Mind the Feet

Cardin and Charlotte arrive

Last night I heard a preview of Cardin's latest recording and Hilde and Charlotte taught my old dogs new tricks. All this in the presence of five melodeons, which is a personal high watermark.

We threw a goodbye party for Anita, who sadly must return to the land of tea poured over free ice. The party featured lots of pizza, beer and the like but was definitely short on frozen water, even though the refrigerator in our Ballenstraat flat was reputed to have ice trays.

Alas, when we arrived at our flat the rental agent and I peered into the refrigerator and were appalled to discover that the tiny box had no freezer.  She because her own email had confidently assured us that we would to make all the ice we wanted; and I because I had to break this tragic news to Anita, who believes that her breakfast iced tea sans cubes is only a pale imitation of the real thing.

A cup of orange juice and ice tea with  real ice

In Belgium, ice is dealt by the cube. Typically one receives a pair. In a generous moment, perhaps three of a kind, but never a full house. No one sells ice, period. When I inquired, I was told that it was with drinks only. Even the Five Easy Pieces approach of I'll have a glass of water, with ice, and, oh yeah, hold the water didn't turn the trick.

Many mornings I found myself heading off to the local croissant shop where I ordered freshly squeezed orange juice with a side of ice.

The first time I did this it took some explaining. Yes, I wanted the juice and the ice but in separate cups. Indeed, I wanted orange juice with ice but not together lest the orange juice become watered down as I carried it back to our flat.

The Belgians really care about the quality of food and drink, especially their beers. This must also extend to their orange juice, because to my surprise this approach actually produced a cup of ice cubes, in the nude.

After a week I came to be greeted warmly on my daily visit -- as the crazy American ice addict, no doubt. One clerk busied herself making juice. From somewhere in the back of the shop I could hear the sound of the owner chipping away at what must have been a precious but thoroughly frostbitten bag.

We now have a new appreciation of the stuff.  After waking Anita to fresh croissants, fresh juice and, best of all, iced tea I was her hero, an outcome which is cheap at any price. I do think I'll turn off that ice maker in Atlanta and dole out of a secret stash, just to be sure I stay on my pedestal.

Cardin plays for dancing

Cardin played for the dancing. This recently formed duo consists of Guus Herremans -- my music tutor-- and Jeroen Laureyssens. They rocked the apartment with an dros, bourees, scottishes, polskas, and -- best of all in my opinion -- lots of sparkling mazurkas.

Charlotte and Hilde, both accomplished Boombal dancers, did me the honor of persistently leading me through the steps. As a result I finally managed to dance the mazurka.

Here I must disclaim that I did so only for a couple of measures at a time before I found myself wandering out of Charlotte's orbit. Poor Charlotte. I started by trampling her toes. Though she graciously claimed no damage, she certainly looked relieved when I let my dogs out of their Keens and proceeded in sock feet.

Mazurka, sometimes

As the evening rollicked along Hilde took on the task of teaching me the more bouncy traditional mazurka. At the critical moment, which has been likened to the movement one makes when testing thin ice with one foot, she would literally tug me into the air to help set the pace and I suppose, keep me off that thin ice. After a while the timing of that odd motion finally started penetrating my awareness.

I am seeing a pattern here. Every woman with whom I have danced so far finds it necessary to chant one, two, three as she hauls me around the floor and thinks mind the feet, mind the feet. I suppose this style might be called novice mazurka.

So, there were two launches at Anita's goodbye party: Cardin and my dance career. Cardin is ready to go and has recently posted their first recording. As for me, well, I could use more practice. But I found myself thinking that I could learn this stuff, given sufficient partners willing to bench-press me at just the right time.

Bernard, Hilde and Tine 

Cardin is playing a Mazurka Clandestine in Ghent on 9-Aug. I'm not sure about the clandestine part since it seems to be common knowledge.

Before I head off to this dance I plan to shop for some steel-toed work boots. I shall offer them to my partners and perhaps start a new craze, like clogging but less painful should one's opposite stray.

One Step Forward, Six Steps Back

Scrubbing the squares.

