The wobbly bits--reflections on scenery, driving and the English experience

If Belgium is built of brick, Britain is built of stone. Just as nearly every manmade structure in Belgium is a shade of red, every thing in Britain appears to be a shade of gray or tan. The area we visited is renowned for its cream colored limestone and classic architecture and its featured in new as well as old buildings.

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Jane Austen lived in Bath for several years and recent movies based on her novels were filmed here. We saw some some of the homes and manors used in the BBC production of Pride and Prejudice. We also an Elizabethan manor house whose history inspired Charles Dickens to write Bleak House. We caught a glimpse of Prince Charles’ estate, High Grove. There’s a Jane Austen museum in Bath, but we didn’t visit.

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I loved the wide open skies and rolling plains of the English countryside near Bath and in the Cotswolds. On sunny days the shadows of clouds scuttling over hills and dales animated the landscape. On cloudy days I appreciated the stark beauty of craggy limbed trees against the pearl gray sky. Everywhere we turned, the deep green hills were dotted with sheep. I told E-Man that it was only natural a cold, damp country like England would be known for wool production. Later, my conjectures were confirmed by a guide, who told us the wool industry was launched by the Romans when they occupied Britain. Military men hated to posted to the chilly hinterlands of the Empire and began cultivating sheep to meet their own needs for warm clothing.

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The English seem to be unfailingly polite. Not only were they courteous in their personal interactions, but even their traffic signs, posts, and warnings had a pleasant tone. They are not as quiet and reserved as Belgians. Unfortunately, the loud car stereos that are prevalent in America are also popular in the UK. (Kudos to the Belgians for not blasting their bass notes into the stratosphere.)

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The E-Man bravely embraced the “backwards” UK traffic pattern and drove confidently on the left side of the road and barreled around traffic circles in a clockwise direction with the savoir faire of a native. The first day as a passenger in the car, I was skittish and sometimes had to close my eyes because all my reflexes revolted against E driving on the left. However, I was surprised how quickly I got used to it and was able to relax and enjoy the scenery. E did a fabulous job of driving and navigating.

Even after living in Belgium for more than a year, I’m uncomfortable in the car, as a driver or a passenger. Belgian law gives priority to cars entering roads from the right so as you’re driving along cars come shooting out of perpendicular roads right in front of you. Except at certain intersections, they are not required to stop, yield, or even slow down. I will never get used to having vehicles popping out of side streets at high rates of speed. I’m forever terrified by anything moving in my peripheral vision—and that includes the abundance of pedestrians and cyclists who are EVERYWHERE.

E and I both admired how well marked roads were in the area of England we were in. Lots of signs, well placed, and best of all, lots of pavement markings indicating which lane to stay in to catch a particular highway. Yes the roads meander and are seldom straight and there are loads of traffic circles, but it’s much harder to get lost than in America or in Belgium. There seemed to be less aggressive driving and road rage. We’re forever amazed that the otherwise quiet and self-contained Belgians can get so bent out of shape when they get behind the wheel of a car (not that Americans are calm behind the wheel--they're driven in every sense of the word!). One thing I will say for Belgian drivers, as compared to U.S. drivers, is that they nearly ALWAYS use their turn signals. Of course, this is almost comical when they’re signaling to pass you on the right by DRIVING ON THE SIDEWALK! Or edging around and in front of you while you are in a marked turn lane preparing to turn left. Ah yes, I love the way Belgians seize the day by creating lanes and right-of-way rules at will. Who says they’re not a dynamic and creative people? ; )

April 21, 2006

Speechless

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.

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

April 20, 2006

Sacred Places

Our second day in Bath, the weather was nicer. E finally got to do his walking tour (while the kids and I explored on our own), and then after lunch we headed off by car to see one of the world’s most recognized wonders.

Stonehenge rises up out of the broad face of the Salisbury plain, its lichen-covered stones in the midst of a sheep pasture. The sun is bright but the wind sweeps the sky and threatens to blow us away as our scarves flap and our hair whips around our eyes. The spring chill barrels through our jackets, and Stonehenge sits unmoved and unmovable as it as has for at least 4,000 years.

