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One of the expat perks we relish is the ability to shop at American military PXs and commissaries overseas. This is a huge benefit for us both in terms of cost and comfort. Shopping at the commissary and PX allows us to buy American products at reasonable prices.

Things you’d never see in a Belgium store, such as pretzels, cake and brownie mixes, chocolate chips, mac and cheese, Tex-Mex ingredients, cupcake liners, Campbell’s soup, fat-free dairy products, and familiar kinds of peanut butter, salad dressings, condiments, flours, baking ingredients, and frozen foods, are all available at the commissary. It’s nice to get cuts of meat you recognize, labels you can read, and get all the nutrition info that doesn’t appear on European food labels.

The PX carries most of what you’d find in a Target or Walmart--clothes, health and beauty items, shoes, over-the-counter drugs, books, jewelry, candles and colognes, housewares, small kitchen appliances, seasonal items, electronics, sporting goods.

The nearest U.S. military base is located about an hour from Brussels in Chievres, Belgium. Because of the distance, we only go to Chievres once a month and I’m embarrassed to admit how big a deal this monthly outing is for our family. More than a mere shopping trip, it’s a taste of American life and we treasure the opportunity to unselfconsciously speak English and enjoy a bit of our native culture.

The drive is half on the highway, half on back roads that roam through a beautiful rural area of Belgium. The kids grab books and I normally take a magazine but once we exit the highway, I put my reading material aside and take in the scenery. I love the impossibly old buildings, the barns, sheep dotting the pastures, gently rolling fields, old stone churches, homes with front doors that open straight out onto the sidewalks of small villages.

When we arrive at the airbase, our first stop is the PX. Considering the scope and scale of my shopping choices at home, you’d be amazed that going to the PX makes me happy. It’s the size of a small discount store, kind of like Ben Franklin’s in the South. I can let my kids roam it freely because there’s no chance of them getting lost or being more than a few steps out of my sight. I always check out the women’s clothes—just in case there’s a gem hidden among the ordinary. There are a lot of no-name labels and a smattering of offerings from department store staples like Polo, Tommy Hilfiger, Liz Clairborne, Izod.

The key word here is “smattering.” Brands appear and disappear, just a few sizes are stocked in any given item, and what’s going to be on the racks any given month is a mystery. There is no glitz or merchandising here, and the offerings don’t follow the usual retail calendar in the U.S. I never realized how my shopping life marched to the U.S. retail rhythm until I came here. You can never be sure when the collections representing the next season will appear or when things will be marked down. If you were counting on buying discounted gloves and scarves, for example, don’t look for them in January. No, those weren’t discounted until late March! The clothes in stock don’t always match the season or the Belgian climate. Last summer there were too many tropical looks for Belgian’s cool and rainy weather, the summer clothes lingered on the racks for months and into the fall at a time when I was desperate to see some corduroy and sweaters.

Saturday they had a big clearance sale going and I found a pair of Dockers corduroys that fit me for 75 percent off as well as a pair of Polo yoga pants. One time I found the perfect pair of black velvet flare jeans--in June. The successes keep me coming back and picking through the merchandise.

I love to linger in the book section, eyeball the makeup, test the colognes (of which there’s a large selection of high-end products) and browse through the CDs. And of course I load up on the basics.

The PX also has a small beauty salon staffed by Belgian stylists who speak English, though their native language is French. I’ve started getting my hair cut here because it’s convenient. Unlike in the U.S., the salon isn’t busy on weekends because most of the military wives don’t work, and they get their hair done while their kids are at school during the week.

The stylists are young girls dressed in black dress pants and fitted black knit shirts. They all seem to have a variation of the same hair cut, a long straight shag that reaches below their shoulders but has fringed bangs and graduated piecey layers around the face. Kind of an Ashlee Simpson look. It’s cute. Wish I had straight hair or the patience to blow my curls out and pull off that kind of look. I have neither.

My layered bob works well with my fine, naturally curly hair but at times I think it’s such a boring, old-lady style. So when the stylist asks me in broken English what I want done, I indicate with my thumb and forefinger how much length I want trimmed off and then tell the stylist to make it “A bit more shaggy, and less round.” She says “OK” and I try not to wonder if she understands what I mean—does “shaggy” have a French equivalent? The end result is definitely less round but not exactly shaggy. Then again, it’s hard to get curly hair to look shaggy, except when you’re not trying. I pick up a tin of Bedhead Mastermind, a product and a line I’ve never tried before but that promises add texture and “piece out” my hair. Hmmm. Maybe I can banish my church lady look if I try.

After shopping at the PX, we have our monthly taste of American fast food (ah, real hamburgers!) at Burger King and then migrate over to the commissary for food shopping. This is where the outing begins to lose a bit of its glow. Food shopping, even with a list, requires concentration and thinking, especially when this is your “once a month” opportunity to get what you need. My kids relentlessly pummel me with questions and requests as I move through the store, derailing my train of thought over and over again until my brain is wrecked.

Every fiber of my being wants to tell them to shut up, but instead I tell them nicely to be quiet so Mama can think, or “Don’t ask me about items on the next aisle, I’ll get there when I get there and I’ll pick out what I need.” And “No, you may not have Lunchable anything.” “No I’m not buying frozen dinners.” “No Easter candy in the house until Easter.” “Yes, you can pick out any fruit or vegetable you want, please go to the produce section!” (They pick out kiwis and a coconut, strawberries and grapes.)

All family members are trying to help me shop but for the most part the incessant interruptions and questions just make it all take longer. By the time we hit the dairy section, I’m frazzled and worn out. E unloads the basket, the Belgian employee scans everything, and then gives us the total $410.68.

E is shocked—“Are you sure that’s right?” exclaims. This is one of the “thinking out loud” comments he is famous for and that drive yours truly crazy. The Belgian cashier doesn’t know what to make of E’s comment and searches his face for clues. The receipt is a mile long. A neighboring cashier, who perhaps is the manager, comes over unbidden and glances at the receipt and sort of smirks, as if to say, “What did he expect? Look at all that food!”

All that food indeed. Loading it into coolers and the trunk requires all of E’s engineering skills. We end up with overflow bags that get jammed between E-Grrrl and Mr. A in the back seat and around my feet in the front. By now we’ve been shopping for close to four hours. We’re beat. We’ve had enough. We try not to think about having to unload and carry everything up the stairs at home. As soon as we're on the highway, I close my eyes.

March 27, 2006