Teardrops

There is a woman I sometimes see on the bus. She has a talkative girl in a bright Barbie pink pushcart, who also wears an anorak of the same colour. She looks as if she might be from West Africa - exactly where I cannot tell. There is a tiny scar on each of her cheeks, just below the eyes. Almost like teardrops.

I always wonder how she came to be here - I suspect her story would be much more interesting than mine.

Silence

At dinner a few nights ago, we suddenly had one of those unplanned silent moments, where all conversation, clinging of cutlery and chair scraping fades away to leave us with only the purr of the refrigerator.

"It must be 20 minutes before or after the hour", said the engineer. It was 20h32. "Well, that's what we say Greece, even though it's never accurate".

"When I was in France, the people said an angel passes through the room", says the Erasmus student. "And in Russia we say a policeman is born."

What does this tell us about the respective cultures?

Nasionale Braaidag

Even if you're not fasting for Lent, many people still enjoy the celebrations that precede it. Germany has Fetter Donnerstag, Mardi Gras is not limited to France, Rio goes crazy and Venice dons her masks for carnival. In Greece, they have Tsiknopempti. From tskino, the smell of barbecuing meat, and Pempti, Thursday. So literally - Barbecue Thursday. And everyone joins in.

It feels very similar to braais back home - everyone is keen, but only three people know how to do it ("Kom ons braai! Ja! Ja! Wie kan braai? hmmm..."). It starts very late and only ends when security asks us to go home. Even then we just move indoors and have more wine.

Vast quantities of meat (kreas) are consumed. Mostly pork with a bit of chicken. Everything is eaten directly from the fire, sprinkled with oregano and drizzled with lots of fresh lemon juice. Apparently every Greek keeps a couple of lemons available at all times.

I can get along with this culture.

Spring

The first shoots appeared this week. Signs of life, shyly bursting into green. Excited, active plants always make me happy.

It's only now I realize that I never had a summer this year.

Home

Today I feel far away again. Usually, in the rush of to-ing and fro-ing, in publications, buses, graphs and snow, I'm too busy to really think about it. Today the distance is palpably present in every email and conversation and piece of paper I come across.



This is home. After good rains, about a year ago. With dusty sky, rusty fences, limping gates, the smell of acacias, prickly katbosse, guinea fowl, screeching windpompe, the co-op's grain silos in the distance. And the rich red soil that can, at times, seem so harsh.

I miss it.

Broederlijk Delen

Brussels

Snow

I wake up, check my email and find:

"The [seminar] tomorrow will run from 10:00-12:00 rather than 09:00-12:00. However, keep watching your emails in case the weather gets worse and we reschedule."

Bad weather?

I open my curtains, it takes a moment or two to realize the high contrast world outside is covered by snow. Not much, 5-8cm. But enough to make everything thoroughly white. Or at least monochrome.

I pull my boots on and run/slip off to the Itchen. A wide open expanse of more whiteness, skirted by the dark water of the river. On the football fields, a battle is being fought with snowballs, while an army of snowmen is born in the background.

Away from the excitement, in the quieter parts of the park, some unspoilt snow can still be found. The silence always surprises me: the noise of the city is swallowed, leaving you with only the scrunching of your footsteps.

At some point, I turn around and see how easily my tracks scarred the soft snow. I realize again how apt the phrase "virgin snow" is.