A Hankering For Some Bacon

There are a lot of things I miss from home. I miss my family and friends. I miss using an electrical appliance without having to use an adapter. I miss turning on a television and understanding every channel. But most of all, I miss bacon. I really love bacon.

I grew up in a very strictly nutritious family: whole wheat was improved on by baking oats into the dough. Liver was a frequent dish. Red meat was banished. And the wine was always red. Meals consisted of salad/soup, main course and then fruit. And the fruit part was obligatory. In fact, you couldn’t move onto the dessert unless you had consumed at least one piece of fruit—extra points for two or three pieces (NOTE: The points are meaningless). Do not pass GO, do not collect $100. And so in this temple of the body, bacon was a four letter word.

In my youth, naturally, I rebelled. Some smoke, others drink while others drop out of school. I did neither. Mine was a dietary rebellion. I am a chocoholic. I have literal, physical chocolate cravings that are vicious and all consuming. Similar to a mother bear protecting her cub, I scour and forage for sugar, throwing whatever objects are in my way aside in my single-minded search. I love Coco-Cola Classic (one of the only concessions to my health is drinking Coke Zero) and will not hesitate to drink it at 7am (I had it before my cereal once). And I love bacon.

So that’s why being here is so tough. It’s never expressly said, but I get the feeling that Europeans aren’t really great fans of pigs. Bacon isn't on any menus I’ve seen and I rarely see BLT sandwiches anywhere. This has been really difficult for someone who loves a nice, honking slice of bacon.

That’s why today was so special. My roommate Cassandra—saint that she is and a cook of substantially more skill than I—made us a lovely North American breakfast: bacon, scrambled eggs, toast and juice. It was so homey, it almost brought a tear to my eye. Then, shaking off any emotions, I inhaled it and any remnants of the bacon and it was all over.

So That's What They Were Fighting For

Strasburg is a small town on the border of France and Germany. For a population of 270, 000 it has caused quite the international brew ha ha.

The city is in the famous Alsace-Lorraine region. Due to its rich mineral wealth, it has been passed back and forth between France and Germany for a century, before WWII finally gave it back to France.

We were only there for a day (less than 24 hours in fact), but it was enough to know that it was worth the fight. It is a beautiful city.

It is also home to the Council of Europe and the European Court of Human Rights which explains our time there.

Top 10 Things to Do This Summer

When I tell people I’m going to Europe for the summer, people tend to make certain assumptions about me. All of a sudden I become a cliché: the university student taking off after graduation to restlessly roam Europe, spend a lot of money, sleep with virtual strangers and drink copious amounts of foreign beer. Indeed, some of my friends from home have accused me of going to “find myself.” If you knew me, you’d know that I would never engage in such an endeavor. I’m not criticizing that kind of trip because I think it serves a purpose to some people, just not me.

I’m going for different reasons. The EU Study Tour was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up. When else am I going to get the chance to sit inside the Jean Monnet room in the European Commission or hear a case tried at the European Court of Justice or witness a session of the European Parliament? That in itself is well worth the time and money. Then there are the academic pursuits as well. Many of the speakers we’ve had have been unparalleled. Then there’s the cultural stuff. Even now, I’m writing this from the window of my room in the Hachenburg castle. Looking out my window I see the main castle in front of me with its square orange and white windows and terra cotta walls. I can see the cobble stoned square and people reading outside on the grass and under giant green trees. How many people get this opportunity? I find myself uttering that sentence more and more these last few weeks.

But other than the great academic and work experience (my internship at CEPS), there are some other things I want to do while I’m here. I thought I’d share some of them; partly because I love making lists and partly so those of you reading this can help me accomplish them (either by nagging me about them or participating in them). They are (in no order):

1. Learn another language. I’m not talking German or Flemish, but simply proficiency in one of the two secondary languages I speak: Portuguese and French. As I’ll be living in Belgium for two months and then Portugal for another 6 weeks, the odds of this actually happening are pretty good.

2. Travel to at least two new cities/countries. Candidate sites include: Antwerp, Amsterdam, Barcelona, Berlin, Budapest, Frankfurt, Geneva, Madrid, Marseilles, Munich, Paris, Prague and Vienna. Disclaimer: This is contingent on time and money.

