Dueling Metaphors

Given the epic nature of most of my posts, I will attempt to keep this one short. I am tired, and I had a long night last night. On to the details.

Part of the process of working in Belgium is to acquire a work visa. To do that, you generally have to jump through many, many hoops. For instance, you have to settle into a domicile, and once that is done, register with the city as a foreign resident. Also, you have to show that you are covered under your country of residence’s social security system, and provide proof that you have some type of education. Another part of the process is the physical exam. Basically, you go to a Belgian doctor and they check you out to make sure you aren’t going to drop dead while in the country. Given the situation, I am sure if I did, my parents would be subject to a quite hefty cadaver tax. But, I did not start this post with the intention of harping, again, on the Belgian tax situation, so onward I shall go.

I made an appointment last week to visit with a local doctor to gain the required medical certification. Now, before I go into the details of my visit with the doctor, let me just say that I have heard many horror stories about the thoroughness of said exam. One person told me he was made to run on a treadmill for a stress test and then suffer through an extended EKG. Suffice to say, I was not looking forward to the appointment.

The doctor, a woman, was chosen on the recommendation of the gentleman who is arranging all of my visa paperwork. She is close to the base on which I work, and she works, strangely enough for a Belgian, fairly long hours: Her final appointment is at 7 or 8 at night. I looked up her address on my trusty GPS and set off on foot at the appointed hour to see her. I decided to walk as it was only about 2 miles to her office, and it was a pleasant afternoon. So, off I went.

Upon arrival at her office, I noticed that the sign on her door indicated that she was certified to perform electrocardiographs. Not a good sign. I gulped loudly, and went into the waiting room. My appointment was for five, and I had made it with five minutes to spare. Of course, it wouldn’t have really mattered, as it seems doctors around the world have one trait (among many, I am sure) in common: they like to keep you waiting. So, I sat, nervously tapping my foot, randomly picking up magazines (they were all in French) and trying not to listen to the woman in the examination room loudly arguing with the doctor about something or other (again, French). I imagined being hooked up to some type of machine with paper being fed out of the back while the doctor looked down at the squiggly lines it produced, tut tutting and then stamping my medical certification form with a big red “X” and telling me to go back home. Would I argue, or be, in some way, quietly relieved that I was days away from some catastrophic heart event that would force my return to the States?

After some thought, I could not decide.

Finally, finally, the door opens and their emerges the doctor and her shaking, white faced patient, who exits through the front door without looking around and makes it a point to slam the door shut. I gulp loudly again. Frau Doctor (for I am now, for some reason, convinced that she is German, and will display deadly efficiency as she orders my expulsion from the country) motions for me to come in, and I get up (knees creaking – I hope she doesn’t hear that!) and go in.

She is, of course, quite Belgian, and she asks me to take a seat. Why, she asks, have you come to see me today? I explain that I am here for the visa certification. Ah, she says, another one. With that, she asks how I am feeling. Uhm, fine, I reply. She asks: do you have any communicable disease, such as HIV? No, I say, not as far as I know (I realize as soon as I say it that this may be a mistake). How do you feel right now, she asks. Uh, fine, I guess, says I. And with that, she picks up my form and signs off.

That’s it? I am wondering this to myself – I am not so stupid to say this out loud. She hands the form back to me and wishes me well. Now, that’s my kind of physical.

I leave the office, greatly relieved, and hop on the bus that just happens to be driving by. Once in Mons, I stop at a local cafe for a quick bite, and then head home, quite pleased that I will be staying in Belgium for at least one more week. That feeling changed, quite dramatically, as we shall see.

Once at home, I reach into my pockets for my keys, and, and…Nothing. Frantically, I search through my bag, and my coat pockets. No keys. Sweet Moses Smell the Roses, I’ve done the unthinkable, I’ve lost my keys. What am I going to do now? But, then I remember, I had given an extra set to Keith for just such an emergency. So, I head back to the train station to catch a cab, nearly running, and I finally arrive, hop in the cab and the cab driver asks: “Where to, Mac?” I open my mouth to tell him, and then I realize, I haven’t the foggiest notion where Keith lives. I suppose I could have called him on my cellphone, but I don’t have one yet (I ordered one two weeks ago from Amazon, and it still has not arrived). I have no answer. Except, I think to myself, I do have a general notion where Keith lives: a little town named Erbisol not far outside of Mons. Not that big of a town, I figured, we could just drive down the main road, and maybe I would recognize the house (I have been there once). To Erbisol, uh, just drive down the road, I say, and away we go.

Do I even need to say what happens next? It is now pitch dark outside, and the cab driver is driving at just shy the speed of sound. So, of course I do not recognize his house in the blur that is the passing scenery.

It is now getting quite late, so, I tell the cab driver to take me to the nearest hotel, which turns out to be the Best Western Casteau. Lovely. But, it will have to do. We arrive, I check in and then, upon getting to the room, I order food for delivery from a local take out place. While I wait for it, I sit in my room and do much thinking, most of it along the lines of: what next? I mean, really? What next? It seems that most of my luck since arriving in Belgium has been bad luck. So, why not more? How about, say, a misfired French missile crashing through my room window? Or, even better, I hop on the bed and go crashing through to the basement, where they keep the live crocodile show. That would be nice.

Eventually, the food arrives, and I shake myself out of my funk, get the food and realize how hungry I am. So, I tear into it, take a big bite, then go to swallow, and it gets stuck. Nothing major here, don’t worry, but for a moment, I curse myself for tempting the fates (what next? Oh, we’ll show you what’s next, sizzle lips). I cough once or twice and the crisis passes. I look down at my food, and think to myself: there is a metaphor here. I have bitten off more than I can chew. The thought kills my appetite and I put down the sandwich and lay down to sleep.

