Notes from abroad: BELFAST—BELGIQUE
Ari Snider: Lego for Christmas
The first in a two-part series documenting my holiday season abroad
"Yet rarely had I been so content as I was then, watching our little train whizz around its circular route."
"We poked about the mossy ramparts, enjoying the solitude and countryside vistas."
"A gusty French wind sent puffy clouds hustling low across the sky, presumably towards Belgium, and the green fields flowed gently into a wooded horizon."
"The castle is perched on a wedge of cliff squeezed on either side by the ox-bowing Semois River."
"Yet rarely had I been so content as I was then, watching our little train whizz around its circular route."
"We poked about the mossy ramparts, enjoying the solitude and countryside vistas."
"A gusty French wind sent puffy clouds hustling low across the sky, presumably towards Belgium, and the green fields flowed gently into a wooded horizon."
"The castle is perched on a wedge of cliff squeezed on either side by the ox-bowing Semois River."
My first host family's van held a special place in my exchange. The seven-seat Citroen had taken us to the wide boulevards of Antwerp, the clogged motorways of Brussels, the winding cobblestone of Luxembourg City, the dike-top lanes of Holland, and through the Chunnel to Great Britain. I learned that "À la voiture!" (To the car!) could only herald another novel excursion.
For the holidays, our light blue steed outdid itself yet again, tackling the 13-hour trek south from Waterloo to the white sand beaches where France slips quietly into the Mediterranean. It would be our last voyage together before I changed host families at the end of vacation.
We split the trip in two. Our first trajectory brought us to my host cousins's house in southern Belgium (a region remarkably identical to northern, eastern, western, and central Belgium) for Christmas. Their village is tucked into a small valley in a thin strip of Belgium that slips down into France like a water droplet. Our van was fit to bursting with suitcases, gifts, cakes, sleeping bags and a mandolin. We also had an extra passenger—my host grandmother.
Nora, born and raised in Buenos Aires, moved to the U.S. to earn a PhD in peace and conflict resolution at Syracuse University after her five children, including my host father, had grown up and scattered themselves across the globe. She became a professor, teaching first in Vermont before the New England winters chased her to the balmy environs of Fort Lauderdale.
She stayed with the family from December to early January, which was a quite unexpected pleasure. She is a formidable woman with a lot to say, and we shared many long, interesting discussions over steaming cups of tea.
Ari Snider is a high school junior from Belfast studying in Belgium through Rotary International. He currently lives with a host family in Waterloo. His discoveries and adventures abroad have been the subject of his blog Belfast/Belgique
When we arrived in Musson, my two little host cousins were there to welcome us into their warm, tidy home. Matias is a rambunctious boy of nine who loves trucks, Lego, and general rough-housing. Sofia, his heart-breakingly adorable seven year-old sister, is for all intents and purposes a princess.
We found my host aunt and uncle in the kitchen, fashioning a sumptuous holiday meal. Eugenia (pronounced oh-HE-nia) is my host father's younger sister. Her husband, Francis, is of Belgian/German descent. The guest of honor was Klaus, Eugenia's 18 year-old son from a previous marriage, who had made the voyage all the way from Buenos Aires for the occasion.
My greetings were cut short, however, as Matias bounded into the kitchen, flashed me his little gremlin smile, and enlisted me to play with him for the evening. The first event on schedule was a presentation of his new bicycle (18 speeds, no training wheels). We continued with a tour of his matchbox collection, then launched into an intense Star Wars Lego battle. This lasted until Matias decided that a direct offensive would be more effective, abandoning his figurines to grapple my head.
Matias was forced to relinquish the surprisingly strong grip that he had established on my ears when Eugenia sent us out for a walk while Santa, who visits Argentinian families before dinner, put gifts under the tree.
We returned to find the family gathered around the glowing Christmas tree. Our initial efforts to promote a civilized process of gift distribution deteriorated immediately into a merry free-for-all. Laughter and inarticulate exclamations of joy punctuated the storm of tearing paper. Wading through the colorful sea of wrapping paper that was expanding outwards from the tree, I found Matias staring in stunned silence at a massive Lego train set that Père Noël had delivered for him. "Ari, will you help me build this?" he asked me, without averting his eyes from the glossed cardboard box. "Of course," I replied.
