Reasons to Smile

Midway through another week and there are lots of reasons to smile. First off, a package came in the mail yesterday from TB containing a CD of her Soul Gardening music mix, a package of bath salts—and many, many packets of ketchup (fancy, grade A ketchup I might add ). Thanks Teebs! I love the way the blogosphere creates a virtual neighborhood of people scattered all over the world.  (Hey Ash, we should get together for lunch in the Neverlands. I’ll bring the ketchup!)

And while we’re talking ketchup, let’s talk catch-up, as in the dreaded utility catch-up bill that’s the norm here in Belgium. When an American friend in a house identical to mine got a 3,000 euro ($4,000)  catch-up bill,  I cringed, not knowing what to expect when I received my own. Happily when our catch-bill arrived, it was only about 700 euros for the 9 months we’ve been in this house. Big sigh of relief. I’m glad I left my energy-glugging American appliances at home and that my husband, the resident “turn out the lights!” taskmaster, has never let up in his efforts to get us to conserve energy, despite my desire to illuminate our house like a Thomas Kinkade painting.

I finally went to have my eyes checked and discovered my prescription had kicked up several notches. I now have new glasses and a new outlook on life. (“I once was lost/but now am found/was blind/but now I see.”)

February. Day 22. I’m feeling so much better.

It's my blog and I'll whine if I want to......

Tax time. A reminder that it’s been almost a year since I collected a paycheck. Working in Belgium is a complicated prospect for me. The Belgium government seeks to preserve its jobs for its own citizens and so for an expat to get a work permit and a job is a long, drawn out and difficult process. And at the end of that road are Belgian taxes, which I think are the highest in Europe.

I was talking to a fellow American recently about working. She and her husband had put a calculator to it and discovered she would have to earn 2,400 euros in a month before she’d actually take home 200 euros. So there’s not a lot of financial incentive to go through the whole work permit process only to lose most of my income to taxes—and then need a professional accountant to help navigate international tax returns.

Truthfully,  I wasn’t too eager to tie myself down to a job and pay for child care when we moved here. I wanted to be free to travel and explore and take advantage of my husband’s generous vacation days. For the first time, I had the opportunity to do what I’d always talked about doing: creative writing.

But six months after launching my blog, I’m wondering if that’s enough. I started blogging with the notion that I was doing this for myself, but I quickly became addicted to the idea of expanding my audience, finding a niche, delivering something meaningful or fun each day, and eventually generating income from my personal writing.

Earlier this week, I was doing some research for an article I’m writing for Mike on the Bottom and discovered there are currently 28 million bloggers online. GAH! Where do I really think I’m going with this? What do I have to offer and what can I expect to get back? My blog is like a lotto ticket in my pocket—a near impossible dream that I’m gambling on week in and week out.

Sometimes I feel diminished because I’m not pursuing a job or generating any income at home.  It raises my feminist hackles, and then I think I’m being a jerk for not accepting my good fortune. As I approach the end of my first year living abroad, I need to celebrate my freedom instead of indulging needless guilt. I’ve had the luxury of pursuing the creative life here—time to have hobbies, to travel, to write. I can’t let my inner Puritan or FemiNazi continue to pull my loose threads and unravel my satisfaction.

There are ways middle-age feels so liberating—in some respects I have so much confidence and a strong sense of myself. That’s what gave me the courage to leave all that was familiar behind and start over in a new country. And yet there are moments I feel as turbulent and insecure as an adolescent trying to find my place in the world, feelings that are probably exacerbated by the nature of expat life which makes me a perpetual outsider.

Life is GOOD. I sometimes wish I could drift through it with ease and not dissect it on every level.  Y’all probably wish that too.   Well, the joy of the blogosphere is that we’re all writing (and reading) our way to understanding or entertaining ourselves and others. Thanks for sharing the ride--but remember, it's my blog and I'll whine if I want to. Happy February.

Blogger Available: Will Travel

The big news in the blogosphere in February was the report that the Netherlands Board of Tourism and Conventions (NBTC) was providing 25 top American bloggers with all-expense paid trips to Amsterdam, which include airfare, transportation passes, and a five-day stay at a five-star hotel. While the bloggers had to participate in one interview with Holland.com, the NBTC’s Web site, they were not required to write posts about the trip on their blogs.