Gentse Feesten, a celebration of music and theatre first held in 1843, is in full swing. Many of its 2 million visitors seem to be traipsing up and down the small cobblestone street outside our flat. Some walk up our tiny alley, chatting in various languages. All our windows are open in the unusual summer warmth so we eavesdrop on their midnight conversations without comprehending a word. It has become like having a brook babbling in the background.

Each morning when I venture out for croissants, fresh orange juice and a cup of ice (a most precious commodity to which Anita is addicted) our canal-street is littered with detritus and with people slumped sleepily on the curb, looking a little worse for the wear. By noon the streets have been washed by an amazing army of purpose-built trucks and the people revived by tiny cups of espresso, consumed at temporary sidewalk cafes that have sprouted like summer dandelions in the heat.

Each evening we drop by the Boombal, a folk dancing revival that started in Ghent in 2000, and Boombal Dansinitiatie, free lessons in folk dancing that precede the ball. Then move on to Swing City to watch the twenty-somethings jitterbug like our parents must have in the 40's. Despite the canicule -- oh my gosh, in this land of 3 euro bottled water they were handing out free cups, even though in Atlanta the heat wave would have been considered a mild summer day -- by the time the festivities fire up, the temperature has dropped and it is quite pleasant. Only the dancers seem to break a sweat.

Recovering from last night's festivities.

We've been watching a young woman with a curly mop of blonde hair participate in the dancing. Here I must emphasize young since she is at most three years old and joins in with a verve and enthusiasm that I can only envy. At the dance lessons kids are in the center of the circle, imitating the dancers or playing tag or riding tricycles. Somehow people avoid stepping on the little ones. I am beginning to understand how the dances are passed along and why so many young people are quite at home on the dance floor.

Last week Anita and I had our own private introduction to the art of mazurka. If Leen Devyver had only had students with more talent we would be competing in the Boombal world championships. She is a terrific teacher: patient, encouraging and able to analyze what approach to use with her learners. When I mention that we had Leen for a teacher, those who know the small circle of Boombal dance instructors are visibly impressed.

Leen must have realized that she had her work cut out for her when we admitted that we had never before tried to dance, not even to waltz. It was somewhat like saying we didn't know how to breathe and expected our session with her to make us into marathon runners. After confirming that really, we were complete novices, she found herself chanting one, two three, ma, zur, ka, as she led one of us in the most basic of steps. I had no idea that getting my feet to play a mazurka would be more challenging than learning to play those first mazurka notes on buttonbox. It was like thinking ice skating doesn't look that hard and then discovering just how hard it really is when you've never even stood on skates. After the lesson I could barely remember how to walk.

Genten Feesten Boombal Dansinitiate

At Dansinitiatie,  I've been tempted to break into kiddo group since they are at my level of dance and I did learn the tricycle as a boy. Instead I have been a sidelines dancer at the lessons, swaying and bouncing. Now and then I even try a step or two. The patterns are becoming somewhat familiar, like listening to a album of piano pieces and recognizing that you have heard that tune. Yeah, I know. Watching won't make me a dancer anymore than listening to music would make me a pianist, but I need a few more sessions to collect myself before I take the plunge. So, I kind of participate in a noncommittal sort of way.

One evening at the dance itself I stood, watching some terrific dancers. Standing beside me also watching was a woman who was dancing in place to the beat and squirming with the longing to be asked to join the fun. If I hadn't been old enough to be her grandfather -- really I have a granddaughter older than she -- and more importantly, if I knew even the first thing about dancing, I might have obliged. Instead I felt an empathy as a fellow onlooker and hoped that someone would rescue her from being a wallflower.

After some time, a guy around her age approached and with a confident courtesy extended his hand in invitation. I guessed them to be strangers because she hesitated a long moment before allowing him to lead her onto the floor. Later I saw her waltz past. She was beaming and sported a terrific smile which flashed a bright beacon each time they turned. And could she dance? Wow. She was an accomplished dancer, having long ago graduated from the center of the ring.

It was such an endearing moment. It made me want to learn the mazurka and to be a youngster again. Ah, well. I think I'll work harder on practicing on those steps. I fear that turning back the clock would prove to be even more difficult than dancing to one, two, three, ma, zur, ka.

