Armistice Day

Ever wonder why poppies have come to symbolize Armistice Day? It's all because of Belgium, or more specifically, a Canadian physician serving in Belgium during WWI. As the story goes, Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae wrote a poem in 1915 called In Flanders Fields after witnessing the death of his friend. The first line and second to last lines of his poem mention the poppies that grew in droves on the battlefields of Flanders, some say as a result of the thousands of corpses that fertilized the soil. Published in England while The Great War was still being fought, In Flanders Fields became a symbol of WWI and quite possibly that war's most famous poem, and the poppy became the war's symbol of remembrance.

In Flanders Fields By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918) Canadian Army

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Armistice Day (also known as Rememberance Day, and known as Veterans Day in the United States) is celebrated on November 11th by much of Western Europe. It marks the day in 1918 when the WWI Allies and Germany signed an agreement to end hostilities on the Western Front. Sadly, Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae never lived to see the end of the war that killed his friend and inspired him to write his famous poem. He died on January 28th, 1918 of pneumonia.

Brunch in Brussels

A lazy Sunday brunch is surely one of life's little pleasures. It's not rushed and utilitarian like breakfast before a day at the office. You can take your time, have a second coffee, and expand your choices beyond cereal. I'm a big fan of brunching, so I was delighted to find a cozy little spot in the square just behind my apartment building that's perfect for a drawn-out weekend mid-morning meal.

As its name would suggest, Village du Pain puts a heavy emphasis on bread, offering a wide range of tartines and an excellent bread basket. they also have what looked like heavenly homemade lasagna and cannelloni, oeuf à la coque, and a fair number of salads. I ordered the "petit village" meal of a hot drink and either bread or pastries accompanied by multiple jams and spreads. What you don't see in this picture is the crêpe I ordered as well. It didn't last long on the plate.

Le Louvre Visits Minnesota

Dear Minnesota-based Parisian Spring readers, Did you know that for a few short months (and without having to lose money on the exchange rate), you have the chance to see some of the Louvre’s most celebrated works of art in an exhibition entitled, “The Louvre and the Masterpiece?” The exhibition is being held at the Minneapolis Institute of Arts, and they’re calling it a once-in-a-lifetime event. Tout le monde au musée!

If I was living in DC instead of Brussels I would seriously consider flying home to see this little bit of Paris in the Twin Cities. The chance to contemplate Georges de La Tour’s captivating piece, “The Card-Sharp with Ace of Diamonds,” is not one that can easily be passed up. There’s also a Vermeer, which, I mean, it’s a Vermeer! But that’s not all: the exhibition features works from each of the museum’s collection areas, in an attempt to decode what makes some works masterpieces and others not. You can even see how science helped the staff at the Louvre spot a forgery. How cool is that?

The exhibition is runs from now until January 10, 2010. A full price ticket costs $14, but entrance is free if you’re a member of museum. So, you can’t make it to Paris this winter. So what? Put on your best when-in-Paris outfit, go and peruse the exhibition, then discuss over dinner (in French, if possible) while enjoying a fine Bordeaux. I only wish I could join you.

Sister Cities

Belgium is not France, but Brussels might be Washington, D.C. There are so many similarities between these capital cities that I’m starting to think the only things separating them are the Atlantic Ocean and approximately 800 years of history. Granted, those are big separations, but here are a few of the many reasons why Brussels and Washington, D.C. could be long lost twins:

1. Both are relatively small. Compared to the massive urban centers of New York, Los Angeles, Paris, and London, Washington D.C. and Brussels are practially villages, with respective populations of roughly 590,000 and 1,000,000. New York City alone houses more than 8 million people. When you count both captials' surrounding areas their populations increase, but Brussels and DC proper remain small in size and in number of habitants.

2. Both are government towns. Washington is home to the United States Federal Government while Belgium hosts the European Union. A large government presence sets the tone in both of the cities, with much of the population working in public service.

3. Both have excellent public transportation networks...sometimes. In DC it's a never-ending cycle of track maintenance, single-tracking, and frustratingly poor night and weekend service on Metro. In Brussels, it's bus routes that change without notice and tram drivers who will exit the tram when their shift has ended, even if it's in the middle of the route. Both cities are lucky to have what they have. Both sets of citizens have a right to turn complaining about public transportation into a local sport.

