In a Fog

Living in a foreign country has many challenges.

Belgium has no shortage of them.

Currently I have just moved from probably one of the most amazing neighborhoods in northern Europe, that of the Zurenborg area of Antwerp to another beautiful neighborhood, but without the dynamics of life that my former place had. I am sad, but at the same time, the move was necessary. I am closer to my daughter's school and she has more of her own space.

However, I am in a fog about where exactly I fit in in this society. Am I an ex-pat? Yes and no. Am I a conjugal EU citizen? Yes and no. Am I merely an American who has found himself as a stranger in a strange land? Yes and no.

Recently there were elections for the local level and Bart De Wever was voted in as the new Mayor of Antwerp. Make no mistake, Mr. De Wever is extremely intelligent, but I question his motives. Being part of the nationalistic movement, he wishes that Flanders succeeds to its own "country". Now, not that it could not do so, but it is a bit odd being mayor of one of the few cities that literally has representation from almost every country on the planet. There are residents from 173 countries in this city. Think about that. Seriously, let that sink in.

And, yet, the city just elected an elitist, exclusionary mayor. I am confused. Antwerp has been a world center for 500 years. I seriously doubt that Rubens, a friend of the Mayor at the time would have supported such exclusion. Known to be fluent in about 8 languages and was the diplomat par example, Rubens was what made Antwerp a city on the map.

I don't know what will happen with Antwerp and/or Flanders. I fear the tribalism that is rampant, but it is a sign of the times. All the while, Europeans are criticizing America for being narrow minded, Europe in the background is becoming more and more limited in its scope.

People in glass houses should not throw stones I guess is the motto... Or, when in a Fog, don't drive too fast...

Syncretism

One of the things that I hear all too often about myself is that I am “not a typical American…” One of the things I have noticed living abroad is that many cultures love to throw around that phrase, “typical American,” as if 300 million people are all the same. I have realized too that the more I am in such cultures, I tend towards using the “typical” brand as well. And, well, there are clichéd and stereotypical Americans, Belgians, Italians, Indians, and so forth. So, it is a bit of a Catch-22.  So, no I am not a “typical American,” though at times, I am very much so.

However, what living in various countries has done for me is to learn a sense of syncretism, or bringing lots of viewpoints into my own belief system. This, of course, infuriates a purist, who will lament me as not taking a stand. Or, like Jim Hightower is attributed as saying that the only thing in the middle of the road is a yellow line and dead armadillos.

Well, count me in with the fallen armadillos. I am neither pro-American, nor Anti-American. I am neither for religion, nor against. I am neither Republican, nor Democrat.

Well, who the hell am I? What do I stand for?

I believe in the process and the bigger picture, one, that as Kant said, is just too damn big for us humans to comprehend. I will not take a stand on the big questions as the jury is still out for me. Is this world Good, or is it Evil? I don’t know, it is still going along, and will most likely do so long after the last human is scratching his or her cranium thinking about that question.

Though it is impossible to really, really, really live just in the moment, I do try. Yes, I am a product of my Past and the composition of my Future hopes, dreams, and desires, but we really only can process what is happening now, as we cannot change what has, nor fully predict what will.

Yet, with the combination of what we have learned, and what we wish to do, that informs us at every moment, fleeting as it may be, and gives us choices to make. Perhaps that is where I am a “typical American,” as I do believe in choices, and I do believe in the precepts of Freedom and Independence that shaped my country, regardless of the atrocities against such concepts that it itself has incurred upon itself and others.

Do we contradict ourselves? Yes, we do. As Walt Whitman wrote, “Do I contradict myself? Very Well, then I contradict myself.” We fear contradictions, and I know that I am guilty of that, both contradicting myself and pointing it out in others. However, it is the apparent contradictions that do bring a variety to our lives, for better or for worse. The best thing we can do is to learn to incorporate such diversity and contradiction into our lives, so that we can continue to move forward, and to avoid being paralyzed by the thought.

Hey Man, Can you Spare some Change?

Well, another election, another election that I am not living in America. Coincidence, or not? Not sure myself on that one.

During the 2004 elections I was living in Castiglione Fiorentino, a quaint hill-top hamlet in Tuscany, teaching for a Study Abroad consortium of Italart under the auspices of The University of Texas at Austin.

I am neither Democrat, nor Republican, but choose to choose upon the issues. Some candidates from either party are always the better choice from one’s own party line. And, there are those who are on the fringe who also have something to say.