The monolithic stone circle we see on this sight isn’t the first monument that was built here. Archeologists say there were others before it, dating back 5,000 years. The windswept plain spreading for miles under endless sky was once wooded, and perhaps Stonehenge was surrounded by forests.

The stones that tower above the ground were quarried in Marlborough Downs which is 19 miles away, and the bluestones below came from the mystical Preseli Mountains in Wales, 240 miles away. Exactly how the stone was transported is unknown. Why bluestone was chosen is also unknown. How the builders erected single slabs of stone that weigh more than 40 tons each is a secret buried with the builders. The lintels that crown the stone slabs aren’t just set on top, but are fitted using joint and tenon construction. Each pillar is positioned with precision and special stones mark the position of the sun at the various equinoxes of the year. There is an altar in the center and a tall stone that acts like the spike on a sundial.  There are round burial mounds within sight of the circle.

Its exact origins and purpose remain a mystery, but it’s clear this spot has been tended as a sacred place since 3050 B.C. Like the hot spring in Bath, which has been the site of pagan, Roman, and Christian places of worship, Stonehenge represents human effort to get in touch with the Divine, to connect with something greater than a visible reality, to make sense of both the order and the chaos of the natural world.

In Bath, there is a beautiful Abbey, built in the 15^th century on a site that first had a Christian church that was built by the Saxons in the ninth century and later a Norman cathedral. The Abbey was site of the coronation of the very first king of England, Edgar. On Good Friday, we visited Wells Cathedral, the oldest surviving English Gothic Church, dating to the 12^th century. When we toured the Cotswolds on Thursday, we visited several stone churches, built by the Saxons and the Normans, each one intertwined so intimately with English history and politics. In the dim light of one ancient church, I placed my hand on the cold stone of a baptismal font that dated back to the 13^th century. It is still in use today, tying together generation after generation of Christians in this place.

It was amazing to visit these sacred places that have served believers of various religions and origins for thousands of year. How fitting to be there during Holy Week, the week Christians commemorate Jesus’ final days, his death and his resurrection.

My parents had me baptized and set me on my own spiritual path as an infant, and I’ve followed it first as a child and now as an adult. At times I’ve done so with confidence and “blessed assurance.” Other times I’ve plodded along, uncertain exactly where I was going or what my beliefs meant, but committed to accepting my doubts and questions as an important part of my journey.

I’ve seen how religion divides and unites, how it is a vehicle of love and can be hijacked for hate, how it creates clarity and confusion, peace and distress. Even as I embrace Christianity, my faith expands to consider the mystery of the Divine, the relationship mankind has sought with God from the days before recorded history, the truth we still seek to this day.

While rigid, dogmatic interpretations of Christianity grab the headlines and try to explain every aspect of life in detail, I confess I like the mystery of faith. I don’t grip my faith in my fist. Instead I like to hold my beliefs loosely in my hand and consider all I don’t know and understand. I like to ponder what has come before me and all that coexists with my faith and wonder how each of us has arrived at our place as Seekers, as Believers.

Sometimes I envision all of us as holding pieces to a puzzle, each piece a perfect but incomplete glimpse of the Divine. Some believers have many pieces, some have just a few. We gather them all our lives, we inherit them, we share them with others. Maybe on the last day we’ll bring what we have forward and see how they all fit together, all reflect something so much bigger than we ever imagined. We’ll see the Big Picture, see the Divine, appreciate our gifts, and recognize the sacred in every face, every faith, every place.

© Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

Visit to Bath, UK

On our first full day in Bath, we walk into the center of the city, our first Urban Death March, a term I coined with the kids to describe E’s city explorations. For E, everything is within walking distance. He’s marched us all over Baltimore, Washingtion, D.C., Brussels, and Paris. Why take the bus or Metro when our destination is so “close”?

In general, this isn’t an altogether bad policy. Exploring a city or destination on foot provides a far more authentic experience than sitting in a car in traffic, circling endlessly looking for a parking place, or zipping from attraction to attraction underground. And hey, it assures you get plenty of exercise on days filled with restaurant food.

The downside of this approach is that 1) we’re often victims of crappy weather, 2) we all have different stamina levels, and 3) we end our days in the city so thoroughly exhausted that we have to resist the urge to burrow under the bedcovers and never leave the hotel room again.

