J'accuse: Fire in the Sky

This year’s fireworks heralding the New Year in Luxembourg kicked off fifteen minutes too early. I don’t know whether it was the rush to end a not so glamorous 365 days or a simple lack of communication between the two main squares in the Duchy that precipitated the early launching of the firework bonanza but whatever the case, we found ourselves looking up in awe at the multicoloured frozen spectacle much before the conventional ten seconds to midnight.

The extended family affair is almost over as I type and it has been an exhausting whirlwind tour of the Greater Region in subzero temperatures compounded by excess humidity and strong winds. We spent most of the last day of 2009 driving back to Luxembourg from the lowlands of Belgian Flanders and the Nord-Pas de Calais – only to just make it for the very Mitteleuropean style booze up in Place d’Armes. It’s not exactly Time Square or the London eye set ablaze but Luxembourg City’s gambit on extending the Christmas market’s stay in the main squares until the 3rd of January did reap its profits.

Ever the eager party-lovers we got to the center of town around an hour before “Heure-H”. After an early reconnoissance mission I concluded that this would probably be an assembly of misfits, passers-through and hangers on. Let’s face it – up until last night I do not think anyone must have put spending New Year’s Eve in Luxembourg high on their agenda. Still we soldiered on. It would be a warm up of mulled wine, raclette, fondue and the regionally ubiquitous “spaetzle mitt lardons” (it’s pasta Jean-Luc, but not as we know it) that would have to serve as the run up to the fateful countdown. Numerous checks and counterchecks on Tourist Board websites had provided the reassuring information that a “firework display” of some sort would be heralding the anno novo in the smallest European member state this side of Calabria.

There’s Mull in My Wine and Eurotrash on the Stage
The sparse crowd assembled around the outdoor heaters between one food providing hut and another was being constantly fuelled with the spiciest of mulled wines while the summum of entertainment was being provided by a rent-an-electric instrument band that regaled us with the full repertoire of Latino-Eurotrash that broke through the frozen atmosphere with the notes of Fausto Leali, Ricky Valents and some Portuguese fado reserved for the select class of Luxo immigrants.

It was as surreal as an early Bowie classic. The Luxembourg version of John Bundy scaled new heights of murderous electro-covers just as the local “soca” community improvised a most improbable of calypso beach dances on stage while the temperature sunk to digit-freezing levels. It had to come sooner or later – but given the beerfest camaraderie that was tangibly floating from human to human it would come sooner rather than later – and before you knew it the dreaded human train/snake united a psychedelia of member state stereotypes in one big rocking and gyrating orgy of corny musical berserkery. The chain lurched itself around the square like some EC certified chinese paper dragon bellowing fumes of smoke inspired by the wine and the delicious melted cheeses.

Such is the power of human nature (combined with improbable amounts of warm alcohol and the urgent need to keep moving) that the least probable of party atmospheres had suddenly transmogrified into a latter day Jagger & Bowie version of Dancing in the Streets. “It doesn’t matter what you wear, just as long as you are there” sang Jagger and Bowie but believe you me dress did matter on this particular occasion. Not that aesthetics had anything to do with it. It’s just that standing still was not an option and even the gyrating mulattos reminiscing of their previous lives in Calypsoland on stage wore at least three or four layers of gore-tex, viscose and whatever other synthethic material has been ingeniously invented by the mammal with opposable thumbs in order to keep out the inhuman frost.

End the Naughties Now
So as the eve climaxed towards the clichèed crescendo that is the New Year’s Eve countdown, the conventional rituals common to humankind the world over were being religiously observed. Alcohol levels reached recommended heights, corny music was blaring on the tannoys and the odd snowflake or two chose to make its random appearance. I lost count around the fifth or sixth reusable glass of the mulled vinum. It must have been the point where the DJ threatened to recycle another cornyIitalian classic that is only still popular with the third generation Italians whose grandfathers immigrated to the steel mines of the -Burgs in this region a while back.

Yes. It must have been the moment when I was struggling with the concept that, opposable thumb notwithstanding, man is still unable to carry eight piping hot mugs at the same time without the aid of a big-bosomed Bavarian waitress – or at least a tray. At that very moment, I remember that a momentary flash of clarity allowed me to note a few things. First of all I noticed that what had been a sparsely filled square was suddenly choc-a-bloc with homo sapiens exuding bonhommerie and festive spirit. Secondly I noticed that a sudden tidal wave of humans was pushing opposite to the direction were I was intending to deliver the latest fare of warmed fruit of the vine.

