The Only Way to Travel

I rolled out of bed in my usual early morning daze and faced the additional challenge of having to look presentable for a driving class that you-know-who signed me up for. (I noticed he was far too busy to take time out of his schedule to learn the ins-and-outs of driving in Belgium . Now he will suffer from my insufferable arrogance as I lecture him with great AUTHORITY on Belgian traffic laws.)

I put the kids on the school bus and immediately go to catch my bus to the NATO support center that is offering the class. I arrive with 10 minutes to spare, navigate the labyrinth of hallways to find the conference room—and notice the door is locked and no one is there. I wait a bit, go to the bathroom, come back, and still don’t see any indication a class is getting ready to start here.

Out comes the cell phone and I call E-Man and ask him if he is sure the class is today. Yes he says. He gets me to describe precisely where I am and then tells me, “That’s the wrong conference room.”

Oh God. I’m never going to make it to class on time. This center is one of those government marvels of architecture, built bit by bit as they got funding and personnel levels expanded. It’s actually three or four separate buildings connected by pieces of stairwells, crossovers, elevators, and identical looking hallways that dead end or go around in big squares.

Fortunately, I can’t despair for long because the E-Man has the whole place mapped out in his mind in an amazing level of detail. With my cell phone glued to my ear, he tells me to make my way outside and stand by a particular door, and then like a human GPS, he guides me step by step to the location of the other conference room. My new term of endearment for him is going to be “Mappy.”

Mappy has signed me up for this class because he really wants me to start driving in Belgium and quit hanging out with Big Lip at the bus stop. I told him before we left the U.S. that I wasn’t driving in Belgium . He can call me Metro-Grrrl or Super Bus Woman. I did not see myself as Smart Girl in a Smart Car. No, from the beginning I was going to be punching my Metro tickets and flashing my bus pass as I conquered my own little corner of Europe .

There are lots of things that freak me out about driving in Belgium . There’s the near-death experiences, for example, the Belgians propensity for creating their own lanes or driving on sidewalks, the constant presence of bicycles, pedestrians, and honking horns, the narrow, curving streets that are two-way but have room for only one car to pass, the lack of street signs, the abundance of signs in languages I don’t read, and the fact that both city names and street names change languages as you move from one section to another.

So I worry about getting lost in places where I can’t read signs or speak the language, having a head-on collision, bicyclists pedaling in my blind spot, pedestrians stepping out from between parked cars, and getting nailed by cars entering the road from the right. The latter is a possibility because in Belgium any car entering the road you’re on from the right has the right of way. So as you’re driving, one eye must always be on the intersecting side streets because at any moment, a car can zip out and if you hit them, it’s all your fault. There are no stop signs—there’s only a complicated system of PRIORITY, the Belgian term for right-of-way.

The driving class instructor begins by telling us that most Americans are stationed in Belgium for four years and nearly all of them will have at least one accident. This is a real confidence builder for someone who was involved in three accidents in six months in the U.S. and NEVER WANTS TO BE IN ANOTHER ONE, least of all in a foreign country.

The conference room, like the rest of the buildings here, is not air conditioned and it’s hot. The lights are dimmed as the instructor begins a slide show to accompany his lecture. I’m under the influence of drugs and trying not to fall asleep. My sympathy is with the young MP next to me, who worked all night and then had to come to this class. We’re both fantasizing about curling up into fetal positions under the table and sleeping for hours. The instructor goes over traffic laws, hundreds of traffic signs, pavement markings, typical speed limits, hypothetical situations, etc. I’m furiously taking notes, trying to stay awake and remember everything he says. It seems for every rule, there are three exceptions. After a while, I just listen.

When we break for lunch, I’m out of there. Unlike the other poor souls in the room, I’m not required to take a test in the afternoon and get a Belgian license. I grab my backpack, thank the instructor, and make a dash for the nearest exit. I know the next bus leaves in five minutes, and I aim to be in the front row seat, on my way home, protected by a few tons of steel and the expertise of a professional driver. It’s the only way to travel in Belgium.

September 6, 2005