Like a bad dream

E-Grrrl and I were in high spirits. The guys are camping this weekend, and we're on our own with plans to make art, bake cookies and finish making a pinata for her class. We also needed to buy gifts  for our Belgian relatives who have birthdays in December. The sun was shining and the air crisp. I knew parking anywhere near the mall would be impossible, so I layered my fuchsia down vest over a black sweater and together we headed to the Metro station, walking arm and arm and laughing.

Everything changed the moment we got off the Metro and began walking through the station. We watched in horror as an older woman a short distance ahead of us stepped onto the escalator, lost her balance, and fell straight backwards as the escalator climbed. 

I sprinted forward to reach her, telling her in English, "It's OK, you're not alone." She was stunned, flat on  her back at a steep angle, her head facing the bottom of the escalator and rapidly turning  crimson as the blood rushed downward. I grabbed her under the arms and worked to pivot her prone body around so her head would be facing upward, hoping that I could then ease her into a seated position on a step before the escalator reached the top. While I managed to turn her, she was shocked and panicked and I couldn't get her to sit up. She was like a beetle trapped on its back.

A crowd had gathered at the top of the escalator and I yelled for someone to stop the escalator, terrified her hair or hands would get trapped as the escalator reached the top and the steps flattened. She was still on her back. If there was an emergency stop button, no one saw it or knew how to activate it.   In just a moment, we were at the top of the escalator, her head bumping over the top edge.

At that point several people came to our aid. I grabbed her bags and trolley and a man reached under her arms and brought her to her feet. I was very concerned she might faint if she was pulled to a standing position too quickly, but my French was failing me and I didn't know how to convey that. I thought she should sit for a while, but there wasn't a bench in sight.

Luckily, the man and two women at the top of the escalator spoke French and asked if they should call an ambulance. She said no, and then a woman offered to call someone for her. I stood by knowing she was in shock and that she really should sit down, that she was bound to begin feeling the pain of her fall and her rough ride up the escalator at any moment.  Still, the other people attending to her seemed in a better position to help her (due to my limited French), so E-Grrrl and I left after she thanked us for helping her.

By some freakish coincidence, that very morning E-Grrrl and I had been lying together in my bed talking about how scary it is to fall down stairs. She was recounting dreams she'd had of falling, and we were talking about how when we first moved to Belgium, we ALL fell on the stairs regularly. In our house here, there are three sets of  narrow, curving stairs that have a different rise and proportions than the American steps we were used to. Our bodies were programmed to a particular step height and position, and it took a long time to retrain our senses and not keep tripping and losing our balance on the steps.

Both kids took some dramatic spills, especially my son A who tripped at the top of the stairs and fell forward, hitting his head hard and putting me on a concussion watch for 24 hours. I told E-Grrrl how I'd tripped on a laundry basket at the top of the cellar stairs when I was a little girl and fell down the steep steps to the concrete floor below. My forehead was bruised and my eye so battered it swelled shut--my first and only black eye and one of the few times I ever remember my parents taking me to the doctor.

Those stories made the woman's horrifying experience all the more frightening to witness and participate in. We walked in silence through the holiday buzz of the mall with an adrenaline hangover, our spirits flattened with concern. Had we done enough? Was there a better way to handle that situation? Had those people stayed with the woman? Was someone coming to take her home?

I'm glad she didn't crack her skull on the sharp metal edges of the step and I was grateful she was wearing a well padded winter coat, but I know from experience how the extent of  injury and bruising from falling isn't fully seen or felt until hours later. I hope she's not alone and that she's OK.

The vision of the woman's body arcing backward and falling onto the steps is a moment I'll never forget. I'm sure it's etched in E-Grrrl's mind as well. 

December 15, 2007

Feels like a holiday

I wasn't looking forward to Thanksgiving. It's the day I most miss my parents and siblings and also because celebrating American holidays abroad highlights the fact that I'm an expat, not a native. Since we've moved to Belgium, we've always traveled the week of Thanksgiving, but this year that wasn't possible. Another reason I wasn't looking forward to Thanksgiving is that every weekend in November has been a long weekend for the kids, who have missed seven days of school due to American holidays and teacher work days. I was concerned that yet another long weekend would leave them bored and out of sorts, but so far, so good.

First there was the pleasant surprise of sunshine and blue skies yesterday morning, a  gift during the gray and rainy season. I took a long walk with my iPod putting bounce in my step, and then came home and set my daughter E-Grrrl up to make her very first pumpkin pie. Because I need to ship out Christmas gifts to America next week, E-Grrrl and I spent time wrapping them, a task I love because each package becomes a little seed of joy that I plant in a plain brown shipping box to bloom later in the hands of friends and family.