Recently, I was made an “honorary” member of a highly prestigious English university’s water polo team due to a very random turn of events, which I will digress to at another time. However, something came out of that chance encounter that I have wanted to address for some time now.

During the course of the evening following the water polo tournament in which I was made such a figure for this team, I was showing them around Antwerp and providing them with a balanced tour of fun and information about a town I truly love. However, at one point, things took a rather odd and somewhat sinister turn.

When we were at one of my favo(u)rite cafes in town, De Muze, for some reason the conversation switched to politics, and took on an accelerated anti-American stance which bore its hydra-like head from a comment I had made about Plato’s Republic that the danger of a democracy can be a tyranny, and that his solution, much to the acclaim of those monarchists amongst us, was that it was an enlightened Monarch, or solitary ruler.

Well, if history is to serve us well, perhaps the one and only enlightened “Monarch” was Marcus Aurelius, a man who struggled with his designation above all others and who spent his “free” time steeped in philosophical pursuits in line of Epictetus and others about the real Stoic nature of the way things are.

However, what happened, and I will not rehearse the entire events as not to make certain characters the protagonist and others the antagonist, it came down to my country, the USA being excoriated by a group of highly educated, yet naïve British youths and a few overly opinionated Belgians joining in the fray to tell me how bad my country was and that it had in fact already morphed into a tyranny from a democracy because of our two-party system that was “one.”

If you have caught your breath now, which it took me longer to do than four games of water polo after over four years hiatus from the sport, I tried to rejoinder, only to be “boo-ed” down by the Brits and passively-aggressively snubbed by the Belgians. The kicker was that NONE of these people had ever been to the USA, thus it was all theoretical, and I have been and lived in everyone to theirs...

My country a Tyranny? Wow, I think not. Which brings me back to the origin of this thought. When I was in Italy and Bush II “won” the election, the atmosphere was demoralizing at best. We found out that all ex-pat votes for that election did not make it to the polls, a margin that would have easily tipped the scales.

The morning after, on the intelligentsia newspaper, La Repubblica, it was black, with the caption that more or less said, “Darkness falls upon America.” That was echoed across the European continent. Whereas the days before when I went to get a coffee in the morning at the local café, and was greeted warmly, suddenly, because I was American, everything changed. I felt it. The students felt it. My ex, who is Belgian, did not, and said I was exaggerating. Well, it was visceral. Being American, post Cold War, is not the exciting, engaging experience it was for several decades. Now, one needs to be aware, for if not, things can turn on a dime, as they did with my cadre of water polo mates from across the Channel.

When Obama was elected I was living in Antwerp again already. I remember the moment, as some remember Kennedy being shot, the Space Shuttle exploding, or whatnot, but I remember it well. I was driving my mother-in-law’s car at the time and heard the speech from Chicago. The radio announcer from Studio Brussel began to cry. I began to cry. Not because Obama was “my man” but because I realized that Change came come to America, and it does. Maybe not in Washington, but it is still a country that shows us we can be who we want to be.

Europe, in general, is toe the line. Status Quo. I see it every day and am amazed about how, as an American, I think about other solutions to problems, but, Europe remains the Old World. America the “New World” and India, a place that changed my life in many ways is the “Real World.”

I get caught up in the mundane. I have to. You have to, dear reader, that is a fact.

However, is the mundane the “real”?  I think not. America is  not a tyranny, Europe is not better off, and “Asia” (a very dubious title) is not a new emergent threat. Guess what? It’s been there for a very long time. Wake up people. Change is what you make of it…

I Was Born in the U.S.A.

I was indeed born in the USA, as was my daughter, though she has the added dimension of also being half-Belgian, and by extension, for the time being (meaning the fate of the EU that is), European. Both are something that some may forever see as a boon and/or a bane, a blessing and/or a curse.

For my own case, I have experienced both sides, being the recipient and the progenitor of vitriolic effusions about my homeland, but on the flipside, have also over Time, and as a result of extended travel to other ports of call around the world, have also respected and admired the uniqueness of a country like the USA and likewise defended it tooth and nail at times when I realized an antagonist knew next to nothing about my country. It is not an exaggeration to say that no other country on this planet has existed as such, nor will. Like it or not, the USA is something special. That is not out of grandiosity or patriotism, but rather from my own experience.

