Universal wood stove

Everywhere I turn in Belgium I see thermometers.

And I don’t just mean from one house to the next.

It’s not uncommon to have one in every room, plus one or two of them outside.



The reason for this is two fold:

One, the weather is notoriously fickle in Belgium. What’s being brewed up in the atmosphere at any one moment is a wild goose chase of watching the waves of clouds move overhead and beams of light pass through when they can.

(Even on cloudy days I’ve been amazed by the patches of crystal blue sky that magically appear in the sky … if only momentarily.)






Two, rooms are heated separately – sometimes not at all – depending on how they are being used, who is at home, and whether or not there is company.

It’s a country of wood stoves and radiators … and thermometers.




I am happy to report that a wood stove is a wood stove wherever you are: “Just add wood” … no Celsius conversion necessary.

And the numbers on the knobs of the radiators are also universally numbered, and simple: Just “1 through 5.”

(Converted into Florida units – “Carry the one and multiply by 2/3rds” … that’s also “1 through 5”)


As for the thermometers,

Next time I visit I’m bringing one from Florida … in Fahrenheit!

Or better yet: Fahrenheit on one side and Celsius on the other.



You see, I saw a room that was missing one …

That might be the one my wife brought to America. And perhaps the same thermometer that hangs on the wall of the little room in back of our little Florida home – all the rooms of which are pretty much all the same temperature thanks to air conditioning.

That thermometer reads Celsius on both sides.

evaporation

Mystery "in the air"

Sometimes the facts just don’t add up.

Case in point is the mysterious case of my vanishing waist line while on vacation in Belgium, despite the fact that – as far as I can tell – I’ve been eating nonstop.

My clothes are practically hanging off me it seems – as if I’d lost weight!



Belgian food is indescribably delicious.

That’s more that novelty. The ingredients are fresher because everything is locally grown: small farms are everywhere you turn, gardens ubiquitous, and local bakeries and butcheries institutions.

That has me eating things I don’t normally eat … and lots of it: Bread, cheeses, chocolate, ice cream, an occasional Trappist-Monk brewed beer.

(Side note, but an important one: Ice cream stands are strangely more common and inarguable better in Belgium than Florida. You’d think that climates would dictate the opposite. The cherry on this sundae is that every Monday an ice-cream delivery truck stops by Oma’s house for a fresh delivery.)



That brings me to Oma’s kitchen … or Super Oma as I call her.

I understand what attracted by wife to Florida – the sun-drenched warmth of its peninsular shores proved too intoxicating to her cloud-dampened Belgian soul: But in my heart of hearts the one thing I’ll never understand is how she managed to ever leave Oma’s kitchen.

It is a bounty beyond bounties –

A cornucopia which never stops flowing, of freshly-prepared food, often from the garden, always nourishing, and as if, when you sit at that table, the meal was customized specifically for you … even though there are a handful of others, each arriving at all times of the day, seemingly synchronized to the chimes of the bell tower, who feel the same.



Now back to the mystery –

“How on Earth has my waist line has SHRUNK since I’ve been in Belgium?”

While I’ve been bicycling on a regular basis, and I’ve done my fair share of walking – I’ve done no exercising by my traditional standards.

The numbers, quite simply, just didn’t add up.

“Some mysteries aren’t meant to be solved,” I reasoned, throwing my hands in the “air” in defeat. All I could come up with was that there must just be something different "in the air” here in Belgium.



Days later I found myself eating yet again, this time a childhood friends of my wife for tea-time (but which would be more aptly described as “cake and pie” time … as no tea was consumed … at least by me), when I ran across a foot scale on the back porch, under an awning.

It was an odd place for a scale, but I didn’t ask any questions:

I stood on it instinctively and awaited “the number” … pensively.

To my shock – “it couldn’t possibly be true!” – I weighed half of what I was when I left Florida. A moment of anxiety gave way to realization – “The reading was in kilograms, not pounds.”

I quickly converted into Florida units, but the mystery only deepened. I wasn’t lighter (as the loose pants would indicate) nor was I heavier (as my Belgium enhanced eating routines would suggest).

I was the exact same weight that I’d always been!



In bewilderment, I scanned across the farm field behind their yard, when in the distance I spotted linens and towels on a clothesline blowing in the breeze.

“That’s it” I exclaimed (under my breath) to myself, in silent exuberation: “My clothes are being ‘air dried’ here in Belgium on a clothesline – not in a machine.”

“That means they don’t SHRINK!”



Finally, and with relief:
The mystery was solved!

In retrospect, I could see it all very clearly. All the clues were starring me in the face from the beginning: Yes, there was “something in the air,” only I couldn’t see it, because it was evaporation which is invisible; and yes, the “numbers didn’t add up,” but that was only because I didn’t have any numbers to go on.

Once I hopped on the scale (and got my numbers) then saw evaporation in action on the clothesline, the answer clicked in my head..


There was no better way to celebrate than with a piece of pie.

hail stones

Hail storm

If you’ve ever felt a drop of rain from a summer storm in Florida,

The one thing you are bound to remember is that it (rather, “they” – who can dodge all but one drop?) can be quite cold.

