To Liege With Love xxx

It was a wet, grey and gloomy afternoon in the Summer of 1999, when I drank my first Cecemel Chaud on Wallonian soil. Looking around me at the ugly rainy atmosphere, the graffiti-ridden buildings and the abundant canine faecal matter, I wondered: "What am I doing here? Is this really going to be my home for the unforseeable future? Have I made a huge mistake?"

12 years later and I'm still here. One of the stalwarts. Practically a pillar of the community. Known to many locals as 'Clairvoyant', 'Madame Android 80' or just simply 'l'anglaise'. Unable to travel just a few yards down the road without a salutatory peck on the cheek, a friendly wave or even being dragged into the nearest cafe for 'un verre'. Wherever I have lived before, my existence has been one of anonymity and, in some places, almost been met with downright resentment. Not in Liege. Its warm and colourful people have opened their arms to me, welcomed me into the very heart of their cosy community, nurtured my eccentricities and drank to my health.

I'm not sure when my love affair with Liege began. It slowly crept up on me like alcoholic intoxication and I have, metaphorically speaking (and possibly even literally), never sobered up since. In the scheme of things, Liege is pretty much a non-entity: Lacking the splendour of Prague or the glamour of Barcelona, its dreary climate and central European location makes it nothing more than a convenient toilet stop on the way to Berlin, Amsterdam or Paris. But this is the city where an elderly gentleman feels comfortable enough to walk around a town centre supermarket with his pet cockatoo perched on the edge of a trolley; where the dogs are better dressed than most people and are treated to Saturday afternoon ice-cream; where a guy with a Salvador Dali moustache arrives on horseback for his Sunday morning coffee; where the gardening shops have racks of mint condition second-hand vinyl sat amongst the bottles of weed killer; where there's an annual spaghetti eating contest; where more than a handful of people use unicycles as a valid form of transport. Liege embraces all of life's eccentricities and with its hippy philosophy, manana attitude, flair for the creative and utmost respect for the absurd, offers a haven where Australian students, Iranian political refugees and Bolivian pan pipers can use one of its multitude of festivals as a convenient excuse to celebrate life.

It is with the heaviest heart that I feel compelled to relay events that have occured this week that would be enough to chew up and spit out even the most solid of communities. On Tuesday afternoon at approximately 12h30, a local man named Nordine Amrani opened fire in Liege's Place St Lambert massacring 4 people (a toddler, 2 teenagers and a 75 year old lady) and leaving many others gravely injured and the rest of us in a state of shock and bewilderment. Just inches away from the Christmas Village; last year covered in snow, this year a blood bath. After first lethally shooting a woman in a shed that he owned, armed with an assault rifle, a revolver and hand grenades, he indulged in the kind of murdering spree alien to most provincial towns, before turning a gun on himself and taking his own life. A convicted rapist and drug dealer, also previously charged for possession of lethal weapons, Amrani was released for good behaviour in 2010. It is believed that he had no terrorist connections and acted alone.

In committing this atrocity in the bustling Place St Lambert, where the grand architecture of years gone by sits comfortably alongside popular modern day chain stores, Amrani has as good as pierced the very soul of Liege.

The aftermath of these events has left our community reeling. We need answers. We need justice. We need peace of mind. From sick jokes and unwarrented racist slurs (although a Belgian national, Amrani was of Moroccan descent) on Facebook, to demonstrative outpourings of grief at the site of the incident via genuine heartfelt compassion, nobody has been left feeling indifferent.

Whatever your religion, I urge all my compatriots to take time out and give some thought to the victims. Let's all reflect on and light candles for those senselessly lost lives and their grief-stricken families. If action needs to be taken, let's point this in the direction of the justice system and the arms industry who have seemingly failed us by allowing the circumstances for this act of evil to take place. Let's eliminate the fear. Above all, let's come together and gently pull out the arrow that's pierced our soul and focus on healing so that we can live harmoniously again and Liege can continue to be the welcoming city we all love.

Please don't change, Liege.

Looney Tunes

The other week, for the first time ever: I saw Philippe Katerine.