Before I traveled extensively, as I have done in the past quarter of a century, I was, however, rather naïve and “patriotic” about America (and yes, I fully understand and respect the various Americas such as northern North (Canada), Central and South, but for convenience sake, I speak now of America, the 48 contiguous states and the final two stars on the flag, Alaska and Hawai'i). But, when the rest of the world speaks about Americans, they usually are referring to those of us from the US.

When I first truly went abroad, when my sister married her first husband in Scotland, I landed on the parallel universe of the Plymouth Rock of my ancestors, that is, Victoria Station in London. I will never forget the ensuing rush of emotions and confusion and fascination that raced through my mind. I had re-arrived… My ex-wife often described a similar experience when she arrived in JFK for an AFS year abroad experience. Even if we do not land in the same place, it is interesting to know that we often can feel more at home in a completely foreign culture than the one we have grown up in., whether we are from there or not

Such was the case, and such, such were the days.

Over the years, if nothing else, I have gained new perspectives on being American and not-being American, and the middle road of just Be-ing me. It is a process and a journey, about which I have written, photographed, talked, listened, and just sat, thinking about.

The issue of my daughter’s own mixed heritage came up front and center as we flew into Brussels yesterday and were greeted in a very unfriendly manner at Immigration because we were only traveling with her US passport and not her Belgian one as well. She has made this trip nearly a dozen times in her young life already and nearly half of them alone with me and this was never an issue, until this individual made it so. The frustration lay not in the fact that we were accosted, but the way he spoke to us as “Americans” who just thought that we could waltz into Belgium. Well, I pay Belgian taxes and have paid my dues otherwise, so it rang very falsely in my ears.

But, I am also aware of the enormous struggles of Immigration from people going into the US as well, most directly my ex-wife, who is Belgian and my dear friend who is Colombian by birth and the trials and tribulations her family experienced over the years.

It is a tricky thing, the place where one is born and what “nationality” one actual is. For now, my daughter fits in perfectly in America as an American, speaking American English, but the second she sets foot in Belgium, she is “European” and speaks fluent Flemish. I have never had that luxury as all of the languages I have studied have been constant efforts and consequently I am perennially the “foreigner.”

Our language, our mannerisms, our political views, our religions convictions, our food habits, ways of dress, thoughts on sex, thoughts on marriage, thoughts on cultural heritage, views of family structures, economic situations, and countless other things all add up to the calculus of who we are and where we “fit in” or don’t

For me, I was indeed born an American, though in a Native American hospital, the one white baby in there at the time, from what I have been told and perhaps from the beginning at times I have been the odd one out. Going back and forth from the US to Europe and recently India provides me each time with a new perspective, both about the boons and the banes, and everything in between.

These Boots Were Made for Walking

While walking around the South Bank here in London, one of the heels from my boots fell off. This reminded me of the very last day in Varanasi after 10 weeks in India and that one of my sandals that I had worn every day, broke. Things fall apart.

Heidegger's essay, "The Origin of a Work of Art" deals with the concept of the difference between functionality and Art, where it crosses over, where it does't, inter alia. However, he discusses Van Gogh's painting of a pair peasant's shoes and how they are worn with "care" and serves a purpose. That the painting was a reflection of this purpose. When our tools break, we recognize their functionality and their purpose, specifically when we need said tools. Such as being several miles away from where you need to be an your shoe heel falls off, or some such example.

These boots have served me quite well, and if you look closely, you will see that those are not the original soles. In fact, I have gone through two soles on each and at least as many heels and the sides are splitting.

I have walked. I love to walk and I do so several miles on any given day, and when traveling, that may reach 10-15 in large cities, in addition to a great deal of public transportation, such as the Tube here.

If you know me, you know that I will wear things until they are in shambles if it is a favorite article of clothing, such as these boots. When something serves us well, we should appreciate that, and I appreciate these boots, so I felt that they should have a posting of their own.

Things do fall apart, when the center cannot hold, and I have learned that when certain things break, then it is Time for certain changes. I have not decided the fate of these boots as I will soon be going to Texas and New Mexico, where for the most part I will be again wearing sandals everywhere. Whether they gain yet another life remains to be seen. Or, they will be retired with my sandals from India.

Gap Minded

Without a doubt, one of the most memorable things that people bring back from London is the experience of the Tube, the Underground Metro system that became a transportation icon when the famous schematic was drawn up by Harry Beck in 1931, for the paltry sum of five pounds for his efforts. Now one of the most recognizable maps in the world, most modern Metro maps are modeled after Beck's simple topological design, revolutionizing the way the world look at a transport system.