3. Earn a wage in Euros/not go bankrupt: This is a little out of my control but I’ll give it my best shot.

4. Take a ride on the English Channel (aka the Chunnel). This has been a dream of mine since I read “On Traverse La Marche” in Grade 11 French class. Fun fact: The Chunnel is also one of the 10 Engineering Wonders of the World.

5. Spend a night in a hostel. This should be a good “getting out of my comfort zone” type experience.

6. Freelance a story. I’d love to be one of those reporters that finds an amazing story (“hard-hitting” or otherwise) on my travels. It may also help achieve number three.

7. Visit the diamond exchange. Diamonds are a girl’s best friend. What can I say? Also, as it’s located in Antwerp it may help accomplish number 2.

8. Learn to cook. I’m by no means hopeless in the kitchen. I just don’t care enough to take my time with meals. Maybe eating European food will convince me to get my act together.

9. Develop some kind of collection: When people go to different countries they always have a memento from the country they have to get. My friend Jeff collects maps. For Cassandra, it’s Christmas decorations. For Dave, it’s spoons. I want a thing. It has to be compact so as to fit in a suitcase. I’m thinking either maps or corkscrews. Suggestions are welcome.

10. Ride on a European tram/streetcar: I’ve barely been on one in Toronto (I took my maiden voyage last January), and I’m dying to find out what they’re like here.

That’s it for now. I’ll update the list when I’ve completed something.

The Govenator

Like I said, one of the amazing things about the Tour is the chance to meet interesting people. Case in point: today.

After a stimulating day at the European Central Bank, we returned to Hachenburg for another economic lecture. This one was from David Murray Deputy Governor of the Bank of Canada. He gave a talk about the inflation targeting of the Bank and the economic outlook for Canada. As a big shot in the Bank, his talk was a bit biased. According to him Canada is doing just great despite the rising currency and disparity across the country. But that's national monetary policy for you. It was still slightly thrilling to have a brush with that kind of fame.

Who Says Monetary Policy Isn't Riveting?

Our time in Germany seems dedicated to economic issues. As an enthusiastic observer of the economy, this isn’t really a problem for me.

Today we spent some time at the European Central Bank and let me tell you what a swanky place that is. The security checks we went through were more extensive than our time at the Commission and Court combined. They gave us visitors badges, took us through a metal detector and escorted us through two elevators. All this despite the fact that the ECB doesn’t even have money reserves in the building we were in. It was pretty exciting.

We started the morning in the room that the ECB Governing Council sits at to decide on interest rate cuts, which was quite exciting.

All in all the presentations were solid and very informative. True to their reputation, they were efficient and reserved. We were treated very nicely. On our arrival there was a plethora of swag awaiting us: a hardcover book on monetary policy, two brochures on the Eurosystem, a pen and Euro post-its; very impressive indeed. The bank didn’t skimp on food either. After every break there was tea and coffee and scrumptious snacks awaiting us and a beautiful lunch was served in the lounge we were kept in.

The only thing that took away from the day was the fact that I didn’t get to keep the our visitors badge.

A Little Piece of Home...

Frankfurt is North America. That is the best way I can think of to describe the city. I had read that during WWII Frankfurt had been almost completely destroyed but I never really understood that could eliminate a city. Well, after visiting Frankfurt (at least its streets and downtown) I believe it. There was almost no difference between the Frankfurt I saw and the Toronto of home.

Judge for yourself.

Der Fatherland Goes Green

An example of the green energy subsidies the German government is investing so heavily in.

Aren’t they beautiful?

Wine and Philosophy

One of the best parts of the study tour is the opportunity to talk to really smart people. A large majority of the 50 or so students on the tour are graduate students. This can make for some insightful conversations. The last two days, a group of us (consisting of different members each day) have stayed up discussing topics such as Canadian multiculturalism, Quebec separatism, media bias and religion in schools until the wee hours of the night. It makes for some fantastic discussions.

Part of this comes from the fact that we’re all so diverse. And not in the traditional Canadian “we-all-come-from-different-cultural-backgrounds” way—though that is true here too—but diverse academic backgrounds as well. There are the standard political science majors and European studies majors. But then there are the more “exotic” mixes: international relations students specializing in security studies sitting beside economics majors; a woman with a PhD in plant biology and an MBA asks questions alongside a migration specialist; and finally the journalists whose eyes glaze over when the discussion gets too theoretical.