It should come as no surprise then that when we arrive in the center of the city of Bath after a 25 minute walk from our hotel, E wants to take a two-hour guided walking tour of the city which promises to deliver boatloads of history, architectural information, and gossipy tidbits. Can you hear V-Grrrl going “Aack” and trying to swallow a hairball of discontent?

Unfortunately, the lovely weather we’d had the day before in Windsor is history now. This is England in April. It’s cold and damp—a raw spring day. I’m wearing a thermal ski shirt under a turtleneck sweater under a fleece vest under a wool-lined parka and I’m still cold. I’m patting myself on the back for having packed hats and gloves for myself and the kids despite weather forecasts predicting temps in the 50s, but still, all the layers aren’t a perfect match for the chill trying to seep into our bones.

E really, really, really wants to do this tour. For him, it’s key to understanding the city. Me, I’ve read the guidebooks and Web pages on Bath’s history and that was plenty. I’m sure the guide knows “more, much more” but I really don’t want to know “more, much more.” Plus I think 2 hours of narrative history and neck craning is going to leave the kids bored and restless—not to mention hungry. GAH. The tour would delay lunch and my gosh, we all know you can’t delay lunch.

Still, I’m committed to the tour for E’s sake. It doesn’t start until 10:30 a.m. We kill time drifting in and out of shops around the main square and buy E a cashmere scarf to battle the cold. By tour time however, my resolve has faded. I can't stand the thought of standing out in the raw, damp weather for a minute longer, let alone two hours. My back already hurts. I’ve been on my feet an hour.

Since the weather is bad, I suggest we visit the downtown museums. E has his heart set on the tour and tries to talk us all into it. The kids chime in that they don’t want to do the walking tour either. Outnumbered and outgunned, with rain threatening, the beleaguered E caves in to family pressure and reluctantly agrees to save the tour for another day. Can you hear his teeth grinding?

And so we go to see the Roman Baths instead, the site of Britain’s only hot springs. There’s a museum built around the ruins of the Roman baths and medieval structures there. The Romans had built a temple to the goddess Minerva there. The temple was later destroyed (though remnants remain). During medieval times, Queen Mary, struggling with infertility, bathed in the hot springs’ waters and gave birth to an heir 10 months later. Bath’s reputation expanded and it once again became a destination for royals and those seeking cures.

The baths steam in the cold air of the museum courtyard and include a stone chair where the king used to sit when he came to Bath. The museum itself features artifacts from the Roman period, including carvings from the frieze of the temple, pilasters, memorials, Roman coins, sacred temple vessels, and my favorite—curses that Roman visitors etched into sheets of pewter or lead and tossed into the spring waters, hoping that the goddess Minerva would grant them revenge against those who had offended them.

Shortly after we entered the museum, a group of 50 French teenagers arrived. This changed the whole experience. We were soon overrun with chatty students, all sporting bulky backpacks and clogging every exhibit and hallway. The big problem was that they planted themselves in a given spot and didn’t move. No one loiters like a teenager. They had absolutely no sense of personal space and were oblivious to the other visitors to the museum.

The shoulder-to-shoulder, step-on-my-toes atmosphere was claustrophobic and I didn’t linger over the exhibits. By the end of our visit, my back was aching. I’d been on my feet and/or walking for about 3 hours and couldn’t bear another moment. I didn’t think I could do another museum, so we planned to pick up sandwiches and head back to the hotel. When we stumbled upon a Starbucks and I saw E’s naked longing for a cup of coffee, plans changed. I was cold, cramping, and tired. We decided to stop right there rather than Death Marching to the Holiday Inn. We found a table upstairs, and E grabbed us hot drinks and sandwiches. I swallowed some ibuprofen to take the edge off my back pain. What a relief to sit down, drop my purse, and warm my hands around a mug of steaming tea.

Once we’d rested a bit, my back unknotted and the ibuprofen kicked in, we decided to hit the road again, and windowshop on our way to the Costume Museum.

