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Tags - brussels

Brussels to Mechelen - the Alternative Route

July 3, 2009

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Belgian Bloglets

16 June 2009   One of the great things about Brussels is that it's a real hub: friends often pass through. A couple of weeks ago I discovered by chance that Meera, a scrabble buddy of mine from Tanzania days, was scheduled to attend some meetings in  Brussels. She is now working with the World Bank in Washington. We had last met about six years ago, and I'm not sure she even knew I was back living here. I immediately got in touch with her - and she claims I knew about her forthcoming trip before she did! She managed to arrange to have a day off after her official business, and asked me to plan something. So what is there for visitors to do in Brussels? Well, you could visit any one of a number of superb museums, including the newly opened Magritte Museum, you could wander around the city, visiting the Grand'Place, and the Saint Michel Cathedral, or you could go further afield - we're only about an hour and a half from the beautiful city of Bruges. You could even spend the day lazing around in parks - Brussels is the second ‘greenest' city in the world, after Washington - not in the environmental sense, but in the number and size of parks. But no, I had other plans for Meera. ‘Are you fit?' I asked. Clearly, she is. She's slim, gorgeous, and a nutritionist to boot. ‘What did you have in mind?' ‘You do cycle?' ‘Well, if it's not hills.' ‘Flanders is flat; we're going to Flanders.' So early in the morning Meera and I took the train to Mechelen, a half-hour journey north. My ‘A Vélo, Mesdames' group had cycled up the previous day, and had stayed at a sports centre. Two bikes had been taken up in a van for myself and Meera. For those of you who haven't read my biking stories, ‘A Vélo Mesdames' is the group I found when I was looking for biking lessons to improve my confidence in the city. Most of the participants are Moroccan ladies from a community centre in the city, and many of them have just recently learnt to ride. ‘It's a twenty minute walk from the station,' we were told. Well, the directions we had weren't the clearest, and my Flemish is not the best, so it took us an hour and a half to find our group. ‘We came up through woodland,' Carmen, the instructor, told us. ‘But it was rather muddy, so we're going back along the canals.' ‘How far?' Meera asked. ‘Thirty kilometers.' ‘Hmm, I guess we'll manage.' Before we even set off, I received my first biking injury - a large gash on the chin. A classic: as I was attaching my bag onto the back of my bike, the elastic twanged into my face. I felt it looked quite heroic. Soon we were off. Three other helpers assisted Carmen in keeping the dozen or so of us on track...well, sort of. The route was stunning, past lakes and along quiet canals where parent ducks were taking their ducklings for gentle swims. All very pleasant. Every now and then we stopped to regroup, and our ‘guides' pulled out their maps. We noticed they weren't all in agreement and there seemed to be a lot of discussion. At one point we went all the way round a huge lake and ended up where we started, and I don't think that it was intentional. After about two hours I asked Robert, one of the helpers, how far we'd ridden. ‘Thirty kilometers,' he replied. And it certainly didn't feel as though we were close to Brussels. A couple of the helpers were beginning to complain, but the ladies were perfectly happy, chatting away among themselves. That's when we came across a sign that read ‘Mechelen 6, Brussels 18.' Ah well, the day was lovely, breezy with a few clouds. Soon we stopped at a café to have our picnic lunches. From there it was a straight run into Brussels, with no more diversions. It was fun linking up with different people within the group: that's what I love so much about my itinerant life - getting to know new cultures. And Meera and I, surprisingly, were not at all stiff the next day - though I was absolutely exhausted! To see photos of our expedition, see http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=128533&id=664241054&l=7395d657e3

