It's all your fault, you know, that I'm sitting here in this odd flat overlooking this grand church in this country I'd never visited and, if truth be told, had never had any intention of visiting. And now it's about to become home!
Just goes to show that you really don't know what's around the corner. Oh Tomble, those fools who wish they could see the future.
What would I be doing now, I wonder, if you hadn't slipped away so quietly that night.
We'll talk about that sometime, but not now. Not now.
It's my sixth day here - and I'm not as lost as I was. For a day or two at the beginning the sense of not belonging, the utter newness of it all, the absence of you, made it - made me - unbearable.
Now I don't feel so lost.
I just get lost.
All the time.
I leave the flat, I know where I'm headed - but when I get there, I'm not there. I'm somewhere else.
It's as if the city reshuffles itself when I'm not looking.
I have a map. I turn it upside down. Hold it up in front of me, spin around, left, right, this way, that way. It makes no difference. I still end up where I didn't intend to be. And it renders futile all attempts to adopt the 'I'm a local you know, most definitely not a tourist' nonchalant air I'm aiming for.
Yesterday, fed up, I actually switched on the iphone 'data-roaming' signal to find the local Lidl.
I set it on 'compass mode' and held it out in front of me and started walking. Sadly I became too focused on it as opposed to watching where I was going. So when I did get to Lidl, and after I'd done the shopping, I had to switch data roaming on again to get me home. I'm waiting for the bill.
Last night, for a bit of culture, J and I went to watch a piano trio at the Palais des Beaux-Arts ('Bozar').
Surprisingly this cultural centre, built by Victor Horta in the 1920s was the first of its kind in Europe - housing concert halls and and exhibitions embracing music, theatre, cinema and art. It is, quite simply, stunning.
The more I get to know this city (granted it has only been six days) the more I feel it hasn't really shouted about itself loudly enough - or rather, it's been shouted down by its noisier, heavyweight European neighbours.
The place was heaving and a complete cross-section of all life was there: elegant, heavily made-up immaculately attired women 'of a certain age' with distinguished-looking partners; businessmen and women, young couples, music professor-types and, delightfully, many, many young people.
The sweeping clean-lined auditorium was full in the lower tiers. In our upper tier there was a lot of space, and hence, a lot of furtive seat swapping. You know, couple arrive, sit down, note empty seats nearer the front, move to the front, are kicked out by the late-comers claiming their seats so they go and find another one. A kind of well-dressed ever-so-polite musical chairs. We stayed put (ah, so English).
For the record the trio - Renaud Capucon (violin), Gautier Capucon (cello) and Frank Braley (piano) - played Beethoven's piano trio No 5 (op 70/1) followed by Schubert's piano trio No 2 (op 100).
I am no expert and certainly in no position to judge or review because I don't know the pieces at all.
I can only say that the performances were beautiful, powerful, passionate, soul-stirring. As always I am humbled by the immense talent of musicians who, without doubt, must give their lives entirely to their art, certainly to be able to play as they played here. Such are the demands placed upon them, willing slaves to their great composer masters, do they have room for anything else besides their music?
The pianist's page-turner missed his cue at one point - the clearly-rattled musician frantically rustling back and forth to get to the right page. Would they row about it during the interval, I wondered.
It made me want to read Vikram Seth's haunting 'An Equal Music' all over again.
Three small men on a vast stage in a vast auditorium. But shouldn't chamber music be played in a more intimate setting? I think so and, therefore, think a little was lost on the way.
Anyway, amid the sublime soul-stirring music, there was comedy. Classical music audiences are a funny bunch - and very unforgiving.
One poor soul made the mistake of clapping between movements (the classical music version of the Original Sin).
Oh the agony for that lone individual, for he died the death of a thousand shushes.
Yes. They shushed. They tutted and they carried on shushing. I was mortified on behalf of the clapper but outraged at the cruelty of those who'd shamed him.
I suspect he disappeared at the interval never to return.
It's ironic you know. The clapping was unintentional, accidental. Compare that to the great racket of throat-clearings, coughings, and nose-blowings that broke out every time the musicians paused for the next movement. In decibel terms there was no competition.
It must infuriate the musicians. Who are these people that feel the need to harrumph, hack, blow, and wheeze as soon as the music stops? They surely can't be enjoying the music, trying to hold it all in until they get the chance to send forth with such gusto. Just had a thought - it looked as though the concert was being recorded - I bet the coughers were hoping to get in on the act.
We exited the Bozar into a balmy evening and headed back into the bustling heart of the city for moules frites in Restaurant Vincent, Rue des Dominicains.
J had been to this place before and was keen to return. Its meat dishes are legendary. Indeed, raw meat features heavily in their 'shopfront' - veggies look away now...
The restaurant is hot, steamy hot, filled to bursting with locals and tourists and for at least several minutes I could do nothing but stare, wonderstruck, round and around me, above and alongside. For every wall is made up of huge tiled murals depicting the source of their products: fisherman on a wild sea, sheep in the fields, a cockle-picker on the shoreline etc etc.
Here's their website to see more: http://www.restaurantvincent.com.
Afterwards J suggested I find my way home without his help. He insisted. It would be good training, he said.
We left the restaurant - I turned left, he asked me where I was going. I said 'home' and he pointed in the opposite direction and set off walking.
I, the weak and feeble female, bowed to his greater knowledge and followed.
xxxx
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