4. Both go overboard with security. It's impossible not to know the president is nearby when you're in DC. Whether he's visiting the Department of the Treasury or his favorite burger joint he is always flanked by a massive entourage of black SUVs, cops on motorcyles and sometimes even a circling helicopter. Big shot EU types also have escorted motorcades and the metro station that sits underneath the major EU institutions is often crawling with security guards.

5. Both get a bad rap. Many Europeans consider Brussels to be a dull, drab, and soulless bureaucratic town filled with dull, drab, and soulless bureaucratic people. Washington, D.C. is sometimes refered to as "Hollywood for ugly people." Ouch.

6. Both have no native inhabitants. Ok, that's not entirely true, but let's just say that as a result of the U.S. Federal Government, the EU, and NATO attracting workers from far and wide, you could spend a long time living in both cities before ever meeting a true Bruxellois or Washingtonian.

7. Both attract protesters. From dairy famers blocking the streets in Brussels with cows and tractors, to gay rights advocates marching in front of the White House, if there's a cause to be championed you can bet these capital cities will hear about it.

Halloween in Brussels

I wasn't sure what to expect this Halloween. Back home it seems the jack o' lanterns, costumes and orange and black decorations make an appearance immediately after Labor Day. But Brussels? Would I even be able to find a pumpkin with suitable enough seeds for baking? I should have known better. The commercialism that is October 31st had already started to creep into France way back in 2003.

Neighboring Belgium had no where to hide.

I'm not a big fan of Halloween, but as an American I'm used to having it around to mark the peak of the fall season. Part of me was glad to see all things spooky starting to materialize around my neighborhood, and I've gotten into the spirit of the holiday as best I can by eating a lot of candy and accepting an invitation to a pumpkin-carving party. I also took a few pictures, demonstrating that Halloween in Belgium looks pretty much like Halloween everywhere else.

An Ice Cream for All Seasons

We're not exactly coming up on the traditional ice cream season here in Brussels. Leaves are falling, the wind is getting brisker, and Daylight Savings Time just ended, plunging us into total darkness before the evening commute gets us home. Ugh. Most people probably want to curl up with a cup of hot cocoa more than a pint of vanilla. But maybe that's just because we Bruxellois don't have a Berthillon.

Berthillon is a famous Parisian glacier, or ice cream shop. Actually, it's the famous Parisian glacier; the place anyone who has done even the slightest bit of culinary research has heard of. In the summer, the line of devotees clamoring to get their next boule spills out the door and down the street from this Ile Saint Louis landmark. And who can blame them? Using only the simple ingrdients of milk, fresh cream, sugar, eggs and natural flavors, Berthillon manages to create sublimely delicious frozen treats. Their ice cream and sorbets are so good that even a crisp fall breeze or cold autumn rain wouldn't keep me - an admitted freeze baby - from eating a cone or two. And with seasonal flavors always on the menu (woodland strawberry just arrived!), Berthillon is an ice cream experience that knows no weather limitations.

Despite being located on the tiny Ile Saint Louis, the real Berthillon shop can be difficult to locate. That's because there are countless establishments nearby (and scattered throughout Paris) that are not Berthillon but that serve Berthillon ice cream and proudly display signs and awnings emblazoned with the name. To find the real Maison Berthillon, head down the main road that cuts through the island the long way, with your back to Notre Dame. You'll find the take-away counter and its accompanying line on your right. Next door is the Salon du Thé, where the prices are more expensive but where your ice cream comes with a cute dish, an almond toffee crisp, and the use of a clean restroom. I recommend both the pistachio, which tastes so vibrant you'll think you're eating a real pistachio nut, and the caramel au beurre salé, which is a French specialty and simply heavenly. Even in the cold.

Maison Berthillon
29-31 rue Saint Louis en l'ile
75004 Paris
métro: Pont Marie

Chez Moi

According to multiple sources, I live on the prettiest street in Brussels. After snapping a few photos of our little tree-lined avenue yesterday, as well as some shots from the back balcony, I'm starting to think my sources might be right.