E did the marketing in the morning and we made dinner together. He finished off the bottle of wine that was in the refrigerator from Di's visit, and then got into the Grand Marnier that I was sipping from a tiny cordial glass. He poured his serving into a wine glass, and by late afternoon he was quite the jolly companion. Regular readers of this blog have probably picked up that while E is a nice enough guy, he's conservative and buttoned-up compared to his more free-spirited wife. Well those personality differences disappear when he's drunk tipsy. With a little alcohol defrosting his temperament, he laughs easily, and all the jokes and sexual innuendo that he normally does not find funny become hilarious. Let's just say this made for some very good times and lots of spills in the kitchen and set a nice tone for dinner.

Of course, the sipping of Grand Marnier and kitchen comedy might be the reason I forgot to make the stuffing (oops), but we still had plenty of food and it all came out fabulous. especially E's mashed potatoes which were perfection--a bit lumpy, not starchy, and full of flavor.  We ate in the dining room with the table properly set and loads and loads of candles and it was great fun. The kids were a blast, cheerful and funny.

We used my mother's Thanksgiving serving pieces and gathered around the very same table I'd eaten at as a child. It was easy to conjure happy memories and smile, not weep, over the ghosts of those long gone. So, in the end it was all good, and I was thankful for my little family unit under the Belgian sun, my slightly drunk husband, and all the friends I love so much and carry in my heart.

After dinner, we walked under a nearly full moon, and then E and I watched the 2006 film version of All the King's Men, a Pulitzer Prize-winning novel written by Robert Penn Warren in 1946. It tells the story of the rise and fall of a Louisiana politician and his right-hand man, a former newspaper reporter who became fascinated with him while covering his campaign. The movie had an incredible cast: Sean Penn, Jude Law, Kate Winslet, James Gandolofino, Anthony Hopkins, Mark Ruffalo, and others. The acting was superb, the cinematography stunning. I became completely engrossed in the story, loved the rich Southern gothic drama, and thought it was a visual feast.  The weakness of the script was in not better capturing the nature of the relationship between Jude Law and Kate Winslet's characters. Still, I loved this film; on some level it reminded me of Sophie's Choice. Put it in your Netflix queue.

Today while America embarks on the crazed consumer madness of the day known as Black Friday (the first official shopping day of the Christmas season), I basked in Belgium's low key approach to holidays. While E took the kids and their friends to an ice skating rink in Leuven, I boldly and bravely drove my car to a part of Brussels I'd never driven in before. It's one of my favorite shopping areas, but I normally take the bus or Metro there because it's so congested and getting there is a bit tricky for a spatially challenged grrrl. So while it won't seem like an accomplishment to the rest of you, just driving there, parking, and getting home was a Big Deal for me.

The shops are decorated for Christmas and it was cold and gray which seemed cozy today. I thoroughly enjoyed walking through the streets, admiring the goods in the store windows, most of which were way out of my price range. (Are there really women who pay $75-100 for a pair of panties? $500 for a coat? $85 for jeans? This wasn't designer stuff, y'all!)

I bought some of Belgian's finest chocolates for a friend in America. I stood in the chocolate shop for nearly half an hour, trying to decide whether to go with Belgian chocolate made with the cocoa from Madagascar, Venezuela, Java,  Mexico, Ecuador, or Ghana. Apparently the origin of the cocoa beans affects the flavor of the final product, and being a poor white trash Southern girl  non-connoisseur, I was clueless regarding the subtle nuances of the ingredients. Sadly, free samples were NOT available to help me make up my mind.  I read everything I could get my hands on and boldly made my selections, confident that there are no bad choices to be made in a Belgian chocolate shop!

Next I went on to a favorite craft shop. I had a "fidelity card" from this place that was finally full after two and a half years and a dozen purchases.  I thought the full card would entitle me to 5 percent discount off my next purchase, but I was pleasantly surprised to discover instead that it entitled me to a store credit equal to 5 percent of my total previous purchases in the store.  I ended up selecting French language stamps, a punch,  and two winter-themed stamps and only paying 10 euros. Woo hoo!

Tonight we'll have a fire, I'll finish preparing packages for shipping, and maybe, just maybe, get to make some art after dark.

How was your Thanksgiving? Anyone go shopping today?

