The Policeman Just Came

For reals. You know, just to check on us. Because we need checking on. Actually, everyone who applies for commune registration (a nightmare-and-a-half; everyone has a horror story) receives a visit from the local police in order to verify that they really do reside at their reported place of domicile.

And while my guy wasn't as dapper as the two prototypes featured above left, we had a nice chat (in Dutch), mainly about Flemish identity. He told me that about 60% of cops here are Flemish, do not live in Brussels, and feel bedrogen (which could either mean "deceived" or "threatened"; likely the former) by French speakers. He couldn't really explain his grounds for feeling deceived, but who am I to invialidate his feelings? He also shared that, in his opinion, the Flemish resemble the English more than they do the Dutch, whom he believes are more "Germanic." He also asserted that the Flamands have fewer problems with vreemdelingen, or foreigners - but, as with his previous point, did not have much to back it up. Except that the Flemish are more "protectionist," which made me feel, as a (visible) foreigner, slightly uncomfortable. Especially since he was evaluating our abode in a manner slightly reminiscent of someone from the Administration for Child Services.

In the end, he gave J the green light to register at the Saint Gilles commune - yay! (My visa/registration status remains in the "Unresolved" category for the time being.) I also kind of wonder what would've happened if I hadn't been around today.

L'Ultime Atome; Someone Else's Food Blog

Going to l'Ultime Atome tonight for a holiday party. Yes, they have those here, too - company gatherings where everyone behaves shamefully and pretends to "forget" the following day: "OMG I was so drunk!" "OMG me too!"

For some reason, I often get Ultime Atome confused (at least conceptually) with À la Mort Subite and the charmingly named Delirium Tremens. So far, I've only been to Mort Subite, a lovely beer bar close to the equally lovely Galéries Royales Saint-Hubert, where ordering a tripel is a good/bad way to start the evening.

Ultime Atome being tonight's destination, I googled it, which then landed me on a nice Brussels-based, English-language beer blog, which in turn led to a food blog which seems worth following.

Ah, Healthcare in Belgium

When you don't have a lot to hang our hat on, you will turn anything into a coat rack take what you can get (better put: beggars can't be choosers). So, in the midst of yesterday's abundant wet snow, coupled with the ever-dwindling number of daylight hours, I wasn't all that pleased to receive a bill for a recent ER visit. Except that, when I opened the bill, I was overjoyed to find the cost of an ER visit here to be a mere (drumroll, please) 21,53€.

Only in Belgium, never in the United States of Uninsured-Middle-Class America.

Magnétoscope

While attempting to DVR Little Dorrit a few nights ago, I was informed by the VOO user guide (which I can barely read, since it's in French) that I needed a magnétoscope. Really?!? Now I am really confused. Because I kind of thought that was the point of getting digital cable.

Brussels Beauty Tour

I don't know if it's me, the weather, the calcium-rich water, or mild culture shock, but something is going on with my skin. And it's not just the fleas.

So I decided to try not one, but two estheticians. Since googling "Brussels and facials" doesn't yield much result, I thought it might be worth writing about, at the very least to see if anyone else has any suggestions. Skip this post if skin care does not interest you in the least.

The fruits of my dermo-adventures so far:

Livia Kova. Self-proclaimed "legend around town" spa near Place Lux. Generally gets good reviews. I wasn't personally in love with its cherub and excess-of-charm aesthetic, but the esthetician did a good job, and the whole experience was comfortable, if not necessarily luxurious. Aggressive attempt to sell product was a slight turn-off at the end. A facial can be had for 87€, which borders on expensive by my standards, depending on the exchange rate.

Pause Beauté (no web site; 0478 35 95 79). This one was a little more of a gamble. I think I persisted in getting an appointment (not the easiest thing - closed more often than open, returned my call over a day later) simply because it seemed a little difficult. But most importantly, it's around the corner from my apartment in Saint Gilles. Like many things here, the experience was a bit weird and yet enjoyably so. (This is starting to take on a tone I didn't intend.) For one, the esthetician informed me she basically had all the time in the world, just like her family members in Africa. Not sure if that meant business is a little slow. What this did mean was that built into the facial were a number of lengthy massages, some with reflexology. Overall enjoyable experience, clocking in at 2h and 88€. (High eighties seems the going rate.)

