Gianfranco

È tempo di fichi. Nel paesino di mia nonna nella Lucania montuosa vanno persi. Ne sono tanti che la gente piuttosto di sporcarsi le mani a raccoglierli li fa cadere dall'albero per farli marcire per terra, per darli in pasto alle formiche e tutti gli altri insetti che ancora osano gironzolare nonostante il primo freddo autunnale.

Gianfranco invece li usa a valanga. Mentre da una parte non si pensa o non si vuol pensare a come usarli, il menu del Castello Lucano in questo periodo ne sta colmo. Fichi di qui e fichi di lì. Ma soprattutto sempre la vera tradizione Lucana. In un'altro blog tempo fa parlai proprio di questo Castello Lucano, gestito dal mio amico (ora mai lo posso chiamare così) Gianfranco. Un guerriero della tradizione nel senso più puro e autentico della parola. Niente vie di mezzo, niente trucchi e trucchetti. Semplicemente il semplice, quello vero, proprio come la pasta che solo la nonna sa fare.

Magari parlare della 'vera tradizione' ed abbinare fichi a piatti di pasta non è del tutto corretto. Ma d'altra parte ogni tanto bisogna osare cambiarla questa tradizione. Cambiarla per farne una nuova. Ma alla fine la base è sempre quella, perchè la pasta si fa in un modo solo. E il fatto che in questo periodo arrivano anche i fichi può solo essere un buon segno, perchè alla fine anche loro fanno parte delle tradizione...forse non quella di ieri, ma sicuramente quella di oggi e quella di Gianfranco.

Dit is geen stationsroman

Iedereen is anders. Groen. Rood. Paars met witte bollen, oranje strepen en lichtblauwe hartjes. Maar anders wil nog niet zeggen speciaal. Die lichtblauwe hartjes maken het geheel bijvoorbeeld speciaal. Speciaal is namelijk zo een woord om aan te duiden dat iets een opmerkelijke trek heeft, dat iemand omwille van één of ander kenmerk eruit springt. Speciaal wordt echter dikwijls ook gebruikt om niet te zeggen dat we iets eigenlijk helemaal niet zo mooi vinden. Denk aan de gelukwensen aan de ouders die hun pasgeboren baby de naam Kenji meegeven. Dat vinden we speciaal, nietwaar?

Uitzonderlijk heeft speciaal echter ook wel positieve bijklanken. Meer nog. Soms is het niet zozeer een verwijzing naar één van die bijklanken, maar naar een harmonieuzer geheel. Ik ken zo iemand waarvoor ik de term 'speciaal' de meest geschikte beschrijving beschouw - voor het geval dat iemand mij zou vragen op die persoon slechts één adjectief te plakken. En anderzijds is speciaal misschien wel het minste dat ik kan zeggen.

Ze zit op de trein met haar iPod-oortjes op de plaats waar die thuis horen. Blik op oneindig. En toch weer niet. Blik op de jongen die tegenover haar zit. Af en toe. Hij wil wel, maar ze heeft (letterlijk) meer oren naar de nieuwe cd van de Kooks. De trein stopt. De jongen stapt uit. Zachtjes verlaat de trein het station, terwijl de jongen de laagvallende zonnestralen tracht tegen te houden met zijn hand om toch nog een glimp van die ogen te kunnen opvangen. Ogen die om één of andere vreemde reden toch nog op hem zijn gericht. Alsof het haar plots wel nog interesseert. Nochtans speelt de cd nog. De muziek is dezelfde. Maar de wereld lijkt plots anders. Zo anders dat ze de volgende dagen dezelfde plaats op de trein inneemt. Met haar blote voetjes leest ze al indiaantje zittend de annonces in de Metro, in de hoop een verwijzing naar haar te vinden. Misschien wel naar haar ogen.

