Normandie and the seasickness

Get ready people, this post is PG-13 for gratuitous diarrhea. But, before you gasp, let me set the scene. (Lindsay, the first part is about throwing up so you may want to skip that part)

I am walking home after a long three-hour law class ready to enjoy the fruits of the weekend. As I am mid-stroll, I spy a café that has long since attracted me. The smell of waffles in this place is intoxicating and the presence of nice old ladies guarantees its a worthwhile stop. S, I step in and purchase, after a cursory menu glance, an appetizing sandwich with honey, goat cheese, sun-dried tomatoes, and apples. (To give you an idea of where this is going, I feel nauseous already ). I also bought a waffle and they both tasted excellent. Fast forward to the whole Furman group on the bus barreling– and I do mean barreling because this had to be the driver's maiden voyage on that coach– toward Bayeux. Six hours into the trip, I notice a sincere change in my stomach's constitution but blame it mostly on the nose-pickers poor driving. However, as I snuggle in between the sheets, I realize that I will not be sleeping tonight. With cramps that made me sympathize for anyone who experiences the menstrual cycle, I laid motionless in the fetal position waiting for dawn to break. Dawn broke and with it the vomit came. And by vomit, I mean seriously undigested food parts hurtling out of my mouth... and nose. Moreover, because I was apparently also dehydrated and the food was so undigested, the "leftover log" of that previously enjoyed honey and goat cheese sandwich STUCK to the back of my throat. Now, as I proceed to choke on this regrettable food mass, I realize that I must put my hand in my bily mouth and withdraw said lodged food item. I will not be eating sun-dried tomatoes for a while. After a few more dry heaves and about five tooth-brushings, I walked downstairs to get breakfast and join the group for our tour of the Normandy beaches. Well, breakfast, as you might already be thinking, was a bad idea and only popped right back out a few minutes later...in the hallway, outside of our room. I felt awful for the hotel staff. Probably because I could not justify that 8 hour bounce-fest along French highways without at least seeing the D-Day beaches, I convinced myself that all was passed and that I could continue with the rest of the group. Fatigue was the name of the game for most of the morning but I was able to check the various museums and beaches. After a lunchtime nap on the bus with sir-smokes-a-lot, we went to Point-du-Hoc, the only D-Day spot that still preserves the original shell craters. As we exited a urine-scented bunker, I fell to the ground and spewed whatever liquid and bile was left as the rest of our group and throngs of old people walked by, helpless-and thankfully not stopping to watch the show. There is nothing like vomiting into a plastic bag/ your clothes at the top of Point-du-Hoc to make you empathize with the D-Day soldiers.
Speaking of clothes, let me fast forward this narrative to its highlight. We are visiting our last stop, the American WWII Cemetery above Omaha Beach– which was both stunning and moving, might I add– when I felt that I was on the up and up. While still pooped (foreshadowing...), I was able to walk around and gain some perspective on the numbers of losses and the German advantage at Omaha. I walked back to the bus a touch earlier than everyone else and took my seat. As people began to file back into the bus, I began to get comfortable in the back row that was so kindly offered me. Right as I used a bit of force to scooch back down onto the chair, I realized that force had been allotted to a lower part of my body's inner turmoil... Yes, just as the day was coming to a close and I was preparing myself to climb back into my bed, little old "diary" snuck out for a quick "HEY!". So, I then got to squish over to the Cemetery bathroom, remove a few articles of clothing, and get back on the bus, simultaneously smug and disgusted.
I slept off the rest of the ailment and enjoyed day two of our Norman adventure, including a great visit to the Bayeux tapestry, but the thought of any cheese or tomatoes on a piece of bread gives me the heeby-jeebies.

My apologies for the lack of photos, but, given the subject matter, I can't imagine you would want any.

Where the poppies grow

One of the two placards outside of the In Flanders Fields museum, noting the cities that were flattened in the World Wars. The other placard lists cities that have been affected by one of the 166 armed conflict since "the war to end all wars".
The Tyne Cot Cemetery, the largest Commonwealth cemetery of WWI, with 11,954 buried here.
Most of the Furman group at the Hill 62 Trench Museum. Unlike most farmers who returned to their land, the owner of this property, finding it strewn with trenches and artillery paraphernalia, preserved what he found. Thus, apart from the effects of the visiting traffic, we were able to see trenches as close to their real state at the end of the war as possible.
Another view within the trench, including a dug out.