We’re also from different geographical perspectives: Quebeckers and Ontarians, people from BC, an Albertan and a young woman from Nova Scotia. As you can imagine, it leads to interesting perspectives on certain issues. Somehow, there is also wine involved, but I think that just sharpens the mind.

I Climbed Mountains—Or At Least Several Really Big Hills

Since this weekend was one of the few days we have off I decided to make the best of it. A few of us made the trek to a near-by monastery for the cultural experience, to spend some time in nature (the monastery is accessible only through wooded paths) but also to partake in the homemade beer the monks brew—who said beer and the divine don’t mix?

We were told the monastery was a good hour’s walk. But the guide had prefaced the announcement of the monastery by asking if anyone liked “hiking.” Right here was where I should have clued in. I wasn’t prepared to hike. I didn’t have hiking boots—or running shoes for that matter. All I had was ballet flats, stilettos high heels and Converse sneakers which I thought I had broken in. Oh, how wrong was I. Since we had all afternoon, I was ready for the adventure. What I wasn’t prepared for was the unbearable pain my shoes were about to put me through.

It started out well enough but as we left the city centre and were treading on more and more dirt paths, my feet started to throb. A tough guy through and through, I ignored them and concentrated on the beautiful panoramas of green fields, flowers and hills.

Oh, the hills. With “the hills are alive with the sound of music…” playing in my head, we ran down steep hills and walked wooded paths that easily could have been Amazon rainforests—save for the sweltering heat—while birds chirped around us. It was so tranquil I had to capture it. So my camera is flooded with greenery shot after greenery shot.

It continued like this for miles so much so that, except for the path, it felt we were completely removed from civilization. That is until we got to the monastery and saw a paved parking lot plunked right after the bridge that connected the. Welcome to civilization.

By this time, I had developed a slight limp. But I refused to let the pain dampen my experience. The church and grounds were beautiful. No matter how many European churches I see (and I’ve seen my fair share), they never cease to amaze me at the expense (gold, everywhere) and sense of tradition that overwhelms me. You’d think this being a German church (and Germany being home to the Reformation), they’d be a bit less opulent. Not really. It wasn’t as obvious as Portuguese churches, but it was still there.

Then there was the beer. I sampled my fair share. As a beer newbie, I can’t vouch for the quality, but I’m told it was great.

So after a half hour siesta, we headed back and oh how the hills (and shoes) took their revenge. The same hills that had been fun to run down (or roll down for some people) an hour earlier now became unscaleable mountains. I trudged up them while my companions (hardened nature lovers from Quebec, Alberta and British Columbia) laughed at me. But I made it. And I have the blisters to prove it.

Willkommen to Deutschland!

As you might have guessed, we’ve landed in Germany and it’s wonderful. Right now we’re in Hachenburg, a town of 6,500 an hour or so north of Frankfurt. We’re staying in a castle. It was built in the 1600s for the local count in the area. Two generations later, he had no sons and the castle fell under the control of the German (Prussian, at the time) state. It changed hands a number of times until the 1980s when the German national bank (the Bundesbunk) bought it for the bargain price (or so I’m told) of 1.5 million Euros.




Now it’s a university run by the bank. Students from all over the country attend the university to get a Diploma in Central Banking—the equivalent of a Canadian Bachelor’s degree but a little higher. Graduates will go on to work for the national bank in a regulating capacity. Similar to the American Security and Exchange Commission or the Canadian Ontario Securities Commission these people look for irregularities in the stock market—future Enron’s (link), money laundering, insider trading, or even difficulties like lack of liquidity in the market—and fix them.

The castle is gorgeous. It’s not medieval, so there is no granite or grey brick or moats or anything that follows the traditional concept of a European castle. As a castle is understandably expensive to maintain, by the time a hotel company had bought the castle in the early 1970s, there was barely anything remaining of the original building. The company renovated it adding new paint and separating the castle into two sections: the upper castle which houses a small but modern cafeteria/restaurant, a small library, a computer room and an entertainment room (with a pool table and foosball table). There is also a small pub that serves beer for one euro but I’ve yet to avail myself of that particular benefit.

