when the DJ cues the wrong song, a Finnish remake of I Will Survive.
I protest loudly, which convinces the organizer of my seriousness. Vain Rakkaus cues.I start singing when the words appear.
Of course, that's 2 seconds before the music begins. I resynch by stretching the vowels in "korventaa.". My volume picks up with the chorus, and one of the Finns in attendance runs to the center of the floor and starts bowing at my feet.
I continue undaunted. My singing of Vain Rakkaus was hardly the stuff of an award winning performance on Finland's Got Talent. But after inviting myself to the booth of the prostrate Finn and getting the reaction of him and his buddies, the shock and amazement was palpable.
"We knew you weren't Finnish, but it was obvious you knew the song," said Uki, inadvertently bemoaning the extent to which his nation's patrimony fails to travel much beyond its borders. More amazement followed when I shared how Raid became a cult Public TV classic in Washington, DC back in 2005. And how I own two sets of the DVD and the soundtrack.
But what I was left with was more shock and awe that I would actually find it within myself to sing Finnish Karaoke. And get a standing O.
Bulgaria--Resting with the Lions
Arriving back in "Cote de Soleil", the French moniker for Sunny Beach, at 1 in the morning didn't leave me well-disposed to head for Varna on Saturday morning.
Sleep instead beckoned, and today's activities have been modest, even by my oft-sluggish standards. Lunch of dining room fish (the Riu serves a lot of it, and is a damn good non-pork option, even if I can't trace its provenance). A copy of The Times, and articles explaining the potential collapse of the governing dictatorships of Iran and Formula 1 motor racing. A stroll along the tacky but impressive beachfront. And, naturally, a quest.
Ever since my abortive attempt to play rugby at London Business School in the 1990s, I have been and ever-increasing rugby fan. I even have chosen favorite countries--Argentina (following a great conversation with a true Argentine rugbyman in andean Bariloche), and Wales, because they have the best in-stadium singing.
Today's quest was to see a match between World Champs South Africa, and the "British and Irish Lions.".The Lions are one of rugby's most revered traditions. Every four years, they gather the best of Britain's and Ireland's rugby pros for a three match series against one of the sport's fearsome Southern Hemisphere powers--Australia, New Zealand and New Zealand.
Rather than seen as an all-star jolly to sunny climes, the Lions series actually exceeds Rugby's World Cup in prestige--particularly with the World Cup incumbents as the hosts. So this year's epic first match demanded viewing. Being in Bulgaria was no excuse. And two rules: no empty venues and no Boliarka beer. As a haunt with a fair British clientele, seaside pubs with satellite tv were quite common here. But venues with the Lions were fewer on the ground. Some were showing Formula 1 qualifying, others obscure Norwegian League football matches. One, conveniently located, was pouring Boliarka, the ugly duckling among Bulgaria's otherwise competent local brews, the one on tap at the Riu.
I walked another half hour down the strand, and a seaside restaurant with 8 flat screens beckoned, along with a dozen brits wearing football shirts from the likes of Swindon Town and whomever has FourFourTwo.com as its shirt sponsor.
The crowd was unsociable, my Wisconsin Badger shirt and Americanized cheering failing to produce any response from the throng. But the match was more than worth the stroll and the surliness--with an epic brittanohibernian fightback following some easy early points yielded to the South Africans, only for the hosts to stymie the hybrid nationals at the end.
Sleep instead beckoned, and today's activities have been modest, even by my oft-sluggish standards. Lunch of dining room fish (the Riu serves a lot of it, and is a damn good non-pork option, even if I can't trace its provenance). A copy of The Times, and articles explaining the potential collapse of the governing dictatorships of Iran and Formula 1 motor racing. A stroll along the tacky but impressive beachfront. And, naturally, a quest.
Ever since my abortive attempt to play rugby at London Business School in the 1990s, I have been and ever-increasing rugby fan. I even have chosen favorite countries--Argentina (following a great conversation with a true Argentine rugbyman in andean Bariloche), and Wales, because they have the best in-stadium singing.
Today's quest was to see a match between World Champs South Africa, and the "British and Irish Lions.".The Lions are one of rugby's most revered traditions. Every four years, they gather the best of Britain's and Ireland's rugby pros for a three match series against one of the sport's fearsome Southern Hemisphere powers--Australia, New Zealand and New Zealand.
Rather than seen as an all-star jolly to sunny climes, the Lions series actually exceeds Rugby's World Cup in prestige--particularly with the World Cup incumbents as the hosts. So this year's epic first match demanded viewing. Being in Bulgaria was no excuse. And two rules: no empty venues and no Boliarka beer. As a haunt with a fair British clientele, seaside pubs with satellite tv were quite common here. But venues with the Lions were fewer on the ground. Some were showing Formula 1 qualifying, others obscure Norwegian League football matches. One, conveniently located, was pouring Boliarka, the ugly duckling among Bulgaria's otherwise competent local brews, the one on tap at the Riu.
I walked another half hour down the strand, and a seaside restaurant with 8 flat screens beckoned, along with a dozen brits wearing football shirts from the likes of Swindon Town and whomever has FourFourTwo.com as its shirt sponsor.
The crowd was unsociable, my Wisconsin Badger shirt and Americanized cheering failing to produce any response from the throng. But the match was more than worth the stroll and the surliness--with an epic brittanohibernian fightback following some easy early points yielded to the South Africans, only for the hosts to stymie the hybrid nationals at the end.
Bulgaria--Flying Domestic
I wanted to give myself a good day in Sofia, and a chance to see the country, and still get back to Sunny Beach to make reasonable use of my all inclusive vacation.
So, the logical move was to take a daytime bus to Sofia to see the countryside, and then fly back to the coast the next night.
Now as I find myself in the midst of a four-hour preflight experience at Sofia's sparkling but nearly comatose airport terminal, I'm thinking I may have been better off "leaving the driving to " one of this countrs numerous bus operators.
The bus to Sofia was cheap and simple. 6 hours, 18 Euros, leaving 500 yards/meters from my hotel. New buses, and relatively new EU-funded roads.
The flight back--2 hour delay for a 45 minute flight. Fare of 65 Euros, and the prospect of negotiating for an overpriced airport taxi now that the flight will arrive 'round midnight.
Airport dinner was 8 Euros--a draft Shumensko beer and a sandwich--about three times the price "out on the economy."
I've only flown domestic twice in my leisure travels, or at least those outside the USA. The first, back on the 2 week rampage through Turkey in 1998 that followed my marital split-up, was excellent. First class on Turkish Airlines, and I felt like a star with my cocktail served in a real glass. The second, over the Andes with LAN Argentina's service between Bariloche and Buenos Aires' main domestic airport, whose name escapes me but which had the most enticing-looking steakhouse in all of air travel.