Tags: cycling flanders bike brussels mechelen canals

A Day in Paris with Elaine

July 3, 2009

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Belgian Bloglets

28 June   Recently I've been catching up with friends from ages ago. In my previous blog post, I mentioned my reunion with Meera. Meera and I were in a six-woman scrabble group in Tanzania, and we had loads of fun together - once we even took our Scrabble boards to Saadani Game reserve on the Indian Ocean north of Dar es Salaam and played in the full moon listening to hyenas and hippos... Another member of the group was Elaine, a French teacher. A couple of weeks ago Elaine e-mailed saying she was taking her class to Paris, and would be free at the weekend. So off I went last Sunday. We often joke that the best thing about living in Brussels is that you can get out so easily, and indeed, the train journey to Paris takes an hour and a quarter: for a distance of over 160 miles, that's pretty fast. Elaine met me and we had a great time catching up on five years of news. She had planned for us to go to the Rodin museum. I knew nothing about Auguste Rodin (1840-1917), apart from his iconic sculpture of The Thinker, and it was a real treat to discover more of his work, and that of Camille Claudel (1864-1943), in the wonderful Hotel Biron where the museum is housed. The beautifully laid out garden is used to exhibit a large number of Rodin's sculptures, including his monumental ‘Gates of Hell', depicting a scene from Dante's Inferno, which incorporates 180 figures, some of which, like ‘The Thinker' who sits at the top of the gates, Rodin also cast as separate sculptures. Much of his inspiration came from Michelangelo. The Hotel Biron was built in the early eighteenth century for a Paris wig-maker who had done rather well for himself. During Napoleon's reign it was the headquarters of the Papal legate, and then the residence of the Russian Ambassador. In the nineteenth century it became a school for young ladies. The school had to close in the early twentieth century; Rodin rented a few rooms in it, and used it as his studio. In 1916 he bequeathed all his work to the French government, and requested that the house should become a museum for his work. He died in 1917, and so was not able to see his dream become reality when the museum was opened in 1919. When he was 41, Rodin met the 17-year-old Camille Claudel. She became his lover, inspiration, confidante, and protégée, and many of her brilliant works are displayed in the museum. They had an intense, passionate relationship, but as Rodin gained world-wide recognition and she struggled to make herself known, their relationship dwindled. She suffered from psychological problems and spent the last thirty years of her life in a mental institution. Elaine and I wandered around the garden, and had our picnic there, before touring the Museum. We were grateful for the audio sets, because there was a huge amount to discover. Than we had just enough time to go to a café, take out the Scrabble game Elaine had brought with her, and have a celebration game - in French, of course. I started with fifty extra points for a seven-letter word, but Elaine soon caught up and beat me! And so, back to Brussels. To see a few photos of our day, and the museum, see http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=132376&id=664241054&l=5735de2587 For more on Auguste Rodin, see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Auguste_Rodin For more on Camille Claudel, see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Camille_Claudel For more on the Rodin Museum, see http://www.musee-rodin.fr/welcome.htm

Tags: cycling flanders bike brussels mechelen canals rodin claudel museum sculpture paris brussels