Dat is ze. Ik noem het tedere nonchalance. Een eerbetoon aan onverwachtbare eenvoud. Vergeet haar voor maanden en babbel ermee voor uren, om er dan weer een paar maanden zonder door te komen. Ik noem haar speciaal. Altijd opgewekt. Altijd vrolijk. Voor zover ik weet tenminste (en zo veel is dat ook weer niet - voor hetzelfde geld is ze niet uit te staan wanneer ze 's morgens haar bed uitstapt). Een grote brok levenvreugde met kleine mysterieuze kantjes. Maar die horen erbij. Een eindeloze glimlach onder twee fonkels van ogen. Die zeggen dat ze leeft als geen ander, in de hoop dat die dat altijd zullen blijven zeggen.

The moving year

This past year will probably be remembered as a year of movement. Not in the sense of going who knows where to see, to visit or to experience. Not like in a holiday. When I refer to movement I relate to people actually moving from a place to another. From a town to a city. From a city to another country. And when I speak about 'people' I include myself, having moved to a new building at work and to an old but renovated house to live in. But the same goes for most of my friends, colleagues and family. It's like everybody got some kind of moving disease, causing severe needs to change the roofs over our heads. To carry around big boxes with stuff we not remembered having. To see the guys from Ikea come and go to dismantle and put together once again crappy wardrobes and bed frames. And to have to ask for directions, driving around in some oversized rented van, going to the place we will be living, but sarcastly not yet properly knowing how to get there.

Or maybe it simply is the age. Maybe we are arrived at a point whereby changes are not only wanted, but moreover needed. As a necessity. As a invitation to change. So let's change. Let's taste the new, the different and the adventure. Change is an intrinsic part of who we are and how we live. Go for it. Change and keep on changing. Just do not forget to remember who you are.

Winter mornings

The unbearable buzzing sound of the clock radio sarcastly plays with your ear drums. Your eyes open up to the darkness still surrounding the room. It's time. You have to get up. But this time the sun is still sleeping. It's the time of the year you have to get up first. Facing the cold of the room, while seeing your breath finding its way to the ceiling. Hell. No other terms to describe it. The only difference probably is the temperature (basing myself on the ideology describing hell as a place where fire and high temperatures rule).

These are the typical mornings you tend to use your shaving cream as the mousse for your hair and the other way around. Not even mentioning the tooth paste. The mornings you get up with a stomach making scorching sound due to yesterday's pizza (thank you, Giuseppe). And the morning you step on the little gift the neighbours cat left on your doorstep (how many times do I have to repeat they should buy better cat food?!).

What can we do about it? Just wait till we can switch out the lights once again in search of new dreams? Fat chance. The darkness of the morning will probably be replaced by a shade of grey, going on for the rest of the day. Long tiring hours. The daily traffic jams on my way to Brussels. Life is an adventure indeed. But if I ever might choose, just give me a trip to a place with a white sandy beach where the sun always shines.

So let's just hang in there. And wait. Not until it will be light again, but till winter will be over. And than I mean our winter. Cause there're still the cosy fireplace or the Alps to see the bright side of this all. And with some luck, we might even have some snow of our own. To see stunning blue skies over snowy landscapes in an atmosphere of endless tenderness. To see winter from a different perspective. And to even enjoy it.

But let's wait and see. I just know winter is coming. Good luck!

Vlaanderen vakantieland

Ik had me voorbereid op een debat over verdraagzaamheid en samenleven in harmonie en evenwicht, los van culturele achtergronden, kleuren en geuren en wie weet welke andere eigenaardigheden die onze buren misschien wel hebben en wij niet. Vandaag blijkt dit niet nodig. Let wel, ik zeg hier 'blijkt'. Er hangt op het eerste zicht een andere sfeer. En ook hier zeg ik 'op het eerste zicht'. De gemoederen lijken hoe dan ook bedaard en de champagne baant haar weg doorheen andere keelgaten. Voor even toch...

