It's not a small world after all....
November 7, 2005 at 16:29 This morning, just as it was time to head out the door, A said, “I’m out of notebook paper at school!” And so begins a frantic search for notebook paper, and then an equally frenzied search to find a folder to transport it to school so it doesn’t wind up as a crumpled mess in his backpack.
A file folder would be ideal but do I have any file folders? Nooooo! Why? Because I failed to stock up on them before I left the U.S. and now we’re completely out. Why not buy them here you ask? Because European paper is not the same size as American paper. Their paper and their file folders are too big for my file cabinet.
In my life abroad, it’s little things like this that chafe and burn. Discovering I can’t buy 8.5 x 11 inch paper here. Trying to find wide-ruled notebook paper. Not being able to get a big map of the U.S. to help Andrew with geography. Being forced to pay $100 for printer cartridges for my new Dell printer through a dealer in the Netherlands. I tried to order a stockpile of office supplies online only to discover most U.S. companies don’t ship to APO addresses and international shipping charges are monstrous. Other companies will ship to an APO, but it’s a hassle. I have to fill out paperwork, establish an account, and can’t order online. I won’t have those file folders any time soon!
At the grocery store, I’ve come home with yogurt when I thought I was buying sour cream. Another time I thought I had purchased a block of cheddar cheese, but when I unwrapped it, it smelled so vile I tossed it straight into the trash. Imagine my shock when I opened and poured what I thought was milk into my coffee and it curdled. Oops, that was buttermilk in disguise. So yes, the dairy section at the grocery store leaves a sour taste in my mouth. I finally found a Dutch-English dictionary to help me grocery shop. That in itself took weeks of searching.
Meanwhile, we’ve been trying to get our oil changed for months. We have a 1999 Oldsmobile and can’t get oil filters for it here. For E to change it, he needs not only the oil filters but also a special tool to reach and remove the cap to the oil pan which is nestled in a cramped space in the undercarriage. We can’t find the filters or the tool and have family trying to ship them to us. When E’s tire gauge broke, we searched high and low for a replacement without luck. When he went to put air into the tires, he realized they don’t measure tire pressure here in PSI. Thank God he’s a geeky engineer because he had to convert to metric measurements in his head on the spot.
When we can find what we need, it’s often so expensive we cringe. Yes, we needed a jump start once and the mobile auto service wanted to charge us in excess of $300 for that. Oil changes that cost $32 at a Jiffy Lube in the U.S. cost more than $200 here. Ditto car tires—if you can find the right size locally, they are expensive. Ordering from the U.S., we run into complications or excessive expenses shipping.
We received our Belgian car tax bill recently. It was more than $1,400. Yes, that’s a rather large tax bill for a 1999 Oldsmobile. Unlike in the U.S., the tax isn’t based on the value of the vehicle; it’s based on the size of the engine. (Damn, we should NOT have had a v8.) Thank God we get a stipend to off set the cost of gas here—close to $8 a gallon. Because owning one car is painful enough, our plans to buy a second car have been dropped.
Before we moved, we read at least a dozen guides to living abroad, living in Belgium, and the issues of expatriate life. What to bring, what to do, what to expect—the books and Web sites were packed with information, most of it helpful. But many things fall between the cracks, and day in and day out, our lives are peppered with small frustrations. Some days we roll with it, other days we gripe and grimace. It’s hard to really settle in a place when you know you’re not going to stay. If the move here was for 10 years rather than three, it would be worthwhile to just convert over to all things European—computer equipment, DVD players, TVs, radios, CD players, kitchen appliances, lamps, hairdryers etc. We could be all 220V, European digital format, and metric. We could invest the time in learning Dutch and French and be able to read our mail, food labels, menus, and signs.
We’d buy a house, and I’d get to take hot baths and have closets. I would not be playing musical outlets. I would not be puzzling over how the heating system works, worrying about throwing a circuit breaker when I vacuum, or trying to figure out why sewer gas keeps entering the house. (There are drains in the basement that need to be filled with water weekly to block it. Who knew?)
For now we live with one foot in America and one in Belgium. On some level, we’re always in transit emotionally. We’re here and yet not here. Sometimes as I ride the bus and train, it’s like an out of body experience. I watch life happen around me. I am permanently an observer taking mental notes, trying to decipher the mystery of life abroad, seldom understanding what people around me are saying, trying to keep my American identity hidden, and navigating the physical and mental turf of a foreign country.
I can begin to understand why the immigrants rioting in Paris feel so disenfranchised. Even with the luxury of a nice home, car, and steady income, our outsider status simmers below the surface and nags our sense of well being. How much worse would it be to have suffered such feelings for a lifetime, to be recognized as an outsider by the color of your skin, to be committed to assimilating in a country and not be able to join, to suffer all those feelings while struggling to meet your most basic needs?
Hope, not police, will quell the unrest in France. It is hope that keeps us moving forward and pulls us out of the depths.
On her Web site, Granola-Grrrl quoted Ralph Waldo Emerson: “When it is dark enough, you can see the stars.” Today, tonight, thousands of miles away from home, I’ll be stargazing. I'll be looking for those twinkling dots of light, searching for the constellations that shine here and connect me to home.
© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault
November 7, 2005
Reader Comments (4)
Slash the only thing comparable than having to sit around in an office with breasts all about is having to stand in a small room and have a doctor feel each of your balls, ask you to cough, then seem disappointed with the result.
And of course, sometimes we drive there only to discover they're out of the very thing I need the most! GAH!
But hey, don't let me spoil the glamorous vision people hold of the expatriate life in Europe. Imagine me wearing a black turtleneck and writing from a sidewalk cafe, trying not to get croissant crumbs in the keyboard, while people whisper in awe, "I hear she's a famous American writer!"
V-Grrrl
My favorite word that "they" use: Torch (flashlight)!
And I could not relate MORE to the general trials and tribulations of being an expat with one foot in one country and so on. Brit husband often comments that it's as if we'll never be "home". We tried London (where he was born and bred) for a while, and now we're back in California (where I was), and no matter what you do, someone will always be a little out of place.
He does enjoy the part where all the girls love his accent though!