After a seemingly disappointing bill for the Ardentes music festival  this year, I still took some advantage of the perk of having a free four-day pass and managed to catch some suprisingly entertaining shows. Although Wu Tang Clan didn't live up to expectations, Limp Bizkit kicked some proverbial ass on the Friday night, but I was still left feeling a little cheated, as a younger generation than mine reaped the rewards of a 90s retro line-up (I was several years the wrong side of 30).


Sunday afternoon was definitely more my cup of tea. Agnes Obel's dulcet tones rang hauntingly through the venue accompanied by her ethereal piano chords, but not quite evoking the jovial festival atmosphere I had in mind. The unexpected highlight of the afternoon was Congolese street band Staff Benda Bilili whose funky breakbeats were received better than anything I have ever seen at the Ardentes (who would've thought that Belgians can do the conga?)


A few beers later, accompanied by some old friends, I managed to squeeze my way to just a few yards from the foot of the stage to await what promised to be the show to end all shows: Philippe Katerine - French singer/songwriter famous for his eccentricities. Following his 3 musicians, the man himself made a grand entrance wearing a flamboyant dressing gown and with four young female dancers in tow. The gown was soon discarded to reveal a rather splendidly feminine flowered strappy jump suit, a stark contrast to the grizzly man underneath.


Katerine was every bit the eccentric that I had been led to believe. Every track bore witness to his dadaist sense of humour; from the nonsensical "Bla Bla Bla", to the intentionally naff "La Banane". The fact that he is no Sinatra is of little relevance when he can ingenously create a melody and build a track around something as banal as the sound that accompanies the ever-too-familiar warning, "Windows Explorer has done an illegal operation and has to shut down".

The dancing girls were a joy to watch; choreographed to the hilt and cute in their brightly coloured football kits and  knee-high socks.The audience whooped with delight when Katerine threw in the odd Liege colloquialism, mockingly chanting the word "oufti" which is the expletive of choice for my Liege compatriots. Bananas were thrown on stage, as is apparently the tradition at a Katerine gig, and there were regular cries of request for our hirsute friend to strip off and get naked.


For a moment, I thought he was only too happy to oblige - teasingly sliding down the odd strap, popping a button or provocatively lowering his waistband to groin level.  Despite his far from buff physique and ludicrous attire, Katerine still exuded an inkling of sexual energy through his confidence and sheer audacity, even when he stood in front of the crowd in nothing but a pair of unflatteringly stretchy mock denim undercrackers.

Entertaining as all this was, I am uncertain whether it

would translate well to an Anglophone culture.

The show’s air of the bizarre and slapstick adds up

to the kind of humour that is quintessentially français. Ooh là là.

Check out Katerine's website and help him catch those bananas.

Would I try it again?: Oufti.......oui!

His Name is Rio

Last week, for the first time ever: I went to the Rio de Janeiro Carnival.

Well ok, not quite...but probably as close as I'll ever get.

How does a Belgian guy from the humble background of Herve end up being the centre of attention on a float at the world's biggest carnival?

The answer is simple: passion.

This is what I discovered last Sunday when I visited Alain Taillard's exhibition, and, for the first time ever, feasted my eyes on a variety of costumes that have been an integral part of the Rio Carnival during the last decade.

After pouring me a healthy glass of wine, Alain proceeded to tell me about his all-consuming hobby that takes him to the other side of the world every year along with partner Bernard who is only too happy to be his accompanying photographer.

Since the mere age of six years old, Alain has taken part in the carnival at his Belgian hometown, Herve, and over the years, his growing fascination has taken him to Nice, Venice and finally the biggest carnival of all, Rio de Janeiro. Most of us can only dream about the once in a lifetime possibility of visiting Rio; Alain has been to the Rio carnival every single year since 1992 and his dreams came true when he was invited to mount a podium on one of the samba school floats. Since then he has climbed the ranks and earned himself more and more prestigious roles each year and is now officially listed as a destaque, or floatee, with the Mangueira samba school.

Before speaking to Alain and seeing the exhibition, I had little idea of the effort, love and attention that goes into crafting each of these costumes over a period of 6 months. It is purely an indulgent, artistic pursuit: each costume is only used once and for just over an hour during the festivities. Only a true afficionado would be prepared to don this heavy, beaded intricate attire and sweat half their body weight in temperatures that sore above 30 degrees.