To be sure, air travel has improved in Eastern Yurp in recent years. Bulgaria saw the disappearance of it's commie-era national airline, Balkan, and its replacement with tonight's tardiness culprit, Bulgaria Air. While Bulgaria Air doesn't belong to a major Western frequent flyer program, it does operate an all -Western fleet, including tonight's veteran Boeing 737. And, for effect, a large Lufthansa Technik maintenance hangar on the airport ground reassures the traveler.
So, the logical move was to take a daytime bus to Sofia to see the countryside, and then fly back to the coast the next night.
Now as I find myself in the midst of a four-hour preflight experience at Sofia's sparkling but nearly comatose airport terminal, I'm thinking I may have been better off "leaving the driving to " one of this countrs numerous bus operators.
The bus to Sofia was cheap and simple. 6 hours, 18 Euros, leaving 500 yards/meters from my hotel. New buses, and relatively new EU-funded roads.
The flight back--2 hour delay for a 45 minute flight. Fare of 65 Euros, and the prospect of negotiating for an overpriced airport taxi now that the flight will arrive 'round midnight.
Airport dinner was 8 Euros--a draft Shumensko beer and a sandwich--about three times the price "out on the economy."
I've only flown domestic twice in my leisure travels, or at least those outside the USA. The first, back on the 2 week rampage through Turkey in 1998 that followed my marital split-up, was excellent. First class on Turkish Airlines, and I felt like a star with my cocktail served in a real glass. The second, over the Andes with LAN Argentina's service between Bariloche and Buenos Aires' main domestic airport, whose name escapes me but which had the most enticing-looking steakhouse in all of air travel.
To be sure, air travel has improved in Eastern Yurp in recent years. Bulgaria saw the disappearance of it's commie-era national airline, Balkan, and its replacement with tonight's tardiness culprit, Bulgaria Air. While Bulgaria Air doesn't belong to a major Western frequent flyer program, it does operate an all -Western fleet, including tonight's veteran Boeing 737. And, for effect, a large Lufthansa Technik maintenance hangar on the airport ground reassures the traveler.
Bulgaria--Another Balkan Capital
Seated at one of Sofia's ubiquitous in-park outdoor cafes, I have a few minutes to reflect on my detour from my otherwise-all-inclusive beach holiday...
There was no question Sofia was worth both the visit and the schlep required to get in and out.It is not that Sofia is overwhelming or even all that aesthetically pleasing. More like an American state capitals rather than one of Europe's top cities, Sofia has little history to speak of, having been selected as Bulgaria's new capital in the 1890s. What little is here of architectural note is mostly fin de siecle in style, with a few Russian-style influences.
Sofia was also bombed intensively during WWII, but it was unclear by whom, as the Bulgarians switched sides in 1944. Outside of Sofia's small centre is a sea of what the Czechs call "panelaks"--the crumbling, dissheveled mid and high rise apartments bult of bad concrete to house the masses in Commie days.
In a fit of generosity during the democratic transition, the state gave most if not all of the flats to their occupants. This factoid explains a lot. Like how Bulgarians can live on an average monthly wage of about $300. And how even the most average of folks can have 1,2,3 properties. The economy was fuelled by a construction boom before, like economies everywhere, it stopped being fuelled at all.
Further out, onto Vitosha Mountain, lives Roy, an Antipodean ex-colleague of mine from our days at a quirky London communications consultancy. I was a huge fan of his at a number of levels (not least of which were his wit and healthy skepticism of our now-defunct company's culture), and the opportunity to pay a visit was one decisive reason for choosing Bulgaria. Roy did not disappoint. Now the Chief Executive of a leading Bulgarian commercial concern, Roy shared excellent stories about working and leading in an environment with a long and continuing history of being downtrodden. Roy looks the locals in the eye and doesn't buy their stories or take their crap, which they attempt to dish out in abundance. Roy has a great set up in Sofia--a beautiful mountainside home overlooking the city's expanse and "only 17 minutes to the snowfields" on Vitosha, a mountain with Olympic aspirations. (Sofia lost out to Sochi for the 2014 winter games).
But it quickly becomes apparent that being an expat here is several divisions ahead of my expat-lite experience in Brussels. "We needed to make sure there were several alternative heating systems. We avoided the gas shutdown (when Russia cut off all of Europe's gas to punish the Ukrainians), but we also have electricity and diesel as well.". Schooling is also a challenge, and security a concern. "We do live in a walled enclosure," noted Roy of his home's otherwise idyllic setting.
There was no question Sofia was worth both the visit and the schlep required to get in and out.It is not that Sofia is overwhelming or even all that aesthetically pleasing. More like an American state capitals rather than one of Europe's top cities, Sofia has little history to speak of, having been selected as Bulgaria's new capital in the 1890s. What little is here of architectural note is mostly fin de siecle in style, with a few Russian-style influences.
Sofia was also bombed intensively during WWII, but it was unclear by whom, as the Bulgarians switched sides in 1944. Outside of Sofia's small centre is a sea of what the Czechs call "panelaks"--the crumbling, dissheveled mid and high rise apartments bult of bad concrete to house the masses in Commie days.
In a fit of generosity during the democratic transition, the state gave most if not all of the flats to their occupants. This factoid explains a lot. Like how Bulgarians can live on an average monthly wage of about $300. And how even the most average of folks can have 1,2,3 properties. The economy was fuelled by a construction boom before, like economies everywhere, it stopped being fuelled at all.
Further out, onto Vitosha Mountain, lives Roy, an Antipodean ex-colleague of mine from our days at a quirky London communications consultancy. I was a huge fan of his at a number of levels (not least of which were his wit and healthy skepticism of our now-defunct company's culture), and the opportunity to pay a visit was one decisive reason for choosing Bulgaria. Roy did not disappoint. Now the Chief Executive of a leading Bulgarian commercial concern, Roy shared excellent stories about working and leading in an environment with a long and continuing history of being downtrodden. Roy looks the locals in the eye and doesn't buy their stories or take their crap, which they attempt to dish out in abundance. Roy has a great set up in Sofia--a beautiful mountainside home overlooking the city's expanse and "only 17 minutes to the snowfields" on Vitosha, a mountain with Olympic aspirations. (Sofia lost out to Sochi for the 2014 winter games).
But it quickly becomes apparent that being an expat here is several divisions ahead of my expat-lite experience in Brussels. "We needed to make sure there were several alternative heating systems. We avoided the gas shutdown (when Russia cut off all of Europe's gas to punish the Ukrainians), but we also have electricity and diesel as well.". Schooling is also a challenge, and security a concern. "We do live in a walled enclosure," noted Roy of his home's otherwise idyllic setting.
Bulgaria-Day 3
After a long sleep-in brought on by my lack of somnolescence following the virtuoso performance by the Globally Famous DJ Sash at SB's Den Glade Viking, I took one look at the pool area and its collection of aging Germans and tattooed Brits, and then call again for a road trip.