The costume museum is considered one of the best in all of Britain. It traces the history of fashion for more than 400 years. Here one can find impeccably preserved, genuine garments from the 17^th century on. I can’t believe any clothes survived from so long ago. It’s remarkable and fascinating to see what people wore and why, examine how clothes expressed the culture of the time and to see pieces that demonstrate the lavish artistry and craftsmanship of haute couture through the ages.

Looking at the hand-sewn suits and dresses of previous centuries, I could only imagine the cost in terms of currency and hours invested in each piece. It was amazing. A man’s shirt demonstrated the technique of black thread embroidery, with stitches so thin and fine that the pattern on the shirt appeared to be drawn, not stitched, onto the fabric. Lavish court dresses with elaborate hoops were marvels of engineering and imagination—as well as ostentation. Day dresses with split skirts conjured traditional feminine images. I was surprised to see silk dressing gowns on display that were worn by 18^th century men at home.

There was a special display that traced the history of the corsets. I was shocked to learn girls wore them before the age of three. It explored corsets role in fashion, their changing construction, and their eventual abandonment. Looking at them, I knew no corset, no matter how tightly laced, could give me an hour glass figure.

The shoes on display were tiny and delicate, made of fabric with leather soles. My own feet seemed gigantic and ugly in their practical leather walking shoes.

Seeing the 20^th century fashion pieces was more personal. I could show E-Grrrl a replica of a sailor suit her grandfather wore as a child, point out the types of dresses and shoes her grandmother would have worn while dating her grandfather, shown her the sort of maternity dress my mom wore while pregnant with me and the types of dresses I wore as a little girl. At the end of the exhibit was the notorious Versace dress worn by Jennifer Lopez during her skanky period. The sheer green and blue floral fabric had been attached to her boobs with double-sided tape because the dress featured a wide V-neckline plunging to the waist and a slit rising nearly up to the crotch.

My favorite part of the museum was a display of costumes, clothes, and textiles that had belonged to Rudolf Nureyev. What can I say? He was perhaps the most beautiful man ever, and I was mesmerized by the costumes he wore as a dancer and the videos highlighting some of his most amazing performances. On and off stage, he had a sense of style and a passion for fashion that was every bit as enormous as his talent. It was interesting to see selections from his personal wardrobe, his hat collection, his favorite coats as well as historic textiles he’d collected.

E-Man and Mr. A found the museum interesting but less than fascinating. They kindly didn’t rush me and E-Grrrl through—I appreciated that.

After I bought my obligatory postcards, we headed out into the cold drizzle, popping into shops from time to time and walking along the river. It didn’t take long to get cold and miserable. We finally made it back to the hotel around 4:30 p.m. First order of business: putting the kettle on for tea and popping a heat pad onto my back. Second order of business:  having a pizza and order of chicken fingers and fries delivered to the hotel from Dominoes.  There was no way I was taking another step outdoors that day--and the kids were thrilled to be indulging their native cuisine.

Copyright 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

April 18, 2006

Vacations and the Art of Compromise

After visiting Canterbury in January and getting a taste of England, we decided to spend spring break in the U.K. We followed Brooke’s MIL’s advice and based ourselves in Bath. From there we traveled into the surrounding countryside and toured the Cotswolds.  I'll do some travel writing this week, but first let me set the stage.

The initial day of vacation is always a bit difficult. Our expectations are high, we’re all a bit anxious, and it’s easy to be pulled in a dozen directions. Add to that the fact that E and I are now in close quarters with our children 24/7, sharing a bedroom, a bathroom, and every minute of our daily schedule, and it can be stressful. The first order of business on vacation is to accept we're all going to have to work to get along and accept a lot of compromise.

For example, E and I chafe against the kids’ obsession with food. They hound us constantly about eating, they're always "hungry," they quiz us about where and when we're going to eat,  but are reluctant to try new foods. Choosing a restaurant is always a source of conflict. E-Grrrl wants pizza or macaroni and cheese, Mr. A will be begging for chicken fingers or hamburgers and French fries, and E and I want to try native cuisine. Whatever we choose, someone ends up sulky or disappointed. And E and I get more than a little annoyed when the kids who claim to be “starving” don’t eat their meals and a short time later are begging for us to stop at a bakery, ice cream stand, or frites shack for a snack. While it can make us crazy, the upside of E-Grrrl's and Mr. A's food fixation is that we can make them really happy by allowing them to eat Cocoa Puffs and Frosted Flakes for breakfast, order hot chocolate,  and have fries every day.