Our task had to wait until after dinner, as Francis announced over the merry din that the turkey was cooked. The meat and potatoes were delicious, and even the foie gras beat expectations. The conversation, however, was the main attraction. Everyone present spoke fluent or near fluent French, except my host grandmother and Klaus. Everyone present spoke fluent or near fluent Spanish, except yours truly. The adults, Klaus, and I spoke English with a variety of accents. We wove all three languages together, and by dessert my head was as full as my stomach.
Halfway through a steaming mug of after dinner green tea, I felt a something pull at my sleeve. I looked around to see Matias, wide-eyed and bouncing slightly with anticipation. I gently excused myself from the table. I had promised, after all.
Lego has always held a quasi-religous status in my family. We have amassed an impressive collection over the years, and the exotic, fiercely-pointed bricks lodge themselves in our feet on a fairly normal basis. Though my nine year old brother has ascended to the throne of resident Lego master, I am no slouch when it comes to deciphering construction manuals and apprehending that one microscopic piece that has fled into the darkest shadow under the couch in an ultimate, epic bid for freedom.
Matias and I set to processing our heaps of colored blocks with fervor, but bedtime for Matias arrived all too rapidly. We had only finished the first train car when Eugenia called up the stairs that it was time for pajamas and teeth brushing. Luckily, there was still tomorrow, as we had planned a day of post-Christmas sightseeing before taking up the route to southern France.
A familiar chill fog draped over the rolling hills as we embarked the next morning for a day of relaxed tourism. Our first destination was a hulking medieval citadel, carved into a small hill just across the border in France. We poked about the mossy ramparts, enjoying the solitude and countryside vistas. A gusty French wind sent puffy clouds hustling low across the sky, presumably towards Belgium, and the green fields flowed gently into a wooded horizon. Europe is the world's undisputed champion when it comes to castles and countryside, and rural France boasts some of the finest specimens on The Continent.
Belgium, not to be entirely outdone by its heftier southern neighbor, has its share of medieval artifacts. We hopped back across the border to visit the impressive former haunts of Godfrey of Bouillon. Godfrey inherited the mighty castle of Bouillon in 1082, but sold it to underwrite his participation in the first crusade. The castle is perched on a wedge of cliff squeezed on either side by the ox-bowing Semois River. We stood on Godfrey's old stone doorstep and looked out over the jumbled roofs of Bouillon clinging to the steep banks on the opposite side of the gentle Semois.
A misty rain was drifting through the chilly air, and we fled the castle's decaying parapets for the modern comforts of a warm café in Bouillon. We installed ourselves in a second-story window booth with generous views across the steel-gray Semois to the cliffs and castle beyond, sipping hot chocolate and dipping spoons into a generous slice fluffy meringue pie.
Back in Musson, Matias flung the door open before we could even knock. He was bouncing more urgently then ever. He latched onto my arm and dragged me up the stairs, squealing "Its finished! Its finished!"
His demeanor calmed as we approached the gleaming loop of track. Matias released my elbow from his iron grip and knelt with reverence on the thick carpet to make final adjustments to the bright yellow locomotive. Once satisfied, he picked up the remote and sent the train hurtling along its track. He even allowed me to take it for a spin (Anyone who has ever constructed Lego will understand that allowing another person to play with your creation is a deeply generous and trusting act). I took the remote and slipped the dial to top speed.
In my four months of international adventures, I have sat in cafés in Brussels' Grand Place, run my hands along the white cliffs of Dover, dined on the Champs Elysées, strolled through the mind bogglingly picturesque parks of Bruges, and stood atop the Eiffel Tower. Yet rarely had I been so content as I was then, watching our little train whizz around its circular route.
That night — our last before a pre-dawn departure for France — Matias called me into his room. He was tucked into bed alongside Sofia, whose room I was occupying.
“Ari?” two little voices asked.
“Yes?” I replied.
"What is your cellphone number?"
"Excuse me? Why?"
"So we can call you when you go back home! Promise to leave it downstairs?"
Stunned and flattered, I told them I would. As I turned towards the door, Sofia piped up again, this time with an edge to her squeaky voice.
"Ari?"
"Yes?" I replied.
"Its ok if you sleep in my room, but remember, do not touch any of my stuffed animals."
I guess you have to draw the line somewhere.
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