The bloggers were required, however, to post NBTC ads on their site for one month as well as a link a disclosing the nature of the travel offer they received for one year.

Is this a deal or what?

And to think I have been writing travel copy on my blog for free since last August. Where was I when the all-expense paid trips were being given out?

Maybe I was riding a bus stuck behind a herd of cyclists in Tervuren  or standing in the dairy section of the grocery store trying to discern the differences among the multiple varieties of yogurt displayed. I could have been riding a Metro train in the wrong direction or on the phone with the plumber begging for more hot water. Perhaps I was chasing my umbrella down the street on a miserably windy day or shopping for rubber boots. My days are so varied and action-packed, it’s hard to say what scintillating activity may have kept me from grabbing the attention of the NBTC.

All I know is that while I missed the boat on the Amsterdam opportunity (or shall I say the train or plane), I don’t want to be overlooked again.

While the blogosphere is buzzing with debate over whether the American bloggers should have accepted the trips or not, I can tell you it’s not an issue I would lose sleep over. No, if someone offers me a first-class trip and premium accommodations, the last thing I’m going to ask myself is, “Should I go?” The first words out of my mouth will be “Where? When?”

Let the record show I’d be more than happy to pack my bags and my laptop and take my writing on the road. The line between journalists and bloggers may be blurring, but I don’t think anyone comes to V-Grrrl in the Middle and expects anything other than the opinion du jour. Give me some fresh experiences in a new setting (ahem, five-star hotels do sound grand) and I’ll deliver some polished prose (especially if my room has a fabulous tub).

While I can’t promise glowing reviews, I can guarantee authentic, straight from the mother keyboard, original V-Grrrl copy, delivered with a virtual smile. Sure, you can’t predict precisely what I’ll post, but having worked in public relations for close to 15 years, I can tell you I have a tendency to see the best in things. (Except the Eiffel Tower, of course. I was less than impressed with it, but the rest of Paris was lovely—really!)

All I need to do now to collect some free trips to European cities is to get the word out that I’m a blogger for hire! Maybe I could post something like a hybrid professional-personal ad. How’s this for catchy?

One smart chick

Who writes for kicks,

Would be happy

To write for trips.

V-Grrrl’s readers

May be world leaders.

Conference planners

Understand her.

Marketing types

Love what she writes.

So make her day

In a first-class way.

Ring her bells

With fine hotels.

Add her to

Your VIP list:

The traveling blogger

Who shouldn’t be missed.

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

February 16, 2006

"It was a dark and stormy morning..."

Maybe it’s the relatively flat lay of the land or the way the geography channels the air moving off the North Sea, but when the winds picks up here, I feel like I’m playing a part in a gothic drama.

The wind truly howls and moans incessantly, an eerie braying wrapping around the walls of the house. The rain is lashing the windows and forcing me to look this ugly day in the face.

On my way home from walking the kids to the school bus this morning, the wind snatched my umbrella out of my hands and sent it cart wheeling down the street. I chugged after it like a brontosaurus lumbering after a hot-footed chihuahua, praying I wouldn’t get nailed by a driver in a speeding car startled by an unidentified flying object hurtling past the windshield. I managed to avoid becoming expat road kill, but by the time I dragged my sorry self home, my coat was wet, my pants soggy, and my spirits dampened as my shoes.

On Wednesday afternoons, I normally help teach writing to the second-graders in my daughter’s classroom. I don’t know if I’ll be able to face the trip to the school today.

Weather aside, I’ve had so many Charlie Brown moments with public transit lately.

Last week, coming down a side street to catch a bus, I saw it barrel past on the main road and leave me behind. It had arrived two minutes early, which meant I had to wait 30 minutes in 30-degreee weather for the next bus.

Two days later, chastened by my experience, I approached another bus stop on a busy street a full six minutes before the bus was due. Waiting on a corner for the light to change so I could safely cross the street and get to my stop, I saw the bus approaching from the right.  Gah!  Early again!  How is that POSSIBLE?

I watched in frustration as my bus pulled into the bus lane on the opposite side of the street. The light changed and I dashed across the street with a grocery bag bouncing against my leg, running like a cartoon character, waving my hand as the bus driver pulled back into traffic, oblivious to my plight.