Chausiku's Botched Research

July 26, 2009

8 comments

Belgian Bloglets

In a recent fit of enthusiasm, I recently wrote to 'International Living' pitching several (as yet unwritten) articles.  The editor, to my surprise, wrote back quickly and said she's like a piece about the new shared bike scheme set up in the city by the Brussels Region.    To explain: in May,  a whole lot of bike stations mushroomed up around the city, decked with neat lines of bikes with bright yellow handlebars and wheel covers.  This seemed to me to be an excellent idea:  unlike in Holland, bikes are not part of the Belgian philosophy, except perhaps in Flanders, and in Brussels there are far too many people driving alone to their work each day.  Parking in the city is difficult and expensive.  Though public transport works extremely well, the roads get quite congested at rush hour, as do the insides of the trams, buses and trains.    Recently the Greens managed to get a few bike lanes put in here and there, but there's still a long way to go.  But biking is definitely the most efficient means of transport at busy times.  I have experimented, and my twenty-five minute bike ride gets me to various places where I work much faster than public transport or a car.  The new Villo scheme is a whole bunch of steps in the right direction.   But since May, apart from a couple of tourists, I've rarely seen anyone on a Villo bike.  I decided to investigate, for the purposes of the article, and for my own interest.   So this morning I set out on Willabelle, helmeted and wearing my wonderful A Vélo Mesdames fluorescent yellow jacket, to my nearest Villo station, Number 73, about two miles away at the bottom of Avenue Louise.  There I locked up Willabelle and  inserted my credit card into a machine, to sign up.  I had to give a guarantee of 150 Euros in case I didn't return the bike.  There were two options: a day's rental or a week's.  (You can take an annual rental, but that has to be done online).  I went for the day, which would cost me 1.50 Euros maximum (just over a pound?).  But the first half-hour is free, so my plan was to ride around all day, from one bike station to the next (they are placed about 450 metres from each other), and have innocent passers-by take photos of me in the Grand'Place and other interesting spots.   I would make each leg under half an hour.  This way I would get plenty of material for my article, and at least a week's worth of exercise, for free.    Anyway, when I had glanced at (not read) the terms and conditions and ticked all the boxes and chosen a password and so on, the machine issued me with a little scrap of paper with a number on it.  I  chose a bike, keyed in the number, pressed a button and the bike magically unlocked.   I stuffed the scrap of paper in my back pocket and was off.  It was a heavier bike than mine, but the seat was at the right height, it had seven gears,  and it worked well.  Brussels on a sunny Sunday in July is gorgeous - quiet and clean.  I zoomed up to the top of the Avenue Louise, round past the Palais de Justice, and down Rue Royale to the Place Royale.  Time for my first photo.  A kind Swiss tourist obliged, and I was off again, this time to the next bike station, because I feared my half-hour was nearly up.   I went to the machine, and clicked 'short-term rental' and then '1 day'.  'Insert the code written on your voucher,' the machine told me.  I fished in my pocket.  D***!  Where was it?  My house keys were there, my Willabelle keys - even the remore control for the garage - but no voucher.  I emptied out my rucksack.  Water, camera, wallet, tissues...no voucher.  And I'm not the sort of person who can remember a six digit number - even for a minute.  What on earth was I going to do?  I couldn't get another bike, and I figured I'd be charged 150 Euros for this one, because I needed the code to switch it.  Only one thing for it - ride back the three miles to where I'd picked up this back, checking all along the way for the voucher which must have slipped out of my pocket.    But I'd have to go on the wrong side of the road if I was to have any chance of finding it.  Fortunately there were very few people around, and I rode back on the pavement, stopping to check every bit of paper on the ground along the way.  No voucher.    Back at Station 73, I wondered what I was going to do next.  I keyed in 'short-term rental' and '1 day.'  And once again, the machine asked me for the voucher number.   What on earth did other people do?  Was I the first person in Brussels to have lost a silly scrap of paper?  I checked the terms and conditions on the machine, and in amongst a thesis of legal French I found a phone number, but of course when I called I got a message saying 'Monday to Friday between 8 a.m. and 8 p.m.'  I could simply lock the bike to a tree and call them tomorrow to explain.  But that would be crazy, and they'd definitely dock cash off my credit card.  Take Yellow Villo home and leave Willabelle?  No, Chausiku, think laterally, there must be a way.   In fact, don't think laterally, think straight.  I wheeled Yellow Villo to her spot at Number Two, slid her into place, a metal thing clicked, I pressed a red button, and it went green.  She was locked.  And safe.  Maybe you just need the number to change bikes, and not to return a bike to its original location.  But I'd better call tomorrow to explain, just in case...

Tags: cycling flanders bike brussels mechelen canals rodin claudel museum sculpture paris brussels article research bike brussels scheme villo cheap community