November 23, 2007

Getting ready for ready, set, go

Today we had a meeting with the housing liasion to work on getting a timeline and sequence of events established for exiting our rental house here in Belgium.

There are laws governing notification of the landlord, protocols for pre-exit housing inspections, final inspections, and the turning over of the keys. The chimney must be swept and the furnace serviced and certificates stating that has been done obtained. There are different procedures to be followed for notifying the phone company, Internet service provider, and cell phone carrier. There's a method for ensuring payment of the final electric, water, and gas bills.

There are letters to be prepared in Dutch and letters to be prepared in French. There are issues with shutting down bank accounts and stopping automatic payments. There's a set method for getting a return of our letter of guaranty. And of course, there's all the stuff related to canceling renters insurance, adjusting coverage, blah, blah, blah.

Then there's the careful orchestration of household goods and car shipments, borrowing furniture to use,  finding a place to live for a few weeks between exiting our house and moving to America, ensuring that medical and school records are in hand, and that everything is in place on the other end when we arrive. I am so glad we already have a house and know where the kids will be going to school.

These are the days when I'm grateful that E is the most anal retentive person I know.  An international move requires the skills of someone who is detailed oriented and determined in following through on every task and ensuring it gets done and done on time.  I'm great at organizing and list making and putting things in motion, but I'm just silly and naive enough to believe that things will get done because I put them in motion and jumped through the hoops on my end. I never expect to have to follow up and make sure the worker bees and bureaucrats do what what they're supposed to do on their end. E, who has worked as a civil servant all his adult life, knows all about the importance of the follow through and follow up. He's tenacious like a pitbull but affable like a cocker spaniel. He knows how to grease the wheels politely.

So as we cruise into the start of the holiday season, I'm making a list and checking it twice, and that list has nothing to do with Thanksgiving or Christmas preparations....

November 20, 2007

A cozy kind of life...

Di took the train to my corner of Belgium to spend a few days pursuing creative projects and sharing secrets. After an entire week of heavy clouds, rain, and wind, the sun kissed the blue sky good morning and stayed all day.

We walked along tree-lined paths in the park until our knees hurt, sipped tea, had a late lunch and listened to the children re-cap their days and work on maths. After dinner was served and the darkness stuck to the windows, we lit a fire, and looked at books and checked our e-mail and read our blogs.

When the kiddos were off to bed, the wine came out and the conversation deepened, and we spoke of the people we love and the women we want to be while the cat watched the fire burn down and the hands on the clock pushed the night toward morning.

After midnight, the chips and salsa made an entrance and the wine made an encore and I sent Peter a "wishing you were here" e-mail. When I stumbled into the shower and fell into bed with wet hair at 1:30 a.m., Di was tucked into her attic bedroom under the stars, tapping away on her laptop. Ah, the writing life is a good one.

Today it's cold but the sun is shining and there's snow in the forecast for tomorrow. I'm warm inside and out, lapping up the sunshine and the company.

November 15, 2007

My day

I keep trying to talk myself out of writing this post, because no one really wants to hear about my day and my bad mood and the very cold temperatures and howling winds and blowing rain that hit on the day I had to take public transit into the city.

I pulled my big Goretex, Thinsulate, Polartec coat out of the closet for the first time this season. At the bus stop, just as the rain hit, I reached back to put up my hood and realized the hood had been detached last season and left in a box with hats and scarves in the attic.

No, I didn't have an umbrella because when the wind is gusting the way it is, it's pointless to try and use one.

The bus was late. Very late. Which meant my finely honed schedule involving Metro, bus connections, and a doctor's appointment was shot to hell. And I was cold.

I arrived at the Metro station just as the train I needed pulled away. Had to wait 10 minutes for the next train. Further and further behind....

And during the ride into the city, I suddenly developed a lump in my throat and felt like the loneliest girl. I tried to hide my tears from strangers and wished for the Free Hugs people to to magically show up so I could feel someone's arms around me.

Because the weather was so abyssmal, I tried to shorten my walk to the doctor's office by connecting to another Metro line and riding it one stop.  It took me a while to figure out how to get to the connection, and when I dashed down to the platform, the train I needed was pulling away.

Had to wait another 10 minutes.

Did I mention my iPod died in transit? No music to distract me from all these minutes wasted waiting for my day to move forward.