*****

Next morning, I go to work, have the normal day. By normal, I mean, Keith and I spend hours talking about how nothing is as we thought it would be when we were dreaming about beer, women and the Eiffel Tower back in the States. I tell Keith that I have come close several times to packing it in, and that the previous night was the closest I had come.

Good news is that he has my spare key, so at least I can spend the night in my own bed tonight. Better news is that I searched under my desk and found my keys, which must have hopped out of my bag as I was leaving the night before.

Quitting time comes, I am beat, exhausted. It’s been another long week. Keith takes me to the grocery store and then drives me home. Once at home, I decide what I would really like is a nice bottle of wine, so I head over to the corner market to purchase one.

Anyone who knows me knows I know next to nothing about wine. The first night in my new apartment, I had gone to the same market and bought a bottle that cost 35 euros. The owner had tried to talk me out of it (it is 35 euros, sir!), but I wouldn’t hear of it, as I, being generally unsavvy, equate a high price with a good taste. Turns out he was right, as it sucked. Tonight, the owner saw me struggling to pick out a bottle, and he came over, put his hand on my back, and pointed at a bottle, and said, in French: Tres bien. And it only cost 13.95 euros. I nodded, and smiled as he pointed to the 35 euro bottle I had bought before and wagged his finger in my face. I laughed and said “Oui, oui, Je Comprende” (yes, yes, I understand).

As he was ringing up my purchase, he looked at a man and wife standing behind me and asked them to translate for him. The man, young, but he had a child whom the woman was changing in the front window of the store, nodded.

“You must open this bottle,” the owner said, while the stranger translated, “at least an hour before you drink it.” He made several large hand motions, and breathed in deeply through his nose. “You must let it breathe, monsieur, you must give it time to breathe. You understand?” I said that I did, at which point the woman changing the baby looked at me and said, in English: “Time to breathe, it is important.” I nodded that I understood, paid for my wine, wished everyone a good evening, and then walked back home.

On the walk home, I realized: here, too, may be a metaphor. And upon thinking, I felt sort of peaceful, a little happy. What does that mean? I have no idea. But, for right now, being a little happy is enough.

New Look

I finally decided it was time to kick up the volume on the site today. I am out sick, and between coughing fits and projectile vomiting copiously into my trusty bucket (seriously, it is across the room, but I am too lazy to get up when I feel sick, so, you know, I just project), I decided to play around with the blog a bit today. And, I have to say, it is about time. I am sort of digging all of the neat things WordPress lets you put on the page.

For anyone still reading this blog, please feel free to leave a comment and let me know how you like the new look, and any suggestions for other content you might like to see.

La Grand Pres, or, The Price is Wrong

 I usually translate stuff like this, but, in this case, I have no idea what it means and I am too lazy to Babel Fish it right now. Suffice to say, the title of this post refers to the only mall I have seen in my short time in Belgium. And it’s a fairly cool mall. It has a Carrefour, which is sort of like a French Walmart. It has the variety of goods, but none of the low prices.

I think it would be interesting to host a game show here in Belgium, maybe a knock off of The Price is Right. I would line up all of the products and have people guess the prices. For instance, I would hold up a 30 meter roll of Reynolds Wrap, and play the High/Low game. My lucky contestants would get to guess the price. Hint: it will always be on the high side. Ok, back to the aluminum foil. Take a wild guess how much the runs for.  Go ahead, it might be fun.

5 euros? Nope.

3 euros? Not even close, and, you forgot the hint. Higher.

7 euros? Uhm, you might be getting warm.

10 euros? Pshaw, we pay ten euros just to go into a bathroom out here.

If you finally guessed 12.95 euros, you’d be right on the money. I picked this item up, looked at the price, and, with a horrified gasp, immediately put it back down. I may have swooned, not sure. And, it’s not just the aluminum foil that is expensive. Pretty much everything costs an arm and leg in this place.

That got me to thinking about something that happened on Sunday, to my co-worker Keith, who has been staying with me until he gets his house together. Specifically, he woke up on Sunday to run some errands, and came back in, looking a little freaked. I asked what was wrong, and he told me: someone had smashed the passenger side window on his rental car and heisted his jacket and the charger for his navigation thingy (a Tom-Tom, I think – more on the importance of this later). Well, what could I say? I was not surprised, and I reminded him of something we had seen on the road when we went out to a nearby restaurant: big piles of glass up and down the street every 10 feet or so. I had mentioned at the time that when I got a car, I would not be parking in that neighborhood. We laughed about it and got something to eat. Now, doesn’t seem so funny anymore. But.

But. After the incident with the car, and observing how expensive everything is in this country, maybe rampant theft is not so surprising. I don’t mean to generalize, as there are plenty of good people in Mons. It’s just that:

*Consumer goods are out of this world expensive (remember, the VAT? About 21% of purchase price on most goods).

*Petrol runs about 6 to 7 euros a gallon, and the streets are filled with cars, even though the local mass transit is really very good.

*The average Belgian pays out at least 60% of their salary in various federal and local taxes (including income and road taxes for cars).

So, I guess what I am wondering is, what kind of money does anyone here have left over after all of this? Especially considering that the per capita income of this area is about 20 to 22,000 euros a year? I know, before you mention it, I know: health care is free, as is, I believe, education. Still, how much of the average American income goes into health care? If you have insurance, not that much, when you think about it. Of course, companies pick up the tab for this in many cases, but they also get tax breaks for doing so.