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Bye Bye Boxes

October 4, 2009

10 comments

Belgian Bloglets

Today, almost a year after we moved into this apartment, I unpacked the final box. My life is now box-free - for a while, anyway.  This was the longest lasting single move of the dozen or so moves in my adult life.  Worthy of a mention in Lo's Greatest Moving Abroad Tips (Lo, you can quote me in the next edition  as saying 'Don't do it My Way'.)   Why did it take so long?  We left Uruguay in mid-July last year, with four large suitcases.  Our 'stuff' which was shipped was the subject of many a poem and blog post back then.  We arrived in Belgium at the beginning of September, having spent time with family and friends in England, Ireland and Scotland. And we moved into an aparthotel, while we waited for our tenants to leave our flat.   The six weeks there were wonderfully minimalist - amazing how much stuff one accumulates and how little one needs.  Then in mid-October we moved into the flat.  And our 'first move' was delivered - up an external lift and through our terrace door and into the flat via the bedroom- stuff that had been in storage for over eight years - our furniture, loads of old files and photo albums and books, kids' memorabilia and so on, most of it pretty mouldy.  And we began to realise that we'd need to make a few changes: the kitchen was small and ugly, and I wanted a new one.   Another month passed before the 'real' move arrived: the big truck filled with 'Uruvan' boxes arrived on a snowy November day - a piano, pictures, kitchen equipment, bedding, hi-fi and so on.  Now we'd come from a pretty big house in Montevideo, and this is a normal-sized flat - and though we'd got rid of lots of bits and pieces before we left, it soon became clear that we'd have to rationalise.  Kids came over with empty suitcases at Christmas and went away with full ones.  They mostly took sheets, pictures, crockery and cutlery.  However, they managed to convince us that parents actually keep extra kids' stuff until those kids turn thirty, and boxes were neatly labelled 'Kids' school reports', 'Kids' paintings' (none became an artist but you don't chuck stuff like that away), 'Kids' books', and stored in our minuscule cellar.   Then there were several trips to a wonderful place I discovered called 'Troc', which sells second hand junk.  Gardening equipment, gardening tools (we only have a teeny terrace here) were disposed of, along with bric-a-brac.  In eight years kids and adults grow, and tastes change, so a lot of clothes were disposed of at  'Les Petits Riens', a local charity.  The International School of Brussels welcomed piles of books that no-one wanted to read any more.   But still there were loads of unpacked boxes and no-where to empty them.    And suddenly, from 'let's get a new kitchen', the plans developed and grew - we desperately needed storage space, and there was nowhere to hang the washing, and...and...and...All the planning took quite a while, and when we'd at last made up our minds as to what we wanted, the company we'd chosen couldn't start work until August.    'Two weeks, it'll take,' they said.  Except the painting.  We start on 4 August.  Everything, including the painting, will be done by the end of the month.   Yeah, yeah, we thought, as we made sure penalties for delays were included in the contract.   'We're going on holiday, and coming back on 13 August,' we said.  'We need the house to be livable in by then.'   'What's livable in?'   'I need to be able to sleep, have a shower, cook, and wash my clothes.'   Well, needless to say, they were nowhere near done when we got back, and we moved into an aparthotel - the same one we'd been in when we arrived last year - equipped with the same four suitcases.   'Mid-September,' they said.  And on the appointed date, stress levels pretty high, we moved back.  The dust and the filth were awful, but apparently that is to be expected.  Still a few details to be sorted - window-closing mechanisms, blinds, a couple of shelves here and there, and a bit of negotiation as to who was responsible for the state of the parquet - which they had scratched by dragging the furniture around.    And now, it's done.  I have a new kitchen, a laundry-room, and loads of space.  Over the last couple of weeks we have been unpacking - today we tackled the last four boxes - all photos and pictures collected over eight years in Tanzania and Uruguay.   All the new wall-to wall cupboards means less wall space, and so fewer places to put pictures - but the kids will visit again soon (and one will turn thirty shortly).   Tomorrow the builders come back for the 'final' tweaks.  Apart from the parquet.  Seems their insurance will pay for that, but it'll take a while to get the paperwork done.  I can't face moving everything out of the living-room again and facing more filth and dust.  I have covered the floor with carpets, and hope the insurance people will just give me damages.   And I just love my new kitchen - it opens in to the living-room, so we can chat while I'm in there.  It's friendly and bright - and I have a great view over to Sweeney's.  The workmen are meant to install a blind on the kitchen window tomorrow.  Let's hope they forget it.  I attach a couple of 'before' and 'after' photos, so you can see the transformation.    Moving, they say, is the next most stressful thing after a death in the family or divorce.  Pkease let me stay put for a little while, please!   '