Yesterday's trip, to Nessebar, a small but cute Bulgarian seaside town of Romanesque provenance was pleasant if predictable. Lots of souvenir shops, everything at the relatively modest but high for Bulgaria tourist prices.
Today's trip, Burgas, was the real deal. An old school Black Sea port cum beach town, with a resort atmosphere set in authentically ex-commie digs.
One thing that's always struck me about ex-commie places is the sheer numbers of buildings with multiple layers of peeling paint. I first noticed this in Rugen, a Baltic resort that once catered to Erich Honecker and the heavies of the old DDR (East Germany for those who never saw the classic, Goodbye Lenin). Rather than marking eyesores, the peeling paint speaks to these buildings being witnesses to history, as the history in these parts was turbulent over the last 70+ years.
Bulgaria's history is interesting enough. A Nazi ally which nonetheless saved its 50,000 member Jewish community, Bulgaria switched sides to the USSR in 1944 and later embraced communism to such an extent that it asked to be annexed to the USSR in 1973. They must have dug Brezhnev's eyebrows, I guess.
Today, Burgas at eventide is bustling if not ostentatiously prosperous (guys in t-shirts driving late-model Mercedes notwithstanding). Streetside cafes are about half full. Prices are a little cheaper than in Sunny Beach, menus in Cyrillic and either English or German, depending on the place.
Cyrillic is fun. Invented by Bulgarians Cyril and Methodius, who were later sainted for their literacy-spreading deeds, it is at its most fun when Westerners mangle the pronunciation of letters like B, C, H and P, which have differing sounds in the roman alphabet. As was once said of a Moscow dining establishment, "I once thought that 'PECTOPAH' meant 'restaurant'. Then I ate there, and realised that in fact, it really meant 'PECTOPAH'.". To be fair, in Bulgaria, restaurant means 'PECTOPAHT'. I haven't had a bad meal yet, to be fair.
Yesterday's trip, to Nessebar, a small but cute Bulgarian seaside town of Romanesque provenance was pleasant if predictable. Lots of souvenir shops, everything at the relatively modest but high for Bulgaria tourist prices.
Today's trip, Burgas, was the real deal. An old school Black Sea port cum beach town, with a resort atmosphere set in authentically ex-commie digs.
One thing that's always struck me about ex-commie places is the sheer numbers of buildings with multiple layers of peeling paint. I first noticed this in Rugen, a Baltic resort that once catered to Erich Honecker and the heavies of the old DDR (East Germany for those who never saw the classic, Goodbye Lenin). Rather than marking eyesores, the peeling paint speaks to these buildings being witnesses to history, as the history in these parts was turbulent over the last 70+ years.
Bulgaria's history is interesting enough. A Nazi ally which nonetheless saved its 50,000 member Jewish community, Bulgaria switched sides to the USSR in 1944 and later embraced communism to such an extent that it asked to be annexed to the USSR in 1973. They must have dug Brezhnev's eyebrows, I guess.
Today, Burgas at eventide is bustling if not ostentatiously prosperous (guys in t-shirts driving late-model Mercedes notwithstanding). Streetside cafes are about half full. Prices are a little cheaper than in Sunny Beach, menus in Cyrillic and either English or German, depending on the place.
Cyrillic is fun. Invented by Bulgarians Cyril and Methodius, who were later sainted for their literacy-spreading deeds, it is at its most fun when Westerners mangle the pronunciation of letters like B, C, H and P, which have differing sounds in the roman alphabet. As was once said of a Moscow dining establishment, "I once thought that 'PECTOPAH' meant 'restaurant'. Then I ate there, and realised that in fact, it really meant 'PECTOPAH'.". To be fair, in Bulgaria, restaurant means 'PECTOPAHT'. I haven't had a bad meal yet, to be fair.
Bulgaria-Day 2
I have started to realize why I am growing to like this place so much. Unlike Greece which oozes Greekness, Italy which overwhelms with la dolce Italiana and the overwrought pungence of baked Parmesan, and Turkey with its addictive mix of Ataturkian ultranationalism, chilled-out Islamism and the dynamism of the diminutive Sezen Aksu, one of her iconic stars; Bulgaria does not attempt to have its visitors take it ultra-seriously.
Indeed, according to Lonely Planet, the national dish, Shopska salad, was manufactured by the Bulgarian Tourist Office in the 1970s to create some distinctive Bulgarianness on menus that even in Commie days tended towards bland internationalism. I've avoided it as I prefer the glorious local tomatoes without the adulturation of sheep cheese, raw onions, of which I am no fan, and cucumbers, which are equally tasteless everywhere.
Unlike in other holiday locales, where locals are keen to exult their nation's patrimonies and glories, Bulgarians express surprise at the interest of visitors. No more so in the case of the exceedingly rare Yanks on these Black Sea shores."Long flight!" said one Black Sea publican, expressing amazement that an American would venture here, and spreading his arms out for effect. I then told hime I actually lived in Brussels. What I left out was that the 3 hours en route aboard the aging 767 employed for Jetairfly flight 7147 brought me closer to The Creator than any recent transatlantic trip on an Airbus 330.
Immediately, my publican friend tells me about his relative in Chicago, and why the Bulgarian mafia sucks so much. I didn't argue. And, after watching the second half of the taped Romania-Uruguay rugby test match on Eurosport 2, I made a point of tipping well.
Bulgaria indeed gets very few Yank tourists. The main Black Sea airport at Burgas is nearly inaccessible, serviced mainly by charters from the UK, Germany, the Nordics and the Benelux, with twice weekly commuter flights from Sofia to connect with the global scheduled network. A round trip from a major Midwestern city that isn't Chicago costs about $3500.
By comparison, a week a one of my Riu's sister properties in the Dominican Republic costs a hell of a lot less than $3.5k. And they probably serve better beer and caipirinhas. I have only two complaints about the Riu two days in. One--they serve Bulgaria's worst beer on the all inclusive menu, Boliarka, and don't even offer a paid upgrade to the likes of Bulgaria's competent Zagorka or Kamenitza. And the watered down lemon Koolaid called a "Caipirinha" should spur inspired outrage from offended limes everywhere. Yuck!
Indeed, according to Lonely Planet, the national dish, Shopska salad, was manufactured by the Bulgarian Tourist Office in the 1970s to create some distinctive Bulgarianness on menus that even in Commie days tended towards bland internationalism. I've avoided it as I prefer the glorious local tomatoes without the adulturation of sheep cheese, raw onions, of which I am no fan, and cucumbers, which are equally tasteless everywhere.
