Rooster Alarm Clock

You know you're not in Paris when you hear the roosters crowing. At one point, I felt like Carrie Bradshaw when she heard the "chickens" on the roof, but clearly, this is no New York City. We woke up to the smell of fresh brewed coffee and yet another basket of bread, but this time with the European treat, Nutella. And, for the first time, Rosemarie and I ate eggs fresh out of the chicken. Scrambled, bright yellow, moist and laden with fresh spices from their garden and topped with cheese, it was a breakfast feast to fuel us on another day of sightseeing - this time in Bruge.

I first went to the picturesque Belgian city in 1999, and I know my mom is going to love it. As if we have not eaten enough, we are going to have more fries today, which I was corrected by Serge are, of course, Belgian fries and far superior to their French counterparts.

The work Serge has put into their farm house is just amazing. New roofing, rooms, staircases, the dressing room. This is rustic European living from the fresh eggs in the hen house to the creaky staircase leading up to our bedroom to the cacophony of sounds from the roosters.

Winston, the eldest dog, doesn't remember me from my last visit, but like me - he's gotten older, walks a little slower but is still as cute as ever. His companions run past him to find the food quicker. He may trail behind but seems perfectly content to bring up the rear and get all the attention.

My friends' English is stellar, but every once in a while, Phillipe searches for the word to use and it's the cutest thing to see him when he discover the term. They love The Golden Girls, so we've been quoting lines all night and day. It's funny, Phillipe never speaks the language, only listens to it on tapes or on the television. I'm forcing him to use his skill, I joked and can't help but think what a shame it is that Americans don't feel the need to instill in their children the benefits of a second or in my friend's case, fourth language.

My grandparents were always speaking Italian, but the second my brother and I were in the room, they switched to English. Years later, Alfred Sr. was not the most helpful when it came to assisting with my Italian homework, and I abandoned the language. I tried French in college, but only managed to pass it enough to fulfill the language requirement. I figure as long as I make friends all around the world and visit them regularly, I won't have to feel so guilty.

Phillipe informed me that they have five roosters and that the chickens are continually exhausted. Roosters it seems are good for only one thing and the hens are not thrilled with their ratio. When it's time for the male to bite the dust, he's made into coq au vin. I like the sound of that - finally a real use for a man.

Old McDonald Had A Farm in Belgium

The train ride to Belgium seemed even faster than the two hours and Serge was at the station to fetch us. Seeing my old friend was like seeing him for the first time, and it seemed as if the twelve years since our last visit was only yesterday. We were both a few years older, but I think we look pretty damn good. Without wasting a second, he took us for what I've been raving about to Rosemarie for months - a Belgium waffle. Now, these are not your Bisquick Aunt Jemima come lately variety and never ever eat them for breakfast. Crispy around each waffle square with a delicate flaky center, I ordered mine with whipped cream and bananas while my mom stuck with the tried and true syrup variety. One bite and you'll never dream of opening a flour mix for the rest of your life.

The perfect tour guide from the start, Serge took us around Antwerp. After a stop in yet another incredible church where Rosemarie lit yet another candle, Serge gave my mother a magnet from the church shop. (Every giant church has a gift shop). He remembered she collected the souvenirs and told her that now she has one from a place she's actually been and hoped her fridge wouldn't fall over with the latest addition.

Our next stop was Serge and Phillipe's new home in St. Niklass and without a doubt, this is a farm. From the chickens and the roosters to the geese and the sheep to the aggressive goose, it is a far cry from Paris.

I've never seen eggs fresh out of the hen house. Martha Stewart would be impressed.

Phillipe hasn't changed one bit and after great wine and the most delicious (vegetarian) Belgian endive gratin, we had yet another sweet dessert to fill what I hope is not our expanding waistlines.

And the dogs, well, as my mother learned right away - they still don't speak English.

The perfect guide and host, Serge took us around Antwerp

belgium night

I Am Belgium, Madam, Not French

When I was in high school, my favorite author was Agatha Christie. I devoured all her books and my ultimate detective was Hercule Poirot. In every book, after some character would call him a strange little Frenchman, the tiny man would say, "I am Belgium, Madam, not French." Back then, I didn't even know where Belgium was, nor would I fathom ever visiting. But, here I am with Rosemarie on the train that left, as I knew it would, exactly at 10:25 a.m.

The train station, Paris Nord, was pigeon heaven and since I despise birds, we did not eat anywhere within the complex. Instead we walked to a sidewalk cafe across the street. Our morning croissants were as buttery and flakey as any that we've had - I swear, is there a bad piece of bread in this entire country?

"Oh, boy," she said watching the departure times fall like dominoes on the board. "Auntie Lily would have a field day with all those numbers."

Our train left from Platform 9, but I told her it was 9 3/4 just like in Harry Potter and we'd have to run into the wall to get to the train.

We're riding backwards, watching the Paris countryside zip by us at a crazy fast speed. We'll be in Belgium in two hours, and right now the sun of the French capital has given way to the mist of the green lush fields.

"Did I pack my lipstick?" she asked. "I don't want to meet Serge without lipstick."

It's safely in the suitcase, but really even if she forgot it, with all these queens around, there will be plenty of shades to borrow.

Belgium Morning

Good Thing You're Old

So we're stuffed from our late lunch and decided to go see the Arc de Triomphe. It was one of the first sights I'd ever seen when I came to Paris in 1995 on business, so it meant a lot to bring my mother there. Seasoned metro riders that we are, it wasn't a problem to get there. Following our walking tour guide that my aunt gave Rosemarie for Christmas, we arrived at the ticket booth.