At the chiropractor's I had my back and knee worked on. My son, who fell onto concrete and hurt his wrist and his back last month, had his back adjusted and his arm worked on. My daughter wrenched her knee yesterday at soccer practice and so he worked on that. I'm grateful for the miracles he performed with our aches and pains, but it meant my carefully alotted stash of euros was severely depleted by the unexpected expense, making me wonder if I'd have enough money to last until E gets back from his two-week trip to Australia.

When we stepped out of the doctor's office, it was pouring. Just pouring. We had to walk about a mile in the rain to the Metro. My hair got so soaked it was sending rivulets of cold misery down my neck. My coat looked like I'd gone swimming in it. My mascara went Goth on me.

We  took the Metro to the mall so I could get the kids some lunch and do a bit of Christmas shopping. I have to mail out my Christmas packages to the States really early, before Thanksgiving.

We went to Belgium's only fast food chain, the ironically named "Quick." It was anything but. We waited 20 minutes in line behind ONE customer. I'm not sure who was more hopeless, the clerk or the customer. Neither of them could get their act together.  Just as the customer is finally getting his food, his buddy bounds into the restaurant and cuts in front of us to place his order.

I am beyond pissed. I have not had such a good day. I'm not in my happy place. I may be under the influence of evil PMS hormones. My hair is wet, my kids are hungry, I'm going to miss the bus I need to catch because it's taking so long to get "fast food" and I want to tell this guy to "mangez merde" and get behind me. But I don't.

I'm short on euros. I buy the kids large orders of frites and tell them we'll have the rest of our lunch at home.

I go to the L'Occitane store and charge 88 euros on gifts, well over a hundred dollars. I'm happy to say the store clerk was helpful, polite and warm. She was a bright spot in my day.

The kids and I went to the nature store where I see several things I'd love to have, but I don't buy anything. I show the kids what I want for Christmas, a polartec hood/scarf combo in deep red with white embroidery edging the hood. Perfect for wet, windy weather! 

The kids browse in a toy store, even though they're really too big for toy stores now. Then I tell them we have to go or we'll miss our bus and it only runs every hour.

We head downstairs and I have to buy a new Metro pass. Much to my surprise, they have a new type of ticket machine, and it only takes coins or Proton cards. You can't use bills with it. Damn! I had spent 8 euros worth of change upstairs in the mall and have hardly any change left. I'm scrambling, seeing if I can find more coins.

Even with English prompts, it's not clear how the machine works. It's different from the old one. My transactions keep getting cancelled by accident. Then it won't take my coins. I don't have enough for a Metro pass, I'm going to have to buy three separate tickets in three separate transactions and I'm counting my pennies to see if I can pay for it. The machine won't take pennies. I finally get enough change together and get our tickets bought, but not before we miss our train.

Forced to wait another 10 minutes.

Arrive at the other station in time to see that we missed our bus too.

There are no seats available to sit in while we wait...It will be an hour until a bus can take us home.

After a bit, I find another bus that will take us within two miles of home. We take it and walk that last mile and three quarters in the cold blowing wind, carrying our packages. At least it wasn't raining, but my hands are so cold, my joints ache.

And while my day was hardly a disaster, it was just enough to send me over the edge. This isn't a nice post.  It doesn't have a point. It doesn't contain any wisdom, it's not well written, it's not  inspiring.

But it is my day, my life, my blog, and I'm claiming it for what it is, not for what I wish it would be.

Today the grey skies are right on top of my head and I just want to rest in someone's arms.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow will be better.

And at least I have the cat to sleep with.

November 9, 2008

Celebrating the Divine Miss Di

It all started with a post featuring a poem by Erica Jong that spoke of the plight of women who "loved houses better than themselves." It was January  2006, and a new commenter named Di stopped by my blog to let me know she loved that poem too and was also an expat in Belgium. 

I didn't know it at the time, but to "meet" Di in a post that included poetry and laments about housework was cosmic. As our friendship slowly unfolded, our love of art and our frustration with the baggage of domestic life would be a theme we'd revisit again and again and again.

Her blog included thought provoking quotes, photography, political commentary, links, and bits and snippets of her life. When she very shyly asked if my family would mind posing for her developing photography portfolio, I jumped on the opportunity to have her point her camera our way. It was just a wee bit more than a year ago that I finally met Di in person during the shoot, which occurred on her birthday. I offered to use my PR and marketing skills to help her launch a photography business and we began corresponding regularly.