Likewise, it’s a challenge to balance everyone’s vacation expectations. For the kids, vacations revolve around finding playgrounds, exploring new parks, visiting zoos or animal parks, and eating junk food. They like to watch cartoons and get up early. E and I like to read in bed, sleep until 7 a.m. or later, and take in the sights, but our stamina levels and interests are often quite different.

I’m not a good tourist. I hate crowds. I’m not a fan of the carefully packaged tourist experience. I don’t like to be “scheduled” on a vacation.  Sure I’ll research an area and make a list of things that interest me, but I don’t feel bound by a list or a guidebook. For me everything depends on the weather, my mood, how much energy I have on any given day. Vacations for me are all about flexibility, about interacting with a place and not following a script, about relaxing and not feeling compelled to "see it all, do it all."

I’m not a particular fan of guided tours. I’m the one in the group who thinks there’s such a thing as too much information. I often don’t turn on the audio devices they hand out at the museum entry because I can’t stand to have someone talking in my ear. To me, it’s distracting. I prefer to get my information by reading  or just looking. I like to experience things in my own way and at my own pace. Back pain limits how long I can stand on my feet, carry a camera, and trot around town. I need a lot of sleep. I have to ration my energy and my “healthy” moments.

E, on the other hand, has endless energy and boundless curiosity. He can stand in long queues, walk for miles, and carry a loaded backpack all day. His attitude is “As long as we’re here, why not see it?” For E, there’s no such thing as too many sights, much information, too much detail. He soaks it all up.

Family vacations then, are all about the art of compromise, about learning to strike a balance between everyone’s needs. The good news is that while the first day or two can be a bit bumpy, the longer we’re together, the better we get at respecting and accommodating each other.

Easter

We flew from London to Brussels,  taking a taxi and arriving home from the airport around 3 p.m. I'd bought some Easter candy in advance but hadn't finished my shopping for the kids baskets. E dashed to the grocery store only to discover nearly everything was sold out. When he came home without chocolate rabbits,  I insisted he go back out and scour any store that was still open (many are closed the day before and after Easter).  He finally came home, a small Easter ham and two chocolate rabbits in a sack.

My mood grayed with the skies. The drizzle started at dusk, and my spirits slithered downward like the rain running off the skylights.  A bit of post-vacation letdown, a lot of homesickness.

After the kids fell asleep, I headed to the basement to dig out the Easter baskets and recover the cheer of holidays past. How many times had I crouched with my camera to capture their eager faces? It wasn't just the baskets' contents that got them excited, it was the presentation--the way everything was staged in all its pastel cheer among the shiny plastic grass.

The table would be set with a soft green tablecloth embroidered by my mother-in-law. The Fitz & Floyd ceramic bunny tray, the tulip teapot my favorite aunt gave me, my beautiful bone china. I left most of that in storage in America, so last night I was scrambling for a way to dress up the table.  I wished I'd had time to buy flowers.

Holidays so far away from home leave me feeling hollow.  I always feel like we're going through the motions, trying to capture a feeling that proves elusive.  You can pack up all the holiday props but but not its essence. A part of me doesn't even want to try to reproduce our traditional Easter celebration here, and yet  I long for it.

We got in too late from London to get hot cross buns at the bakery.  I always made them from scratch at home. I asked E to pick up eggs and he did--but they were brown. E-Grrrl and Mr. A insisted on dyeing them anyway, undeterred by the murky colors they produced.

E-Grrrl, dressed all in pink with a headband in her blonde hair, looked like a bon-bon at church. Mr. A was handsome in a pale green and baby blue argyle vest over a blue dress shirt. I was surprised that by and large the women and children at church had failed to dress up. I suppose that sporting a bright colored Easter outfit is a fading tradition.  The same old somber black, navy, and brown hues dominated the pews. Because it was chilly, my pastel striped sweater was hidden under my coat.  The familiar hymns and service perked me up, but as we got into the car to head home we realized that we'd forgotten to close the cat up in a bedroom at the house and that she'd probably set off the home security system.