How does anyone afford to live in this place?

Which brings me back to the smashed window. Keith made a big mistake. He, as I mentioned earlier, has a Tom Tom, which, I have been advised, *will* be stolen if left in the car. He didn’t leave the Tom Tom in the car, but he did leave the charger, and thus, now he has a smashed in window and his jacket is gone.

Unfortunate, but, as I have observed, fairly typical. He cruised up to the Hertz today to exchange his car, and the rental agent didn’t even bat an eye, just waved him in and started working up the paperwork to get him a new car. The agent told Keith that this happens all the time in Mons. Keith said next time he would just leave his windows unrolled, but the agent advised against it, indicating that the car would be stolen if he did so.  Instead, he suggested leaving nothing in the car at night, and keeping the glove box open so that any would be thieves would see that there was nothing in the glove box to be stolen. No reward, no broken window.

Given all of this, I am rethinking my decision to live in Mons. Guess I’ll wait and see how it goes. I am planning on getting a rental car of my own (went out and bought a Tom Tom of my own this evening!), and, the first time my window is smashed, I am severing the lease and moving out of town. There are some nice places outside of town that appear to be in quieter surroundings. And, with a car, doesn’t seem any reason not to do it.

*****

Update on the banking situation. Met with a very nice assistant manager at the Fortis today, who took the time to speak with me about traveling around Europe. He suggested a trip to Paris, and I did not have the heart to tell him I’ve heard enough French at this point, and that I might take a break and head over to London in a couple of weeks.

After the bank, where I was able to open up the required bank account, I headed over to a travel office that does business right inside the perimeter of the SHAPE base. For a very nominal fee, they will arrange for transportation and hotels anyplace in Europe, and even in America. The nice gentleman at the counter tried convincing me that a trip to Euro Disney would be perfect for a worldly man such as myself. Not sure how to take that, I grumbled, snatched a London brochure off of the counter, and stalked out of the place. I will be back, though, and I will have more to post about than life around Mons. Honestly, I am ready for some type of trip, to somewhere. It’s been a month here in Belgium, and I have not been outside of the country yet. That will have to be remedied.

I am also still working on getting the pictures of Brussels on to my computer and uploaded. That task will be made easier, I hope, when I get my Internet connection tomorrow.  Speaking of that, dealing with the national Belgian cable company is much like standing in a bucket of gasoline and setting oneself on fire. Sure, it might have seemed like a good idea at some point, but, pretty soon, you’re thinking: what the hell have I done? More on this later, as my neighbor just came home, and once he starts downloading whatever it is he downloads (do I really want to know? Absolument pas!) my connection speed goes down the tubes.

Night y’all, come back again soon, ya hear?

*****

BTW, if anyone wants to send me something, send me Tabasco sauce, please. Please. Now. I am literally on my knees begging. For the love of God, please.

Absolument pas! Or, banking with a smile.

Or, in English: Absolutely not! As in, the favored response to any inquiry made, by me, to any customer service clerk in Belgium. For example: Excuse me, may I try on this pair of purple sunglasses, with the glitter on the rims? Absolument pas! Or, another example: Pardon moi, madam, but might you have any meat in this grocery store that does not smell at least two months old, and, you know, isn’t green? Absolument pas, stupid Americane!

So, it was no surprise that when I attempted to open a savings account at the local Fortis bank, that I was told: impossible! Ok, let me back up a bit to explain the whole story.

It is essential in Belgium to have a bank account. Why? For the simple reason that all of one’s bills, such as cable, Internet, utilities, rent, etc. are taken directly from the account. Thus, when you finally find a place to live and get all of these nice things set up, the companies that you deal with generally like to be paid, and they always like to be paid directly from the bank.

Now, given my last experience at the bank, I have been slacking in terms of going to the bank and setting up an account from which I can satisfy my new Belgian overlords, ah, I mean, creditors. But, today I decided to go ahead and do the deed. So, I diddy bopped my way down to the local Fortis, came in and took my place in line and patiently waited for today’s assault on my patience and sanity to begin. Soon enough, it did.

I was lucky enough to be “served” by a gentleman who knew a bit of English. He asked what I wanted, and I explained, or tried to, that I needed to open up a bank account so as to pay my bills. I made the mistake of being specific about the type of account I wanted to open, a savings account. He looked me over and said: Absolument pas! And he threw in a gratuitous “Impossible!” on top of it. Now, nothing surprises me anymore. I mean nothing. Still, I was a bit taken aback by the vehemence in his voice, so I began to ask why such a thing would be impossible. Before I could speak, though, he asked: “Why would you want to open an account here?”, as if the very notion of such a thing were as ridiculous as wearing your underwear outside of your pants.

Granted, I know nothing about how banks work here, but, I dare say, if this man’s supervisor heard him actively attempting to dissuade me from opening an account, they might have words. The words might be: “Good job, Louis! Less work for us. Now, let us go get the coffee.”, but they would exchange words.

“Well”, says I, “This bank is awfully convenient, and I’ve heard good things about it, so, yes, I think that is why I want to open an account here.” This answer must have satisfied him, as he proceeded to tell me I would not need a savings account, but a different type of account altogether, and so I asked if I might do that instead of my really stupid idea to open a savings account.

This is when the fun really began. He insisted that he would need proof of my address before he could do so, so I pulled out my official looking lease, with my address on it in big, bold letters. He took if from me, studied it for a bit, then handed it back and said: No good! I pointed out that this was an official document, a binding contract and could be submitted in a court of law as such were I to choose to choke him to death by shoving it down his throat. Of course, I did not say that last part. It is often unwise to threaten a Belgian clerk, or show any emotion at all, lest they know that they are getting to you, which will only encourage more of the same.