The Dos and Donts of Train Travel

There's something simplistically thrilling about riding a train. You zip along, gaze at the changing landscapes that fly by, and pull into a grand, airy, bustling station when you reach your destination. It has an air of old-fashionedness to it, which makes it fun and filled with nostalgia. Not to mention the lack of hassles that come with other forms of transportation (I'm talking to you, airplanes). Of course, there are plenty of ways a train ride can go terribly wrong. It's not all comfort and romance, and great adventure. Eight years of European train rides have gifted me a laundry list of horror stories, from puking in a tiny, sideways-rocking bathroom to not sleeping in a cramped, sweaty sleeping car. Luckily, practice makes perfect, and with a few tips and tricks I've picked up along the way, I think I'm pretty close to having train travel down to an art. Here are my dos and don'ts for how to ride the rails - in style - in Europe.

Do pack light. Other than a few luggage racks at the end of each car, there's usually only room for your suitcase on the shelf above your seat.

Do dress comfortably chic. Riding a train, especially a high-speed one like the TGV in France, has a bit of glamour to it. I enjoy the trip most when I'm wearing something between a business casual and pajamas.

Do be prepared for scary bathrooms. They're different everytime, but I've seen bathrooms with no running water, with toilets that open up to the tracks, and with smells so bad I had to Febreeze my entire body to get them off. The high-speed trains tend to be nicer, but take care with the regional ones. A bottle of Purell and some toilet paper in your suitcase helps.

Do visit the train bar, but Don't buy anything. The bar is a great place to stetch your legs and people-watch. Too bad the food and drink are sub-par and exhorbitantly expensive. Pack your own snack, saddle up to a table in front of the expansive windows, and daydream as you watch the countryside roll by.

Do keep yourself open to conversations with your neighbors. I'm usually the bury-my-nose-in-my-book type, but I've had a number of wonderful conversations with strangers on trains. Something about that form of transportation just begs for friendly chit-chat.

Do get your hands on some metro tickets in advance if your destination city in Paris. When a train full of people tries to use the scarce ticket machines at the same time, the line becomes unbearable. Have one already tucked away so you can arrive like the locals and not like the tourists.

Don't go to the station early. Train stations can be beautiful and exciting, but they're often not very pleasant places for just hanging around. And if you arrive too early, your train likely won't be at the platform yet. Unless you're taking Eurostar, there won't be any security or lines. 15 - 20 minutes in advance is plenty.

Don't lose your ticket. You might not have to show your ticket to board the train, but the controllers almost always come around. I was once berated by a Spanish controller and came this close to paying a hefty fine. For goodness' sake, hold on to that thing.

Don't travel by "sleeper" train. Buying a bed in an overnight train gets you an impossibly tiny bunk in a six bunk car that shakes and rattles all night. It's uncomfortable, and depending on who you share a car with, a bit creepy. Avoid.

Bon Voyage!

The Best Brasserie in Paris

Whether you live in Paris or are just passing through, you have to eat at my favorite brasserie. This particular eatery is so good, so perfect, so Parisian, that I'm willing to put myself out on a limb and call it the best brasserie in all of Paris. It's a big claim to make for a city that has a brasserie on nearly every corner, but Le Bouquet Saint Paul, tucked into a busy corner just a short walk from Notre Dame, La Bastille, and the heart of the Marais district, is simply that good.

A French friend first introduced me to Le Bouquet Saint Paul in the spring of 2008, and I soon realized is has everything you want in a Parisian bistro. It's small, but not too small. It has a real bar, cozy lighting, and lots of window-side tables for people-watching. The wait staff is friendly, but not overbearing. The crowd is heavily local. And the food, oh, the food! From a simple croque monsieur (on pain poilâne, bien sûr), to a juicy entrecôte, to lasagna fait maison, to a hearty boeuf bourguignon, I have never eaten a bad meal at Le Bouquet Saint Paul. What's more, the prices remain very reasonable, with a recent meal of two drinks, two main dishes, two desserts and two espressos costing €52, which includes tax and tip. And, ladies, the bathroom is clean. That in itself, in Paris, is nothing short of a miracle.

In my experience, finding a good meal while traveling - one that is delicious, reasonably priced, and eaten in good company - can be a terribly frustrating endeavor. Especially in a city as large as Paris, where the sheer number of options threatens to leave you overwhelmed and disappointed if you make the wrong choice. So while I always like to try new places, I also like to have a few sure things in my back pocket. Le Bouquet Saint Paul has become one of my favorite go-to Parisian addresses. What are yours?