The detail and magnitude of each costume astounded me. Having tried my hand at fancy dress over the years, I can safely say that what I witnessed in the Ancienne Halle aux Viande in Liege that Sunday afternoon puts my last minute attempts at cobbling together a Marge Simpson costume to shame. Some of the costumes were even incomplete, missing a few tons of peacock feathers; far too expensive to risk damage in transit and thus, left behind in Rio.

Alain and Bernard fund their annual escapades by hosting similar exhibitions throughout Belgium, definitely a worthy cause for the token price of 2 Euros. You can read more about them here: Carnaval de Rio


Would I try it again? All proceeds via paypal to http://www.sendclaireonafreebietorio.justgiving.com/

A Day at the Races

This week for the first time ever: I went Lindy Hop Dancing.

Last weekend saw the arrival of one of my favourite annual events: La Fête de la Musique, when the Francophone cities of the world are treated to three days of wall-to-wall free music. After a manic rock 'n' roll fuelled Friday night and an enthusiastic and well-received performance with Android 80 in the town of Malmédy on Saturday evening, what could be better than taking a trip back in time and revelling in the laissez-faire ambience of the Roaring 20s?

As part of the weekend's events, my friend Vincent was hosting an afternoon 'thé dansant' in the park and the dance of choice was Lindy Hop. It was not until very recently that I had heard of Lindy Hop. My friend Rebecca has been taking classes in Brussels and this piqued my curiosity. The dance first evolved in Harlem in 1927 as a mutation of Breakaway and Charleston and incorporated elements of tap and was made popular in the famous Savoy Ballroom. It was named after Charles Lindbergh's atlantic crossing in 1927.
As it turns out, I am slightly familiar with it through its other name, 'Jitterbug'.

Thanks to Vincent for recommending this scene from The Marx Brothers 'A Day at the Races' featuring Whitey's Lindy Hoppers. I'm sure I don't have far to go to reach the same level as the girl 52 seconds in.

Lindy Hop is a swing dance set to jazz and ragtime and, with a fondness for this kind of music, I had high hopes for an enjoyable afternoon. So I slowly ambled down to Liège's Parc d'Avroy in that half-hearted, post-alcohol manner that comes with the territory of Sunday afternoons.

On first arrival, events seemed a little tragic: One lone hippy-looking guy was flopping around the dancefloor to a Duke Ellington number, admittedly putting his best foot foward, but I have doubts that Caterpillar sandals were ever the footwear of choice at The Cotton Club. As often occurs on a June weekend in Belgium, the weather was also putting a dampener on proceedings. It was the kind of weather that lulls you into the false sense of security that Summer's almost here kids, until two minutes later, somebody creeps up behind you and throws a bucket of water over your head.

Never one to let the weather prevent my enjoyment, I ordered a round of beers (the Belgians would not dream of serving PG Tips at a tea dance) for me, my husband and the friends we had bumped into and dragged along, and soon settled into the relaxed Sunday atmosphere appreciating the delights of Count Basie, Louis Jordan and Cab Calloway. I was especially thrilled to hear Ella Fitzgerald's 'Paper Moon' and thought to myself, "If there's a dance to go with this music, I want to learn it!"

The opportunity was not too far away, as Vincent had engaged two teachers who were more than willing to share their expertise, and, before long, I was forming part of a 'Lindy Circle' on the dancefloor. After mastering some very basic steps in 8 time, we partnered up and put our newly acquired skills to the test. The girls where asked to move around the circle with the aim of changing partners, as is common practice in dance classes. I particularly enjoyed dancing with a little Indian guy half my height who seemed unable to stop giggling, but not so much with a little weasely guy wearing a flat cap who spun me 'round and 'round to the point of nausea. I became more and more relaxed with what seemed to be my kind of movements; shuffling feet, a shake of the leg, a shimmy here, a shimmy there...In fact, I was later informed by my husband that the Lindy Hop is no different to the way that I normally dance!

Looks a bit more like Riverdance here...

When the occasion presented itself to pair up with the professional dance teacher, it was clear that I was now a Lindy Hop afficionado, worlds apart from the other beginners and just a couple of lessons away from embarking on a new career in the world of dance. Bruce Forsyth would soon be knocking on my door.

Would I try it again?: Where do I sign up?