Ah, but back to my story. Turns out a lease is not sufficient proof of one’s address. Nor is a utility bill. Nor any other of the hundred documents I had shoved into my briefcase to bring for just such an occasion. The only thing that would suffice was an official Belgian ID. To get one of these takes months. I am in the process of acquiring one, but, as I pointed out to the clerk, it would take at least 3 months. At which point he put up his closed sign and said: come back in 3 months.

Not so fast, Francois, I said (well, thought anyway): how will I pay my bills until then? A shrug, a smirk and then, voila, off for coffee. He did set up an appointment for me on Monday (a fact that I was later glad for, as I will relate a bit later), even though, as he said, it would not be a productive use of anyone’s time.

Well. I will only point out that when I was thinking about setting up the same type of account at ING, another Belgian bank, they never mentioned any of this. They only mentioned that I would need an appointment (earliest appointment: two weeks later). So, I left the bank, a bit frustrated, but also thinking that I would just head down to ING and do it there. Not as convenient, but maybe, also, not as frustrating.

The story does have a happy ending, though. My co-worker, while I was doing the daily Dance of Frustration and Pointlessness with another Belgian customer “service” representative, was out meeting another American in the smoking area. I walked out to find him, and, what do you know, he knows my pain. I relate the story to he and Keith, and he tells me, in a few concise statements, how to do an end around past the banking blockade and get my account on Monday. It will be with relish when, on Monday, I approach my banking friend and, before he can sneer and say: absolument pas!, I whip out the proper form and set it on his desk. Get to work, Francoise, I will say, and sit down, smiling contentedly, knowing that he will probably miss his coffee break as he fills out the required forms, all 100 of them, in triplicate.

A Deal You Cannot Refuse

Corporations are just different in Belgium. Everything comes down to who you know and what you know, really. And before you say something like: well, it’s just like that in America, let me relate a little story to you that will illustrate my point.

Yesterday, my friend and co-worker Keith wanted to acquire a rental car (which is sounding more and more like a good idea, but more on that later), so, at lunch, we decided to hoof it over to the local Hertz, which is right across the street from where we work (SHAPE, the NATO base, if anyone is interested). And walk we did, across a busy highway (I felt like Frogger) and through a muddy field to the office. A muddy field? you may be asking yourself. Yes, a muddy field, as there was no walkway to get to this place. Unless you call a veritable half acre of 3 feet deep mud a walkway. And I do not.

Anyway, we finally wade our way in to the joint, shaking off grime and soot as we go, and make our way to the front door. Once inside, we immediately notice that the place is virtually empty. It’s pretty big, but, the door frames are cracked and falling apart, an overhead light has what appears to be a broken bulb and the paint is flaking off and looks to have been fresh circa 1944. Plenty of atmosphere. All if it bad. I’ve been in spiffier homeless shelters. That smelled better, too.
The office is fairly large, and mostly empty, except for two gentlemen sitting at desks in the middle of the room. One is younger, one is older. The older gentleman just looks at us, so we head on over to the younger of the two. Keith had made his reservation on the Internet, and was very excited at the great deal he had gotten. Basically, he rented a Volkswagen wagon for about 350 euros for 11 days. This is an excellent deal, as I can attest to. My own rental, for a much dinkier car, was about 540 euros for 18 days. Not so cheap. I canceled it upon my arrival to avoid the charge.

Keith gives the guy his ID, and he busily begins looking up the reservation. Ah, there it is, he exclaims, and starts printing out receipts and forms to sign. Voila, he says, just sign right here and that will only be 950 euros for the car. Keith looks at me, I look at him. 950 euros, I ask. Mais oui, says our salesman, 350 euros for the car, and 600 euros for the insurance for 11 days. Uhm, insurance costs 600 euros, Keith asks. Yes, yes, sir, that is how much it costs. Having seen how people drive around here, the cost does not surprise me.

Well, I don’t know about you, Mr. or Mrs. Reader, but I don’t know very many people who would pay over $1400 USD for an 11 day rental.

But, no use in getting angry. Not only does it raise the blood pressure and causes those little frown lines, it is entirely pointless. The angrier one gets, the merrier the clerk at whatever establishment you find yourself in appears to become.

I think Keith and I are both past the point where we would start raising hell about deceptive business practices and expecting that to have any good result. Because, the fact is, business is not the same here as in America, and the concept of customer service is not so well developed. I have observed that if a Belgian heard the standard American business credo, “The customer is always right!”, he or she would double over in laughter. It seems to me, perhaps an unreliable or biased observer, of course, that businesses in Belgium are run in terms of the convenience to its employees as opposed to that of its customers.

And this is only to say that, when once again encountering a situation such as this, I have learned to stop getting angry and to start looking for another angle to play. Because, there are always other angles to play.

Longish story short, it turned out that it was much more economical to rent a smaller car for a longer period of time, so that is what Keith did. Instead of the wagon, he rented an economy car. Instead of renting for 11 days, he rented for a month. Total bill: 540 euros. I asked why the insurance was so much cheaper for a longer period of time, but was ignored. I also asked why the price that our salesman quoted to us was so much cheaper than the one I found online for the same car and same period of time, and was answered with a shrug.