The lower castle is where the dorms are. One long building, there are two or three “gates” that separate the dorms. Each gate contains about 10 to 12 rooms on one wing and then classrooms and a TV room in the other.

The rooms are huge. Dorm-style but the best we've had so far.

Each has two desks, two beds, two wardrobes, a large bathroom with shower and toilet in the same room (not the case in Brussels, I’m afraid) and alarm clocks and laundry which I’ve yet to locate. And the views are beautiful.

All in all I’m quite impressed; except for the lack of internet in the rooms and the dial-up internet (that’s not a joke, that’s a reality) in the computer room.

My First European Shopping Spree

I cracked. I couldn’t help myself. It was bound to happen. It’s been about a week and a half and I have not bought any new clothes. We’ve had two free days and countless nights to unleash our Euros on unsuspecting European stores. But I have refrained. I have been prudent. You see, there are some people here only for the tour, while others are here for the tour and accompanying internships. But I’m here for exorbitantly longer. I can’t afford to waste money on things like shopping sprees to H&M, too many meals out, foreign beer or the like. And so I have resisted, expelling my Euros with considerable care. But even I have my limits. It happened on Friday, on a break from our presentations. Eurostat is the collector and disseminater of European statistical information. That’s all well and good, but the important thing to know is that it is located underneath a mall. So in twenty minutes (the time I had left after a quick lunch) I did some damage.

It’s really not that bad. It was all very reasonable—items that can be used for both the tour, internships and otherwise. And it was cheap too. I got everything for 50 Euros. That should ameliorate my guilt a little.

European Ads: Part Deux

Back by popular demand, here's another edition of awesome-European-ads-made-by-North-American-celebrities-because-they-were-assured-they -would-never-be-seen-in-America. Here's Matthew Fox for L'oreal. Notice the very manly montage. What are they compensating for?

Photographic Evidence

Today was the last day at the Commission. So to commemorate it (and the two great lunches had there) I offer you this pictorial representation of my lunch.


All for 8 euros.

The most popular kid in Brussels

My first day in Brussels I heard rumours of a “peeing statue”—a fountain statue of a young child holding his goods as he pees. Blame it on the jetlag or losing my luggage, but I didn’t get the joke. A fountain statue of a child peeing? What’s the big deal?

Well, it’s a really big deal. In fact, in Belgium, it’s a huge deal. In the city museum there is an entire room dedicated to the Manneken-Pis—the peeing statue. To illustrate the extent of the Manneken’s celebrity status, there were more people in that one little room than on the entire three floors of the museum.

And was it a fun little room. One panel consisted of myths surrounding the origin of the statue. Some of the stories go as far back as the 1100s. One story suggested the statue is a result of a witch that punished a medieval king by cursing his son to never grow, while another legend tells of an infant king who, when his troops went into war and looked to him for inspiration, was found peeing on the battlefield. The next room was the statue’s closet, which would make any shopaholic worth her salt rub her hands with glee. In it were some of the 750 (yes, you read that right) outfits the Mannequin dons throughout the year. They come from around the world, donated from every country and area and commemorate everything from being a peacenik, the European Union, student life or Elvis Presley. There are four for Canada alone. The outfits are changed daily thanks to a dresser, a city worker who keeps the mannequin looking good and shiny. The clothes are also changed to commemorate different holidays: Europe Day, Canada Day, Victoria Day, Cinco de Mayo etc.

It’s a big tourist attraction too. My interest peaked, I felt compelled to trek down the street and see the boy up close and personal. Unfortunately, in real life, the boy doesn’t live up to the hype—he was smaller than I thought it would be. (picture of statue)

But that didn’t stop the crowds. People were clustered around the gate (he even had a gate to prevent visitors from touching or stealing the statue and signs advising against jumping the fence) and tourists lined up to take pictures in front of the statute. The Mannequin is big business too. Shops around the statue sell oodles of memorabilia in his likeness (mini porcelain figurines, corkscrews, coasters, etc) and there are two restaurants across from it: one in French and one in Flemish. Seduced by the photo op, I succumbed to the power of the peeing boy.