Finally, and most importantly, I became distinctly aware of the fact that everybody around me was pointing their indices frantically at the sky (while obviously moving in the opposite direction). It was time to put Occam’s razor into practice and fast. The options before me were multiple. Either the Bundy of the North had launched a new fad in “dancing in the streets” that involved a mass movement much like French “Madison” square dance or this was an early and unexpected appearance of Halley’s skytraveller. Having perfomed a quick mental mathematical calculation (working forward in multiples of 75 from 1066) I quickly eliminated the cosmic option. The random and haphazard crowd behaviour was not a plausible enough proof for a mass dance phenomenon. Which led me to the simplest of explanations (remember this was brain on mulled wine working) – the fireworks much vaunted by the Administration Municipale had kicked off.

With fire like this…
Yet it was only 23:45. There was a whole quarter of the clock before the countdown and yet the jeu de feu (gigifogu) had begun. Just before I gave up hope on delivering my handful of booze, my sansylvestran companions turned up – each to claim their cup. And so it was, that armed with cups of kind gluhwein we marched to Place Guillaume there to gaze in awe and wonder at the fifteen minute display of firework spectacular. I am told that the London firework show lasted eight minutes … the amateurs. I kid you not – the spectacle from Place Guillaume was stupendous. Jacques the Gozitan and Helmut the Roman led the band of Maltese travellers to a spot underneath a tree that had long shed all its clothes for the winter season.

The breathtaking show leads me to recommend an end of year in Luxembourg to anybody who is short of ideas come next season. I am normally not a firework fan myself but these fifteen minutes of constant showering of lights and sounds over the skies of the Duchy were fifteen minutes of bliss. Not even the glass of bubbly that slithered down the back of my jacket out of the hands of an overenthusiastic group of Puerto Rican ladies could dampen the fun of the moment. A few steps away from us some Poms sang “For Auld Lang Syne” while crossing arms… elsewhere the words “Bonne Annee” or “Buon Anno” were endlessly repeated shortly before the sad common spectacle of “mobile messaging” took over as the last peals of the Cathedral bells reminded us that the New Year had begun.

And that, dear friends and readers, is how the New Year kicked off in this latest of outposts for the Maltese emigrant communities. Spending the Christmas period away from home never promises to be good but all you have to do is surround yourself with good people and then you notice that home is never so far after all.

Bruges la Morte and Lille la Belle
Luxembourg was only the last step of a tour that took us to the home of my second Alma Mater – Bruges. What used to be a quiet city for old tourists has become a vibrant and young town once again. Bruges has changed immensely since I left the College ten years ago. One thing remains constant – good old Zaadi in Katelijnstraat – the only corner shop in the world that can procure Kinnie on demand. Ten years have gone by but I only have to walk into the Kwik-E-Shop (yes, he likes the Simpsons) for Zaadi (or Apu) to switch to reminescing the good old times when a Gozitan, a Scotsman, an Italian and a German used to take breaks from studying to have a beer or two in his company.

There’s now also a Frites Museum in Bruges where you can learn all about the history of the potato and the French (ahem Belgian) fries. Surprisingly it does not mention the ever so popular Maltese potato that has made the fortune of many a Dutch fry shop. Culinary experiences were also part of the agenda – from Flemish Stew (stoofvleis) to Mussels to Waterzooi. Thanks to a bungling in the booking on my part we ended up sleeping in Blankenberge (a Belgian version of Bugibba on the English Channel) since the Bruges hotel I booked was for December 2010. In any case we sped off to Lille on the last day up north in order to enjoy more of the lowland fare. Lille too is worth a visit – especially in market season. If you do make it there you would do no harm in trying their version of the Welsh Rarebit… delicious.

All’s Well
The seasonal break is over. Tomorrow I will accompany the happy families to the airport before lifting my legs up in the air for a deserved rest on Sunday. It will be back to work and a new season of blogging and article writing. We will pick up from sleeping Franco and the parliamentary antics of the disjointed PN crowd. Somewhere along the way between a Panettone and a Cotechino I picked up some news that Joseph Muscat was eyeing Malta’s EU Presidency. Ominous isn’t it?… it’s something that will happen this coming decade – Malta heading the EU Council and a quick glimpse at the politicians that are primed to be leading the country at that point does not give us much hope. Bring back the mulled wine… I want the drunken stupor to last a little while longer!

Jacques will be resuming blogging business at www.jacquesrenezammit.com/jaccuse now that the festive season is over. Like Melchior, Gaspard and Balthazar hop onto your camels and get into the thick of the show.