Compost Studios

One of the toughest aspects of being an expat for me is not knowing the native language.

For many years before moving to Belgium, I erroneously believed it was bilingual. I’d spent three weeks here 20 years ago. Our hosts spoke French, and I’d noticed bilingual signs in Brussels. When we chose to relocate here, I felt confident that by refreshing my college French and working on advancing my language skills, I’d be able to function comfortably in most settings and over time reach the point where I could carry on conversations in French.

Sadly, in the months before we left the U.S., I learned how complicated the language issue is here, how it divides and inflames the country, how speaking the wrong language in the wrong place could offend someone at best or leave you stranded and ignored at worst.

This was not good news. I was terribly disappointed to learn I could not count on my French to help me assimilate here. Well, I told my husband, we’ll just have to settle in a French-speaking area to ease our adjustment to life in Belgium.

But our intentions were under minded by several factors. We wanted to be close to our children’s school and have easy access to public transit, we wanted a quiet neighborhood, access to parks and walking trails, a yard big enough for the children and my husband (an avid gardener) to enjoy, and enough space indoors to accommodate the furniture and belongings that we’d had shipped from the U.S. months earlier.

Naturally, there were financial considerations as well, and we needed to find someone willing to give us a three-year lease (nine-year leases being the norm here). We also needed to find a home fairly quickly because we had a finite temporary housing allowance from my husband’s employer and couldn’t stay in our small furnished apartment in Brussels indefinitely while we looked for the right home. Add to this that we were completely unfamiliar with the communes and their official languages and layouts and you get an idea that this was not going to be a simple process.

All told, we looked at close to 20 houses in one week before selecting our current home, which has proved satisfactory in most ways. However, we landed squarely in the middle of a Flemish speaking commune. My dreams of navigating local interactions using my limited French and advancing my language skills over time have been thoroughly dashed.

At first, this didn’t seem to be too big a deal. Most of the residents, shopkeepers, and tradesman speak English and are gracious in accommodating us. English, it turns out, is culturally “safe” to speak in most settings. Still, our inability to speak or read Flemish is a hindrance. Signs, menus, Web pages, government offices, official letters from our commune, answering machine messages, our local paper, events hosted by the local church and programs sponsored by the community center are inaccessible to us.

Yes, I could attempt to learn to speak Flemish, but I haven’t because the amount of time it would take to become reasonably proficient would probably exceed the length of my stay here. Unlike refreshing my French, learning Flemish would require a significant investment in time and effort and won’t serve me at all when I return to the U.S. While I have good reasons for my decision, there’s no denying that making this choice keeps me isolated from the local culture.

We recently spent a week in the United Kingdom, flying into London, renting a car, and exploring Bath, the Cotswolds, and the surrounding area. While England has much to offer visitors, I must confess that one of the things I enjoyed most about our vacation was simply being able to interact with people and unselfconsciously speak my native language. It was a joy to turn on the TV and be able to watch every program broadcast, pick up a daily paper and read it cover to cover, enter the shops and read the tags and labels, be able to discuss purchases with the shop keepers, pick up a menu and know exactly what was being offered, navigate the streets and read directional and warning signs without question, visit a museum and read all the exhibit notes.

After six days in the U.K., we drove to Heathrow and settled in at our gate to wait for our flight to Brussels. Soon the area attracted other passengers and the sound of Flemish conversation filled the air. My heart sank, not just because our vacation was over but because I’d soon be immersed in a world I couldn’t fully participate in. As we boarded the plane, I felt my life folding in on itself like the British newspaper tucked under my arm.

April 20, 2006