Brussels Doubts

September 15, 2010

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Belgian Bloglets

‘Our employees are unauthorized to speak any language other than Dutch.  If you don’t speak Dutch, bring an interpreter.’   Those words, more or less, are written in four languages on the notice board of the swimming-pool in the commune of Zaventem, in the north of Brussels.   That’s friendly, I thought, imagining myself being left to drown because I was yelling ‘Help! Help!’ with an English accent as opposed to ‘Help! Help!’ with a Dutch accent.    I’ve lived in this country off and on for fifteen years, but still I don’t understand the politics.  According to Wikipedia, ‘Belgium's political institutions are complex; most political power is organised around the need to represent the main cultural (and political) communities.’  And those communities are divided along linguistic lines.    As far as I cen see, to put it very simply, there’s Dutch-speaking Flanders in the north, and French-speaking Wallonia in the south.   Brussels is a mainly French-speaking island in Flanders, surrounded by Dutch-speaking communes.  And there’s a little German-speaking part in the East, but they seem to just get on with things without too much fuss.   After Belgium was formed in 1830, only 1% of the people could vote:  these were the wealthyFrench-speaking bourgeoisie.  Even in Flanders, the nobility spoke French .  During the industrial revolution Wallonia did well, and Flanders remained an economic backwater.  As the Flemings (Dutch-speakers) became more educated, they sought to have a fairer position in society.    Eventually in the sixties a linguistic border was officially drawn, and in the seventies legislation came in to protect the linguistic minorities.  And in 1993 the constitution was changed.  The country now works (‘works?’  We rarely seem to have a government at all) on a federal system, with Flanders, Wallonia and Brussels all having their own powers in various areas.   And Flanders has done extremely well, so much so that it is economically superior to Wallonia today. And it would like to be independent.  But there is the problem of Brussels: the capital would not like to see the dissolution of the Belgian state.  And what would happen to Wallonia?  Some people see it merging in with northern France…   Meanwhile, the country is, as ever, in political turmoil.  Will it fall apart this time?   In April the government fell  when  negotiations between Dutch- and French- speaking politicians over a bilingual voting district broke down, and elections in June resulted in large gains both for the Flemish nationalists in the north and the Wallonian socialists in the south.  Their leaders, Bart de Wever and Elio di Rupo were asked to get together and form a government, and meanwhile, the previous premier, Leterme, was asked to stay on as caretaker.  Months later, they seem to still be in an impasse.   The longer I live here, the less I understand it all.   Surely having three official languages in a country should be an advantage for everyone living there?   I decided to quiz a couple of my friends, whom I knew were well-travelled, and believed to be fairly liberal.  First I spoke to Marise, a French-speaker.   ‘It’s all about power,’ she told me.  ‘The Flemings are blocking all the communes around Brussels, strangling the city.  They make it very difficult for French-speakers to live there.  You know, you have to have a Dutch test before you can buy a house in those communes?’   ‘So is it about language?’ I asked.     ‘Well, they think it is.  They think their language is so important. Hmph.  My grandfather was a Fleming, but he was in the bourgeoisie, so he spoke French.  We had a family reunion recently, and you know, a lot of cousins married into Dutch-speaking families, and they don’t speak a word of French now.  Can you believe it?’   ‘Do the French-speaking members speak Dutch?’ I asked.   ‘Well, that’s not the same.  Who would want to speak Dutch?  It’s a useless language.’   ‘Do you think Belgium will split?’   ‘They might have all the industry now, but we have the water in Wallonia.  They need us.’   Next day I spoke to Marijke, my Dutch-speaking friend.   ‘It’s all about language,’ she said.  ‘They refuse to speak our language.  It’s a lack of respect.  We have had to speak theirs for years.  It’s about time the tables were turned.’   ‘Do you see a divided Belgium?’ I asked.    ‘We could certainly live without them, but they couldn’t live without us.  We’ll see.’   Back in 2007, Flemish journalist  Dominiue Minten said to the BBC : ‘There is such a thing as a Belgian identity, and sometimes Belgians are proud to be Belgian.’  I wonder whether the same could still be said today.  And I wonder if it is significant that it was the Dutch-speaking Kim Clijsters who took the US Open tennis trophy, rather than French-speaking Justine Henin.