Waffling

Leggo my eggo is not my motto. It’s true. I’m not a waffle fan. I can count on one hand how many I’ve had in my life. They were alright, I’ve got nothing against them but they’re not for me. So when I came to Brussels and everyone told me waffles from Brussels were a tradition everyone had to try at least once, I was skeptical. This is an example of the prom effect. A prom effect—named by my friend John—refers to an event that gets built up to the point where people’s expectations are so high the actual event cannot live up to it. The best example is the high school prom. There is so much preparation and anticipation put into that one night, it’s almost impossible to live up to them. Most often, people ruin their nights when their expectations surpass reality and you end up ruining a perfectly good night. The answer: expectation management. If you kept your expectations low and under control, you’d be pleasantly surprised when the night exceeded them. The key is to keep expectations at a minimum. That way you are never crushed when they aren’t met.

Now back to my story. While in Antwerp last weekend, there was about an hour and a half before our bus was due to leave. Instead of walking around in the rain, Cassandra (my roommate and fellow Tour-ist) suggested we have a cup of coffee. Passing a nearby café, I suggested we go in and she immediately suggested waffles. I agreed. I’d have to do it at some point, might as well do it now.

Verdict: phenomenal. Glazed waffle with fresh (you could almost taste the vine) strawberries and light and fluffy whipped cream. The dough was strong enough not to become mushy under the whipped cream. I gobbled it in five minutes while Cassandra lazily munched away.

European Ads

One of the best parts of living in Europe? You get to see the commercials celebrities make that they would never show in North America. I just saw one for George Clooney and espresso. It's for a Nesrpesso, a subsidiary of Nestle. It was actually funny. Check it out.

Give me an "A"

Saturday was a beautiful day spent in Antwerp—except for the fact that it was rainy and I was ill prepared for the cold.

We started the day in the red light district. We met with Patsy Sorenson, the founder of Payoke, Belgian NGO that provides assistance to victims of trafficking of human beings. Sorenson is an amazing woman. But more on that later.

After Payoke we had an audience with the mayor of Antwerp in the most beautiful city hall I’ve ever seen.

It definitely beats the hell out of Toronto’s or Ottawa’s. There were beautifully ornate woodwork ceilings and walls with wooden banisters, low hanging chandeliers, marble floors and gorgeous artwork on the walls.

Every room was more beautiful than the next. The chapel had five murals depicting marriage ceremonies throughout history: the druids, the Romans, Middle ages, medieval times and Renaissance. I took the time to get hitched myself

(Note to my family: Don’t worry, the groom is gay).

Walking through the building, my little historian’s heart fluttered in my chest.

Step outside city hall and it’s a huge square (Belgians seem to enjoy squares as there’s one in Brussels as well). On the left is a church, in front of you is a fountain that has no obvious drainage system. From one of the balconies you can see the spires of a church in the distance.

Walking around these buildings and squares, it’s a bit disheartening to think of the stone and concrete and glass that await me in Canada. Who would want to go back to modern architecture when you can live, eat and walk on your own history? North American buildings seem so boring and bland, almost cold in comparison. I do appreciate them in some ways (for example, like this (link the new ROM)). But I wonder if Europeans understand how lucky they are. They have something that North Americans never will: easy access to their own history.

More than shelter, architecture provides a collective sense of history, a communal memory. Germans can take pride knowing their style of lodging is different than the stucco of Mediterranean homes.

From my travels (both now and when I was younger visiting Portugal), I’ve been amazed at the daily reminders of history in various European cities: cobble stoned streets, coat of arms etched into buildings, gothic cathedrals on every corner. I wonder if Europeans are amazed by them as I am. What do citizens of Antwerp think when they go to City Hall? Are they as amazed as I am? Somehow, I doubt it. With buildings like most things, if you grow up with something, you take it for granted. Maybe it’s because I’m a history student, or because I’m from Canada—a infant nation compared to the old stewards in Europe—but I hope they appreciate it.

The Mecca of Bureaucracy

After a day of meetings with the Canadian Mission and then a lovely reception at the ambassador's house, we spent Friday at the European Commission. A steel and glass monstrosity in the middle of Brussels, the Berlaymont's size is overwhelming.