Unlike in other holiday locales, where locals are keen to exult their nation's patrimonies and glories, Bulgarians express surprise at the interest of visitors. No more so in the case of the exceedingly rare Yanks on these Black Sea shores."Long flight!" said one Black Sea publican, expressing amazement that an American would venture here, and spreading his arms out for effect. I then told hime I actually lived in Brussels. What I left out was that the 3 hours en route aboard the aging 767 employed for Jetairfly flight 7147 brought me closer to The Creator than any recent transatlantic trip on an Airbus 330.
Immediately, my publican friend tells me about his relative in Chicago, and why the Bulgarian mafia sucks so much. I didn't argue. And, after watching the second half of the taped Romania-Uruguay rugby test match on Eurosport 2, I made a point of tipping well.
Bulgaria indeed gets very few Yank tourists. The main Black Sea airport at Burgas is nearly inaccessible, serviced mainly by charters from the UK, Germany, the Nordics and the Benelux, with twice weekly commuter flights from Sofia to connect with the global scheduled network. A round trip from a major Midwestern city that isn't Chicago costs about $3500.
By comparison, a week a one of my Riu's sister properties in the Dominican Republic costs a hell of a lot less than $3.5k. And they probably serve better beer and caipirinhas. I have only two complaints about the Riu two days in. One--they serve Bulgaria's worst beer on the all inclusive menu, Boliarka, and don't even offer a paid upgrade to the likes of Bulgaria's competent Zagorka or Kamenitza. And the watered down lemon Koolaid called a "Caipirinha" should spur inspired outrage from offended limes everywhere. Yuck!
Bulgaria-Day 1
Barely 18 hours into my visit to the shores of the Black Sea and I feel well and truly on vacation. Not sure if that's more a function of my interleaving of weak all-inclusive cocktails with strong cups of Nescafe, or whether the relaxed atmosphere of Sunny Beach, Bulgaria has ensnared me with its charm.
Sunny Beach, on the surface, is a complete abomination. Imagine a seaside knockoff of Las Vegas done up in Oligarch chic. Lots of new buildings in bright colors and bad concrete. But a different class of bad concrete than was used in Commie days, with but a few old-school reminders of the Big Red Machine interspersed among hotels like the Planeta, Hrizantema, and Polyusi.
The Riu Helios Palace is an oasis in this sea of post-communist tourist mayhem. An outpost of the Spanish-German Riu chain, it is four-star both in rating and performance. Not ultra-luxurious, but competently run and with a fairly high standard of food, drink and accomodation served up to a fairly well-screened northern European clientele.
Being a single at an all-inclusive is always a bit of a challenge, particularly when one isn't actively "on the pull" (once again, my vacation coincides with the early stage of a new relationship conversation). Mostly, I'm interested in meeting some new buddies to take in Sunny Beach's legendary dance-music nightlife with. But even sans buddies, there is an abundance of entertainment here--mostly to be gained from watching the legions of young Scandinavians letting their hair down to the techno beat.
Sunny Beach, on the surface, is a complete abomination. Imagine a seaside knockoff of Las Vegas done up in Oligarch chic. Lots of new buildings in bright colors and bad concrete. But a different class of bad concrete than was used in Commie days, with but a few old-school reminders of the Big Red Machine interspersed among hotels like the Planeta, Hrizantema, and Polyusi.
The Riu Helios Palace is an oasis in this sea of post-communist tourist mayhem. An outpost of the Spanish-German Riu chain, it is four-star both in rating and performance. Not ultra-luxurious, but competently run and with a fairly high standard of food, drink and accomodation served up to a fairly well-screened northern European clientele.
Being a single at an all-inclusive is always a bit of a challenge, particularly when one isn't actively "on the pull" (once again, my vacation coincides with the early stage of a new relationship conversation). Mostly, I'm interested in meeting some new buddies to take in Sunny Beach's legendary dance-music nightlife with. But even sans buddies, there is an abundance of entertainment here--mostly to be gained from watching the legions of young Scandinavians letting their hair down to the techno beat.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Surfacing After Two Months...
Greetings to my friends and faithful readers in Blogland...Yes, my productivity in blogland has waned substantially in recent weeks--mainly because I've had less interest in writing and musing on life and more interest on, well, living it...
February finds me with no major complaints, the biggest of which, the overpowering darkness of Northern European winter has finally given way to the point where it is light both when I leave the house and leave the office.
Still, I have no doubt that my thoughts of going to Sweden, Finland or Estonia for "midsummer" (quote marks because "midsummer" marks both the first and last days of summer in these Baltic climes) are still pegged to my residual darkness trauma of the last few months.
Before a few special items (several of which I've recycled from my more assiduously maintained Facebook page), some basics:
* Living arrangements: while having a late-twenties American flatmate can result into the descent into some fraternity-house-style living habits, the recent engagement of a cleaning lady has brought many smiles to Rue d'Oultremontstraat... It's been nice having intelligent American company to come home to, particularly as the Obama administration gathers steam, though middle-east discussions can get a bit dicey, as it's hard for me to convince him that one side in a conflict can indeed be right all the time.
* Work: Am enjoying my organization--though being in a foreign outpost of a strong company that has a very strong culture has been very much an education...
* Dating: no wedding bells by a long shot, but the quality of my conversations seems to be improving. I'm attributing this mainly to the amount of available light.
* Sports: My beloved Wisconsin Badgers have come back from the dead, last seen turning a six game basketball losing streak into a five game tear back through the standings of the eleven-member Big Ten Conference of America's finest state universities... As for Tottenham--listless performances of late leave the Mighty Spurs stuck dangerously near the trap door to relegation and the oblivion of the so-called Coca-Cola Championship. Only pleasure to be taken from the season has been the relatively weak performance of the Hated Arsenal Scum. But of course the Scum are faring far better than we are. Ptui.
* Lugano: Travel has been at a premium of late, as I become ever better at conference calls and web exchanges at work. But a recent IABC conference got me out of Belgium for a few days and over to Lugano--the small Swiss lakeside city that is best described as "Italy went to Obedience School".
Lugano is extremely attractive, and it's main academic institution, the Universita di Svizzera Italiana (translated as "the university of Italians lucky enough to be Swiss") is also to European professional communications schools what my alma mater London Business School is to business schools: Numero Uno.
The conference was excellent--http://europe.iabc.com/ has more details.But what stole the show was Lugano itself... Italian and Swiss seem to be two contravening paradigms, and for the most part they are.
I would have dug the local cuisine more if my lifelong aversion to Parmesan Cheese and its near-relatives wasn't on full guard for the visit, or if the little white spear in otherwise excellent pumpkin soup at the main dinner event didn't happen to be a chunk of rabbit, one of the two main species I don't eat because I think they are cuter than I am (the other, of course being my old friends, the pigs).
Still, the setting is breathtaking. The secret of Lugano is its low elevation--300 feet--while surrounded by alpine mountains. Thus Lugano has a surprisingly mild climate described as mediterranean, with the occasional palm tree. In the architectural detail, Lugano is clearly Italian--churches, public buildings and street signs being clearly Italian in style.