If someone were paying me for this, I would also check out Aspria, Espace Beauté, Serendip Spa, and subscription-based Wax Zone Ixelles. Let me know if you have done so already.

P.S. Salon de Shyou and Mario Badescu, you are missed. 

Christmas Market Joy

Sometimes it all gets a little heavy here - far from family and friends, with consistently gray weather to boot. At which point it's time to go to the Christmas market and drink glühwein and eat tartiflette! And watch the light and sound show in the Grand Place! Which is exactly what J and I did yesterday. Nothing like some son et lumière to brighten the mood . . .

NYT Article on Expats

I realize we're not living "in places like Belgrade and the former Soviet Union during the cold war," but the take-away from this article seems to be that we're hardly alone. I checked out Tales from a Small Planet, and it's pretty good.

The Elusive Little Dorrit

(Just in case you're worried all I do is read the Twilight series out here,) I've been intermittently following the BBC series Little Dorrit. I say "intermittently," because the BBC has decided to make it nearly impossible to remember when the show is on - or at times simply not to show it, even when it was scheduled to be aired (as appeared to be the case last Thursday, when I had to sit through a UK version of an Amber Alert show). Alas . . . I suppose there is always replay on the BBC site.

Vampire City (As Opposed to Weekend)

I will go ahead and admit that I have been reading Twilight. Yes, it is poorly written and at times more than slightly idiotic, but it's also not a bad way to pass time in a city that in many ways seems a safe haven for vampires. (Interested, Cullens?)

I also am embarrassed to say that it wasn't until the second book that I understood how a vampire series could be written by (and this is an assumption, but she did go to BYU) a Mormon. Eternal marriage, duh! (But then again, she - the writer, not Bella - is married to a guy named Pancho. Can anyone explain?)

L'il Sis also picked up the book (partly my fault, I have to admit; sorry, Serious Readers of the World) and brought up a good point: Why do the Cullens have to be rich? Why does this point seem so important and . . . souligné? Feel free to weigh in - and admit that you've been reading the series, too.

Ways to Brighten a Belgian Day

Some days here are hard. Thank goodness, therefore, in no particular order, for:

- NPR online. I may have missed most of the election coverage, but at least I got to hear Obama announce his National Security Team. And thank god for World Café.

- iTunes, purveyor of Gossip Girl, 30 Rock, and SNL.

- Any kind of hot tea, particularly Lady Gray, green, and à la menthe.

- VO/OV (Original Version) movies. (Note to self: buy tickets to Twilight.)

- Daily open-air markets (Monday: Place van Meenen; Wednesday: Place du Châtelain; Sunday: Gare du Midi; every other day: Parvis de St. Gilles). Nothing does the trick for me quite like just going to the market. But I do have to remember to look up the names of my grocery items in both French and Dutch (e.g., celery = céleri = selderie).

Ryanair: The Official Airline of Soccer Hooligans

 

Over the weekend, we went to Madrid (highlights: the food, Prado, Reina Sofia, the new Caixa Forum, our friends T and B's baby) for Thanksgiving. Which meant that we got to check out "Brussels South" Charleroi airport, a mere 1-hour bus ride from Gare du Midi, in order to benefit from Ryanair's cheap fares. 

Flying Ryanair was generally a good experience, with the exception of extortion at the gate, i.e., having to pay €20 per piece of checked luggage, even though I had dorkily taken out the tape measure to ensure that our luggage met cabin luggage specs. (This can be circumvented by paying €10 per piece online in advance of the flight).

What I wasn't completely expecting, though, was the fact that the flight would be booked to the gills by Feyenoord fans from Rotterdam. The closest, albeit imperfect, comparison to an American tribe/locale would be perhaps Boston Southie. As the Dutch themselves might say, oei . . .

Adventures in Belgian Healthcare

I've been itchy lately. Really, really itchy.

For that, I have the big, slobbering dog belonging to the previous tenants of our apartment to thank. A dog who, our new neighbors informed us recently, was never outfitted with a flea collar and thus left behind a legacy of fleas (which also bite humans). I realize all of this will be funny one day, but suffice it to say we haven't quite gotten there yet.