Staying for Lunch

Guus and Hilde in duet

Hilde invited me to stay for lunch, and then for a concert, and then for a ride to Brussels train station, proving that good things can come in threes.

In retrospect I may have invited myself by arranging a lesson with her son Guus for 11:00, as if lunch were not part of the daily routine in Belgium.

Ah, those presumptuous bumbling Americans. But Hilde made me feel perfectly welcome and we had a delightful time. Ah, those gracious Continentals with manners as smooth as a silky Bearnaise, who can step up to the lunch plate and hit a home run with so little visible effort -- to mix several metaphors.

Brussels harp until the Lennik bus.

Guus declared himself pleased to hear my progress on Music Mazurka. He then helped me see that my timing and articulation were off the mark; though sometimes, in a blind pig moment, I was managing to find the right note at the right time. I felt humbled that my dozen or so hours working on this tune's first sixteen measures produced such modest results. But I was inordinately encouraged by his comment.

He helpfully pointed out that I was tapping my foot for a waltz but trying to play a mazurka. My left ankle is my metronome and I had set it to a steady oom, pa, pa. While he played Music Mazurka, he and I tapped out the tune's pulse of two beats separated by a pause. I found it to be rather like the lub-dub of a slowly beating heart. He played a faster mazurka, switching from what my friend Anja terms the smoochy romantic type to the traditional bouncy type, and it became more like a marathon's heart. Same pattern but with a galloping rhythm. It sounds easy but convincing my ankle-metronome to mazurka as I play will take some doing.

After the lesson, we sat in the garden to an informal spread of fruit, sandwich makings, and drinks, chatting in English. My hosts occasionally held a side conference in Dutch (or perhaps Flemish) to work out the translation of a difficult word or concept. The Trappist beer I quaffed was excellent and I relaxed into contented realization that cruising really is about the people. Sightseeing and experiencing places like Ghent are merely the context of this summer. Luncheon moments like this are really why I ventured into these waters.

For dessert Hilde and a friend, Bernard, each played tunes, with Guus vamping the accompaniment or playing counterpoint. Hilde and Bernard both started diato recently and occasionally fumbled, as do I. But they both played with a style and rhythm that I hope to emulate. (Since then Anja commented that Hilde took up the accordion about three weeks prior to our lunch and had attended Pascale Rubens' workshop the previous week.) Aye yi yi, I am immeasurably impressed by Hilde's progress. We do share Guus as a tutor but her music gene must be dominant whereas mine feels recessive..

As an encore -- I really did my role as audience to the fullest and gave Hilde and Bermard a standing ovation -- Guus broke out of the supporting role and launched a pulsing Scottish that simply begged for participation. Hilde and Bernard danced barefoot in the grass.

By the end of summer I hope to be on the dance floor myself. That seems a possibility as Leen Devyver, a well-known balfolk dance instructor, is willing to give Anita and me a mazurka lesson. Plus, I will attend many Boombal Dansinitiatie next week during Gentse Feesten.

Gunkholing Diatonia

"No tram pass for visitors. It is residents only. Do you want to buy a ticket?" The agent said this with a touch of impatience and I felt the implied pressure of the travelers in line behind me, needing to catch their own trains. Despite the ticket agent's certainty, I knew that he was misinformed. As it turned out I was in the wrong line, at the wrong place, at the wrong time. I should have been in the De Lijnwinkel line at Kornmarkt later that afternoon.

I do love passes and librarians when I travel. Both are terrific resources that help take the angst out of exploring out-of-the-way places. So, on that first morning in Sint-Pieters train station in Ghent, I had joined the ticket queue, intending to purchase an annual tram and bus pass. It is so inexpensive that there was no concern about our leaving Belgium well before it expired. The price is a sort of reward for those of us who have survived sixty-five trips around the sun -- a bit like Delta's SkyMiles being a reward for all those hours waiting in airports.

Morning croissants are just across the street.