Well I learned my lesson. The next time I had to catch a bus, I showed up at the bus stop a full 10 minutes early and was slapped down by the transit gods yet again when the bus appeared almost 15 minutes late. Lucky me. I spent 25 minutes shivering and jittering in freezing weather, waiting for a ride. And things only got worse.

Because the bus was late, I was delayed arriving for and returning from my doctor’s appointment. Scurrying into the Metro station in downtown Brussels on the way home, I heard a train coming in. Perfect timing! I ran full tilt down the station steps and hopped on the train in the nick of time. My relief turned into dismay five minutes later when I realized I was on the wrong train.

I had to get off at the next stop, cross over the tracks, catch the train back to my original station, get off again, then catch the correct train. The end result—I missed the bus that would take me home from the Metro station at my destination and had to wait an HOUR for the next one.

I didn’t cry, I didn’t cuss, but trust me, I’m nursing my wounds. With the rain blowing sideways outside today, I’m not sure I’m willing to play games with public transit—even for the noble cause of helping in E-Grrrl’s class.

Instead, I’m harboring childish fantasies, wishing I could pop open a magic umbrella like Mary Poppins and glide to a happy place with birds chirping and flowers blooming and a lovely park and carousel. It sure beats enduring another debilitating series of “Good grief, Charlie Brown!” moments.

Sigh.

February. Day 15. We’re more than half way through.

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

February 15, 2006

Bidding Adieu to my Expat Fat

I’m sitting on ten extra pounds as I write this from the big, black chair that serves as mission control for my virtual life in front of the computer.

Ten pounds.

That’s quite a cushion. That’s more than one roll over the waistband. That’s enough to make my jeans scream and my zippers groan. That Botticelli belly lurking under my sweater is not a work of art—it’s my expat fat.

Expat in every sense of the word.

I call it expat fat because it’s living in a place where it doesn’t really belong, It doesn’t fit the traditional geography of my body, and while my body has allowed it here for an extended visit, it has overstayed its welcome.

The expat fat was not with me when I stumbled through customs at Zaventem in a jet-lagged daze and began a new life in Belgium. I first made its acquaintance a bit later, when I spent nearly eight weeks restaurant hopping while waiting to settle into a proper home with a fully equipped kitchen. During that time, the expat fat began to join me at meals, like a side order of frites or a tasty little pastry.

But while it would be easy to blame Belgian cuisine for my sins of the flesh, the majority of the damage to my figure was achieved after we moved into our house near Brussels.

That’s the point where life should have started to feel “normal” but didn’t. I felt more than a little lost. The kitchen offered comfort and a warm chair by the radiator when the spring rains drenched the windows and the grey clouds roiled moodily overhead. With my days suddenly emptied of nearly all that was familiar, there was an enormous emotional hunger that begged to be fed.

Like birds in a nest, my needs were perched in my heart with open mouths: I felt vulnerable, agog at the new world I’d been thrust into, unsure whether I would ever be able to fly here, and whether I would successfully navigate this foreign landscape.

And so to quiet the squawks of fear and loneliness, I developed the bad habit of dropping tidbits into my mouth all day long. Looking for a bit of comfort, I turned to the wrong source. Food for the body was not food for the soul, and it was my soul that needed feeding.

And so over time, my tendency to grab a handful of this or a bit of that while standing in the kitchen created the expat fat. But the expat fat has not been good company. Because of it, I am not only a stranger in a strange land but a stranger in my own body. My own clothes don’t recognize me anymore.

Granted, I’m not terribly overweight. I can’t claim the expat fat is ruining my life. It’s just that I’ve gone from being like a lovely Windsor chair with a sturdy frame and vertical lines to being more like a padded recliner—fuller, rounder, not so pretty. We all know the Windsor chair will last a lifetime while the upholstered chair in all its soft padded glory will soon sag and fray. The recliner has got to go.

So I’m preparing to bid adieu to the expat fat. Its one year residency permit is about to expire in March. Its visa will not be renewed.

I don’t feel badly about putting it out. I’m sure there’s another pair of slim hips coming through the gates at Zaventem ready to give it a new home.

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

February 1, 2006

End of the Bath Time Blues

The year before we moved to Belgium, we completely renovated the master bath in our home. The trigger for the remodeling project had been our loathing of tile.