To deal with this problem, I've made the acquaintance of a few doctors in Brussels. I've been amazed by some aspects of healthcare here, while disappointed (thanks, Michael Moore) by others. Some high- and lowlights:

Thankful for:
- The Edith Cavell Institute: one of the nicest hospitals I've ever set foot in that's open to the general public. The attached café resembles (but probably serves better food than) Pastis.
- The cost of healthcare: €28 to see a general practitioner; €50 to consult a specialist. Before reimbursement by insurance. (The €50 fee was even reduced to €35 when that was all I could produce in cash. Compare and contrast with the the U.S., where a collections agency would be breathing down my neck for the remainder of my life in pursuit of the difference.)

A little appalled by:
- My French (or the receptionist at Cavell): I showed up thinking I had an appointment with the dermatologist, only to find out I had been booked for the . . . gynecologist. I had to wait another week. (Btw, I've noticed that most people here (and in Europe generally) refer to their doctors without the suffix, i.e., "gyno," "dermo," "kino," etc. Does that make me a psycho?)
- The ER doctor at Parc Leopold. To say he lacked the ability to inspire confidence, or comparing him to Dr. Spaceman on 30 Rock, would be kind. After a 30-second exam he told me, "I think you have la gale. It is evident to me that you do. Take this cream, and if it works, you have la gale. And if it does not, maybe you do not have it." Which would all be sort of fine, except la gale means scabies, I did not have la gale, and he was asking me to bathe in what amounted to a chemical bath despite the obvious uncertainty of his diagnosis.
- The lack of hospital gowns: Not such a big deal, but I was asked to strip down and be examined by a doctor wearing just bra and panties. They looked at me like I was crazy when I asked for a gown.

Apparently, Dr. Windmill was just a warm-up.

BfB back from Internet exile

Finally! We have internet access again. (Sorry, everyone whom I owe an email or two.) In the mean time, a lot has gone down, including a flea infestation, several doctor/ER visits, our first visitor (J's brother J, or shall we say 'j'), a visit to the utterly bizarre Africa museum, and my first bookclub meeting (sorry, bookwormsgonewild). More to follow . . .

Working Out, Part Deux

Surprisingly, of all posts so far, the most popular one has been the one in reference to the gym. Maybe it's the cartoon-ish (and therefore somewhat Belgian) illustration (recycled, above), or the fact that my friends know how much I hate working out (and love eating), or just the fact that it is a familiar rip-off Adam Gopnik's much more amusing tales of swimming in the Paris Ritz-Carlton pool. Numerous concerned parties have inquired whether I've managed to find a gym and/or provided many helpful suggestions.

So I thought it would only be fair to provide an update. In the end, J and I decided to join the hard-selling Passage Fitness First, mainly because it is the closest gym to our new apartment. Last week, I even took a class there, the purpose of which I could not decipher from its enigmatic name, High/Low. And even though all the classes have English names, they are certainly not taught in English - something that I knew on one level but still managed not to be fully prepared for. Something else I wasn't prepared for: Belgian gym culture.

Whereas in the U.S., and particularly New York, everyone goes to the gym (probably because we're so self-obsessed and narcissistic), it becomes quite clear upon entering a gym here that it is only a subset of Belges who work out. Which might account for the teenager who taunted J through the window of the gym while he was doing some post-workout stretching/crunches the other day.

So far, the best part has been the aforementioned cours collectifs. Once you enter the studio where the classes are taught, you have irreversibly re-entered the 1980s. This particular class was taught by the likes of instructor I have never encountered in the U.S. - balding but proudly long-haired, skinny but macho, certainly not fit by any stretch of the imagination, last seen in a bad Gérard Dépardieu movie, in which he would have portrayed the much older man preying on G.D.'s teenage daughter. (He did kick my a** though, and I am still having trouble walking a few days later.)

Lost without Cyberspace

Ugh. While the overall Belgian experience is going quite nicely, there are some occasional speed bumps (hence the category). Last time I posted, completely euphoric and overwhelmed by the election, I was still working under the delusion that our internet connection would be installed soon - and I would be happily posting away from the comfort of my own apartment. Not so much. Since then, I've talked to numerous expats who have had the same experience of submitting to a month-long "investigation" into the possibility of service provision. To which I would like to say, "Really?" Because I seriously doubt we're the first people in Brussels to require internet and cable access. Seasoned expats, feel free to weigh in on speeding up this process.