Mijn litanische monoloog zou zich toespitsen op hoezeer het zo niet verder had kunnen gaan. Op de onmogelijkheid om de mensen op de straat nog te kunnen toelachen, nog recht in de ogen te kunnen zien, zonder daarbij duistere gedachten te laten spelen die van de andere een onverdraagzaam monster maken en die het leven alleen maar zuurder, bitsiger en vooral minder leefbaar maken. Met leefbaar doel ik hier op zin om in vreugde samen te leven. Je weet wel, zoals dat door de priester iedere zondag opnieuw in de al dan niet Katholieke - ik ben er zeker van dat dat elders ook zo is, verdraagzaamheid kent nu éénmaal geen grenzen, toch? - misviering zwaar gesticulerend aan de mensen wordt duidelijk gemaakt en zelfs opgelegd.

Mijn betoog zou handelen over dat vreemde verschijnsel van de lok naar het extreme, als een heilzame homeopathische zalf waar uiteindelijk niets helends in zit, laat staan dat het een oplossing zou geven voor wonden waar niet eens een diagnose voor is vastgesteld. Het zou zich de vraag stellen naar waarom mensen toch maar blijven neigen naar het meer extreme, daar waar diezelfde mensen de dagdagelijkse cowboyverhalen uit verre oorden veroordelen. Ook díe verhalen zijn gestoeld op extremisme. Mijn betoog had zo kunnen stellen dat het een vicieus verhaal is. Zoals de hond die zijn eigen staart probeert te grijpen. We veroordelen het ene en handelen er op net dezelfde manier naar. Alsof we ons denken volledig hebben laten varen. Alsof we in de witte wolken die blauwe hemelen bevolken geen verhalen meer herkennen. Alsof we alleen op de grote wereld zijn. Onze wereld. Die zo moet zijn. En niet anders.

Gelukkig kan ik mijn betoog even laten voor wat het is. We kunnen met een gerust hart in een leefbaar Vlaanderen blijven vertoeven, zonder er niet meer dan een vakantiebestemming van te maken om met de Kert naar terug te keren of om met Oudjaar de vrienden nog eens te ontmoeten. Laten we dat zo houden. Nu, morgen, altijd.

Let's open these eyes. And keep them that way.

Mallorca?

Been there, done that. Seen the overcrowded beaches, naked breasts and psychotic clubs. Done the pubhoppin' at the rhythm of cheap tequila. Who cared about the sequence of lime, salt and shooting it down...or was it the other way around?

But no, this was really different. This was showing the opposite side of things. And believe me, things always have an opposite side. Sometimes you should just look for it. Sometimes you should be lucky to just bump into it. And sometimes you should listen to people saying that it's worth while a visit. And the latter was definitely the case.

Mallorca is partially the typical party-island, maybe not completely the same way as Ibiza, but let's say we're not far away. The nice thing about this island, is that it has a completely different part in the North. A part not yet affected by the tourists need to bring money so we will easily get rich and who cares about our identity-disease. Still pure sights, still breathable Mediterranean air and still authenticity. And in my opinion, it's all about this. Traveling is experiencing the authentic, unaffected by the color of money, by the wishes of the guests and by the burning desire of getting away from the boredom of daily life. Traveling is about expecting the unexpectable and accepting what you get. Paella and infinite hospitality included.

So let me thank the people who should be tanked. They just showed once again life can be a really nice thing. And even more than that, it showed that this world is still poluted by beautiful people. And that is not only from the outside.

(To Caty, her parents and brother)

Per questa volta: in Italiano

Nato in Belgio, cresciuto da italiano con influenze belghe, imparando l'olandese, l'italiano, il francese, l'inglese e lo spagnolo e conoscendo gente proveniente da un pò tutte le parti. Adesso eccomi qui. Che faccio? In che lingua parlo? Ho amici che non parlano e capiscono l'italiano. Ne ho altri che non sanno l'inglese. Ancora altri preferiscono lo spagnolo. Il mondo però è sempre quello. Proprio piccolo nella sua grandezza, figuriamoci questo blog: deve essere proprio minuscolo. Una nano-etentità. A questo punto non mi resta che scegliere. Scrivo in inglese? Scrivo in italiano? Imparo l'esperanto? Mah, buona domanda. Mi sa comunque di dover scegliere. Una volta così, l'altra colà. Una volta accontento i nordici, l'altra quelli del sud. E con l'inglese cercherò di trovare la magica via di mezzo. Quella che alla fine c'è sempre...basta cercarla, anche se ti rende la vita un pò più difficile. Allo stesso tempo mi do la possibilità di cambiare aria, in base ai sentimenti che mi accompagnano nel momento del scrivere. Come andare e stare in vacanza. Come sentirsi in posti diversi, senza il dovere di spostarsi per un benedetto millimetro. Basta fare click!