Yes, while the use of ceramic tile is considered a bathroom upgrade in America and is standard here in Belgium, I hated it. I didn’t like to keep the grout clean, and my husband was tired of repairing it, sealing it, and messing with the troublesome seam between the bottom of the shower and its walls.

So we decided to rip out the tile in the shower and replace it with a one-piece, seam-free fiberglass unit that would be easy to clean and maintain. No big deal, right? Well, not until we discovered the only way to deliver a unit like that into our bathroom was to open up a wall. That’s when the whole project got kicked up a few notches.

Once you decide to put a big hole in the wall, you may as well take a good long look at the rest of your bathroom fixtures and see what else needs replacing. In our case, we decided to tear out everything—why go halfway?

After years of grappling with chronic back pain, I was ready for a tub with jets. I hit the home improvement stores in search of the right one. Once in the store, I actually climbed into the display models to see how they fit my body. I didn’t care if I looked absurd sitting in a tub in a store, I’d waited all my life for a good tub and by God, I wasn’t going to let a false sense of propriety stand in the way of finding it!

The Jacuzzi I selected had 10 separate jets, four of them aimed at my back. It was a source of pure joy for me. Every night I found my bliss in a tubful of bubbling warm water in a steamy bathroom.

In a house overtaken by kids and pets and their accompanying messes, the remodeled bathroom was a little corner of pristine beauty and the center of my world. The rest of the house might look like a disaster area, but our bathroom was always spotless. And then I had to leave it all behind.

When we moved to Belgium, we initially lived in a small apartment, and every night I pined for my Jacuzzi like a teenager separated from her first love. Not only did I no longer have a luxury tub, but I had to share the bare bones apartment bathroom with my children who polluted it with wet washrags, damp towels, toothpaste globs, and dirty underwear and socks.

When we started searching for a house to rent, I knew it was unlikely I’d ever find one with a Jacuzzi, but I told my husband I absolutely had to have a decent tub and bath—preferably in a room all to myself.

Imagine my delight when we found a house with ample bathrooms, including one in the attic that I immediately fell in love with. Tucked under the eaves with knotty-pine paneling, it was cozy and had a decent-sized tub, a sink set into a corner, and just enough room for my beloved bath cabinet. As soon as we moved in, I lugged my favorite things up the stairs and carefully arranged all my scented lotions, bath products, and makeup for easy access. I nicknamed this small bathroom retreat “Grrrl World” and told my children they were forbidden to set foot in it.

That night, ready at long last for a hot bath, I attempted to run hot water into the tub. It ran and ran and ran and the water went from orange to murky, cold to lukewarm. It never got hot, was often just tepid, and frequently discolored. I was crushed. I HAD to have a bath. I even tried heating water on the stove to fill the tub but this was a futile effort.

So the landlady was informed of the issue and a plumber called but diagnosing the exact nature of the problem proved elusive. We didn’t have any truly hot water on the third floor and limited hot water on the second. The plumber, as all plumbers are, was overworked and in demand. He did good work, but it took weeks, sometimes months to make an appointment with him. When he did manage to fit us into his schedule, adjustments were made, valves checked out, settings changed, but the problem persisted. There was a second tub in the house, but no hot water to fill it with.

I resigned myself to sharing a single TILE shower stall with my entire family. I was embarrassed at how much this bothered me. Upstairs in the attic, the only time I entered Grrrl World was to put on my makeup. The sink and tub grew dusty. I turned off the radiator in there. I’d given up hope.

And then last week, the plumber returned yet again to replace corroded pipes and further investigate the hot water situation. He stumbled on the cause of the problem by accident and finally, after ten months of waiting, I had hot water in Grrrl World!

The tub was scrubbed, the bath products unearthed. There were several false starts as the pipes hiccupped calc and sediment into the tub and turned the water orange or a nasty yellow. I had to drain the tub twice and clean it yet again.

Finally at 10 o’clock that night, I got the bath I’ve been dying for since last spring. When the church bells rang on the hour, I was sure they were chiming for me.

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

Hard Times with Hard Water

Living in Belgium, it’s easy to find yourself and your home becoming fossilized. Once you’re introduced to Belgian water, your life hardens around you.

