January started out full of drear, with illnesses all around. Jack even took the highly unusual step of taking a day off work to recuperate! Practically unheard of. In spite of this, we managed to start our French class and begin readjusting to life in Brussels. It was tough to get back in the groove, though: I forgot to apologize in French to people I nearly impaled with my umbrella on the street, and I got turned around three times on my walk to class on the first day. Apparently being away and speaking English for two solid weeks takes its toll.

Much to my chagrin, I purchased a 5-lb. cookbook while I was at home. I had a gift card I needed to take advantage of before I left, but didn't want to purchase anything that I might otherwise receive for Christmas. Nearly all of my cookbooks were relegated to storage to decrease the weight of the goods being shipped when we moved here, and I was desperate for some fresh ideas. The one I bought is by Bittman and contains his favorite international recipes. The very first recipe I tried in the midst of the winter blahs was for Caribbean plantain soup, which contained a mere 5 ingredients. I had to make a special trip to the African quarter to get the plantains in a small shop that seemed primarily to feature dried, smelly fish, but it was definitely worth it. The soup was hearty and satisfying, thickened by the grated plantains until it was nearly (but not quite) gelatinous, with a kick from limes and cayenne. Truly a revelation.

Weather has generally been gray and damp and in the upper 40s, but one day there was a terrible wind storm (for some reason the German meteorologists felt it was worthy of a name, "Cyril") with gusts locally up to 100 kph (and 160 kph elsewhere) that resulted in a number of deaths across the continent and some downed trees and a toppled statue in Brussels. There was little evidence of damage in our neighborhood, if you don't include my umbrella's loss of another pin (and subsequent gain of another paperclip). Since I acquired the umbrella secondhand in 1991, I try to maintain it in working condition. More recently, the weather has turned colder for the first time and we had flurries!

On a squally Saturday, we finally got around to checking out the Porte de Hal (Jack prefers the Dutch name "Halleport"), the last remaining gate to the city that comprised part of the second ring wall enclosing Brussels. It is being used as a museum, and they had an exhibit of life in rural Morocco. The artifacts were interesting, but the space itself was the real draw. There was an elaborate spiral stone staircase framed by stained glass windows (through which the photo above, showing the Atomium and Basilica in Martian-miniature, was taken) and containing statues in niches in the center . Each floor had a room with a vaulted ceiling, and bits of other demolished buildings were located throughout. The top floor was the most interesting, as it was located under the eaves and held the cafeteria, shrouded from view by curtains set up in the doorway. There were picnic tables set up under the beams and in one corner there was a rustic cabin that housed the snack bar. Most people who came up there probably reacted like we did ("Huh?") and left. Rumor has it that they'll let you up to the overlook on the roof if you ask, but we only discovered that afterwards. We also later learned that the building was renovated in the 19th century in the "Romantic Medieval" style after the city wall was demolished, which explains why, if you entered the city through the exterior door, there is no corresponding exit on the interior side, since the spiral staircase blocks your path.

To complete our Moroccan-themed day we went and saw "Babel". A mistake, naturally, due to the fact that 5 or so languages are spoken and none of them were translated into English. But we managed to get the gist. We ordered a large coke from the concession stand, thinking it would be a refreshing way to quench our thirst after walking all over tarnation, only to be reminded when we saw the girl filling up the cup that They Don't Do Ice Here. Not quite as refreshing as I had hoped. The whole movie experience reminded us once again that we really had forgotten just about everything we had learned about living here.

We've done some more walks from the book I got and located the spot where the Tsar drunkenly fell in a secluded fountain in 1717 and found the scandalous 1894 statue by Lambeau that resides, partially hidden behind shrubbery, in front of the adjoining community's town hall.