But other flavors emerge. French fashion houses, Credit Suisse, German names like the Lido Seegarten hotel (the conference hotel), and a mixture of modern and more-Swiss-looking architectural styles. Add in the neon ads for classic Swiss watches on the lakeshore: Rolex, Rado, Tissot, Jaeger le Couture and the picture becomes clearer--particularly from the deck of the spectacular Casino Lugano. Still, the most telling difference between Italy and Svizzera Italiana: the parking. Orderly, rational, coherent parking--not like a bunch of people had hydrochloric acid spilled in their laps.
February finds me with no major complaints, the biggest of which, the overpowering darkness of Northern European winter has finally given way to the point where it is light both when I leave the house and leave the office.
Still, I have no doubt that my thoughts of going to Sweden, Finland or Estonia for "midsummer" (quote marks because "midsummer" marks both the first and last days of summer in these Baltic climes) are still pegged to my residual darkness trauma of the last few months.
Before a few special items (several of which I've recycled from my more assiduously maintained Facebook page), some basics:
* Living arrangements: while having a late-twenties American flatmate can result into the descent into some fraternity-house-style living habits, the recent engagement of a cleaning lady has brought many smiles to Rue d'Oultremontstraat... It's been nice having intelligent American company to come home to, particularly as the Obama administration gathers steam, though middle-east discussions can get a bit dicey, as it's hard for me to convince him that one side in a conflict can indeed be right all the time.
* Work: Am enjoying my organization--though being in a foreign outpost of a strong company that has a very strong culture has been very much an education...
* Dating: no wedding bells by a long shot, but the quality of my conversations seems to be improving. I'm attributing this mainly to the amount of available light.
* Sports: My beloved Wisconsin Badgers have come back from the dead, last seen turning a six game basketball losing streak into a five game tear back through the standings of the eleven-member Big Ten Conference of America's finest state universities... As for Tottenham--listless performances of late leave the Mighty Spurs stuck dangerously near the trap door to relegation and the oblivion of the so-called Coca-Cola Championship. Only pleasure to be taken from the season has been the relatively weak performance of the Hated Arsenal Scum. But of course the Scum are faring far better than we are. Ptui.
* Lugano: Travel has been at a premium of late, as I become ever better at conference calls and web exchanges at work. But a recent IABC conference got me out of Belgium for a few days and over to Lugano--the small Swiss lakeside city that is best described as "Italy went to Obedience School".
Lugano is extremely attractive, and it's main academic institution, the Universita di Svizzera Italiana (translated as "the university of Italians lucky enough to be Swiss") is also to European professional communications schools what my alma mater London Business School is to business schools: Numero Uno.
The conference was excellent--http://europe.iabc.com/ has more details.But what stole the show was Lugano itself... Italian and Swiss seem to be two contravening paradigms, and for the most part they are.
I would have dug the local cuisine more if my lifelong aversion to Parmesan Cheese and its near-relatives wasn't on full guard for the visit, or if the little white spear in otherwise excellent pumpkin soup at the main dinner event didn't happen to be a chunk of rabbit, one of the two main species I don't eat because I think they are cuter than I am (the other, of course being my old friends, the pigs).
Still, the setting is breathtaking. The secret of Lugano is its low elevation--300 feet--while surrounded by alpine mountains. Thus Lugano has a surprisingly mild climate described as mediterranean, with the occasional palm tree. In the architectural detail, Lugano is clearly Italian--churches, public buildings and street signs being clearly Italian in style.
But other flavors emerge. French fashion houses, Credit Suisse, German names like the Lido Seegarten hotel (the conference hotel), and a mixture of modern and more-Swiss-looking architectural styles. Add in the neon ads for classic Swiss watches on the lakeshore: Rolex, Rado, Tissot, Jaeger le Couture and the picture becomes clearer--particularly from the deck of the spectacular Casino Lugano. Still, the most telling difference between Italy and Svizzera Italiana: the parking. Orderly, rational, coherent parking--not like a bunch of people had hydrochloric acid spilled in their laps.
Random Thoughts
One of the coolest things coursing around Facebook these days is the "25 Random Things" note--notes written by Facebookers about disparate but generally interesting facets of their lives. I was sufficiently inspired to write three of these: 25 Random Things, 20 Random Beers, and 21 Random Places Where I've Lived. For your reading pleasure:
25 Random Things
1. I haven't done anything political for pay since 2004, but politics remains my favorite subject of news and conversation
2. My current job as the most challenging I've ever had--and while it can be a bit scary, I'm really starting to enjoy the people
3. While I'm both a US and UK citizen, I can't vote in Britain because I don't have a UK address.
4. My lack of a UK address doesn't deter me from 'voting' on the most important matter facing the Brits--English Football.
5. Supporters of my English football team, Tottenham Hotspur, are known as The Yid Army.
6. I'm not a particularly religious Jew, but my passion for Israel and the Jewish People holds my own on other fronts.
7. I was the earliest active Obama supporter in the Netherlands when I lived there. I even got to speak at the Obama victory party in the NL.
8. I think Obama will be a great president, and will piss me off at times along the way
9. I don't hate Republicans--I used to be one from 1986-92
10. I've been blogging since 2005.
11. I've lost a bit of zeal for blogging since I moved back to Europe and got on Facebook--I have more to do, and an easier way of sharing thoughts in real time
12. I've gone from thinking I'm an expert to realizing I'm still a student in many respects--the more I know, the less I know!
13. There are nearly more places on the list of places I want to return to as there are on the places that I want to see for the first time.
14. The best places I've ever been are (in alphabetical order) Bariloche, Argentina; Bruges, Belgium; Jerusalem, Israel; Paris, France; Sarajevo, Bosnia; Stockholm, Sweden.
15. I think baby piglets are the most adorable thing on the planet and that nothing else remotely comes close
16. I'm contemplating a big step in my life--getting an unfurnished apartment and buying furniture.
17. I have not owned a car since 1996.
18. I have never driven into an auto accident--a fact that should make me less of an agnostic than I am, considering my driving.
19. I'm a connoisseur of European train travel.
20. I am a deeply committed beer connoisseur, having written nearly 200 beer reviews on Ratebeer.com (member number mklein818).
21. My university's sports teams also occupy a big spot in my heart--cheering on the Wisconsin Badgers in fertile and lean seasons
22. Dating has been an ongoing source of frustration
23. I cook a little--my main interest is in reduction sauces. Port wine with lemon and wholegrain mustard is awesome; recently did one with 11% alcohol Kasteel beer
24. The best educational experience I've had was with an organization called Landmark Education.
25. I'm capping this off by pouring a chalice of St Feuillien Cuvee de Noel--a fine amber brew from Le Roeulx, Belgium.
2o Random Beers
The following beer thoughts are designed to motivate, inspire, and if necessary elicit envy from those for whom such brews are not commonly available.