Shower stalls and tubs wears dusty coats of white. The kettle gets crusty and refuses to whistle. Stainless steel sinks are stainless no more. The shower head gets the plumbing version of kidney stones and output suffers. The faucets turn into geological formations. You can scrub all you want but you will never achieve a spotless house.

Even armed with vats of salt and gallons of vinegar, the calc invasion continues to gain ground at home. I suspect the reason there are so many old homes standing in Belgium is that hundreds of years of calc deposits are holding them together.

By far the hardest place for me to deal with hard water is in the laundry room. Back when I was a teenager and a budding feminist, I took offense at the plethora of advertisements on TV portraying neurotic women obsessed with the state of their husbands’ shirt collars and their children’s t-shirts and jeans. “Who cares?” I wanted to shout. Why should women be so preoccupied by laundry?

Older and wiser, I now know women (and men) are preoccupied with laundry not by choice but by necessity. As a mother of two with an athletic and active husband, I do a lot of laundry and see a lot of stains. Being the one who stays at home, I get to spend hours of quality time with the hamper, washer, and dryer. In America I fancied myself to be a laundry goddess who could restore the most hopelessly soiled clothing to its former state. When my children were younger, they would proudly tell their peers in pre-school, “My mom is very good at laundry.” (I’ll be sure to add that to my CV.)

But here in Belgium, laundry is a disappointing endeavor. I’ve lost rank in my laundry exploits because the soaps don’t lather vigorously and the insidious calc invades every fabric. Oh sure, the clothes may technically be clean but they are forever calced. UGH!

This is a blot on my record of laundry victories. My sparkling whites have been reduced to a shade of gray that matches the Belgian sky. Our tired-looking t-shirts and undergarments are absolutely depressing to pull on each morning. Life in our closets and dresser drawers is dingy and comfortless.

My sumptuous towels and cozy cotton knits emerge from the dryer slightly crispy. My husband’s “wrinkle-free” shirts are never wrinkle-free because the calc won’t let the fabric relax and release its rumples. Armed with Calgon and its deadly Power Balls, I valiantly descend the stairs daily and do battle with the evil forces attacking my clothes and my reputation as a laundry guru, and day after day, I emerge from the dark basement, stiff and defeated, as grim and exhausted as the laundry heaped in the basket.

But, as a proud American, I soldier on against threats to domestic happiness. I’m convinced a breakthrough is imminent in the war on hard water, and the calc insurgency will be defeated. Gray skies and hard times be damned, a brighter, whiter day is coming. Soon. Soon. But not soon enough.

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

Sunday Mornings in Belgium

Americans have reputation for being on the go 24/7—and they’ve earned it. We’re the country that has stores and restaurants that never close, highways that hum with traffic round the clock, and people who rarely slow down. The only time Americans come close to truly relaxing is on Sunday mornings. In America, this is the day most people sleep late, savor an extra cup of coffee, read the newspaper, and linger in their pajamas. No one is eager to get out of the house.

Not so here in Belgium. I am continually amazed at how the world wakes up and gets moving early on Sunday mornings. People queue up at the bread store and the line snakes out the door and onto the sidewalks. The spirited shouts of soccer players drift off the fields as teams play matches early in the day. Even with most shops closed, the village centers pulse with activity. Couples, families, dog walkers—they’re all out, chatting and strolling along the sidewalks.

But the real action is in the streets. Yes, Sunday mornings belong to cyclists in Belgium. Clad in aerodynamic outfits on sleek touring bikes, cycling club members dominate the roads, moving in colorful packs through neighborhood streets and along major byways.

They seem to be whizzing by if you’re standing on the sidewalk as they pass, but if you’re driving a car, and encounter large groups of cyclists, it seems they’re crawling along, legs pumping furiously while their bicycles move in slow motion. This is a scenario we’re all too familiar with because we attend church services in Waterloo on Sundays and meet many cyclists on our way.

There are days when this puts us in a less-than-Christian state of mind. One morning when we were grumpy and running late, we found ourselves in the middle of a cycling event in our commune and completely engulfed by bicycles at a traffic light. They were inches away from the front and rear bumpers as well as the sides of the car. I was terrified E-Man would hit one of them and told him to watch his driving; the group included not just typical cycling team members but families with children.