A Move, an Election, and Lots of Emotions

And what an election!! But we'll get to that shortly. 

We moved into our new apartment in St Gilles on Monday. The apartment is great - larger and nicer than anything we could afford in New York. J and I are excited to unpack and break down the mountain of boxes that now litter the space, and to settle in. 

Unfortunately, moving has also led me to find out that getting cable television/internet connectivity in Brussels is, somehow, a lengthier and more arduous process than in New York - a concept unimaginable to me until now. (Once, I "worked with" Verizon for about a month until they told me they could not get the DSL line they had installed in my apartment to actually work. Time Warner Cable, on the other hand, likes to provide time windows that span an entire workday - "our technician will be there anytime between 12 and 5.")

I have spent a good amount of time the last few weeks talking to various cable/internet providers (Belgacom, Codetel, to name a couple) only to be told "Madame, ce n'est pas possible," "Je ne peux pas vous aider," or some similarly fatalistic combination thereof. (Sometimes I think that, if I had to pick one universal gesture to best describe Belgians, it would probably be throwing one's arms up in the air - paired with a quizzical facial expression.) Right now, we're in the process of waiting for VOO/Brutélé to find out if it will be possible to provide us cable services - which apparently can take up to 15 working days.

None of this would be even close to catastrophic, if it weren't for the fact that the most historic election in several generations was taking place last night. J and I ended up going to an election party at the Renaissance Hotel. Surprisingly, most of the crowd was non-English speaking - which either goes to show the amount of excitement in the rest of the world about our election, or the fact that Brussels doesn't have much of a nightlife. Unfortunately, the party was packed and not too well-organized. The only way to get drinks and "typical American food" (hamburgers, hot dogs, and Doritos with melted Velveeta) was to purchase fake dollars with euros, and then to exchange the fake dollars for food and drink. (The Belgians love a token system, I've learned.)

Anyway, by the end of the night some lovely new friends of ours were kind enough to invite us over to their apartment, where I'm sure we overstayed our welcome. We finally went to bed around 3AM here, feeling fairly confident that Obama had taken Pennsylvania. I ended up sleeping with J's Blackberry next to me the entire night, and wept when I read the transcript of his speech early this morning.

I seldom say (or feel) this, but I'm very proud to be an American today. New York, America, we miss you so much.

Frites vs. Jogging

The image accompanying this post should provide some indication as to how I might vote on this matter. Having temporarily given up on finding a gym (thank you to those who provided helpful suggestions), I've decided to take advantage of the not-yet-freezing weather and run outside every once in a while. I've even found the perfect spot to do so - les Étangs d'Ixelles, or the Ixelles Ponds, which I've decided to stick to after getting lost a couple of times in the Bois de la Cambre (which J has likened to a fairytale forest).

The only problem is that at the foot of the Ponds lies the prototype of a Belgian frites stand - elegantly simple, wonderfully fragrant, smoke coming out of a lead pipe chimney - and surrounded by many a happy Belgian eating frites (and mayonnaise) with a little wooden fork out of a paper cone. So, for each lap I barely manage to finish, I am once again reminded of how I should be eating frites instead of running. Not exactly motivating.

Also, it does not appear that Begians have ever heard of (or might need) the Atkins diet. Everywhere I go, I see people chomping away on a baguette or shoveling down frites. With nary an obese person in sight.

French Class

I started an intensive French course at l'Alliance Française on Monday. Although I have yet to experience anything on the level of, say, Me Talk Pretty One Day, I think the class has the potential, beyond improving my French, to prove quite entertaining.
For one, none of us speak French particularly well, but it's the only language we all have in common. The group includes a Brazilian psychologist, Italian swim instructor, and Vietnamese monk, as well as a Flemish woman who works for some kind of not-for-profit cultural concern. There's also a Russian and a Spaniard, along with a fairly hyperactive instructor named Angélique who is given to dramatic gesticulation and likes to accuse us of being low-energy.
(I must say, a Google image search for "french class" yields some silly finds. And at least I'm not in this class.) 