They are listed in no particular order, having given up on selecting "the best beer" many moons ago...
1. Palm: Legendary Belgian ale, civilized at a pilsner strength, but with flavor depth of heartier brews. Have been to the brewery in Steenhuffel and seen the famous Palm draft horses.
2. Kasteel Bruin: Rich and unctuous--at a potent 11%, not a brew to start the evening with. Best served in its own gold-lipped chalice. Makes an interesting reduction sauce with a bit of lemon, honey, garlic and whole grain mustard.
3. Primus: Probably the best lager in the world, alas only found in Belgium. Very different from German lagers in particuler--light on the hoppy bitterness and deeper in the malt department.
4. Val Dieu Brune: A divine brew--the only Belgian beer brewed at a non-Trappist abbey. Balanced sweetness and spiciness.
5. Grimbergen Brune: My favorite mass-market dark Belgian brew, available on tap from most pubs with a Maes sign on the door. Also decent availabilty in the US--now owned by Heineken.
6. Tripel Karmeliet: It's a multi-grain beer, so it's healthy, eh? At 8%, the health benefits are compounded by a potent punch. Oats are the added ingredient, along with barley and wheat malts. Sweet-sour-spice. And it comes from a place called Buggenhout. Can't beat that.
7. De Koninck: The beer that is to Antwerp what Old Style is to Chicago, except that it has a distinct color and flavor. It's served in a glass called a Bolleke. Order one for an Englishman and see the reaction you get.
8. Liefman's Kriek: An intricately brewed and blended mix of cherry fruit and brown ales from Flanders. Different from most other Krieks, which are brewed closer to Brussels according to a different formula. Worth the effort to find.
9. Bush/Scaldis: No, not the $4 a 12 pack at the truck stop Busch, but a fiery and noble Walloon brew from the Dubuisson brewery. Known as "the cognac beer", a late-night brew served in a snifter-like glass. Sold in the US as "Scaldis" to avoid conflicts with that big Belgian brewery in St. Louis.
10. Westvleteren: Brewed by Trappist monks unconcerned by market forces or commercial gain, "Westy" is by far the most sought after of Belgian brews. Cars line up on the rare days cases are placed on sale, and commercial distribution is spotty and allegedly illegal. A bottle of Westy Abt, the 12% alcohol version, has a street value in Belgium of EUR 12. Steep for a beer. But have you ever paid the equivalent for indifferent cabernet sauvignon? You have. Admit it.
11. Ommegang: The best Belgian beer in America. Brewed by Belgium's Moortgat Brewery at a branch in Cooperstown, New York, this beer has a combination of sweetness, bitterness and depth matched by few beers anywhere. It's sister brews Three Philosophers and Hennepin are also excellent, and sister Rare Vos tastes a slightly amped-up version of Palm above.
12. Blanche de Namur: Am not a huge white/wheat beer fan, but by far my favorite is Blanche de Namur, from the dramatically situated Walloon capital of Namur, a top day-trip destination. Clean, sparkly acidity with a lemoniness that warns off the introduction of trendy fruit slices.
13. La Trappe Quadrupel: A 10% alcohol behemoth from over the border in Holland--easily the best Dutch beer. The beer equivalent of sticky toffee pudding.
14. Duvel: My first Belgian, from my days as a legal 19 year old tippler at the University of Wisconsin Union. Deceptively mild--a pilsnerlike flavor masking a potent 8.5 punch. They don't call it 'Devil" for nothing.
15. Tongerlo Brune: My first Belgian dark beer. Mild at 6% alcohol,but with some nice caramel flavors. A sentimental favorite.
16. St. Feuilllien Triple: A Walloon favorite with an exquisite mix of spices. Strong and warming. St. Feullien's dark and blonde beers are great too.
17. Gordon Scotch: Despite the name, very much a Belgian brew, albeit in a once-popular Scottish style. Strong at 8.5%, bitter, sweet, and well balanced. Served in a thistle glass that kind of looks like a tornado made of glass.
18. Saison Dupont: A unique brew--not sweet at all, but possessing a deep savoriness. Think soy sauce without the salt--just pure, deep, savory flavor. Great with food.
19. Fin Du Monde: Canada's best Belgian beer--mildly sweet, spicy and little hoppy. Great label with a dramatic map of Quebec.
20. And finally, the majestic Cuvee van de Keizer (Grand Cru of the Emperor), from Gouden Carolus in Mechelen,Belgium, where my office is. Cuvee is an annual brew, varying by year. I can still taste the Star Anise from the 2006 version. Belgium--and beer--at its best.
21 Random Places where I've Lived
1. San Jose, California: Stayed on a candidate’s couch for a month. Came to the conclusion that while Alice B. Toklas said “there’s no there, there” about Oakland, it was because she hadn’t been to San Jose.
2. Delft, Netherlands: One year in deluxe apartment in a rehabbed college building. View of a canal out of a sliver of my living room window. Fondest memory was when one of the guys at the Proeflokaal (tasting pub with 100+ beers) gave me a glass with a decal of a nearby drawbridge and the word Delvenaer (native Delftian)
3. Raleigh, NC: An antiseptic southern town—quite unusual in that I don’t normally find southern towns antiseptic. Best part is that Chapel Hill is nearby. Worst part is that Raleigh isn’t Chapel Hill.
4. Willesden Green, London: A rare affordable, well-situated, vibrant if rough-around-the-edges part of London. Better suited for a bachelor than a married couple.
5. Albany, NY: At 100,000 a very small big city—with big city politics, a major state capital and a University that has finally found some identity,. Best wings on earth.
6. San Francisco: As a famous wag once said, San Francisco has never had a smug free day. Nuff said.
7. Skokie, IL: Where I landed in greater Chicago in 1969, and where my brother bashed my head against a brick wall shortly thereafter. He still hasn’t apologized.
8. Hampstead Garden Suburb, London: A beautifully designed suburban community with absolutely no commerce of any kind. Round the corner from Golders Green, one of the world’s great Jewish neighbo(u)rhoods.
9. Madison, WI: Winters notwithstanding, one of the most pleasant, beautiful, and vibrant places on the planet. Summer evenings with Duvel in hand overlooking Lake Mendota, raucous gamedays punctuated by the Fifth Quarter, and January icefishing. Does anyone remember Madison’s Lady Liberty?
10. The Hague, Netherlands: A sterile city, and an extremely sterile studio apartment owned by an unusually garrulous if fastidious Dutchman. Got to commute by tram though, which was cool.
11. Kewanee, IL: Where I drew my first political paycheck in 1988. Tough campaign, and very tough little farm town. High point: Hog Days Parade. As in pigs, not motorcycles.