Le Bouquet Saint Paul

85, rue Saint Antoine

Paris 75004

Open 7 days a week, 6am to 2am

Metro: Saint Paul

01.42.78.55.03

Portobello Market

To prepare for a long weekend in London, I asked a friend who has lived in the city two questions:

1. Where can I get the best fish and chips in town?

and,

2. What weekend market do you recommend I visit?

Portobello Market was the enthusiastic answer to the latter. Trusting his seasoned advice I did some pre-tip research on the Internet and discovered that Portobello Market is known mainly for its antiques, its hordes of tourists, and the fact that Notting Hill was partially shot along its namesake road. I love antiquing, I’m neutral about Notting Hill, and I generally try to avoid hordes of anything (except maybe French pastries) if at all possible. So, I did the only thing someone in my position could do: I mapped my route, and planned to arrive early to beat the crowds.

Portobello Market is big. Really big. According to what I read, it’s the largest antiques market in the world. And you know what? I believe it. If you start at the end of the road closest to Notting Hill Gate Underground station, walk the length of the market, and take in the side street off-shoots, you’ll have spent the better part of the day at Portobello. First you see the antiques: stall after stall of old tennis raquets, cameras, printing blocks, maps, electronics, children’s toys, jewelry and furniture. Then there are the fruit, vegetable, and street food stands. I drooled over barrels of fresh olives and ethnic plates from Thailand and Gabon. Next, you’ll see stands for new clothing, old clothing, house wares, and arts and crafts. I bought six bags of homemade tea and a blue frosting cupcake from a lovely woman who rightly sold both. Lastly, there are the permanent shops and boutiques that line Portobello Road, a few of which I managed to squeeze in. I could have shopped Portobello Market all day long, but my stomach had other ideas.

I started to retrace my steps back through the market in search of my friend’s fish and chips receommendatio when I was suddenly faced with the aforementioned hordes of tourists. Getting to the market early (8 a.m.) had clearly been the smart thing to do. While I was able to peacefully wander the stands, chat with the antiques dealers, and navigate the narrow arcades with ease, these new arrivals would find nothing but crowded tables and obscured vision. When I finally emerged from the crush of humanity, I was relieved to find the fish and chips place tucked away in a quiet corner of the neighborhood. The battered cod was amazing.

If you go to London, go to Portobello Market. Get there early, leave by noon, and enjoy lunch at Geales while thanking your lucky stars you’re no longer at Portobello Market.

Scotland, 20 Meters

If only it were that easy.

Fear and Travel

Have you ever been afraid to travel abroad? It’s a common story: someone wants to take a trip overseas, but fear is holding him or her back. Fear of not being able to speak the language, fear of getting lost, and even fear of crime or bodily harm. I’m not afraid to travel abroad in general, but for as much traveling as I’ve done, I have to admit that I am still not immune from occasionally fearing the travel unknowns. Every once in awhile I find myself in a situation that I know isn’t particularly dangerous, or even scary, logically speaking, but that deeply worries me, nonetheless. And whether crippling or situational, fear is not a pleasant travel partner.

I was recently reminded of my capacity to be afraid on the road during a weekend trip to Riga, Latvia. Sunday morning, we decided to take a train from Riga to a small, coastal town on the Baltic Sea. I definitely wanted to explore something other than the capital city, but my mind was busy conjuring up all kinds of disaster situations. What if we buy the wrong ticket? What if we go to the wrong town? What if we’re detained by the Latvian train authorities? What if there is an incident on the train and we can’t understand what’s going on? What if we get on the wrong train and don’t realize it until we reach the border with Estonia? These fears might sound irrational, but with nothing in the train system written in English, and with my French skills not offering any help whatsoever in trying to make an educated guess, the entire process required a little hope, faith, and dumb luck to go smoothly. Luckily, we had all three.

After a lovely day looking out over the dark, cold, and enchanting waters of the Baltic Sea, I started to reflect on my earlier bout of fear. I hadn’t felt that way in a long time, probably because I’ve done most of my recent traveling to countries I’ve become familiar with, and I felt a little silly for having worried so much when I know from experience that things generally work out fine. Taking the train out of Riga was a nice reminder that traveling is nothing to be fearful about. Fear should never keep you from seeking adventure overseas, it should only be used in small doses to keep you smart and safe. It has no business trying to ruin a perfectly enjoyable trip to the Latvian seaside.