Out of that correspondence came the soul of our friendship. We both struggled with finding our creative voices and making a new life in Belgium, having confidence in our respective talents, and believing in our choices. I loved the way Di boldly plunged into Antwerp's diverse community, volunteering to act as a photographer with the Antwerp Integration Office and throwing herself into getting to know the faces and lives of the more than 165 nationalities and ethnic groups in her home city. She has a true passion for people and loves to capture the essence of their stories in her images.  Her experiences as a "woman wandering" have given her a strong sense of justice and a tender heart for refugees, immigrants, and outsiders, something I really admire. 

Last night she and Gert hosted another of their soirees, bringing together people from all over.  I used the party as an excuse to celebrate Di's birthday (which was Tuesday) and the anniversary of our first meeting last year. I baked her an orange cake glazed with Grand Marnier and presented her with a special gift, a bracelet designed for her by my friend Lisa.

I told Lisa I wanted something "warm and earthy" for Di, and that I wanted it to include a silver charm that says "Believe," to remind Di to believe in herself, her art, and our friendship.

Lisa visited Di's Web site, checked out her photography, and then came up with a design that she and I discussed via e-mail. The main beads of the bracelet are unakite, which is the official stone of my home state, Virginia. Unakite is brought down from the Blue Ridge Mountains by river into the state's verdant valleys. I grew up in the shadow of the Blue Ridge and spent many an afternoon on the Maury River, so unakite was a perfect selection. The center bead is glass, and its pattern suggested mountains to Lisa. It seemed a fitting symbol for Di, a native of New Zealand. Last night I arrived at the party early so I could give her the bracelet and was thrilled to see how well it "matched" her inside and out.

Later Peter and I shared conversation and birthday cake and compared waistlines.  Di and I agree his so called belly fat is a pathetic excuse for middle-aged spread, and if he complains about the size of his jeans, we'll be forced to act unladylike and remind him his jeans are smaller than ours. Ahem. And for the record, the conversation may or may not have included the "O" word. We're not telling. No we're not. We're nice Grrrls and Peter is, as he says, "shy and reserved" and even dressed "like an accountant." We're already planning another get together, a Grrrl's weekend in Antwerp. Peter says he'll come in drag. ; )  If he fattens up a bit, I'll loan him something to wear. ; )

October 28, 2007

Namur, Belgium

We've visited Namur several times since we've lived here.  This charming city in the French-speaking part of Belgium is distinguished by an enormous citadel built into a tall hill that towers over the city and affords spectacular views. It's also the place where my favorite perfume is made, Passion by Guy Delforge. I bought an extra bottle of this spicy fragrance to take back with me to America, though the gentlemen at the parfumerie assure me they can ship it to me if I run out. A Grrrl with a passion for Passion can't take any chances.

The morning fog was still lingering....

Like Di, I love Belgian street lamps.

E-Grrrl had to photograph the Webkinz she received for her birthday at an overlook.

October 18, 2007

Copyright 2007 Veronica McCabe Deschambault and V-Grrrl in the Middle. All rights reserved.

Barkin' up the wrong tree

A cool foggy morning in Belgium, the air tinged with a taste of drizzle, the trees' dark shadows emerging from mist. After the kids grab the bus, I head off on my morning walk, down the farm road, under the cottonwoods, and past the fields full of soybeans and beets.

It’s wet and muddy but I decide to take the wandeling through the woods, figuring the sight and scent of mossy ground and falling leaves will more than compensate for wet feet and dirty shoes. There are thickets of white birch that I love to pass through and a pond surrounded by weeping willows and towering hardwoods that I like to visit.

Every morning when I’m walking, I see people out with their dogs, and I’ve come to know many of the owners and pets in an informal way. Until recently, I’ve always owned both dogs and cats, but now I just have Petey, my slick black cat.

In the woods, I encounter a beautiful, glossy black lab with soulful eyes. He wanders over to greet me and I put a hand down to let him take a sniff. In a split second, he’s got my thigh in a passionate love clutch and is doing the Elvis on me. Damn, I am one sexy b*tch. I’m a substantial grrrl but he nearly knocks me over with the force of his love. His owner reprimands the dog in Dutch as I try to gracefully extricate myself from his muddy embrace.

The owner is mortified, but I reassure him in English that it’s OK, I love dogs (not in the sense this dog loves me, but I do love dogs.) We go our separate ways, and I start to smile remembering a big moment from my past:

E and I had been dating for a long time and we were engaged, but I had never met his parents who lived in Florida. He was stationed in Alabama, and I was in college in Virginia. We decided I’d fly down to where he was, and then we’d drive to his parents’ house and spend a few days there so I could meet his family.