Since we were already in bad moods, the comment led to a nasty exchange as he assured me yes, he could see ALL the cyclists, he noticed the children, and he KNEW how to drive, thank you very much! I countered that it wasn’t about HIM and his driving skills but about bicycles and stopping distances and the laws of physics and human mortality. He rolled his eyes and asked me if I was wearing my glasses. Oh, the nerve! I resisted the impulse to remind him he is BLIND in one eye. Ah yes, quite a row. Not our proudest moment—and all on the way to church. How lovely!

Last Sunday could have gone the same way. Streets were closed throughout Tervuren due to a world championship cycling event at the park. We’d left the house early because E-Grrrl was going to be participating in the church service that day and was very excited about it.

When we realized one of the roads we normally take was closed, we didn’t’ panic, but took another, only to discover farther down the way that the adjoining street we needed was also unavailable. We stopped to ask a police officer who was directing traffic how to get where we needed to be going. He advised us to turn around and follow the “deviation” signs and they would eventually send us in the direction of the Ring.

And so we did. The signs took us all the way back the way we’d already come, wandered through Everberg, and then disappeared, leaving us in a residential neighborhood in the middle of nowhere. All was not lost, however.

E-Man, also known as Mappy, has an awesome sense of direction and, I’m convinced, a GPS system hard-wired into his brain. He often tells the natives the best way to get around their own towns. Somehow he managed to get us back on track and on our way to church, but when all was said and done, we probably drove a good 10-15 miles out of our way.

Despite all this, we arrived at church only six minutes after the service had commenced—but too late for E-Grrrl to do the reading she’d been assigned. We spent more time in the car getting to church than we did in church.

But I’m happy to report that this time we took our cycling adventure in stride. E-Grrrl, while disappointed, understood we had done our best to be there on time and accepted that with grace beyond her years. E-Man,  whose unofficial hobby is finding the shortest path between two geographic points, didn’t get horribly frustrated by our meandering tour of the back roads of Belgium. And me, I managed not to gasp or clutch my heart as we rocketed around the Ring that morning, even though I’m normally a skittish passenger who often has to close her eyes and consciously slow her breathing while riding in cars in Belgium.

So even though my darling daughter didn’t get to read in church, the day was memorable nonetheless. Maybe we’re finally applying all those wonderful truths dispensed in church to our Sunday morning drives to church.

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

January 12, 2006

There's got to be an explanation

The darling little E-Grrrl had art club yesterday, and when her dad picked her up after school, she excitedly announced that the Three Kings were coming! She learned this in the class she has on Belgium culture each Thursday.

Yes, here in Belgium, according to her native teacher, the Three Kings deliver gifts on the eve of the Feast of Epiphany (known as Three Kings Day here.) E-Grrrl is so excited! More gifts! More mystery! More excitement! And it’s all happening tonight! Wow! It was quite a surprise to her parents too.

She and her dad had to stop at the best bakery in town to buy a Three Kings cake. Baked into the cake is a trinket of some sort (or a dry bean) and whoever gets the special item in their slice of cake gets to wear a crown and be treated as royalty on Three Kings Day. (You may also get a broken tooth or a first-hand experience with the Heimlech maneuver—it all depends on how lucky you are.)

Last night I discovered a tiny ceramic tile painted with the image of a crown in my piece of cake, and so I am wearing the gold crown provided by the bakery and only answering those who address me as “Your Highness.” Curtsying and bowing are much appreciated, and I’m carrying the little tile in my pocket in case anyone challenges me on my status as Queen.

But enough about me--back to E-Grrrl. After the cake ceremony, she and her brother rummaged through the refrigerator and pulled out carrots to leave for the three kings’camels as their teacher had instructed. Then they went to bed in a tizzy, E-Grrrl buzzing with anticipation, her brother nervous and creeped out at the thought of three kings entering the house after he fell asleep. (His mother’s son! I always thought Santa Claus was a bit like a stalker.)

E-Man and I, well we were tired. Very tired. We just didn’t have the energy or resources to tap to celebrate another gift-giving occasion. A month ago, St. Nicholas came and left candy and trinkets in the children’s shoes, just like the Belgian teacher said he would!!! Then of course, Santa Claus had come on Christmas Eve and brought them presents, just like he does in America!!! And now, here it was Three King’s Eve and the kids were ready for more, more, more!!! Mom and Dad crawled into bed on schedule, being sure to say a prayer that God would bless the Belgian culture teacher for sharing these wonderful stories with the kids and asking that in the future, she also share them with the parents so we all can enjoy these Belgian holidays by planning for them.

