The waffles are light and not terribly heavy when first consumed. Later sitting in my stomach, they feel like a glazed San Franciscan buttermilk donut that was cooked in the same grease that the wantons and egg rolls were created in. This is how to find the best donut. As I wander, at times I follow the paths of the canals and rivers that sever the city. Other times the roads pull me in directions for no apparent reason, opening up to an impromptu roundabout that seems to always include some sort of church or at least something that resembles a church. Everything is clearly labeled in a language that looks and sounds as if English and German collided like two trains weighed down by atomic bombs with fire-cracker brake peddles. This ferocious power is pleasant and melodic to my ear. Everyone seems to speak at least 3 languages. English is second nature to most. I wander and project Boston onto the buildings. I remember meandering in late fall just before the snow was about to enter the city with Flato. No particular place to be and no money to do it. Drastically contrasting architecture dipped in histories of revolution and witch trials. Bricked Colonial next to 1970’s Minimalist Cement. Gent’s flower market with well-trodden divisional walkways of ancient and timely class struggles solved with an inner area for the bourgeois dancers and a separate one for the watching workers. High Renaissance beautifully bound to Gothic with Medieval duct tape and a drainpipe painted like a blue and white striped barber’s pole. I walk back to my room along the Leie (river or canal...not sure) bouncing a found tennis ball in my head from Cambridge all the way back to Alston with Nicky, wondering if the summer heat will let up. Tomorrow I will begin preparations for my project.