It goes without saying I was nervous. E had been part of my family from Day One, and they had had plenty of time to get to know him before we became engaged. It would be a lot different waltzing into his house as fiancée and future family member. I was doing my best to be calm, cool, and collected and make a favorable impression.

Growing up in a household with an Irish father and Italian mother, I was used to bold and noisy hospitality. My mother greeted guests with loud exclamations of happiness and big hugs, and quickly got the kettle on and some sweet baked good onto the table. My dad, true to Irish tradition, always offered a drink and a story peppered with humor. Table conversations often became loud and silly with much laughing. This was my world.

When E brought me through the front door of his parents’ house in Florida, I expected a bit of the same treatment—the warm welcome, the abundant conversation. Instead his mom, who is Belgian, greeted me with a tepid handshake and said, “Hi V. We’re glad you could visit,” in a quiet voice.

My first thought: “His mother hates me! She hates me!”

I didn’t know about the legendary reticence of Belgians, their natural reserve, or my mother-in-law’s deep shyness. She was probably as nervous as I was, but at the tender age of 19, I couldn’t imagine an adult being intimidated by meeting me. 

I put my suitcase in the room where I’d be staying and went with E into the living room to visit with his family. Perched nervously on the edge of the black leather sofa, I was trying hard to relax while E’s dad, an American with a booming voice, pummeled me with questions on my achievements and career plans. He was an extremely practical man and had a hard time understanding why anyone would earn a "useless" liberal arts degree. This, by the way, would be a recurring theme in our 20-year relationship—him wondering when I was ever going to “use my gray matter” and me defending my choices.

E’s sister and one of his brothers entered the room and I felt better. We had a rapport and it was good to have some people my age to relate to. What’s strange to consider now is that when I met E’s mom, she was about the age I am now.

So as I sat on the sofa trying so hard to be acceptable to my future in-laws, the family beagle came in and introduced himself. First he stuck his blunt snout straight into my crotch, and then clearly turned on by what he found there, he mounted my shin and started vigorously showing his approval. (See y’all, I have always been a very sexy b*tch.)

I had crossed my legs after the muzzle molestation, and Barney found the angle of that top leg to be just right for maximum stimulation. I kept trying to subtly deter him from his act of passion, but the more I tried to shake him off, the harder he hung on. Clearly he liked his sex rough. Everyone in the room was stunned into silence, trying to pretend this wasn’t happening in the House of Reserve and Propriety.

The Real V would have made a joke and quickly diffused the situation, but the Trying Desperately to Impress V swallowed all her clever words and wished to disappear.

Ultimately, it was E’s brother M who saved the day with a big smile and a mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes.

“Well, Barney sure LIKES V---he likes her a lot! I think he likes her the same way E does.”

Oh lord. What a relief. A smartass in the family! I was able to loosen up and finally push the dog off with E’s help while M received a bit of a glare from E’s parents for his “inappropriate” remark.

It would be a long time before I freely expressed myself at Chez E, but in those early years, M and I would often share a number of loaded glances and little smirks across the room as we navigated the conservative family dynamics together. Sadly, our relationship would deteriorate over the years, but I’ll always remember that first meeting and our instant camaraderie and how he kept the day from going to the dogs.

October 3, 2007

One where I whine a lot because I'm homesick....

Lately I’ve found myself increasingly homesick, just longing to be back in America. Every frustration I have with my life in Belgium is magnified these days.

I find myself ranting over issues I’d accepted as part and parcel of my expat experience. Road construction always has the potential to create traffic nightmares, but now it's worse than ever. The main road serving my village and many neighborhoods is closed down in both directions. When you get within a mile or two of my house, you’re now forced to take a five-mile detour down narrow streets clogged with parked cars and speed bumps and wacky traffic patterns that see two-way streets brought down to one lane, with cars backed up in each direction waiting for a turn to go through.

Today the kids had a packed schedule, and I had to take this detour THREE times, sometimes spending 30 minutes to go that extra five miles. Because of the detour, I can no longer catch a bus home from the Metro station. The closest drop off to my house is almost two miles from it. This makes heading into the city an even bigger ordeal than it already is.  With the road closed and the school bus having to navigate all this, the kids are getting home from school 30 minutes later in the afternoon now, and we're told to expect this until DECEMBER.