E-Grrrl woke this morning and greeted her mother in the bathroom with a long face. “They didn’t come! I can’t believe they didn’t come!” She checks for gifts under her bed, in her shoes, in the attic, downstairs, on the window sills—but there are no gifts to be found. She’s crushed. Upset. She’s sure she heard her teacher right. Maybe she left her carrots in the wrong place? Maybe they were coming tonight instead? She’s positive she heard footsteps on the steps last night. Positive!!!

Being a seasoned expat, I can see where things may have gone wrong:

• The Three Kings passports were not in order.
• They didn’t make it through the metal detectors at the check point with all that gold.
• They didn’t have a work permit and visa allowing them to deliver gifts in our neighborhood.
• They failed to register with the appropriate embassies and our commune.
• They didn’t have their Belgian identification cards and were detained by police.
• They got lost—we know how hard it is to navigate in Belgium.
• The camels went on strike demanding fresher carrots, more hay, reduced hours, and early retirement.
• The countries the kings represent are not members of the EU and did not have a trade agreement in place.
• The kings, unfamiliar with Belgian “priority right,” were involved in an unfortunate accident with a Mercedes.
• The kings had issues with NATO policies and boycotted the Brussels area as a result.
• Their royal accountants decided the tax structure in Belgium made it a poor choice for those with extensive assets.
• The camels did not have international health records and were not microchipped so they could not enter the country.

As all of us living in Belgium know, anything is possible. These issues crop up regularly for expats . I’m sure by next year, the three kings will have all their problems resolved and will visit E-Grrrl and her brother as expected.

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

January 6, 2006

Pop Goes the New Year

My kids were eager to celebrate New Year’s and so we allowed them to plan a family party at home. They decided on a menu (finger sandwiches, lemonade, hot cider, and cake), and organized activities. We did art projects in front of the fire, played pin the “6” on the “2006,” worked on a giant jigsaw puzzle, danced to my daughter’s Hillary Duff CD (I know, I know—the things we do for love), and ate tiny cakes that were like miniature works of art, purchased at a local bakery.

We sent the kids to bed at 9 p.m. and shortly afterwards, settled down with a movie, which ended around 11:30 . We went downstairs, grabbed slices of cake, uncorked the champagne and waited for midnight while we debated which clock in the house was most accurate. (Our last argument of 2005—how romantic!)

At midnight the clock on the church bell tower in the village began chiming and a celebratory roar rose from crowds gathered outside the neighborhood sports club and community center and various nearby houses. Unbeknown to us, New Year’s Eve is the MAJOR fireworks event of the year in Belgium .

The air filled with the pop and hiss of countless fireworks displays and the sky shimmered with flashes and bursts of light. Amazed by the displays going on just outside our doors, we rushed to the third-floor of our house to catch the panoramic view from the attic. Our house is one of the tallest in the neighborhood and has a fabulous view of parts of the village, surrounding farmland, and the distant city.

The horizon was peppered with at least ten major fireworks displays and rockets and sparklers soared from homes and small neighborhoods in between. What we first thought was ground fog rising was actually smoke gathering from all the pyrotechnics. We sipped champagne and watched the spectacle beyond our window with an air of disbelief. Who knew staying home for New Year’s Eve would be so awesome?

We thought fondly of those we’d gathered with in years past to ring in the New Year. We remembered how we felt in 2005, anticipating a move to Belgium but not sure it would really happen. And we marveled that here we were a year later living an entirely different life. 2005 had been a year full of excitement and stress, exhilaration and low moments, and change, change and more change.

We’d had moments when we felt ill at ease or frustrated, times when we deeply missed home, and then days when we felt incredibly lucky and realized there were many aspects of European life that we preferred to life in the U.S.

2006 will be the year we decide whether to stay here for three years (our original agreement) or extend to a five year commitment. Dozens of factors need to be considered and weighed, and it will be a very tough call. But last night, with fireworks lighting the sky and happy voices filling in the air, we realized how much we like living in Belgium .

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

January 1, 2006