Oggi deve essere un giorno italiano. O magari solo adesso. Chi lo sa. Potrebbe essere che tra due istanti, dopo aver spento il pc, mi sentirò le corna da vichingo in testa, tornando ad essere completamente nordico. Ma sono pensieri per dopo. Per ora sono italiano. Parlo italiano e sento italiano. Magari il mio modo di esprimermi non sarà completamente al livello dell'italiano medio e magari alla fine riesco ad esprimermi meglio solo nella lingua che mi circonda tutto il giorno. Ma non importa. Importa solo l'adesso. Quello che viene fuori in queste parole scritte al vento. Quello del sud. Quello sempre caldo e fantasioso. Anche se spesso si perde per vie oscure e pericolose.

Per una volta,
Per rispetto e amore,
Infinito,
Per la gioia vissuta ed i momenti di assoluta magia,
Inconfondibili,
Per la gente,
Per gioco e divertimento,
Per simpatia,
Per i ricordi,
Puri e veri,
Di ieri ed oggi,
Per quelli che verranno,
Per tutto e per sempre.

Signs of pleasure: 59 things I like

Trendy bars.
Havana Club. Red wine. Orange juice.
Bubbles.
Slow food in fast times.
Cooking.Being the naked chef.
Hot showers.Long ones.
Swimming pools.
Music.The good vibes.
Silence.The best music around.
Freedom.Peace.Justice.
Sharing.
Friends.Family.
My fantasy.My imagination.My inspiration.
People.Everywhere.Always.
New York.
Stockholm.Rome.Berlin.Barcelona.
Cold.Winter.Mountains.
Hot.Summer.Beaches.
Sand between my toes.
Blue skies.The big, even more blue sea.
Laughter.Smiles.Happy faces.
Being a bit crazy.Sometimes a lot.
Sunshine.Sunglasses.T-shirts.
Yellow.Green.Red.A little bit of black.
Rain.Only if it brings a rainbow.
The unknown.To try to know.
Adventures.
Love.Making love.Loving.Endlessly.
Forever and ever.
Amen.

She.Life.

And you? What do you like?

The beginning is the end, the end is the beginning

Some time ago, I started a blogging initiative on the much more simplistic platform of world's largest software company. I considered it to be no more than a simple experiment, to see what it would be like to be part of that strange blogging community. Yes, 'cause let's be honest, blogging indeed is a peculiar thing. It tends to the sharing of our lives with others, our thoughts, our feelings, our likes and dislikes. It opens up our private being to that open, unknown and mysterious world, whereas in that same world we live in, we try to more and more fight for our privacy, for the life we'd rather call oùr life.

To me this seems a contradiction, in the most pure sense of that word. But even a world where logics rule needs contradictions. And you could say even more: this contradiction could simply be the outcome of a logical process: where the world searches to open up our lives, we choose ourselves to what extent we give an opening in that privacy by blogging it openly, out loud and with the limitations we choose ourselves. We keep the private parts we want, while the world gets a slice of some of our precious secrets.

To come back where I started this post, on this grey and cloudy day of beginning Belgian autumn, I once again start a new experience. A new box of 80 percent cacao chocolotas next to my laptop. Some refreshend thoughts. A new form of expressing myself to the world, choosing my own boundaries, stating my own desires. For whom is interested: be my guest. For whom is not: have a nice life, I'm sure anything I have to say about my own life could make yours better. So why read? Who knows, life is a mystery, remember?