La Nuit Blanche

I am not a night owl. So when I heard Paris was going to have its Nuit Blanche on the Saturday I had planned to be in town, I wasn't sure what to think. To do a "nuit blanche" in French means to pull an all-nighter, and La Nuit Blanche is a once-a-year celebration where the entire city does just that. There are parties, dances, and artistic performances until the wee hours of the morning in neighborhoods across Paris. As someone who likes to keep reasonable bedtimes, and who would much prefer getting up early to sleeping in, I was doubful of my ability to partake in the festivities. Nevertheless, I decided to give it a try. I'd like to think I did myself proud.


There are a number of different ways to experience Paris' La Nuit Blanche. You could throw a late/early party chez toi, attend the outdoor dance under a gigantic disco ball at the Jardin du Luxembourg, dine at an unusual hour, or just wander the streets taking it all in. After dinner at a normal hour at my favorite Parisian bistro, I took the latter approach. Leaving the Marais, I crossed the Seine to the Ile Saint-Louis, made my way through a light display on a bridge, saw a street performance in front of Notre Dame, snaked through Saint-Michel, fought the crowds past the Jardin du Luxembourg, wandered around St. Germain de Prés, and hung out in front of the Louvre before catching the metro back to my hotel near the Arc de Triomphe. I didn't make it until dawn, but these days, anytime after midnight is something to be celebrated.

Simply wandering the streets was a perfectly enjoyable way to get a feel for La Nuit Blanche. In some areas there was revelry, and in others it was relatively quiet, but everywhere I went offered something different to see, hear and explore. And with a full moon on a cloudless (rainless!) night, every part of the city was marvelously aglow. Even an early bird can enjoy herself on a sleepless night, especially when she's in Paris.

The Latvian Meat Market

No, the title of this entry doesn’t refer to the dating scene in Riga. I’m talking about a place that actually sells fleshy edibles like pork, chicken, beef, and lamb; a place I stumbled across during last weekend’s trip to the middle child of the Baltics. As an adoring fan of European markets, I’m no stranger to seeing whole (as in, not headless) dead birds, various types of hooves, and other animal proteins displayed in ways that are foreign to most American shoppers. But nothing, nothing, could have prepared me for what I saw in Riga.


After perusing the fruit and vegetable stands of an open-air market just outside of the city’s Old Town, I made a left at the watermelons to find myself in an expansive, barn-like building filled with nothing but meat products. Entire skinned pigs hung on hooks behind the counters, animal heads were casually displayed, and refrigerated glass cases were filled to the brim with all manner of chops, loin, tongue, and steak. Butchers methodically did their work in the open as sellers packaged up the finished products. Shoppers filled their baskets with a week’s worth of dinners. The smells, sights and sounds were overwhelming.

I wandered the market’s never-ending aisles in a semi state of shock, mouth agape, breakfast barely staying down. A vegetarian I am not, but even the enthusiastic omnivore in me left Riga’s meat market with an uncomfortable, unsettled feeling in my stomach. I had never before seen so many dead animals in one place. But hey, that's what traveling is all about: seeing things you've never seen before. And although my gag reflex might not have appreciated the visit, the part of me that enjoys exploring different cultures definitely did.

Salad Surprise

I once found bugs in a head of lettuce I had purchased at a Parisian grocery store. As I started to tear apart the lettuce so it could be washed, there they were – tiny black crawling things that made me shriek and throw the leafy greens to the floor. “What are bugs doing in my lunch?!” I later learned from a Frenchman that bugs in the lettuce was a good sign. It meant the produce was high quality, since the bugs only like the best. I didn’t buy that, and from then on I scrupulously checked every single head of French lettuce for any sign of insect life before buying that either. All purchases were triple washed before consumption.

Belgium brought its own lettuce discovery, though, thankfully, this one did not include living creatures. After eying a beautiful looking head that seemed to be a perfect fit for the warm goat cheese salad I had in mind, I was surprised to discover it still had roots. It also still had soil. In fact, a perfectly square chunk of earth had been cut out of the ground along with the head of lettuce and put into a bag, ready to be sold as is. I have no idea what that’s all about, but the lettuce did indeed make a lovely base for what became a crave-worthy salade au chèvre chaud, sans dirt.