In any event, as I stood there in the Hertz office, I began to think about how nice it would be not to have to rely on the bus to go everywhere. The bus system, as I have pointed out already, is fairly extensive, and you can pretty much live your life without a car here if you so choose. The problem with this is the lack of freedom one has to just up and go somewhere, anywhere, at a moment’s notice. As an American, I come from a culture in which a car is not a luxury, it is a necessity. As such, I find being tied to the bus schedule a bit of a nuisance. So, here I am in the rental office, except the only problem is, Europe is filled with cars with manual transmission – automatic transmissions are exceedingly rare. And I hate driving standards. I asked our salesman if he had any automatics available, and, if so, the cost.

Yes, he said, we have these, new ones that had just come into the lot. And, the price for the same car (with an auto trans) for a month was 780 euros. Having learned never to take the first answer as final, I countered with a proposal of my own: give me the automatic at the same price as the standard, and you have a deal. The salesman said he would see what he could do and call me at home once he figured out a way to do it. With that, he gathered up my friend and walked him out the door to go pick up his car. As I was following, I heard the older gentleman call out to me, “Wait one moment, monsieur, let’s talk”. I walked back in, whereupon the old man said, under his breath, that he had an automatic that he could let me have for 500 euros a month, including VAT and insurance. The only catch: I could not tell the other salesman that he had rented it to me. In fact, I would have to come back later that day between the hours of 13.00 and 14.00 to get it, as this is when the other salesman was out to lunch. An alternative, he said, was to watch the store and wait for the young guy to go home, and then I could come in and get the car.

What is one to make of such an offer? And the manner in which I would have to take advantage of it? Turns out, the guy didn’t even work for Hertz, but he would be renting me a Hertz owned vehicle. I tried to pin down, exactly, who he did work for, and why was he sitting in a Hertz office. Was it possible he just showed up every day, had his own desk shipped in, and nobody cared? Why, yes, I find that entirely plausible. Try as I might, though, I could never quite figure out what was going on.

Needless to say, I did not accept this shady offer. For all I know, I’d be driving around in a stolen car, hastily painted a different color, but probably with the same plates still attached. Or, I would pay the money, and find out the car was lacking little details like a steering wheel or an engine. You know the old saying, I am sure: you can’t cheat an honest man. While I am not as honest as I should be, I find myself thinking of that phrase in situations such as these, in a country such as this. The offer was tempting, that is true, but how much would I really be paying for that car in the long run?

*****

On another note, thank you for the comments. I like logging in and seeing them. Reminds me of home, and the friends and family that I have there. So, thank you.

A 1,000 Views!

Ok, I just broke the 1000 view mark. I know, it is pretty paltry, but I am made joyous by small things these days.

Suckers. I can’t believe you read this crap.

Je Suis Retarde

 I am putting off giving the full post about Brussels until I can get the pictures. Describing it just won’t do it justice, so I won’t even try. However, having said that, I will describe some of Brussels, as we did not take pictures of these areas (well, at least one of them we did, but I don’t have it yet, so when I do put it up, be polite and act surprised).

First, before I start describing Brussels, I want to point out that I have been struggling with a few things here in Belgium. First and foremost, I am very prone to being embarrassed. So, when I go into any type of store or restaurant, I am invariably filled with anxiety about doing or saying something stupid.

For instance, I went in to some shop or another the other day, and was asked to fill out a form. It is in French, of course, and I am looking this thing over, and I have no idea what to do. Finally, after turning it around a couple of times, I hesitantly ask the counter person for help. She sighed disgustedly and pointed out what I needed to do, and then, in French, made a comment and some of the other shoppers looked at me and laughed.

Great. I have no idea what she said, and now, here I am, standing in this shop and everyone around me thinks, I am sure, that I am an idiot. This has happened more than once. Recall, if you will, the Western Union. If you have not read the blog post that described my adventures at the Western Union, I will summarize. The woman helping me spent an hour making wise cracks in French to anyone who would listen, sometimes even in English. I felt like I was sitting in the front row of a Don Rickles concert, and the spotlight was on me for an hour. I wanted to leap across the counter and throttle her. Alas, I have no desire to while away the hours, days, months and years in a Belgian prison, so I restrained myself.

So, I have been casting about for graceful and dignified ways to handle these types of situations, and I believe I have hit upon the perfect solution. The next time I am standing in an office, or a store or any other place, and the counter person sneers an insult at me that I do not understand, I will turn to the assembled crowd, droop down my lower lip, stumble around and scream out, at the top of my lungs: Je suis retarde! Je suis retarde! I will then take off my shoe and tie it to my head with the shoelace and start sniffing the other customers’ hair.

Oh, to translate, as if you needed me to, this means, of course: I am retarded!  I will shame these smug and arrogant clerks! Imagine, rude comment, big laugh, and then I inform everyone that I am a highly functioning retarded person. Instant shame, instant regret! And, to be honest, I would hardly be lying, as sometimes I am convinced that I am, indeed, brain damaged.

*****

Now, on to a few vignettes concerning Brussels.

First, the subway system is fairly extensive. I cannot remember if I related this to you yet, but do not believe I have.

Oh, wait, first an aside. I had to jump up because I had forgotten my croissant sandwich in the oven. Just pulled it out. Gouda is sizzling, and the jambon (ham) and poullet (chicken) are nicely browned. Sounds good, doesn’t it? Problem is, they have some herb, some spice, that they put into the chicken and ham that’s sort of sweet. I find this disturbing. I don’t want sweet chicken. I don’t want sweet ham. Plus, it makes them taste about the same. I think I need to find a new grocery store. But, not quite so bad, as I have figured out that plenty of dijon mustard (oh, how I miss just plain old yellow mustard. And hot dogs. Together, with some relish. And onion. I have to stop now, lest I cry) sort of cancels out the sweetness and brings out the chicken and ham flavor.

