Locked in, locked out, going nowhere
March 16, 2006 at 4:47 (To mark the one year anniversary of our arrival in Belgium, I’ve written a series of entries. The first was on how we became expats, the second detailed mishaps on our first day. Today’s entry is the third and final installment in the series.)
As we were preparing to move to Belgium , an American working for my husband’s organization here in Brussels volunteered to help us with the transition. He gathered information for us, made contacts and set up appointments for us to handle administrative tasks, checked out the apartment we were considering renting to let us know if it was OK, stocked it with some groceries before we arrived, met us at the airport, and showed us around. We arrived just a few days before he and his family left for a vacation in Russia , and he generously offered to let us use his car while he was gone.
Ah, freedom! A chance to buy groceries and not have to carry them home. The opportunity to look for a house and to venture outside our neighborhood. A way to attend events at the children’s school. We were excited.
Our first outing with the borrowed car occurred five days after our arrival. With a mix of anticipation and trepidation, we all buckled up, ready for E to tackle driving and navigating in Brussels .
The car starts up, we all smile, we’re on our way! E brings it around to the exit for the parking garage underneath our apartment building and confidently points and clicks the garage door opener--and nothing happens.
He tries again—no luck. Amid flashbacks to the day we were locked out of our apartment, we wonder what could possibly be wrong. The door opener had gotten us into the garage the day before, why couldn’t we get out?
E and I get out of the car, looking along the walls and columns for a button, a keyed lock, a latch, anything to give us a clue on how to get out of the garage. Nothing! E goes upstairs to our apartment and calls an emergency number--no response!
Back down in the basement, E backs the car up the exit ramp and re-parks it. Finally, after shuffling about, we realize power is out to a portion of the garage even while it's on in the rest of the building. E suspects a thrown circuit breaker and calls someone to check on them.
Meanwhile, we decide to load some items into the trunk of the car, which is Italian, not American. Without a thought, E puts the car key into the lock, but the trunk does not open. We’re flabbergasted. We’re starting to wonder whether we’re starring in some bizarre reality show. Our constant difficulties with locks seem too crazy to be true.
We contort ourselves into wacky positions inside the car while we hunt for a trunk release. It’s not on or under the dash, it’s not on the floor, it’s not on the steering column, it’s not next to the seat, it’s not on the driver’s side, it’s not on the passenger’s side, it’s not in the back seat. Where the hell is it?
Oh, of course, it’s INSIDE the glove box. Just where one would expect it. Not!
With relief, we push the trunk release--and nothing happens. We feel like we're experiencing a bad practical joke or the ultimate test of our patience. Why won't the trunk open? Why indeed? Well, through trial and error we finally discover you have to push the trunk release AND use a key to open the trunk.
Grrrrr. Well at least figuring out how to open the trunk kept us busy while we waited what felt like forever for someone to show up and check the electrical circuits. Eventually, we get out of the garage (applause, please!), and E manages to get us to our destination without killing anyone or being killed (take a bow!). We come home like warriors from a successful expedition, proud of all the hardships we’ve overcome in going to the library and grocery store (thump chest, raise arms in victory!).
Little did we know, our adventures with the car weren’t over. On Tuesday morning E had an appointment to meet with someone outside the Brussels area. When he went to start the car to get there, the battery was dead. He returned to the apartment and debated what to do.
He’s fairly certain that the car’s owner is a member of Touring, the European equivalent of AAA in the States. So he calls Touring, who tells him they can’t confirm whether his friend is a member or not without the car’s tag number. So E hangs up, goes all the way back down to the parking garage, writes down the tag number and calls Touring back.
Ah yes, the woman says, our friend is indeed a member. Someone will be there to help us within an hour. E, while tense about the incident, relaxes a bit. Help is on the way.
Or not, as it turns out.
No one shows up. When E calls Touring to inquire what’s up, he’s told there is no record of his service request at all. So he gives them the car tag number again to start the process over, and the person on the phone announces they have no record of this car being in the system at all. No, she tells us, our friend is NOT a member of Touring.
Grrrrr. So E combs the yellow pages and then calls a mobile car service place to see if he can get a jumpstart. Oh sure, they’ll come, but it will cost 270 euros, which is well over $300. No way! We’re not going for this! It’s just a dead battery!
As a last resort, E starts calling people on his short list of American contacts to see if anyone can come to give him a jumpstart. No one can.
Angry and frustrated, he calls to cancel his appointment out of town and grabs a bus to go to his office. I sit on the sofa and have a good cry.
That night E returns home a bit more upbeat. The next day a coworker is bringing him a battery charger. E will be able to recharge the battery and reschedule his appointment—no problem! He lugs the battery charger and a long extension cord home with him on the bus the next day, changes his clothes, and then dashes down to the parking area. I’m astounded when he reappears a few minutes later and tells me there is not ONE outlet anywhere in the entire garage.
How we kept from banging our heads on the wall at that moment is a mystery. Now we can laugh about it, but being locked out, locked in, and going nowhere was an uncomfortable metaphor for expat life during those first few months.
Trying to read signs and menus, navigate bureaucracy, understand traffic rules and patterns, locate items we needed to buy, learn how to bank, understand local customs—everything was a challenge. Yet, here we are, a year later, with the sun shining and spring valiantly trying to make an entrance. Much to our surprise, we’re firmly planted in Belgium , and despite the hardships, we are blooming.
The key to success—PATIENCE. If you're becoming an expat, pack extra in your suitcase.
© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.
March 16, 2006
Reader Comments (4)
About the book: What if you did it as a nonfiction"how-to" and then put in real life stories like yours (and get other people's) to add humor and personality?
Just an idea.....if you would like to try and sell it email me. I am in the process of doing that myself and can let you know how to approach agents.
I'm sorry this is going to be the last installment. I've really enjoyed these stories.