In addition the half-inch thick painted "Look Left" and "Look Right" designations at the majority of central London streets to avoid hapless American from becoming hood ornaments for Aston Martins and the ubiquitous London Taxi Cabs, the ever-present "Mind the Gap" warning of disembarking from each Tube car is another icon of navigating London transit logistics.

And, what would a trip to London be without a round on the Tube?

Today, after having an incredible full English Breakfast, it began to pour down rain, so I had already planned to make some stops, and there was no better time than the present to duck underground on the Underground for two hours and step out at various stations.

It is always interesting to see how the populations evolve and change along the routes from working-class end-stations like Stratford to the upper-crusty Oxford Circus or Acton to Mile End, with all points in between. Entire mini-demographics emerge, sometimes one stop at a time, others so gradually that suddenly you feel as if you have moved into a different country altogether. At South Kensington where women are still donning Ascot head gear to blue-collar outlays of East Ham, you can see the world in an hour.

Here are a few of the icons that I encountered along the way, minding the Gaps amongst the various peoples one encounters while in London.

Going to Market

Yesterday I went to one of the various markets in Antwerp that have become a weekly experience for me.  It is probably one of the most important and visceral aspects of living in Europe as an American that I experience on a regular basis. It is the romantic view of wandering through life at a different pace and assembling the details of daily life one by one at various stalls and shops.

Although not all part of the market, I gather my goods from a sundry of places, over time, and it is a nice diversion from the modalities of the impersonal life that we often live in modern society.

I get my coffee ground at Helios, circa 1925, the Felix blend, dark and robust. I get my green chiles that are similar to Hatch chiles at the Turkish market store. I get my cheese at the cheese vendor on the De Villegas market on Thursdays and Saturdays. I get my parothas at the Tamil store next to the laundry mat that I do laundry on the Driekonigenstraat.

Most importantly, I get my flowers, on a weekly basis, at the market.

Getting flowers is a privilege. It is the epitome of a culture that has the luxury and aesthetics of making it a business of buying and selling something that grows in the wild to be part of a market economy. I do not begrudge this as I LOVE flowers. I love flowers on so many levels, and that was what I enjoyed so much in India was that flowers were a daily part of life. 80% of the women in Madurai wore flowers in their hair, EVERY day. Flowers were strewn over the streets, over piles of shit, worn as garlands, and adorned every devotional statue or commemorative piece at every street corner. Flowers were, literally, everywhere.

Belgians do like their flowers, that much is true, but it comes at a cost. Like eating, Belgians are not known for being lenient, and TV shows such as Komen Eten and Smaak Politie are testament to making sure that eating is regimented, criticized and enjoyed at a cost.

At the market, then, this Saturday, I went to my usual stall, and was feeling very happy about the selections. However, there was one middle-aged (50-60 year-old woman) who was getting very upset about the wait. She began drumming her knuckles on the metal counter of the flower stand that we were all (about 20 of us) were waiting and begin to become more and more vocal about how long SHE had to wait. Well, last time I checked, we were all waiting, but what I see more and more here is that it is always about ME and not about the whole scenario. We were ALL waiting, just as long. At one point, only ten minutes or so on a very, very busy market day, the woman vociferously leaves the line and yells, and I do mean yells, at the three women behind the counter that have been busting their asses to get to everyone as soon as possible that it is beyond reproach that they did not have someone dedicated to people like herself who just wanted a ready-made bouquet and that god forbid they gave individual attention to the details of making individual bouquet, something which to me makes this particular flower stand impressive, and she then says that she will never come back to this so-and-so vendor. And, she leaves in a huff, without her flowers, despite being next in line.

What happens next was the telling tale of the devil in the details. Not only did the remaining customers not discard the actions/words of the woman who left as such as an aberration of norms, but suddenly there was a wave of negativity from the group and they all began to bitch and complain to the people behind the counter for having to wait, etc. etc.

I am unforgiving in this mentality and it disgusted me. We had the luxury and the wealth to wait in a line of beautiful flowers, of which you can see below and people decided to use their voice of dissent and anger instead of gratitude for what they would soon be enjoying.

It makes me ill.

If you cannot wait for flowers, nor realize that you are lucky enough to enjoy a gift of nature at any cost that enhances and beautifies your life, then the only flowers you will ever appreciate will be those on your grave.

Like Ferdinand the beleaguered bull from the children's story, flowers are the portals to beauty and to stopping and enjoying life. If you cannot, then I am very sad for you.