Today I'm a little sad. The weather is cold and rainy, which I'm learning is far more typical of Belgian weather than the 90 degree temperatures I arrived to. Much to my joy, I rushed home to find that my open window does not let the rain in (onto my bed), so unless there's a storm I won't have to worry. They think of everything in this country.

I woke up late this morning (having stayed up with my melancholy until almost 3 this morning) and went down to the bank. My usual teller remembered me, and it was nice to have that smile of recognition. Unfortunately, my American cash hasn't cleared yet, so I am confined to 20 euros until my financial aide finally comes through. I can always take more money out of the Pittsburgh account, but I'm resolved not to. I'd rather take money out of the ATM in big chunks, and I'm saving the two or three hundred dollars I have in there to pay for that huge gas bill Mike the Douchebag left me holding.

After the bank I headed to the stationary store, where I was alarmed to find they had only the cheapest of the Clairefontaine line. I really like my notebooks, and I figured in Europe it would be easier to find them. No such luck, so I bought a small but decorative hardcover journal instead. No pockets, but it has an elastic band to hold it together and one of those silk page markers. It's classy, but I would still prefer to have my usual spiral bound with the pockets. With all that's been happening, I filled my present one in less than three months, which is fast even for me.

On the way to the stationary store I passed this church, St. Michel's, which I took a bad picture of for you. The streets are so close I couldn't get far enough away to get the whole thing, but you get the idea: old, impressive, ornate, European. You can tell I'm a little down I guess, no enthusiastic descriptions. I suppose I can muster to say that one of the nicest things for me about the architecture here, especially the really old and elaborate state houses and religious buildings, is that they are nestled and tucked away into the tightly packed streets like little unceremonious secrets. Besides the Grote Markt and whatever smaller square is just behind it, there aren't any grand plazas or boulevards in Leuven. There is of course the Ladeuzeplein in front of the Central Library, but right now it's densely packed with some kind of fair, complete with carnival games, pony rides and those big whooshing machines that whip people around just for the thrill of it. I like it though, the microcosmic scale of all that history all piled on top of itself, it's comforting. The drawback I imagine is that these buildings are, after all, incredibly old, and one of the little four storey shop/apartments collapsed kitty-corner from my house yesterday. No one was hurt, as far as I know, but the owner was understandably upset.

By the time I got out of the stationary store it had started to mist in that way that drives me crazy. It's like a cloud is just sitting on the city, and when you move you can feel the moisture clinging to you. My hair immediately did its thing and by the time I ducked into the Quasimodo restaurant I had a halo of dew and frizz. "Oh how lovely," you exclaim, "a halo of dewdrops!"Not so much, hippie, it's more like a cold sweat that covers every available surface. I've never much appreciated dew, to me all it means is that I can't sleep in a grassy field overnight.

Anyhoo, in the nice restaurants of Leuven you can always get a small tourine of soup for around 4 euros, and because it typically comes with half a baguette, I've figured out that it makes a pretty good meal on the cheap. Today I had the stock tomato soup, which every place has, and I was surprised to find a heap of little pale meatballs at the bottom. They tasted like tiny meaty snowballs to me, just disintigrating in the mouth. There's some strange difference between North American meats and cheeses and their European counterparts. Duh. But I can't put my finger on the exact difference, they just feel like they're made of different stuff. Maybe it's a chemical thing, I just don't know what fresh food tastes like. That would make sense. I took a picture of my soup bowl, despite the strange looks it garnered for me, because it was just so damn awesome. Aesthetically, that is. Pragmatically the shape made it difficult to get all the soup out of the bottom, but I solved that by unceremoniously upending it onto my spoon, which again won me some strange looks. Look people, I paid good money for this soup, there's no reason I should leave two or three ounces of bought food at the bottom just because my bowl has an attractive bevel.

I have to find a laundromat today, I have a pile of very stinky clothes frustrating my dressing efforts every morning. I think for now I'm just going to listen to some more Kings of Convenience and nurse my homesickness. Tomorrow the busy-ness starts with orientation and the like, so I have only a few more empty days. I missed the registration deadline for going to Brugge, but I think I'd rather go alone anyway. To tell you the truth, after the whirlwind of socialization that was my time in Ithaca, I'm happy being alone with my thoughts for a little while. That is, I suppose, alone with this blog and the lovely people who read it.