Suit shopping at Alfredo's

Hi Robin

Granddad got himself a new suit today. For the forthcoming wedding, you see. Showing up in Bermuda shorts and flowery shirts is frowned upon on such occasions. So your Grandma dragged me to downtown Brussels today to deck me out in something that will look slightly presentable at her side.

Of course, on that wedding day she will look stunning as ever, in her strapless killer outfit, which makes me wonder: what's the point? Why bother investing good money in an expensive suit that nobody is going to take a blind bit of notice of anyway? Because next to her, I will always pale into insignificance.

But then I realised that I am supposed to deliver the Concluding Remarks during the Church ceremony of the wedding of your uncle Alex and Auntie T. And since I am hard put on any given day to string two coherent sentences together, I might just as well look gorgeous, don't I? Hence the investment in the suit...

Funny experience, shoppping for a suit under your grandmother's expert supervision. There is not a lot of talk going on, but there is an awful lot of non-verbal communication. Here is how it goes: I spot a suit in the rack which I really like. For instance some Italian designed bit of work in smooth cream or caramel color, something that would really make me feel young and attractive again. My hand tentatively reaches out to it, just to feel the material, mind you, not as if I want to actually TRY it, heaven forbid! I give a sideways glance towards your grandmother, and I see her eyebrows curving up so high, they almost hit the ceiling. She gives me a look that says: "What on EARTH are you THINKING??" and she gives that almost imperceptible no-no shake of her head which in 38 years of marriage I have come to understand as 'This is NOT negotiable'.

I always buy my suits at Alfredo's on the Boulvard Adolphe Max. They got great suits. And they don't overprice. In spite of it being exclusively a men's clothing store, they only have female shop attendants. And they are good looking. And they are friendly and really make an effort. I like that.

There are two men that belong to the set up. One of them is an athletic looking black man who is their 'runner': he shuttles between this shop and their other shop on the Place Brouckère. That's where the Alfredo conglomerate apparently stores many more suits. It is also where they adjust the trouser legs to the right for the customer. My hunch is that they have a sweatshop over there where Filipino women are bent over sewing machines in a danky, dark little room, adjusting trouser legs all day long. Anyway, so this guy runs back and forth a lot. Come rain or come shine. He sure looks fit. But he doesn't help customers. Probably he is still considered to be a trainee.

Not looking so fit is the other guy. I guess he is Alfredo himself, the owner of the store and presumably the ring leader of the alleged sweatshop. He just stands there in a corner, looking important and looking menacing. He is in his late fifties, early sixties, I guess, and he is pretty fat. He does bugger all. I look at him and I can't help thinking Cosa Nostra. He could certainly star in the next remake of the Godfather. At his feet lies a humungus dog with a muzzle. I don't think I have ever seen a dog so big. It's a toss up of which one of them is the meanest looking. Beats me what either one of them is doing there but they don't bother me, and frankly I don't want to bother them.

Meanwhile your grandmother is giving the nice shop assistant a run for her money. The girl is running back and forth, bringing arsm full of suits, only to have them instantly rejected by your grandmother. Sterling effort meets stubborn resilience.

Finally, the two ladies settle on a suit that is definitely 'it' for me. Neither one of them seems to care very much about my own opinion on the matter. All that is expected of me is to hoist my sorry looking frame into it and present myself for inspection. The young shop assistant fidgets a little bit with the lapels and the buttons and goes Ooooh and Aaaah, while your grandma doesn't say a word but cocks her head sideways, squints and studies the appearance before her like she is beholding a work of art in a museum. Then comes the all-liberating 'nod of approval' and the matter has been settled. The transaction can be struck. The payment can be made. That's where I come in...

As I said, Robin, it's really fun, suit shopping with your grandmother. Remind me to take you to Alfredo's when it is time in 15-20 years to buy YOUR first suit. But perhaps we should make it a 'boys only' affair when that day comes.

Wonder if Alfredo will still be there when that day comes, looking menacing in the corner. Or that dog for that matter. Time will tell.

Hugs from

Granddad Faraway

A wedding is about to happen

Hi Robin

If all goes well, in two weeks time you will be packed off to your other grandparents (Opa en Oma Dichtbij) and your Mom and Dad will leave for two days to attend the wedding of your Uncle Alex.

You see, a few years ago your Uncle Alex - in case you don't quite remember which one of your many uncles I am referring to, he is the one with more hair on his chin than on his head - has met this beautiful young woman, who for sake of discretion we will refer to as Auntie T. And your Uncle Alex - an extremely level headed person who is not normally given to mushy romantic nonsense - has fallen for her like a ton of bricks. Guys do that, you know, Robin. I guarantee you, it will happen to you too one day. Mark my word!

So one day last summer uncle Alex took Aunti T on a romantic outing to the Hunnebeds in Drenthe (the Dutch equivalent to Stonehenge) and surrounded by these remnants of ancient Dutch civilisation, he sank to his knee and asked her to be his wife. And guess what? She said YES!!! (Which of course casts some doubts on her powers of judgment...)

Ever since that memorable summer day, Uncle Alex and Auntie T have been really busy, busy, busy... they have planned and organised in meticulous detail this great wedding party on Friday 24 April and that is when they will officially make the transtion from being 'me' and 'you' to being 'us'.

As father of Uncle Alex, I look at that and quietly think: 'Two down... one to go' But I also think what an extremely lucky guy your Uncle Alex is. Because Auntie T is awesome: she is beautiful, she is intelligent, she is kind and she is totally open. And we love her to bits. They fit very well together, and they have everything going for them.

Too bad you can't be there, dear Robin, but you are still a little bit too young and too 'high maintenance' to be a wedding guest at a wedding that will include a sleepover in a luxury hotel and an after-wedding brunch.

I am sure, however, that your other Opa and Oma will do everything they can to make sure that YOU too will have a great day on April 24. Because a great day it will be for sure. Even though we will ALL miss having you around!

Granddad ('Opa Verweg')

Balls are for kicking

Hi Robin

What a glorious spring day we are having here in Brussels. I hope the sun is also shining and Hoofddorp in Holland and that you can play outside. So funny to see you walk. I hope you don't mind me saying so, but when you walk, you look just like a little penguin.

By the way, Robin, there is something you need to know - and your Dad supports me in this: You are a BOY. Get it? A boy! That is the opposite of a girl. Girls, I will talk to you about some other time. But let's for the time being stick to the theme of 'being a boy'.

Among many other implications, that means - even if you are only a mere 15 months old and have just atarted to walk - that if a BALL (you know, those colourful round things) is rolled in front of your feet (like your Dad is doing all the time), you are supposed to KICK the damn thing, not stand there like a pillar of salt and look at it as if it was something that the cat dragged in...

Your Dad is already a trifle disappointed that you have so far not yet been scouted by Ajax, but your apparent disinterest in kicking a ball is seriously depressing him, and we can't have that, now can we?

So, my dear Robin, here is the Official Memo: BALL = KICK!

Get it right from now on, and you will have your Dad eating out of your chubby little hand.

Hugs from Opa Verweg (Granddad Faraway)