Ok, aside over. Now back to Brussels.

As I was saying before I interrupted myself, the Brussels subway system is fairly extensive. Brussels, to my surprise (not sure why) is huuuuuuugggeeeee. We went to a park (which has its own subway stop, like Central Park), and across the street was a raised vantage point from which you could see the whole city. We stood there, and the city just goes on forever. Couldn’t even see the end of it. So, think about that when I tell you that, really, the subway goes all over. And it’s cheap as dirt. 4 euros for all weekend, no matter how many times you jump off and back on. Pretty impressive.

And, what makes it even better is that, as far as I could see, there is no access control to get on or off this thing. They had these little machines in front of the each escalator where, I thought, you were supposed to insert your card and have it stamped. But, no gates, no tokens and no cops walking around looking for turnstile jumpers.  So, what’s to keep anyone from just walking in and hopping on to the subway, sans ticket? Now you see what makes it better.  I think I wasted 4 euros buying a ticket, like a sucker.

My first clue that I was wasting my money was that the only people at the ticket kiosks appeared to be tourists. They all spoke English, and they were asking me for directions (this next part is for Hans: if you wound up in a bad part of Brussels, and if you are still alive to read this, sorry about the fake directions I gave you. I was just a little irritated by then). After buying the ticket, we walked over to the little machine where you feed in your ticket, and, of course, we were the only ones doing it. It didn’t take long to realize that I’d been had. Next time, no ticket for me.

Aside from the ticket situation, I feel the need to point this out. While the subway is great for getting around, every stop, and many of the cars we rode in, had the distinct smell of urine, and most of the cars and the walls were covered in graffiti.  Not so sure how I’d feel cruising around the subway at night, but it was great for the day. If you don’t breath in through your nose.

*****

A huge attraction in Brussels is the Mannequin Pis. You will probably be able to surmise, from the French name, the nature of this attraction. But, if you’d like, go take a look at it now. Go ahead, I’ll wait.

[Hey, everyone else, while whoever it is that just clicked the link is over there reading about the attraction, let's make fun of him or her. Isn't he or she such a loser? Look at those shoes! And that belt! Ah, ha ha ha ha. Oh, you're back. You know I love you, man.]

Anyway, if you looked at the link, you know what the deal is:  it’s a little boy, peeing into this rinky dink little fountain. We (you will recall from a previous posting that my co-worker Keith went to Brussels with me) arrived at the location, having been told by numerous friends and family, that this was  the one thing we had to see while in Brussels, so, there was some anticipation on our parts. We were, in other words, prepared to be amazed. As we approached, the crowds grew thicker, and we observed groups elbowing one another, jockeying for a good position in front of the statue for a picture.

To say that I was a bit underwhelmed is factually correct, if understated. I mean, it was cool and all, I guess, but it’s a kid peeing into a fountain. I know the bacck story, so I can appreciate that this statue of Piss Kid is an important part of the history of Brussels. Still, it’s a two foot statue of a kid peeing into a pool of greenish looking water. An interesting fact is that different clothes are made for little Piss Kid every few months or so, I believe, so, if you see him irregularly, he’ll never be wearing the same thing twice. My opinion: slap a diaper on him and call it a day.

I did have a brainstorm about how to make a few euros from the wee Child du Urine, though. My thought was that, if I could rent a big enough truck, maybe one of those monster trucks, and could find a strong chain, I might be able to lasso the lad and heist him. I can see it now: wrap the chain, gun the engine and, voila, I’ve got a nice little objet d’art to sell on the black market. I have to imagine that people would line up, pay any price, to have a genuine article of Belgium history peeing merrily in their back yards. I’ll have to work the details of this one out a bit more, though. That whole Belgian prison thing again.

Karma Police

 Ok, I had a big long post here about something that happened last Friday that I am not so proud of. Some of you read it, and commented, and to them I say: thank you.

Having said that, I read back over it a couple of times, made some edits, read back over it again, and finally decided that I wasn’t happy with it much. Too long, and, I know this next will come as a shock to those who know me, overly dramatic.

Suffice to say, went out to a bar around the corner from my apartment, had a beer too many, and got into a fight. Calling it a fight might be too generous to me, as the fight consisted of the guy hitting me in the eye, and me falling to the ground. I was then asked to leave.

This incident bothered me for a couple of reasons. One, now I have the neighborhood hooligans (a group I may, incidentally, now belong to) mad at me. Second, here I am, in my neighborhood for a week, and I make a complete ass out of myself. Third, I am mad at myself for putting dear old me into that position in the first place. All in all, not a great moment for yours truly.

And that’s all that needs to be said about that. I know, the title of this post now makes no sense, but I like it, and I have taken pains to point out, it is my blog, so I am going to keep it. Those of you who may have read the post before this revision will know what it means, and everyone else is free to ask if you really want to know.

Now, on to a happier subject: travel. Yes, that is right, I finally stopped skulking around my apartment and did a little traveling. I may have informed you of the existence of a co-worker from America (we work for the same company) who is out here with me now. We both work for NATO, and sit next door to one another. His name is Keith, and he is out here alone, for now, but his wife will be joining him in a couple of weeks.

Well, both of us being alone, we were feeling a little stir crazy and decided to head up to Brussels, the capitol of the EU, and where all the good NATO stuff happens. Never having been there, we were both excited to see some great stuff. And we were not disappointed.