That’s because – way up high in the cumulonimbus tower – each rain drop is born as “hail.”



The drops melt on their travel time through the troposphere. When they land in the Everglades they are invariably liquid.

But they are still cold.

Thus, an umbrella will keep you warm as well as dry.


Compare that to an early evening summer hail storm in Belgium.

It starts as hail … and ends as hail.

At least this one did.


And trust me:

It was cold … especially in bare feet.


(Although by morning it melted, except for the plateful I saved in the freezer.)

handful of hail

Apples and oranges

Is it apples to oranges to compare Florida to Belgium?



Florida is the sunshine state,
Belgium is a country of rain and clouds.

In Belgium it rains more often,
But it’s a steady “off and on … off on … off then on again” rain.

In Florida rain falls down by the bucket full,
More in an hour than Belgium gets all day.

Yes, Florida too has an “on/off” switch,
But it’s flipped on only once – in late May,
Then off again in October for the
Hydrologic darkness of the dry winter to come.


Belgium has more rain barrels,
And they use them every week.

There is no rain barrel big enough
To hold all of Florida’s summer rains, when they fall,
Or for long enough, when they are needed most,
In the winter dry season of sun.

Unless we get an El Nino,
As is predicted this winter

That could bring rain barrel worthy rains
(If you have them).


Are Belgium and Florida apples and oranges?

Both are fruits
They may be different
Around the edges,
But in their centers
Is water.

(Plus, both are indigenous to China!)

In my mind, as a hydrologist, that makes them 100 percent comparable.

fence post view

Multi-lingual tower

Sometimes the view of a tower is more illuminating than the view on it, from up high.

Of course this is one tower I will never climb.



The books will have you believe Belgium is split in two:

The Dutch speaking northern half, called Flanders, and the French speaking southern half called Wallonia, the flag of which is yellow with a red rooster on it.

(I’m not sure what the flag from Flanders looks like.)


But from the hill where we are staying I can see a tower on top of the next ridge.

That’s Aachen, Germany.


Seventy thousand of Belgium’s 10 million residents speak German as their native tongue.

That’s less than 1 percent of the population.

Most of that 1 percent, if they climb to the top of the nearest hill, can probably see that tower.


Does that mean that German is sneaking across the border?

Actually, it’s just the opposite (if in fact French and German are opposites – and I think they are).

German was the exclusive language in this part of Belgium two generations ago. Now it’s shared with French as a close second. Third would be Dutch … English a distant fourth. In nearby Eupen, perhaps the unofficial capitol of German-speaking Belgium, parents can choose schools by what language they want their children to learn … although eventually they learn the first two fluently … and the third and fourth to varying degrees.


The sunsets here are beautiful, but what’s even more striking is the slowness in which they unravel into the never ending twilight.

(The sun doesn’t so much “set” here as it slowly spreads across the horizon, as if there were a giant pan on the other side of the hills catching it.)



My eyes are drawn to that mysterious tower:

It stands stalwart against that low glow of upwelling light,
Then eventually fades from view, into black.

“Guten Nacht, Bon Soir, Weltrusten …Good night.”

patchy blue

Great thermos in the sky

Humidity is the Great Thermos in the sky:

It makes hot days hotter, and cold days colder.

Or at least it feels that way in Florida on a “hot and sticky” summer day or in Belgium on a “cold and damp” day … any time of year.



The father of a friend of mine, growing up, always had a joke to tell. His son remembers them all, I just a few:

His joke about the “thermos” was my favorite.



One day a rather naïve fellow crossed paths with pedestrian carry a strange canister of a type he’d never seen before.

“So what’s that thing you’re carrying?” he asked inquisitively.

“Why this thing here is a thermos!” he explained matter of factly.

“A thermos?” the naïve fellow repeated, rather hollowly, and with a blank look on his face.

“Yes, it’s a thermos,” the pedestrian responded. “You know – it keeps ‘hot’ things hot and ‘cold’ things cold.”



Days later the pedestrian crossed paths with his new acquaintance at about the same spot … this time, he saw, carrying a shiny brand new thermos of his very own.

“So I see you bought yourself a thermos just like mine,” he interjected (as a way of re-introducing himself and with a tinge of pride in his voice).

“Isn’t it great how it keeps ‘hot’ things hot and ‘cold’ things cold!”

Then he added:

“So what do you have in it?”



“Nothing,” the naïve fellow glumly replied. “I’m on my way now to take it back to the store – it’s broken.”

“Broken? That seems odd.”

“And can you believe it: This is the second one I’ve had to return,” he explained, twirling off the cap and pointing inside.

“I followed the directions just like you said – I put in ‘hot’ soup for lunch and a ‘frozen’ pop sickle for a snack afterwards and all I got each time I poured it out was ‘lukewarm’ mush.”




Hot and humid days in Florida and “cold and damp” days in Belgium sort of make you feel like “mush.”



And for the record:

My friend’s father told it a lot better!

empty clothes pin bucket

Clothes line dry

Florida is famous for evaporation –

After all, it is the sunshine state.

But the one thing you won’t see on the peninsula, at least regularly, are clothes drying on a line.