After an hour of milling about in the lobby, we were finally ushered past the metal detectors, our visitor's pass in hand and into the lobby, up the elevators (one of 42, by the way) and into the Jean Monnet theatre.



This is the actual meeting room where Member States meet and hammer out the business of Union. We managed to keep our cool for most of the morning, listening attentively and using the EU-star-emblazoned notepads and pencils provided on the desks. But after lunch, things got a little crazy....




But soon enough, it was back to seriousness and back to work.


The Commission also has a beautiful cafeteria. A 900-seat restaurant, it's a mix of cuisines and languages where steak is served beside French fries and broiled fish is offered next to pizza. Anything you could ever want is there. I had (what I think was) steak, French fries, salad (macaroni and mixed greens priced by weight), a bottle of water and a crepe (which was the best I've ever tasted). All for 7 euros! Thank you for subsidized European food! We're back there on Monday and I can't wait.

For my Dad

As seen in Brussels, Belgium.

Welcome to Italy...

Now it's time for the revelation portion of our program. I am not a huge fan of Italians. Growing up in Toronto, I was surrounded by them: Kappa-wearing, barely there mustache-having, tight button down polyester shirt-wearing, men wearing headbands Ginos. This dislike is based mostly on the fact that, in soccer, Italians and the Portuguese are at war, sworn enemies even. AC Milan v. Porto. Roma v. Benfica, Totti v. Ronaldo. This dislike intensified in high school when this soccer rivalry translated into ribbing by Italians over the consistently poor showing of the Portuguese national team in soccer tournaments. It didn't help that the Italians in my school shamelessly embodied the above stereotype that it was embarrassing.

Ever since then, I've had an instant suspicion about Italians. Most of the time, it's unfounded. Indeed, one of my best friends is Italian and I like her. But yesterday, it was one step back for Italians.

Taking off from Toronto, I left out of the beautiful new Terminal 1 at Pearson. My flight was eight hours to Rome with an hour stopover to change planes before heading to Brussels where the nice woman in Toronto told me that my luggage would be waiting for me. Phew, as it would be hectic enough to switch planes at a foreign airport. Eight hours later, I arrived in Rome ten minutes late, hustled past security, breezed through immigration control and ran to the terminal ten minutes early to find that the plane had already left, could I go back to Gate 2B and wait? Great. Strike one for Italians.

Not having slept for ant of the eight hour plane ride, I wasn't in the greatest of moods. It was 2 in the morning my time and 9am Rome time and they offered me the next flight to Brussels at 3pm. I waited at the Alitalia booking desk for 40 minutes, watching as the tellers were yelled at by irate and sleep deprived travellers. Strike 2.

This patience paid off as they offered me the 10:20 plane to Brussels via Brussels Airlines (which 40 minutes ago had been completely booked). At 9:50 we speed walked to the counter and she left me with Brussels Airlines, with the words, "What is your baggage code?" I don't have a code, I said, "the woman said my bags would be in Brussels." They looked at each other, unsure. "OK," they said , "that's fine." Well, it wasn't. I arrived in Brussels two hours later to find my luggage was missing. I was shuffled from counter to counter like an orphan, looking for a home. When the man finally told me that my luggage was lost, and I'd have to fill out a lost form, I started to cry. Strike 3 and you're out. My baggage was probably still in Rome, and I'd have to wait at least 24 hours for it. Apparently, this is par for the course in Italy. Rome losses everything. I wish I'd known that. I'd have never trusted those Italian foxes.

Sad, exhausted and in pain (my Converse shoes were new and breaking me in), I trudged to the taxi stand and missed the glory that is Brussels. I ran on automatic the rest of the day (info session with the rest of the Tour, beautiful walk to the city square and Tour dinner were all a blur) resigned to the fact that I would be wearing jeans when everyone would be wearing beautiful suits. After showering and washing away the gunk and horribleness, my phone rang and the suitcases had arrived!!! Then all was right with the world.

Except, for you Italy. Three strikes and you're out.

A look into the future.

Terminal 1 opened in Toronto in April 2004, but I hadn't seen it until I left Monday. It's beautiful. With gigantic glass windows, spacious promenades, digital computer screens and a monorail between terminals. This last part is by far the best.


It's blue because I forgot to change the settings of my camera.