I will not write much on our little excursion to lovely Brussels in this post, as it deserves a post of its own. I will warn you though: I have no pictures, as of yet, to post. I know, how stupid, go to Brussels without a camera. But, as I was taking all of my pictures with my phone, and my phone went, um, missing (I will be charitable and term it as such), I do not have a means to take digital pictures. Keith, the co-worker, does have a nice digital camera, and has kindly volunteered to send me his pictures. When he does, I will post them along with a description of our day.

And now I am off to watch a movie. One thing about Mons, they have plenty of places to buy DVDs, and that’s nice, as the options for popular entertainment are a bit limited. Take care all, and I’m thinking of home, family and friends often.

A different perspective

 I realize, after reading back through my blog, how negative I have been in many of my posts. And while I will not backtrack on anything, first, some of what has happened has been my own fault, I know. Second, I need to highlight the good as well, so as to give an accurate picture of this new place of mine.

So, a story about my landlord that I have not related to you before now. You might recall from an earlier post that my landlord really came through for me on the day that I moved in. While the realtor was being a bit of a drip, the landlord overrode her and allowed me to move into my new apartment without the customary bank guarantee being secured.

What I have failed to tell you before now was the experience I had with the landlord a few days later. I received a call on Sunday, while I was out seeing the town with Ron, from Johan, my landlord, asking if I might meet him at the apartment to go over some paperwork that needed going over. I said sure, and we agreed to meet at 14:30. I told Ron we had to cut our day short, so we went to get something to eat and then headed back. Except, we got lost, and at 14:30, neither of us had any clue where we were. So, I called Johan, and told him we were going to be late. No problem, he said, I understand. So Ron and I drove around for another 20 or so minutes, looking for a way back to Mons, and we finally found it and headed back to my apartment. At 15:00 we pulled up, a good thirty minutes late, and Ron let me off in front of my building.

I look down the street, and there is Johan stepping out of his car, and his mother and father are with him. I fell terrible about making them wait, but none of them will hear any of it. Of course, Johan says, Belgium roads are confusing for a newcomer. I do not mention that Ron has lived here for years, but, in truth, hasn’t spent much time in the south, in Wallonia. With greetings and introductions out of the way, we head into my apartment to go over paperwork.

Once the paperwork is out of the way, Johan’s parents go out and come back in with several large bags, filled with Belgian wonders. They know that I am an American, and they understand that I am sort of flying blind in the city, so they have brought me an array of just generally good stuff. The father speaks no English, so, as he is doling out the gifts, Johan tells me what they are, but, in truth, they need no explanation. They brought me two, I presume, fairly expensive bottles of very good wine. They also brought an assortment of very nice Belgian ales. And to top it off, his father goes back out to the car and throws down a huge assortment of bottled waters, and Johan’s mother puts two boxes on my kitchen counter, which I unwrap. They are fine Belgian chocolates. They then each shake my hand and wish me luck in my new country.

Now, I am not even sure what to say, except for thank you, and that doesn’t even begin to cover it. When was the last time you moved in any place in America and the landlord and his family paid you a visit to welcome you and to ply you with nice gifts? That would be a never for me.

At the end, Johan explained to me that he and his parents just wanted to bring to me and show me the finest things that Belgium had to offer. And I did not say, but should have, that the gifts were the least of what Belgium had to offer; people like Johan and his parents were the finest things that Belgium has to offer. You always think of the best thing to say after you should have said it. In this case, I hope that Johan and his family read this, and know that if I had thought to say this, I would have. Then again, it probably would have embarrassed them to no end. So suffice to say that when I think of Belgium, when years have passed and I think back on this time, I will think of them, and be thankful that I met these fine people.

Not to mention Ron, the American expat who has spent more time getting me familiar with my new town than he may have wished to, and has always done so gracefully and without complaint. For every stupid question, there is a patient response. He has truly gone above and beyond his duty, and for that, I thank him, though he does not know about this blog and probably never will.

And that is a different perspective on Belgium. I owe it to them to throw it out there.

Bitter in Belgium, or, How I Lost my Dearest Possession

Ok, I am officially bitter. Today, I went to the local Belgacom office to finally setup my own Internet connection. As I know I have discussed in the past, I am hitchhiking on the information superhighway with a neighbor of mine (who I do not know, and who does not know I am hiding in his or her trunk).

An interesting fact about Belgians, they all seem to have wireless Internet connections, yet they never seem to secure them. Thus, here I am tonight, writing and posting on this blog, without an Internet connection of my very own.

The workweek in Belgium is fairly standard: 8:30 AM to 5:30 PM every day, except for Friday, when we get off two hours early. So, today, I walked out of the customer site, hopped on an express bus back to Mons, got home to drop off my stuff, and hot footed it over to the nearest Belgacom office to get things started on setting up my ADSL line.

Everything was going fairly well. I arrived at the store, they had someone who spoke English and we sat down at her desk to discuss the various options available to me in terms of setting up a connection. At one point, she asked me my phone number, and I had to admit I didn’t know it by heart. So, she gave me her phone number and I whipped my phone out and called her number. Then, we headed off to another desk so I could by the modem and, voila, I was on my way.

And I had some other place to be, for, on my way to the BG office, I passed by a little shop that was selling food that they had prepared but that I could take home and cook up. On the way to BG, the food distracted me: it looked so good. I stood in the window and drooled for a moment (I am fairly certain my nose left a mark on the window) until I remembered I had other places to be. So, I left the BG office, then headed back to the food place, bought some Hungarian Beouf, then nearly ran back to my apartment to cook it up and consume.