Much could be said about our visit in and around Ypres, an important locus for WWI, but perhaps the best conclusion I can offer is that our time there and particularly our visit to the In Flanders Fields museum shook me of any romantic notion glorifying WWI. Seeing the gas masks, hearing the incessant and concussion-inducing sounds of the trenches, and visiting mass graves confirmed the inherent evils of war and the extreme courage of those that fought. One understands why Europeans wisely shy away from war and conflict upon beholding the widespread ravages of the World Wars. All in all, an incredibly important visit for me.

...Yet they grind exceedingly small

The girls probably don't appreciate this photo but this was the biking group yesterday throughout Bruges and Damme.

The windmill at Damme happened to be open this one day out of the year so we were able to tour it.The millstone hard at work. They actually had grain at the very top which made its way down to the bottom, pictured here.

The group with the millmaster, who kindly showed us around the windmill and explained all of the difference mechanisms. Apparently, he thought Randi (girl to the right of me) was cute.

Sunday was truly a Belgian day: replete with water. It was raining off and on all day. However, we biked along the canals that wind through Bruges (often called the Venice of the North) and finally followed the waterway from Bruges to Damme, where we stumbled upon a delicious meal, a book sale in the quaint town centre, and this wonderful windmill. The countryside was too perfect and a welcome respite from the hustle and bustle of Bruxelles and the European Parliament, where everyone walks like they have OBS. I could go on and on about the time in Bruges and Damme because the entire day appealed to my sensibilities (crowned with my first taste of Belgian chocolates) but suffice it to say that I could easily pass the rest of my days in a similar place– quiet, rural, bursting with secret charm, yet still close to urbania and all of its options.

Why I never should have gone to Lake Como

The view from a tiny chapel in Breglia (San Domenico) above Lake Como.
Oh, don't mind us. We're just the Alps, sliding straight into the crystal clear Como waters.

Needless to say, Italy surpassed my expectations. After taking every mode of transportation possible to get to Lake Como ( bus, ferry, metro, plane, taxi, train, tram ) and more running through airports and train stations than anyone present, especially the other travellers, probably preferred, Shannon, Whitney, Randi, and I learned the definition of sublime as we took in the visual, physical, and edible textures that the Lombardy region offered us. (Concerning the edibles, I took in my fair share of gelato). For my high school friends who partook of the laxative cookies, firstly, sorry. Secondly, you would have felt right at home in Nabu (a second round of apologies for those not privy to the insider's scoop and a second round of gelato for me). Oh, and George Clooney sends his regards to all.

Mr. MEP

The European Parliament: the chrome-leafed behemoth where I work.
Herbert Dorfmann, MEP from Italy and member of the European People's Party. Mr. Dorfmann serves on the Committee for Agriculture and Rural Development, so I hope to learn a full lot about the EU agriculture system.
Sudtirol or South Tyrol, the region whence Mr. Dorfmann and his assistant come. Originally part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, Tyrol was split between Italy and Austria after WWI. South Tyrol, and in particular Dorfmann's Italian SVP party, fought for autonomy within Italy for some timeThough the map does not give context, Tyrol is in the top left corner of Italy.

A more pleasing glimpse of the South Tyrol region (and legal, unlike the last one I posted here).

A selection of 23 languages streaming through the earpieces, hot coffee at my seat while surrounded by hundreds of MEPs and their assistants at the Committee on Agriculture and Rural Development's first session of the year, and an audience with the EU Commissioner for Agriculture, Mariann Fischer Boel, all on day one. A good day, a very good day.

A note about South Tyrol: because the region was previously Austro-Hungarian, German and Italian are spoken concurrently in the region. Thus, Mr. Dorfmann and his assistant, Giovanni, alternate between the two rather seemlessly and leave me to communicate in English with Mr. Dorfmann and French with Giovanni.

Vrije Universeteit Brussel or When Dutch Functionalism Goes Awry

This is where I used to go to school. Excessive but visually pleasing.
This is where I go now. Bleek.
This is where I would have lived if I had lived on campus.
Stairs down to the dungeon where I have my international law class.

Melodrama aside, this IS where I take classes. It has pretty extensive green spaces which are a welcome respite to the concrete and spray paint. Actually, Bruxelles has a surprising amount of parks and forests that mostly attract locals and their dogs. And now me. All for now, though.

Our humble commode

A lovely nighttime view from our front window.
The loft in our bedroom with a double bed. So, fly over here and sleep in our room. Married couples welcome for a fee.
Our beds, pushed together for cuddling. And lack of alternative space.
The kitchen and center of our apartment, physically and otherwise.

Here are some photos for your enjoyment of le château de David et Carter. I would disclose our address but there is a man who walks around our neighborhood with a chainsaw. I'm not looking to be his friend. (Note of comfort: the chainsaw has always been sheathed and off. I think he may be a lumberjack).