This country certainly does cater to a senior's travel needs. Round trips on Belgium trains are six euros, with only a few restrictions, like leaving after 09:00. To my mind, this is not so much a restriction as the truly sensible advice to have a leisurely coffee and croissant with fresh orange juice rather than setting an alarm and rushing to the station.

An annual De Lijn bus and tram pass is 36 euros. To put that in perspective, riding Atlanta's MARTA for a year would cost ten times more and be restricted to one city, whereas De Lijn seems to go most everywhere in northern Belgium, including Antwerp, Brussels, Bruges and all the tiny towns all about. I had read about this pass in the states, puzzling through Google Translate's English version of De Lijn's Dutch explanations. But on our arrival this ticket agent firmly declared that such a pass was not possible for visitors. No way. Only Belgium citizens qualified. The helpful Tourist Information office regretfully concurred.

Previously our local friend Anja had graciously visited De Lijnwinkel (De Lijn's store) and emailed that indeed, we needed only a passport and euros. Fortunately, the De Lijnwinkel agent herself agreed and we emerged a short time later clutching our magic cards. As gunkholers we have been cruising Belgium, using the trains like a mother ship for arriving and De Lijn like a dinghy for exploring. 

Yes, there was a concert.

Plus, in Ghent we hop on and off trams as if we belonged. A couple of days ago I found myself helping some Spaniards navigate the system. They asked in French, thinking we were locals, and we answered in our pidgin patois. The trouble was that neither side actually spoke any French. By the time I switched to using my dimly-remembered high school Spanish, my vocabulary had been thoroughly trampled by the effort of making up French-sounding words. In the end we pointed to the approaching #1 tram and nodded, thus resorting to a universal sign language. I do hope they made their train connection.

Last week we called on Harelbeek, where we sat at a frites table with Toon Van Merlo and Pascale Rubens and chatted about why we were hanging about that tiny town -- to hear them play, of course -- and got invited to come over to their house for a drink sometime. They were very gracious and Toon seemed totally bemused at the idea of my spending the summer, stalking the mazurka. 

This after we stepped off the train in Harelbeek only to discover that there was no Naragonia concert. Several shopkeepers declared that the only concert was the last weekend or perhaps the next, certainly nothing like that on Tuesday evening. Disconsolate, we wandered about peering into closed stores and thinking about when the next train might take us back to Ghent. 

Dancing to Naragonia.

On impulse we stepped into the library and chatted up the librarian. She regretfully agreed, no concert, until I mentioned bells; Naragonia Duo was to be accompanied by a carillon. The librarian and a colleague did the research, confirmed the schedule, and pointed the way toward a steeple full of bells. Local librarian knowledge at its best.

As we sat admiring the bell tower, the oncoming twilight and the dancers, Naragonia played my favorite mazurkas. It was simply entrancing.

Gooikoorts Festival

Brilliant blue sky and a sign pointing to the water closets,
 what more could one ask?

"Yes, that is a waltz. But smoother and not so bouncy." I was playing what I had intended to be a waltz. This comment made me think that I might be making progress on my musical journey. The speaker, a dancer and an instructor, had previously stated that in her opinion too many musicians play for musicians rather than dancers.

Gooikoorts is one of the many European weekend music festivals this summer. Held in Gooik, a small town about 25 km west of Brussels, it was a first. I had seen pictures and video of festivals but never before observed the mazurka in its natural habitat.

Spelling it is easy but saying it?

To get to Gooik, we ventured out from our apartment early on a Sunday, clutching elaborate handwritten instructions enumerating the tram, train and buses we would take. This paper was to show the various conductors and drivers so they could nod yes or point us in the right direction. Remembering which platform or stop at which to stand, the destination to be shown on the front of the vehicle and the name of the stop can be a challenge, so the list was helpful.

Pronouncing those place names in a question? Totally impossible. Over and over we have experienced asking, "Is this the bus to Enkhuizen?", or the like only to be answered with a puzzled look followed by, "Where?" This from trilingual speakers whose English sounds like it is straight from the USA. Or sometimes a bit like Homer Simpson or other TV characters, since shows for the Dutch audience are subtitled rather than dubbed and children pick up their accents from, well, us in all our diversity.