Belgian Babel

September 17, 2010

2 comments

Belgian Bloglets

It's great fun trying to find your way when you're driving round Belgium: the names of the towns can be very confusing. In Dutch-speaking areas, the signposts are in Dutch, and in French-speaking areas, they're in French.  Fine if you're travelling to Bruxelles/Brussel, or Louvain/Leuven, even, but if you're on your way from Flanders to Tournai, you need to know that you should be following signs to Doornik. And would you believe, Lille is signposted Rijsel from anywhere Dutch-speaking.  But you soon get used to it.   Last week I went to Antwerp for the day with my friend Monique.  She lives in Waterloo, just near Braine-l'Alleud where I used to live, about 20 k south of the city centre - very much a French-speaking area.  We met at the Central Station in Brussels, took a local train that stopped at every unheard of hamlet on the way, and had a great day in Antwerp, shopping and practising our Dutch.  On the speedy train on the way home, there was an announcement (only in Dutch, of course: we were in Flanders):'Dit trein stopt in Brussel Nord, Brussel Centraal, Brussel Zuid en Eigenbrakel.'   'Hey, Monique,' I said, 'you don't have to change trains in Brussels Central- this train goes on to Braine-l'Alleud!'   'How do you know?'   'The guy said - Eigenbrakel - that's Braine-l'Alleud.'   'Are you sure?'   'Of course I'm sure, I lived there for six years.'   No wonder this country has problems, if people don't even know the name of their own neighbourhood in a language that is widely spoken only about three kilometres down the road from where they live.

A Vélo, Mesdames!

June 20, 2009

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Published Material

Published in'The Oldie', March 2009 Shortly after I arrived in Brussels a few weeks ago, it was ‘car-free Sunday' - from dawn till dusk, no motorised vehicles were allowed into the city centre, apart from public transport. The streets filled up with smiling happy cyclists, trikers, Nordic walkers, roller-bladers, joggers and strollers. What a great opportunity to explore my new surroundings, I thought. I rented a bike, and joined the throngs. Within ten minutes I was flat on my back with my leg caught under the twisted wreckage of my chain guard. My wheel had caught in a tramline. My daughter scolded me over the phone from London. ‘But Mum, you have to hit the tramlines at right angles!' Fine, but what if you want to go in the same direction as the tram? ‘Take lessons,' she advised. And although I've been cycling for almost half a century, I figured she was probably right. It would be a great way to gain confidence, get exercise, and meet a few people. I called the bike rental shop. ‘You'd better join the beginners' group on Monday,' the receptionist said, ‘so we can assess your level.' She probably remembered what I'd done to the last bike she'd let me loose with.   My fellow-bikers at my first lesson were from Algeria, Congo, Togo, Algeria and Lebanon. Clad in fluorescent yellow jackets with elegant matching leg-bands, we pushed our bikes to the Parc Royal, where Carmen, our Spanish instructor, yelled ‘A vélo, mesdames! On yer bikes, ladies!' For some, this was only the second or third time they'd ever been on a bike, so they practised rolling down gentle slopes with their feet on the ground. Carmen soon had me changing gears, riding up and down mounds, and slaloming through trees. I was quickly promoted to the Wednesday group. My companions in the advanced class two days later were a friendly, confident group of ladies, mostly from Morocco. This time, after a quick warm-up in the park, Carmen led us from the bike shop through busy avenues past the European Institutions. ‘Come on, girls! Remember, this is the European Year of Cross-Cultural Dialogue! That means eye contact! And smile!'   We passed the Royal Palace, the Synagogue, and St Michel Cathedral. ‘Never let a vehicle break up our pack,' Carmen said. ‘Always stop in front of all the other cars at traffic lights.'   Terrified, I stayed as close to her as I could. We hurtled down cobbled alleyways: ‘Pedals parallel! Let your feet take the weight!'   We paused to admire that wonderful Belgian icon, the Mannequin Pis, and rode past the Guild Houses in the Grand'Place, where preparations were under way for the Christmas light show. We left the city centre and charged on towards Midi Station.   ‘Maintain eye-contact! Show them who's boss!' called Carmen, as we spun round a roundabout four times, veils and scarves flying. ‘Hit the tramlines at right angles!' Well, I wasn't going to make that mistake again, especially not while we were crossing six lanes of juggernaut-packed traffic. After an hour and a half, we locked our bikes in a neat line outside a branch of Exki, the tastiest and healthiest fast-food chain in Brussels. Inside, we recovered over a coffee and a slice of tart. Soon we were on our bikes again for the last, steep leg back up to the bike shop. An exhilarating, adrenalin-filled morning, and all for five Euro, bike rental, coffee and tart included. Well, I know I shall not be twiddling my thumbs on Wednesday mornings for the next few years.   If you would like to see the group in action, check out this link: http://www.provelo.org/IMG/pdf/avmdfr.pdf