I hate the lack of alternate routes here, how narrow the streets are and how people with perfectly good driveways park in the street and block traffic. I hate that drivers constantly pass in no passing zones and create their own lanes and engage in all sorts of annoying and dangerous road behaviors, even in residential neighborhoods where you wouldn’t expect to encounter aggressive drivers. Don’t get me started on the complicated system that governs right of way. Even after two and a half years, I’m still not used to how people drive. I feel grounded in the worst way. Driving is so frustrating, that I hate every minute I spend in the car and refuse to drive many places.

I miss being able to buy what I need, when I need it, close to home. I’m tired of stores that are closed on Sundays and that open late and lock their doors early, that don’t have parking lots, or are located in places that are so hard to get to.

I’m tired of dealing with two different currencies and multiple bank accounts. E gets paid in dollars and we’re always juggling when and how to convert dollars to euros. The exchange rate has been horrible so we have less buying power than ever, E can only do his currency exchanges on Tuesdays and Thursdays at his workplace and he has to carefully plan when to transfer funds because he’s limited on the frequency and size of his transactions. I can’t easily get cash, and I’m just sick of all the hassles associated with finances here. I want to be able to write checks again!!!

We’re fortunate to be able to use a military mail system that allows us to send and receive mail to and from America and pay normal U.S. postage rates, not international or air rates. This is an enormous advantage because I can subscribe to U.S. magazines and order goods from many American companies and not pay exorbitant shipping costs. The down side of this privilege is that all of our mail arrives at a special post office located in the compound where E works. He can pick up the mail. I can’t. When he travels a lot, as he is doing now, our mail languishes at the post office for a week or two, which is hard to take when you’re waiting for a package or a magazine to arrive.

I miss being able to go out for an American breakfast on the weekends.

I miss grabbing a bagel and a large decaf vanilla hazelnut coffee at Einstein’s.

I miss being able to attend concerts, plays, movies, lectures, and classes.

I miss hearing English everywhere.

I miss going to video stores and renting movies.

I miss Halloween.

I miss my girlfriends.

And my family.

And being in the same time zone as most of the people I love.

Tonight I’ve had enough of expat life, and I just want to go home.

September 22, 2007

Peace, Love, and Nausea

Javacurls and I were all revved up for the Free Hugs event in Brussels. We talked on the phone the day before, planning how to get into the city and agreeing to use our art supplies to paint our signs.

Friday afternoon, I happily painted a big sheet of yellow poster board with blue-green letters: Free Hugs!

In the morning, I was thrilled to see the beautiful weather the day delivered. I dressed in jeans and cowboy boots, a black v-neck shirt, and my silver concho earrings from my Oklahoma days. Unafraid of looking too American, I was ready to spread the love. On went the denim jacket, and I waited eagerly for Javacurls to arrive. I was psyched!

E dropped us off at the Metro station and Javacurls and I were glad to get seats on the slightly crowded train. Laughing and chitchatting at first, some of the animation began to drop out of our conversation. Javacurls had this look on her face as she surveyed the masses filling the train and the beggars making their rounds with paper cups.

“V—do you realize what we’re doing? We may have to hug everybody on this train.”

Surrounded by strangers, many of them stony and indifferent, we were no longer feeling the love but the enormity of the commitment to the task ahead. Hmmmm. What the hell were we thinking? Were we really going to stand in the center of the city and hug anyone who approached us?

Javacurls forehead had a little crease in it as she pondered whether we were going to be lambs thrown to lions. The day before we had talked about the boldness of stepping out of our comfort zone, and the possibility we might be hugging someone we felt really uncomfortable touching. Javacurls had said, “Every one deserves to be shown respect.”

Stepping into the DeBrouckere station, we stopped so Javacurls could get a sandwich. It was nearly two o’clock and she hadn’t eaten all day.

We weren’t quite sure which way to go until we spotted another person carrying a Free Hugs sign. We asked her in franglais if she knew where to go, and she wasn’t sure either. We found our way outside to the Place de la Monnaie and looked for other participants. Nothing.

Our newfound partner in hugs, pulled out her cell phone, dialed a number and placed a call. Twelve feet away, a man answered. Our organizer, Didier. Like our partner in hugs, he didn’t speak English, so I worked with my spastic French to tell him where I was from, how long I’d been living in Belgium and inquire how many people were coming. He didn’t know.

Slowly a girl with ruby red hair showed up with a dark haired friend with a nose ring and a big smile. Three young teenage boys galloped into our midst with signs, a woman in a wheelchair arrived, and bit by bit others showed up. Still, we remained a little shy with one another. Parked on a bench in the center of the square, none of us was eager to be the first one to hold our signs aloft and make a spectacle.