Sure enough, the alarm was shrieking when we got home, and we were mortified to have ruined the peace and quiet on a Sunday,  a holiday no less.  The police and our neighbor had tried to call E on his cell phone, but naturally we had not brought the phone  into church. By the time we got the message, we were headed home anyway. The 35-minute drive seemed interminable. We were cringeing all the way.

We dashed into the house, and shut off the alarm feeling stupid and sheepish. I changed into my sweats. All day I've pushed laundry into the washer and pulled it out of the dryer, trying to catch up after being away so everyone will have clean clothes to start the week.

It's been a somber Easter for me,  tainted by memories of holidays spent with family and friends.  Here's hoping for blue skies and sunshine tomorrow.

Spring break.....

.....starts today.  E-Grrrl and Mr. A are home and clamoring to be taken out for American hamburgers. They are out of school all next week. I plan to recharge my creative battery and resume posting on April 17. Meanwhile, enjoy the more than 165 entries in the archives.

Happy Spring!

V-Grrrl

April

Just when it seemed winter would never end, I rediscover the joy of hearing birdsong in the morning. Never one to bound out of bed in a good mood, I nevertheless can manage to smile when I turn off the alarm and hear the birds singing and the doves cooing on the roof.

The wind sweeps the skies a beautiful pastel blue, the clouds roll in, drop a bit of rain, and then the wind scours the sky clean again. The daffodils nod their heads, the hyacinth stand proud, the forsythia shake out their blossoms. The weeping willow leaves unfurl in tiny crescents, white wildflowers dot the lawn, and an azalea in a neighbor’s private garden bursts forth with unexpected color.

The temperatures stretch and dip, sliding up and down the thermometer. The children drop their jackets on the playground even though there’s a chill in the air. We pretend it’s warm even when it’s not. The flowers play along with our charade. The rabbits hop into the scene after dinner, nibbling the fresh green grass, the final touch in the idyllic tableau..

Soon the lawnmowers will whine on Saturdays, and the plowed fields will be striped with new growth. One day we’ll glance up and see the trees veiled in green. It has taken months to get to this moment, but the mystery of April is that it all seems to have happened overnight—a sepia landscape transformed with Technicolor hues.

No wonder Christians celebrate Easter in the spring. It’s a season of miracles, inside and out.

© 2006 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

April 6, 2006

Where I say the F Word.....

It all happened so fast.

I'd just left the Embassy checkpoint and was cruising down the sidewalk when my ankle inexplicably turned. I quickly tried to shift my weight so as not to hurt the ankle, but because I was carrying a big bag in one arm, I couldn't regain my balance. My left shoulder then clipped a lamp post as I fell forward which sent me ricocheting in the opposite direction. I smack into  a retaining wall with my right hip, hit my head on the fence above the wall, and end up sprawled on  the ground.

That's when I said the F word. Strike one.

The irony of it all. The whole reason I'm here to start with is because I'm having back pain. I'm on my way to the chiropractor, and I'm carrying a big bag because I stopped at the Embassy store to buy, among other things, the ThermaCare adhesive heat packs that keep me moving when my back is threatening to spasm.

A woman rushes up to me to see if I'm OK.

"Are you dizzy?" she asks.

"No," I answer, not quite truthfully. I have the lowest blood pressure in the world. Typically 100/60 or less. Any sudden change in elevation makes me light-headed. So rapidly bouncing off several vertical surfaces and landing on my horizontal axis makes my head fuzzy. But my vision's fine, always a good sign. I slowly get up. The left ankle is sore but I can walk on it without problem. My right wrist hurts from trying to break my fall. My right glute is all freaked out from trying to save my ass. It's cramping. But I can stand. And I can walk to the chiropractor. Though my lower back is complaining a bit. Ouch, ouch, ouch.

I thank the woman very much for stopping to check on me.

I walk even more slowly to my doctor's office. He is, as always, unrelentingly chipper. This is the first time I've ever had to come see him for anything other than a regularly scheduled appointment. I tell him about my spill on the sidewalk.

"Ah, it's not enough to be coming here, you have to create a little drama with the back pain!" he says with a broad smile. I can appreciate the twinkle in his eye, but I am not laughing at this one.