12. Burke, VA: Not quite an exurb of Washington, DC, though you wouldn’t know it from the 90 minute one-way commute. Redeeming bit was that it was close to George Mason University, where I hung out with the brothers of Sigma Phi Epsilon
13. Rosh Tzurim, Israel: When a boulder fell on my finger on this West Bank (Judea-Samaria) Kibbutz, I was literally between a rock and a very hard place. Learned a lot up close about Religious Zionism and the settler mentality. Vastly prefer secular Zionism instead.
14. Baton Rouge, LA: Expected a small New Orleans, found more of a middling state capital/college town with much better food than average. Love that etouffee
15. Baltimore, MD: A place with heart, soul, texture and personality, along with good food and some great watering holes. Best—the Mount Royal Tavern, with an amazing ceiling fresco.
16. Kilburn, London: First place I ever drank Guinness in the morning, appropriate as this is London’s most Irish of neighbo(u)rhoods. Was watching Ireland-Cameroon during World Cup 2002.
17. Bakersfield, CA: A thoroughly underrated burg, with sweeping mountain vistas, oil wells, low-slung buildings and inimitable tri-tip beef. Dominated by the ghost of Buck Owens, country music icon who called this bit of the ol’ southwest home.
18. Evanston, IL: Where I came of age in many ways. Was a total dork in high school, learned the basics of research as a telephone interviewer, and saw Magic Johnson’s MSU Spartans experience a rare upset loss to the Northwestern Mildcats. Now one of Chicago’s more fashionable urban suburbs—amazing what legalized alcohol can do for a place.
19. Rosslyn, VA: A mellow place across the river from DC—where a great flatmate helped me keep my sanity during my unhappy if productive years as a federal government communications contractor.
20. Montgomery, AL: The deep south at its deepest. Like living in a foreign country--gave me the appetite for the real thing. Best part was the food (the late Kat and Harry's with their super-cheap Ridge Zinfandel) and the singer belting out Toni Braxton better than Toni ever did...
21. Brussels, Belgium: The capital—and heart of Europe. The bucket of gold at the end of the rainbow. Despite the winter darkness, wet weather, anti-semitic politicians and confiscatory taxation. Such things are no match for magret de canard, daytrips to Brugge, and hot-and-cold running supplies of Kasteel, Rochefort, and Grimbergen Brune.
25 Random Things
1. I haven't done anything political for pay since 2004, but politics remains my favorite subject of news and conversation
2. My current job as the most challenging I've ever had--and while it can be a bit scary, I'm really starting to enjoy the people
3. While I'm both a US and UK citizen, I can't vote in Britain because I don't have a UK address.
4. My lack of a UK address doesn't deter me from 'voting' on the most important matter facing the Brits--English Football.
5. Supporters of my English football team, Tottenham Hotspur, are known as The Yid Army.
6. I'm not a particularly religious Jew, but my passion for Israel and the Jewish People holds my own on other fronts.
7. I was the earliest active Obama supporter in the Netherlands when I lived there. I even got to speak at the Obama victory party in the NL.
8. I think Obama will be a great president, and will piss me off at times along the way
9. I don't hate Republicans--I used to be one from 1986-92
10. I've been blogging since 2005.
11. I've lost a bit of zeal for blogging since I moved back to Europe and got on Facebook--I have more to do, and an easier way of sharing thoughts in real time
12. I've gone from thinking I'm an expert to realizing I'm still a student in many respects--the more I know, the less I know!
13. There are nearly more places on the list of places I want to return to as there are on the places that I want to see for the first time.
14. The best places I've ever been are (in alphabetical order) Bariloche, Argentina; Bruges, Belgium; Jerusalem, Israel; Paris, France; Sarajevo, Bosnia; Stockholm, Sweden.
15. I think baby piglets are the most adorable thing on the planet and that nothing else remotely comes close
16. I'm contemplating a big step in my life--getting an unfurnished apartment and buying furniture.
17. I have not owned a car since 1996.
18. I have never driven into an auto accident--a fact that should make me less of an agnostic than I am, considering my driving.
19. I'm a connoisseur of European train travel.
20. I am a deeply committed beer connoisseur, having written nearly 200 beer reviews on Ratebeer.com (member number mklein818).
21. My university's sports teams also occupy a big spot in my heart--cheering on the Wisconsin Badgers in fertile and lean seasons
22. Dating has been an ongoing source of frustration
23. I cook a little--my main interest is in reduction sauces. Port wine with lemon and wholegrain mustard is awesome; recently did one with 11% alcohol Kasteel beer
24. The best educational experience I've had was with an organization called Landmark Education.
25. I'm capping this off by pouring a chalice of St Feuillien Cuvee de Noel--a fine amber brew from Le Roeulx, Belgium.
2o Random Beers
The following beer thoughts are designed to motivate, inspire, and if necessary elicit envy from those for whom such brews are not commonly available.
They are listed in no particular order, having given up on selecting "the best beer" many moons ago...
1. Palm: Legendary Belgian ale, civilized at a pilsner strength, but with flavor depth of heartier brews. Have been to the brewery in Steenhuffel and seen the famous Palm draft horses.
2. Kasteel Bruin: Rich and unctuous--at a potent 11%, not a brew to start the evening with. Best served in its own gold-lipped chalice. Makes an interesting reduction sauce with a bit of lemon, honey, garlic and whole grain mustard.
3. Primus: Probably the best lager in the world, alas only found in Belgium. Very different from German lagers in particuler--light on the hoppy bitterness and deeper in the malt department.
4. Val Dieu Brune: A divine brew--the only Belgian beer brewed at a non-Trappist abbey. Balanced sweetness and spiciness.
5. Grimbergen Brune: My favorite mass-market dark Belgian brew, available on tap from most pubs with a Maes sign on the door. Also decent availabilty in the US--now owned by Heineken.
6. Tripel Karmeliet: It's a multi-grain beer, so it's healthy, eh? At 8%, the health benefits are compounded by a potent punch. Oats are the added ingredient, along with barley and wheat malts. Sweet-sour-spice. And it comes from a place called Buggenhout. Can't beat that.
7. De Koninck: The beer that is to Antwerp what Old Style is to Chicago, except that it has a distinct color and flavor. It's served in a glass called a Bolleke. Order one for an Englishman and see the reaction you get.
8. Liefman's Kriek: An intricately brewed and blended mix of cherry fruit and brown ales from Flanders. Different from most other Krieks, which are brewed closer to Brussels according to a different formula. Worth the effort to find.
9. Bush/Scaldis: No, not the $4 a 12 pack at the truck stop Busch, but a fiery and noble Walloon brew from the Dubuisson brewery. Known as "the cognac beer", a late-night brew served in a snifter-like glass. Sold in the US as "Scaldis" to avoid conflicts with that big Belgian brewery in St. Louis.