The night before I’d invited Cindy Lane to join us. She showed up and was VERY supportive. In her Texas drawl she said, “Have y’all been smoking crack or what? Are you out of your minds? I came down here early to hug you before you get covered with Cooties. There is no quantity of drugs or alcohol that would get me out here with a sign.” (Did I mention Cindy works for a global HUMAN RIGHTS organization?)

I nearly died laughing until we heard the sound of breaking glass behind us and Cindy said, “Are y’all gonna hug the guy that just tossed that beer bottle?”

Oh crap. Maybe I’m not such a big-hearted Grrrl after all. Javacurls looked nervous as she programmed Cindy’s phone number into her cell. We agreed we’d call her later and meet up for drinks.

Then the media began arriving and talking to Didier. Photographers, reporters, broadcast journalists began pointing their cameras our way and so we stepped out into the middle of the crowds with our signs held aloft.

Smile, smile, smile.

Some people avoided eye contact, others looked bemused, and a few came in for hugs. I tried to strike the right expression, friendly but not desperate. A trio of very young teens ran toward me and hugged me and then asked if they were going to be on television. I hugged Brits, Aussies, Belgians, Mexicans and Frenchmen.

An Italian couple made a beeline for me and took turns giving me fabulous hugs while declaring in French, “We’re Italians!” I wanted to tell them I was Italian-American, but I figured my good Roman nose spoke for me. That profile and my big brown eyes are my ticket into the Italian community.

Javacurls sidled up to me and told me she’d been groped. Oops. She looked a little sick.

A woman embraced her and spoke to her in French. Javacurls said, “I wish I knew what people were saying to me.”

So I translated, “It’s a pleasure,” “Are you happy?” "Have a nice day" and “Nice ass!” Java frowned, and I confessed to jerking her chain with the last translation.

Luckily I was hugged, kissed, photographed, but never groped. I did, however, spend a lot of time just standing there trying to catch someone’s eye and lure them in for a free hug without seeming like some psycho-stalker.

A local TV celebrity showed up with a microphone and camera crew and a Free Hugs sign. He attracted lots of attention.

A Dutch woman joined us, her blue eyes sparkling with enthusiasm as she worked the crowd. She spoke English and told us that people didn’t understand the signs, most of which were in English. Not surprisingly, the French-speaking natives all know the word “Free” but few recognized the word “Hugs.” Not long after she told me this, a middle-aged man leading his young son by the hand came up to me and gestured toward my sign, asking me in French, “What does that say?”

“Calin gratuit,” I replied, hugging myself to make the message clear. I smiled, expecting him to come in for a hug. Instead he looked at me and walked away.

Meanwhile, Javacurls had excused herself to the restroom at the Metro stop, saying she wasn’t feeling well. As time passed, my face began to ache from smiling and I worried about Java. Where was she?

When I spotted her back on the square, she confessed to feeling nauseous. She’d been excited and then nervous about the whole Free Hugs thing, and her empty stomach had started to churn on our way into Brussels. The sandwich she’d eaten hadn’t settled it, but made it feel worse.

She looked green.

“Let’s head home,” I said. But then seeing how ill she looked, I thought the last thing she needed was to get on the Metro.

“Let’s call Cindy and see if she can come get us. I’ll call E from her apartment and he can pick us up.”

Java called Cindy and I got directions to a meeting place at the Bourse. As we headed down the street, I was worried about Java, she seemed unsteady.

“Are you OK?”

“I feel REALLY nauseous.”

We slipped onto a construction site downtown so she could sit.

“I think I’m going to throw up.”

“Well this is a good place to throw up. We’re off the sidewalk and out of sight from most people.”

Not surprisingly, she wasn’t buying into my “It’s OK if you throw up” line.

I told her I was going to go farther down the street to make sure we were heading in the right direction so she wouldn’t have to walk a step farther than necessary. It had been hard to hear Cindy on the cell, and I wasn’t sure I caught all her directions correctly.

I returned to Javacurls and told her I’d spotted a pharmacy down the street. Should we pop in and get something?

No, she didn’t want to do that.

We walked a bit farther before spotting Cindy coming toward us. We followed her back to her apartment, where Java sipped Sprite and chewed Pepto-Bismol tablets and Cindy and I tried to distract her with conversation.

E eventually made it into the city to rescue us and we headed home, covered with Cooties and proud of ourselves for stepping out and embracing our fears as well as the residents of the capital of Europe.

September 16, 2007