I tell him how my back has felt "off" since Sunday morning, that I have pain radiating around my rib cage on one side,  and that my muscles have felt pulled out of shape, just a breath away from spasms for days now. I've only had this particular set of symptoms once before, about three years ago, and that time my back did go into spasms which laid me low for five days and was unequivocally the worst pain I'd ever experienced in my entire life (and yeah, that includes unmedicated childbirth).

 He examines my back and locates the problem almost immediately--one of my ribs has slipped out of position (my rib cage is a little "deformed" by the scoliosis on that side).

"Ah, this is easy to fix!" And boom--he fixes it. I'm amazed. Immediate relief.

But he's concerned about the fall and its affect on my hip and low back. That right side hurts and is a little spastic. He tells me to keep my regularly scheduled appointment next week. Except I can't. We're going to be traveling. The whole week? Yeah, the whole week! He really wants to followup on the ribs and low back, and I sure don't want to go on vacation worrying about them. I make an appointment for Friday so he can check me one more time. He tells me to watch my step.

I walk back to the Metro station, stopping at a grocery store to pick up ingredients for the sandwiches I need to bring to E-Grrrl's class tomorrow. Another bag to carry. At least they'll balance each other out. When I arrive at the Metro station at my destination, I need to catch a bus. I have to wait 25 minutes. I'm getting tired and hungry. I can smell the food from a nearby pizza place and it's killing me.

Where's my bus?

I make this trip often enough that I know the schedule by heart. I see Bus 30 for Wezembeek-Opem show up. I'm waiting for 316 to Leuven. Should be next. A bus pulls up, the electronic sign on its front that normally displays the bus number is turned off. The driver is wearing an orange construction worker vest--what's up with that?

He gets off the bus with a tool kit in his hand and goes to the bus behind him, Bus 317. He works on something inside that bus, talking to the driver, then returns the tool kit to his bus. I look at my watch. My bus should be leaving now. Where is it? Is this bus my bus?

Just then, a new driver appears from nowhere and hops into the bus in front of me. People begin getting onto it even though the sign is not turned on displaying a number. I assume it's my bus. What else could it be? We're supposed to be "next" in the usual departure order. I get on and take a seat. The bus takes off.

A few minutes later, the cold truth hits me:  "This is not my bus!"

How do I know it's not my bus? It's being passed on the left by the bus I should be on. Yes, the bus that was parked behind this one and that was worked on by the guy with the tool box had morphed from 317 Kortenberg to 316 Leuven.

To add to my annoyance, we are stopped at a light. The bus I need to be on is NEXT TO US IN THE LEFT HAND TURN LANE and there's absolutely nothing I can do about it. I want to hurl myself out the window and yell "Stop!Wait for me!"  But I can't. 

Instead I say the F word in my head. Strike two. I am stupid, stupid, stupid.

I ring the  bell so the driver will let me off at the next stop, wherever that is. My bus has turned and disappeared and I don't have a prayer of catching it now. The next bus to my destination isn't for another hour. I want to cry. I'm getting sore all over from the fall. The ibuprofen I took earlier is wearing off.

I get off the bus and carrying my two bags, walk all the way back to the intersection where I saw my real bus turn. I walk down the street until I see another bus stop. I won't be able to get a direct route home. I'll have to grab one bus, get off, and then catch another to get close to my house.

I wait. And wait. And I think about food. I don't eat the Easter candy I bought for the kids' baskets that is weighing one bag down. I don't eat the ham I bought for E-Grrrl's class. I don't slip into the bakery across the street for a fresh roll or loaf of bread.

All told it takes me two hours to get home from the center of Brussels to the stop near my house. I need to pick up a prescription at the pharmacy there, but it closed 15 minutes ago and will remain closed for another 75 minutes.

I get home just in time to take some more ibuprofen and blog away my stress.  I hear the sofa calling my name. It's starting to rain. Is that SNOW mixed with the rain? Oh no.  Strike three. I'm out.  I won't be venturing back to the pharmacy. Really, I've just had enough today.

April 5, 2006

Big Fat Loser

Ah, the end of Week One in the Shipping Back the Expat Fat program. Well weight loss is like life—sometimes you’re the windshield and sometimes, you’re the bug. I was cruising along the highway of life being the windshield but then I morphed into the bug over the weekend. Slam, bam, pass the Windex ma’am. I became a big splat.