Imagine our surprise to read the sign: Attention, There Are 269 steps to the top of the monument. There is no lift."

"What do you think? Can you make it?" I asked my mom disguising the fact that I didn't think all my time at the gym could prepare me for that walk.

"I'll go slow, let's give it a try."

So, off we went and as I gave our tickets to the entry guard, I pointed at Rosemarie and gave it a shot.

"Are you sure there's no lift?"

The ticket woman smiled. "Oh yes, I will call ahead. Go down the passageway to the left."

I pinched Rosemarie, and laughed. "Thank God, you're old."

And in less than 2 minutes. We were at the top of the monument with the most spectacular views of all of Paris. The city stretched out before us and as the sun was setting, it reflected off the many sights below. The traffic on the Champs-Elysees resembled matchbox cars and we watched as the sea of headlights stretched out below us.

After walking around for a 360 view of the city, we got back in the lift and headed back to the Marais. As luck would have it, we once again choose the wrong sortie and wound up in the complete opposite end of where we needed to go. Trust me, one wrong exit and the Metro puts you a zillion miles from where you want to go. We figured it out though and headed back to the quarter for a stop at an Italian gialato shop. The creamy dessert puts any attempt at imitation in America to shame.

Tomorrow, I think we'll take a taxi to Paris Nord, where we will pick up our train to Belgium. I've had my fill of the wrong Metro exits for a few days.

paris high night 3

Now That's What I Call French Onion Soup

We are back and exhausted from our trip to Versailles. With the mercury climing up to 19C (66F) the city is alive in ways it hasn't been since we arrived. The cafes are packed and before I get to our incredible lunch, the day began with a trip to the ultimate French history lesson. Boarding our RER train to Versailles went off without a hitch - we made our way to a smaller station that was easier to navigate than the cavernous Chatelet stop.

Versailles was a 40 minute ride away and once we reached our destination, I could picture Louis XVI escaping the poor of the city to the extravagant palace. It looks untouched from the years and standing in line we could tell how isolated and elitist the kings and queens must have felt.

First thing first, we got our audio tour.

"You just want that so you won't have to listen to me," my mother said.

"Oh, don't worry I can still hear you no matter what."

After navigating through the sea of little French children on their field trips, we began our mostly 3 hour tour. The French loved their excess and they also loved their wars. More paintings of this general or that king conquering that country or this enemy. And of course, all of them looking towards the heavens for God's approval and help. Mix that in with the images of the gods and goddesses of Olympus blessing this or that coronation and the pictures of the women who look like men and the little boys who wear dresses before they were kings and you don't have to wonder why they were so messed up.

"Too bad they could never find Marie's head," my mother said as we left.

"They never lost her head! They cut it off and you're thinking of Venus DiMilo and it's her arms they never found."

Good thing she didn't narrate the tour to the little French children.

Boarding our train, we made an easy and quick exit to Paris, hunger stopping us from going any further than the corner of Notre Dame, our favorite landmark. In fact, it's the only one she can remember that's close to the hotel, but she still doesn't remember if we go right or left.

Sitting down, I once again decided to try something new, but with more delicious results. First up, our onion soup - topped with a mound of Gruyere cheese that was crisp, but not yet burnt around the edges as it relinquished its onion soaked bread beneath. I knew it was delicious because my mother said nothing for twenty minutes as she devoured the entree and then soaked up the remnants of the broth with the french bread left over in our basket.

We joked about the little French boy running around the restaurant who finally stopped long enough to eat his pizza before coming over and staring at us. Maybe he knew we were Americans, so I said Bon Jour petite French fille, but I think that means little French girl, so perhaps that's why he went away.

Following our soup, I continued with eating new and different dishes with a Madame Croque. The ham hidden underneath the melted cheese topped with a fried egg was about as perfect a sandwich as any of the gods from Olympus could bless, and as Rosemarie inhaled her club sandwich with pomme frites (sans ketchup, which upset me greatly), the little French boy returned to stare at us and then once again disappeared behind the pillar.

"It's so cute how they speak French," she said.

"Well, it is their language." I do admit, though, there is something quite charming about this language coming out of the mouths of babes.

And never let it be said that my mother doesn't eat. There wasn't a crumb left on the plate for a sparrow.

With the weather the best we've had since we arrived, the streets are packed. We walked around the Marais with our coffee eclair and tried in vain to find an empty cafe table.

"I know where we are," she said.

"No you don't."

"Yes, I do. We go left here."

"No, we go right," I said. "See, here's the sex store where you don't want to buy anything for anyone."

"I can't get people things from there," she said.

"Well, I think that," I answered pointing to something that shall remain nameless. "Will beat a box of chocolates any day."

paris day 3

So That's What Beef Tartare is

As predicted, we could not find the restaurant we passed on our walk, instead going into a crowded place in the Marais, not far from our hotel. Now, when I travel, I try to eat something new or order a dish I would not normally try in Amercia. Such was the case as I tried Beef Tartare tonight. We started with a tomato mozzerella salad that was dripping in delicious oil - so imagine my surprise when the raw beef arrived. My first thought was, oh, my friend M would not stand for this at all. It may be something they eat in France, but alas, I could not handle it. Thank God for the wine and the profiteroles. Those were worth everything else. My mother has never had that dessert and something tells me she'll be making them for Alfred. One thing is certain, my father would look at the main dish and say, "What the hell is this?"

There's a Bakery On The Corner

What happens when you find a cute restaurant for dinner and you're traveling with Rosemarie? Lesson number one: You should never ask her where it was because she will say, "It's the street with the bakery on it."

Now that may work in your town, but...