Except, when I got home, I started looking around in my coat pockets and realized: no phone. Damn it all! I realized I must have left it on the BG woman’s desk when I called her. Back to the Belgacom office, which I did in record time, because I had the Hungarian beef cooking in the oven back home. Except, except…

Except when I got back to her office, I strolled on in and asked her if I left my phone on her desk. She was standing there with about five other people gathered around her computer screen. She barely even looked up and said, no, of course not sir. Now wait, I said, I know I did, I’ve been gone for ten minutes. She looks at me, and one of her coworkers says: No, of course not, sir. We would tell you if you had. I look at them, they look at me. And I realize, short of wading in to the lot of them, throwing haymakers and accusing them of being thieves, what option did I have? I could call the local constabulary, but as they don’t typically speak English, I wasn’t sure that was going to work.

So, I walked out of the BG office and pondered what had just happened. I had checked the jackets on my raincoat when I arrived home, and one was unzipped. It is conceivable, I suppose, that I put the phone in there and it just slipped out on my way home. Deep pockets and all, but it might have happened. Still, I was pretty sure I hadn’t picked up my phone from that desk before I walked out. So, what do I do?

Well, I did what I normally do, walked away doubting myself, searching for my phone on the ground all the way home. No phone. Of course, I thought, I must have put it in the bag I was carrying, the one that had my modem in it. How stupid of me not to check before I ran all the way back up the central shopping plaza. But, of course, when I got home, the phone was not there.

Upon arriving home, I had the bright idea to call my phone, and I did, from my Yahoo account, which works sporadically. But, tonight it is working, and the first time I call, someone picks up the phone! I start talking quickly, but as soon as I do, “Click”, they hang up. I call back, and now the phone has clearly been turned off.

Damn.

Now I am fairly certain that someone in that BG store has my phone. Tomorrow, they will snap out my SIM card, replace it with another, and they have a new and fairly nice phone. And I realize now I should have been more forceful in stating my case when I came back. Now I am fantasizing about following the woman who helped me home one night, just to see if she receives a call and starts chattering away on my V3 RAZR. When she does, I will swoop down like a dark avenger, clonk her on the head and spirit myself and my phone away, satisfied that the forces of good have prevailed once again.

The truth is, I will probably never see my phone again. Which means, of course, the phone number I put up in an earlier post is no good.

What really bums me out is that I had taken at least twenty pictures of Mons at night and during sunrise that I wanted to post here on the blog, but, like my phone, they appear to be gone forever. In the possession of some Belgacom drone. Oh, the gall, oh the bitterness. While the criminals here are not particularly imposing, they are crafty. And I have learned a lesson: punch first and wonder about being right later. Next time, ah, next time.

On the upside, I did take this as an opportunity to do some phone shopping, and I have purchased a smart phone with a much better camera, so, when I do start posting pictures again, they will be much better than those taken with my old phone, and the phone was fairly cheap to boot.

In the meantime, a sad farewell to my trusty phone. I only had you for about two weeks, but I will miss you all the same. I will post my new number here when I get the new phone. Until then, call me on the Yahoo – it might be working the night you call.

*****

On another note, I see from reading the comments that some people, who shall remain nameless, are fairly bitter about some things I have written in my blog. Oh, what the hell, let’s name names. First up, Ryan E., one of my bestest buddies in the world.

Now, I dig the Ryan and all, and not sure why the attacks in the comments section. I think he may be angry about the 4 door wardrobe thing I said. He’s probably just pissed his girlfriend had to find out from reading this blog and all. I wouldn’t call what I said a personal attack as much as I would call it an outing. Ok, seriously, as far as you know, he isn’t really gay.

Ok, is that better Ryan? Think anyone’s buying it?

Now, for those who have read his comment, he pretty much slams me, in good fun, of course, for being a bit of a bumpkin who has never traveled outside of the country. Why else would I be describing the sink in my apartment as being sort of midget sized? After all, anyone who has been to Europe knows this is just how things are done.

And I think that he makes a good point. Anyone who knows me I am a bit of a bumpkin. I haven’t spent time overseas at all, unless you count in living in Japan for two years when I was but a toddler in short pants. And I don’t.

So, in this blog, you are going to see constant expressions of wonderment at things that others may find fairly common knowledge. But, as I have said before, it is my blog. And this isn’t a shot at Ryan at all, who is, without a doubt, one of the best friends I have ever had. Even if he is gay. Instead, it’s an explanation.

Next up Rob R., who hasn’t, as far as I know, left some tawdry comment that I have had to delete from the blog. Instead, this is simply a shout out, as he begged me to notice him on the blog a few nights ago. So here it is, you pathetic slob. BTW, Rob is getting married soon to a woman who, as far as I can tell, is much too good for him. They will be marrying and honeymooning in South America, and I am sure you will join me in wishing them all the best.

Next on my list, Pat H. Rather than just assume that this is a woman based on the name, wait until you meet him to make that judgment. You will probably come to the same conclusion after meeting, er, him, but still, you shouldn’t judge unless you know someone personally. Just wanted to say thanks for his help in getting my Slingbox setup going. For  those who don’t know, Slingbox is a way to transmit American cable overseas via the Internet. As I am having a serious jones for cheesy American movies and TV, I love him for this. Plus, he listens to me when I whine about stuff, and that’s pretty rare to find in a friend. So, I owe him one.

Second to last on this list, but certainly not in my thoughts, my cousin Carrie, who sent me an email when I was down that did a lot to turn around my thinking. You know what it was, so thank you.

And finally, my dad, who has done so much for me, now and in the past. Enough said.