But before I confess all my transgressions, let’s have a feel-good moment and consider all the things I did well this week.

• Walked for 45 minutes four days of the week, plus my usual public transit walks
• Did multiple sets of wall pushups three days, brief yoga sessions for three days
• I live in a three-story house with a full basement. I became my own Stairmaster and used the stairs for exercise as well as house cleaning.
• For four days, I made healthier choices overall, upped my protein and fiber, and tried to limit my portions.

Life began to unravel on Friday when my son brought home of a bag of M & Ms from school and poured them out. I heard the click, click, click and saw them sliding into the bowl, their bright colors masking their evil centers. Before I could stop myself, I shoved several handfuls into my mouth. Nooooooo! This was the beginning of the end.

I had guests for dinner that night. My plan was to have small portions and skip the bread. My portions weren’t gigantic but they weren’t small either, and not only did I eat the bread--I spread it with butter!  And then I had a Belgian pastry for dessert. Just to be polite. Really.

Saturday. A new day! I don’t’ feel well and don’t make it out of my pajamas until afternoon. Ever hear of Schoko-Bons? My guests bought two bags of these filled chocolates to the house Friday night. Saturday, my son (remember him? The one who offered me the forbidden M & Ms?) brought a bunch to me while I was at my desk. I ate five. This transgression would have been bad enough, but earlier in the day I raided E-Man’s private chocolate stash and ate his Snicker’s bar. I am a bad, bad woman. It’s only proper that at this point I mention the nefarious influence of the Female Calendar of Doom. It’s like a bad horoscope.

Sunday. Not feeling well but I’m eating well. Then as the sun is starting to get low, I get a phone call from a member of the Crazed American Bunko Grrrls. They need a sub! Can I come? They’ve got to have 12 people to play! Oh sure. I’ve just stepped out of the shower and changed into pajamas with plans of making it an early night but now I’m scrambling into jeans, combing my wet hair, and slapping some makeup on my face so I can laugh with the Grrrls.

My friend Sandy, who lives down the street, is hosting. Sandy used to be a Pampered Chef consultant AND a Longaberger consultant. When she has a gathering, she pulls out all the stops. She decorates, cooks, bakes, and serves everything in her beautiful collection of serving pieces. At the beginning of the evening, I dutifully station myself next to the fresh fruit with a Diet Coke in my hand. I avoid the homemade chocolate chip cookies and the basket of peanut M & Ms. I eat only one spinach and goat cheese pinwheel when it’s served fresh from the oven.

But this is Bunko. I can’t sit next to the fruit all night. I have to rotate tables. At the second table, there’s a bowl of mini Snickers and Milky Ways and a basket of salted peanuts. I eat a few peanuts, one tiny piece at a time. This is a high-protein snack! I’m eating in moderation! I am not chucking whole handfuls back.

Then I played my way to the third table where my willpower collapsed when faced with a big basket of candy-coated malted Easter eggs. OH NO! Haven’t seen those since last April. Once my mouth exploded with all that sweet crunchiness of the malt eggs, it was all over. The parmesan party mix called my Name and V-Grrrl opened her mouth and answered. Yum, yum. yum. Bad Grrrl!

At “intermission,” Sandy served a banana cream dessert and a homemade apple pie with a perfect crust. I tried to just eat some of the cooked apples in the pie. But damn, that crust was good. Can I mention the influence of the Female Calendar of Doom again? Please? Oh please!

When the Bunko scores were tallied at the end of the night, I had the lowest! This isn’t golf, y’all. The lowest score gets you a sad consolation prize to compensate for your pathetic inability to successfully roll dice.

But let’s focus on the positive here, Internet. Like it or not, you, me and my expat fat are all in this together! I had four good days! Yes! And I learned how to be a Big Fat Loser playing Bunko. Let’s hope that next week that translates into losing some Big Fat Pounds.

OK, now it's time for the Shipping Back the Expat Fat roll call—

Arabella!

#1 Dancer!

Shirley!

Char!

ChiJo!

How did your week go?

April 4, 2006