Frisking and Sweating to Fitness

March 17, 2010

5 comments

Published Material

This first appeared on the Arena and was published in 'The Oldie' in March 2010   When we arrived in Brussels in 1994, I was looking for a way to keep fit. I wasn't interested in joining an expensive gym where fashion and physique were priorities, and when I heard about the democratically-priced Swedish-origin fitness group Friskis & Svettis, I immediately fell in love with the name and decided to investigate.                                                                                                                                              And I wasn't disappointed. For six and a half years I went along a couple of times a week without fail. It brought together people of all shapes, sizes and ages, mostly expats. Sessions were held in various venues around the town, and were graded according to intensity (I managed to move up from Basic to Medium over the years).             At every session there was a ‘welcome host' and an instructor who worked the routine from the centre of the circle of participants. All the instructors were responsible for putting their music together and working out the choreography, according to structured criteria, so I always felt I knew what was going on, whatever session I went to.             So, a year ago, back in Brussels after an eight-year break, I decided to check out Friskis again. On their website I found a lunchtime session a half-hour train-and-walk trip away.             How comforting it was to find that Friskis was almost exactly the same. A host, clad in red and white, welcomed us, and soon thirty or so of us were copying the instructor, pumping, stretching, and prancing around.                                                                                           Frisking and sweating with the group has once again become an important part of my routine.  I definitely prefer the easy to the medium sessions, and I still have a bit of a problem with co-ordination, but I'm not too fussed. I remember being surprised, initially, that the instructor didn't correct our moves, but I learnt that you soon pick them up from the others, or if you don't, it doesn't matter.             Eight years on, even the music hasn't changed much: it's still a combination of Europop, Eurosmulch, northern European drinking songs, a bit of reggae, and the inevitable Abba, in various European languages. And the sessions are still conducted in the inimitable smiling happy Friskis style. According to their website, the idea is ‘to offer a fun and accessible high quality workout for everybody.' Someone once told me you have to laugh seven times a day to keep healthy - from that point of view, one Friskis session covers you for about a month.             There are Friskis & Svettis groups in many European countries. Sweden has half a million members - over 4.1% of the population. A typical Friskis session, known as jympa, has two or three aerobic peaks, and is interspersed with strength, flexibility, and stretching exercises. The group organises many other activities, such as Nordic Walking and jogging. Here in Brussels, during the summer months, there are twice-weekly free open air sessions in the Parc du Cinquantenaire, which attract huge numbers of casual passers by. As many as four hundred people take part, with lots of children joining in, and extra hosts come along to help keep everyone on track.             At present, in Brussels, there are over 600 members, ranging in age from under twenty to seventy - fifteen per cent are over fifty. One of my favourite instructors is sixty - and boy is she fit!             There has been just one notable change since my nineties Frisking era: in my absence people have moved into tracksuit bottoms. My fifteen-year-old Friskis-bought grey and sky blue striped cycling shorts stand out a little. (I can hear my daughters groaning: ‘Mu-um! NOBODY wears shorts to the gym any more!') The make is ‘Stay in Place', but even back in the nineties we used to say it should be ‘Let it All Hang Out' instead.   But Friskies is Friskies, and no-one batted an eyelid.

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Sun	Mon	Tue	Wed	Thu	Fri	Sat
29	30	1	2	3	4	5
6	7	8	9	10	11	12
13	14	15	16	17	18	19
20	21	22	23	24	25	26
27	28	29	30	31	1	2
3	4	5	6	7	8	9

Sun	Mon	Tue	Wed	Thu	Fri	Sat
29	30	1	2	3	4	5
6	7	8	9	10	11	12
13	14	15	16	17	18	19
20	21	22	23	24	25	26
27	28	29	30	31	1	2
3	4	5	6	7	8	9

Sun	Mon	Tue	Wed	Thu	Fri	Sat
29	30	1	2	3	4	5
6	7	8	9	10	11	12
13	14	15	16	17	18	19
20	21	22	23	24	25	26
27	28	29	30	31	1	2
3	4	5	6	7	8	9