Why is that?

Neighborhood associations won’t allow you for one, but the bigger law in action, which will stymie you even if you try, under cover of night, to hang damp clothes over a line, is atmospheric humidity.


In Belgium drying clothes on a line is the norm.

It's just as damp, and colder, you’d think that would make for equally slow drying.

It does, but it’s well worth the wait:

There’s nothing quite like the smell or freshness of an air dried shirt.



A complaint of New Florida is that we never see our neighbors. Maybe if we hung our laundry out to dry on a line we would.

Just check with your neighborhood association first!

fog at sunset

Drizzle at sunset

After a day of sun, then clouds, then rain, then clouds breaking apart so the sun could shine through again, then more rains, before finally becoming just clouds;

The sun peaked out for a final show to say "good night" ...

Just in time for this passing drizzle.

larger roof

Roof to barrel

How much rain does it take to fill up this rain barrel?

The simple answer is around 0.3 inches of rain.



The total roof area is 240 square feet and the barrel holds 42.5 gallons. (Yes, I should be using metric units, but my mind is hard wired together in “Old English” components.)

That assumes that all the water that falls on the roof finds its way into the barrel.

And I ignored both the rain that falls “directly” into the barrel and evaporation from it – both are minuscule.



What can’t be ignored are the watering cans drawn from the barrel to keep the garden growing.

Between rainy days, that keeps the water barrel less than full.

loudest spot

Watershed chimes

Does time move slower in Belgium?


There’s a clock on the wall in the childhood home of my wife. You can hear it tick all day long … if you listen for it.

Most of the time you “hear” right through it, just like you “see” through the flowers printed on the paper that covers the wall on which it hangs.

But if you take time to sit in that room, by yourself, with nobody else around … and just listen to it tick:

It’s like hearing your heart beat at its steadiest rhythm.



Just down the road is a church.

It dates back to Roman times. High on its bell tower is a clock whose hands you can clearly “see” from the village center.

But you don’t have to “see” it to know what time it is:

Its bell chimes through the valley and over the hills that surround it every 15 minutes on the quarter hour, with a special note for the half hour, and at the top of the hour, a chime for each hour it rings in.

After the 12 chimes at noon it clangs into full flourish.

The bell clapper sometimes double clangs the side of the bell. (That’s my favorite sound.)




So, does time move slower in Belgium?

I don’t know if this is proof: a few days back I noticed that the hands of my wrist watch were 10 minutes ahead of the bell tower chimes. I adjusted it back – but since then, I haven’t worn the watch.

Who needs a wrist watch when you have a bell tower instead?

back to the future

Time warped water

Isn't it true that the best things in life are free?





I'm sort of a sucker when it comes to coin-operated "viewing binoculars" at scenic overlooks.

I always drop in the quarters, only to find -- upon looking through the eye piece -- that I was probably better off saving my money instead.

And it somehow cheapens the entire experience, as if I'd been cheated out of a promise of a better view.







That's why I was so happy to run across a "free" viewing window along a bike path near Kelmis, Belgium.

It frames the place beside the lake where an old water-powered mill once stood.

Behind it, and unmistakable to the ear, was the sound of running water, also part of the old industrial landmark.


Talk about getting my money's worth!

full again

Rainfall reputation

What are the two things we learn about reputations?

The first is that we "earn" them.
The second is that they "precede" us.


That’s always confused me from a logical standpoint: if in fact I “earned” a reputation, that implies – at least to some degree – that I performed some sort of work beforehand to achieve it.

That would mean, by deductive reasoning, that “I” (not the “reputation”) had to be first. Otherwise (as the saying goes), if the reputation “preceded” me:

I would have “inherited” it instead!



That decisive revelation brings me to rainfall in Belgium.

I had been amply forewarned about Belgium’s notoriously reputation as a soggy, stormy and – if you are walking down a hill after a rain shower (on account of the plentitude of slugs sliming their way across the road) – slippery country.

Belgium is to rain what Florida is to sun:

Expect it every day, and yes – in both cases, your best bet to protect yourself (from the soaking and sunburn) is to use an umbrella.



That’s why I was shocked to find, in looking at the data, that Florida gets more rain then Belgium.

Clearly, one reputation is at fault – either Florida is not the sunshine state or Belgium is not the rainfall country.

(Is it apples and oranges to compare a state to a country? Not really, Florida has 12 million residents in comparison to Belgium’s 10 million.)



This is a hydrologic parlor trick of sorts.

The slight of hand is in glancing over evaporation and lumping the rainfall numbers annually.

Belgium may not get as much rain, but it makes up for that “lost water” by having a much lower evaporation rate … and here’s the kicker: four seasons of rain.

That keeps the Belgium country side green and its water barrels full …



Are reputations earned?

When it comes to Belgium rain, yes … every week.

three days later

Spilling point

In Belgium they have an equivalent to our “straw that broke the camel’s back:"



It’s called the “drop that overfilled the vase.”



The saying makes perfect sense
for a place that gets much rain,

And even more so
if you are hydrologically minded
like myself.


But I like using water barrels instead,


And calling it the “spilling point.”

nuage (cloud)