Pointing to the same name on a map or scrawled on my cheat sheet always resulted in an answer like, "Ah you want Enkhuizen . . . " To my ear it was the same word, but to the Dutch ear, obviously not so. Perhaps my Texan drawl is incompatible with de-voiced consonents and diphthongs that sound only superficially like their English equivalents.

Naragonia Quartet at Gooikoorts Festival

The highlight of Gooikoorts Festival was Naragonia Quartet's concert. Anita, bless her heart, managed to score two seats up front by scooting into the tent moments after they raised the flap. Wow. I glanced up on stage and there was Pascale Rubens, arranging accordions. Close enough to touch, those three Castagnaris.

As we were waiting, I struck up a conversation with Anita (a different Anita, this one from Holland) about Naragonia's music, why we were at the festival, and my wanting to learn to dance. This led to her offering to teach me at the ball that evening. Alas, when I consulted my paper, it said that we had a bus to catch well before the dancing started. As a consolation, Anita mentioned that she had taught a workshop for musicians to help them play for dancers and offered me a similar session after the concert.

Wilko plays a waltz and a mazurka

Anita and Wilco demonstrated waltz and mazurka, she dancing and he playing hurdy gurdy. Then I outed my box from its new Visseur carrying case and tried it myself. My Valse Tarde passed muster but my Valse des Jouets was declared to be more like a mazurka than a waltz.

So, at last I had finally played a tune that the listener thought to be a mazurka, even though by accident. Definite progress.

Three Melodions in One Room

Tine and Anja are astoundingly musical

I spent a magical evening in a room crowded with diatonic accordion players. I do believe that three's a crowd applies here, in the most delightful way possible. There we were, three of us holding melodions in our laps: a Castagnari, a Serafini and my Gaillard. It was a veritable who's who of G/C diato makers.

Anja, our Ghent friend, invited Anita and me to a session at Tine's flat, which turned out to be a 15- minute walk from Ballenstraat in a misty drizzle. Well, it could have been a five-minute tram ride but we rushed to the wrong side of the street on the advice of a local, who misunderstood our destination. We arrived at the opposite stop barely in time to watch our tram slide by where we had been standing, moments before. Local knowledge is invaluable on a cruise, despite sometimes being way wrong. We relearned a valuable lesson: ask the right questions and check the charts to be certain you know what you are getting into. It happens.

For the first time in my 67 years -- it was my birthday, after all -- I was with others who actually play mazurkas. Until then YouTube was the only exposure to players. Not to diminish the YouTube experience, but it pales in comparison with actually being there.

Anja and Tine are session buddies and accomplished players. They graciously allowed me to barge into their evening. Hearing them interweave tune and accompaniment made this entire trip worthwhile. Everything else this summer will be frosting on the delicious musical birthday cake that they served up.

Guus makes a mazurka dance

That evening occurred after my first lesson by Guus, a gifted young player who has agreed to coach my diato journey. He started by playing my Gaillard and produced the most astounding music. I had no idea it could sound like that, bouncy and rhythmic, with lots of punch. Nothing wrong with the accordion, Guus declared.

Then he had me play a mazurka or two, same box, different fingers. What a contrast. We agreed that my tunes shuffled slowly around the room as if in a daze, mostly landing on the wrong foot at the wrong time and occasionally sprawling on the floor with an embarrassing splat. I could certainly hear the difference between his version and mine: articulation, dynamics, phrasing, ornamentation, syncopation, harmony and swing, to name a few of the techniques which I should master. Ah, well. That's what this cruise is all about.

I'm confident that Guus will help me improve. Plus, I got the impression he believes there is lots of low-hanging fruit on my musical vine, which is to say that I could make progress in every area. He has bravely signed up for another session a couple of weeks from now.

Now I'm reviewing the video from our first lesson, studying how he grabs a tune, shakes it awake and makes it dance. His virtual fingers never tire and he doesn't mind when I stumble along in his wake. I'm trying to feel Pascale Rubens' Le lac de St-Croix in a new way so that I can land on the right foot at the right time. With any luck I'll be able to replace this rendition with a version that makes a listener think, ah, he's playing a mazurka.