10. Westvleteren: Brewed by Trappist monks unconcerned by market forces or commercial gain, "Westy" is by far the most sought after of Belgian brews. Cars line up on the rare days cases are placed on sale, and commercial distribution is spotty and allegedly illegal. A bottle of Westy Abt, the 12% alcohol version, has a street value in Belgium of EUR 12. Steep for a beer. But have you ever paid the equivalent for indifferent cabernet sauvignon? You have. Admit it.
11. Ommegang: The best Belgian beer in America. Brewed by Belgium's Moortgat Brewery at a branch in Cooperstown, New York, this beer has a combination of sweetness, bitterness and depth matched by few beers anywhere. It's sister brews Three Philosophers and Hennepin are also excellent, and sister Rare Vos tastes a slightly amped-up version of Palm above.
12. Blanche de Namur: Am not a huge white/wheat beer fan, but by far my favorite is Blanche de Namur, from the dramatically situated Walloon capital of Namur, a top day-trip destination. Clean, sparkly acidity with a lemoniness that warns off the introduction of trendy fruit slices.
13. La Trappe Quadrupel: A 10% alcohol behemoth from over the border in Holland--easily the best Dutch beer. The beer equivalent of sticky toffee pudding.
14. Duvel: My first Belgian, from my days as a legal 19 year old tippler at the University of Wisconsin Union. Deceptively mild--a pilsnerlike flavor masking a potent 8.5 punch. They don't call it 'Devil" for nothing.
15. Tongerlo Brune: My first Belgian dark beer. Mild at 6% alcohol,but with some nice caramel flavors. A sentimental favorite.
16. St. Feuilllien Triple: A Walloon favorite with an exquisite mix of spices. Strong and warming. St. Feullien's dark and blonde beers are great too.
17. Gordon Scotch: Despite the name, very much a Belgian brew, albeit in a once-popular Scottish style. Strong at 8.5%, bitter, sweet, and well balanced. Served in a thistle glass that kind of looks like a tornado made of glass.
18. Saison Dupont: A unique brew--not sweet at all, but possessing a deep savoriness. Think soy sauce without the salt--just pure, deep, savory flavor. Great with food.
19. Fin Du Monde: Canada's best Belgian beer--mildly sweet, spicy and little hoppy. Great label with a dramatic map of Quebec.
20. And finally, the majestic Cuvee van de Keizer (Grand Cru of the Emperor), from Gouden Carolus in Mechelen,Belgium, where my office is. Cuvee is an annual brew, varying by year. I can still taste the Star Anise from the 2006 version. Belgium--and beer--at its best.
21 Random Places where I've Lived
1. San Jose, California: Stayed on a candidate’s couch for a month. Came to the conclusion that while Alice B. Toklas said “there’s no there, there” about Oakland, it was because she hadn’t been to San Jose.
2. Delft, Netherlands: One year in deluxe apartment in a rehabbed college building. View of a canal out of a sliver of my living room window. Fondest memory was when one of the guys at the Proeflokaal (tasting pub with 100+ beers) gave me a glass with a decal of a nearby drawbridge and the word Delvenaer (native Delftian)
3. Raleigh, NC: An antiseptic southern town—quite unusual in that I don’t normally find southern towns antiseptic. Best part is that Chapel Hill is nearby. Worst part is that Raleigh isn’t Chapel Hill.
4. Willesden Green, London: A rare affordable, well-situated, vibrant if rough-around-the-edges part of London. Better suited for a bachelor than a married couple.
5. Albany, NY: At 100,000 a very small big city—with big city politics, a major state capital and a University that has finally found some identity,. Best wings on earth.
6. San Francisco: As a famous wag once said, San Francisco has never had a smug free day. Nuff said.
7. Skokie, IL: Where I landed in greater Chicago in 1969, and where my brother bashed my head against a brick wall shortly thereafter. He still hasn’t apologized.
8. Hampstead Garden Suburb, London: A beautifully designed suburban community with absolutely no commerce of any kind. Round the corner from Golders Green, one of the world’s great Jewish neighbo(u)rhoods.
9. Madison, WI: Winters notwithstanding, one of the most pleasant, beautiful, and vibrant places on the planet. Summer evenings with Duvel in hand overlooking Lake Mendota, raucous gamedays punctuated by the Fifth Quarter, and January icefishing. Does anyone remember Madison’s Lady Liberty?
10. The Hague, Netherlands: A sterile city, and an extremely sterile studio apartment owned by an unusually garrulous if fastidious Dutchman. Got to commute by tram though, which was cool.
11. Kewanee, IL: Where I drew my first political paycheck in 1988. Tough campaign, and very tough little farm town. High point: Hog Days Parade. As in pigs, not motorcycles.
12. Burke, VA: Not quite an exurb of Washington, DC, though you wouldn’t know it from the 90 minute one-way commute. Redeeming bit was that it was close to George Mason University, where I hung out with the brothers of Sigma Phi Epsilon
13. Rosh Tzurim, Israel: When a boulder fell on my finger on this West Bank (Judea-Samaria) Kibbutz, I was literally between a rock and a very hard place. Learned a lot up close about Religious Zionism and the settler mentality. Vastly prefer secular Zionism instead.
14. Baton Rouge, LA: Expected a small New Orleans, found more of a middling state capital/college town with much better food than average. Love that etouffee
15. Baltimore, MD: A place with heart, soul, texture and personality, along with good food and some great watering holes. Best—the Mount Royal Tavern, with an amazing ceiling fresco.
16. Kilburn, London: First place I ever drank Guinness in the morning, appropriate as this is London’s most Irish of neighbo(u)rhoods. Was watching Ireland-Cameroon during World Cup 2002.
17. Bakersfield, CA: A thoroughly underrated burg, with sweeping mountain vistas, oil wells, low-slung buildings and inimitable tri-tip beef. Dominated by the ghost of Buck Owens, country music icon who called this bit of the ol’ southwest home.
18. Evanston, IL: Where I came of age in many ways. Was a total dork in high school, learned the basics of research as a telephone interviewer, and saw Magic Johnson’s MSU Spartans experience a rare upset loss to the Northwestern Mildcats. Now one of Chicago’s more fashionable urban suburbs—amazing what legalized alcohol can do for a place.
19. Rosslyn, VA: A mellow place across the river from DC—where a great flatmate helped me keep my sanity during my unhappy if productive years as a federal government communications contractor.
20. Montgomery, AL: The deep south at its deepest. Like living in a foreign country--gave me the appetite for the real thing. Best part was the food (the late Kat and Harry's with their super-cheap Ridge Zinfandel) and the singer belting out Toni Braxton better than Toni ever did...
21. Brussels, Belgium: The capital—and heart of Europe. The bucket of gold at the end of the rainbow. Despite the winter darkness, wet weather, anti-semitic politicians and confiscatory taxation. Such things are no match for magret de canard, daytrips to Brugge, and hot-and-cold running supplies of Kasteel, Rochefort, and Grimbergen Brune.
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