Man Number 1:
Every once in awhile Eva has a complaint about her homeland. Belgium. I find myself defending it, "why yes, people seem to be a little more reserved here...but then again I don't speak the language, so of course I don't talk to many people really." :)

But this morning as I stood in line getting my monthly train pass, Eva comes up to me and the old man behind me pitches a fit. I'm not talking about a concealed fit, one where they simply utter "humph" and stare, I'm talking about the all out verbal assault. This was completely inappropriote coming from a 70 year old decently well-to-do man. He starts fussing about how he's next in line and he doesn't let her through. He starts protecting a space that is barely enough for me to stand in, blocking her out like basketball rebound. (something all of my teams never really understood) I'm looking at him like he's a moron, and Eva keeps saying something along the lines of, "Look buddy, I don't want anything, I'm just here with my friend." To which she gets no positive sign of understanding.

This is when Eva doesn't like Belgium. Now since I haven't been a patron of public transport in the states (excluding the CalTrain on the peninsula back in California) I don't know how people react back home. Everyone seemed pretty nice as far as I could tell--though people go completely ape shit while they are driving (pardon my less-than-eloquent description).

Man Number 2:
This man is faceless, though probably not much different than the men I pass every day on the way to Sint-Lukas. Specifically it's the friend of a friend. A man who not only looks at tits and ass but talks about them. My friend had had enough, defended her sex, and got a comment like, "what...that's the way men are."

Though dont' get me wrong, I'm not completely up on the way "men are." But I have smelled enough urine around the Nord Station, seen enough stopped traffic on green lights because of the windowed prostitutes that line that particular street (yes, even police cars idling on green), and been on the receiving end of enough unprintable comments to know how some "men are." This is not an attempt at men-bashing by the way...they will be redemed later on...and continue to be redeemed on a daily basis by friends who are boys, who I know don't stop traffic for scantly clad women in flourescent bikinis.

Man Number 3:
My father. I don't know if I've always had the passion to cook on such a regular basis, or if I've always secretly been fascinated with peeling potatoes and cutting them up in little bits (yes, I could probably master the art of chopping if I had the propper utensils) I certainly do now. I love it. I love cooking. It relaxes me to come home from a day of pixel-staring and make meat-balls or bean dip, or chopped steak, or soup (yes I make more than what I just listed!)

Funny thing is, poor Eva is caught in a strange situation when it come to my cooking. I need constant approval and constant praise. The hamburger I fix tonight better be one of the tastiest hamburgers ever. Ever. It doesn't take me long to figure out where I got this condition, when I think back to nearly every night at the dinner table post-meal. My father praised my mother's cooking every single meal, every single night, of every single day. The tacos got better and continue to get better still. The roast (which my mother has perfected) continues to be tastier and tastier. My grandmother's raisin pie? My dad ate it for 60 years...and the last time he ate her pie was her last great masterpiece.

You'd imagine that my mother would tire of these praises, but I'm pretty sure that every evening it gets the same responce...a smile, because no matter how many times she hears it...it feels good.

So poor eva, having to taste strange combinations of peas and mushrooms, potatoes and steak stews...moving ever so slowly to things I haven't even cooked before. And poor Eva with her necessary comments...not quite the praiser my father is, but doing just as well.