Hearting HEMA

I've found a rainy-day cure in Brussels - and it's a Dutch department/bargain store called HEMA. No matter what the weather might be, a visit to the store, which can best be described as an irresistible mix of American Target, Japanese Muji, and French Monoprix, always manages to cheer up the cheap-o, design-lovin' bargain hunter in me. (I promise I don't work for them, but the childhood spent in Holland may make me particularly susceptible.)

Stuffed in Strasbourg

I had the opportunity to spend most of last week in Strasbourg due to J's work. While he was hanging out with Sarko et al. in the European Parliament, I went shopping with Carla Bruni. Just kidding. Instead, I wandered about the city and checked out a few museums - some of which seemed quite morbidly obsessed with death. I also resisted the temptation to sit in a tea room and gorge myself on pastries the entire time. This task was made easier by the fact that during the day I was usually still full from the previous night's feast. Whether it was flammeküche, jambonneau (pig knuckle), a "salad" composed entirely of ham and cheese, beef tongue, or boudin noir, it was all delicious. To top it all off, we passed through both the Alsace wine region and Champagne on our way home (where, sans réservation, we were spurned by Veuve Clicquot like 2 guys without dates trying to hop a velvet rope in Manhattan).

Sorry for Asking

Sometimes I feel like a) I was just put here for some random Belgians' amusement; and b) I've wandered unawares into some kind of musical production. Par instance: yesterday I found myself sans STIB jumpcard (local equivalent of the Metrocard) near the Université Libre de Bruxelles (not to be confused with the other side of campus, which is called Vrije Universiteit Brussels. I'm not kidding). So I went into a pharmacy, because it was the only store I could see for blocks. I realized it was a long shot - I couldn't possibly claim they sell Metrocards at Duane Reade in New York, but I decided it was worth a try. (After all, they do sell them at press agents and the supermarket.)

As an aside, I've been told by some that one's chances of being caught without a STIB card are practically nil. This was a disclosure that left me feeling somewhat conflicted. On the one hand, I love public transportation (so much so that J has accused me of wanting to live atop the Port Authority and take "public transportation vacations" - not sure what either accusation means) and don't mind paying for it. But on the other hand, who wants to be a sucker?

So, back at the old pharmacie, I asked the nice lady behind the counter if I could buy a card for the tram. She could have just said no, or even laughed in my face in a pleasant or friendly way - which happens to me here all the time. (It also happened to J the other day, when he walked into an eating establishment and greeted them with bonsoir - in the middle of the day.)

Instead, she seemed to find my question so obtuse as to merit some kind of theatrical act. She proceeded to gaily call/sing to her colleague in the back room that "Madame is asking whether we sell cards for the tram . . ." (the audacity, I know.) Which prompted her fellow pharmacist - who was equally lovely and apple-cheeked - to reply in a singsong voice, "Mais non, why would we sell cards for the tram? Of course we do not!" At which point, I received the final decree from both pharmacists, in choral unison, "Madame, we do not sell cards for the tram. You must go to the librairie, of course!" (Maybe it was just that it was in French, but it was all vaguely reminiscent of the song in The Little Mermaid where the crab is being chased around the kitchen.)

Completely perplexed, I decided to walk home.

Macarons Luxembourgeois

Accompanied J on a work trip to Luxembourg City this past weekend. Although my overall impression of the postage-stamp-sized city was . . . average, I cannot get over the macarons at Wengé. The free wifi in Place d'Armes (as well as throughout the city) was also quite nice, not to mention the oursin and muscadet at Brasserie Guillaume. Finally, props to the Mudam (Musée d'Art Moderne Grand-Duc Jean), even though it was in between installations.

It's Not Okay

I must admit I was intrigued when I read the outsize praise received by (the now Man Booker-snubbed) Netherland. The book was written by Joseph O'Neill, an author born to Turkish and Irish parents who attended school in the Netherlands and currently lives in New York. Being born to Chinese parents in Texas, raised in the Netherlands, and living in New York at the time, I wondered if I would experience any kind of natural affinity.

The short answer was yes and no. Descriptions of a biking-heavy Dutch adolescence rang familiar, but I didn't really enjoy or identify with the book's eventual dénouement. One scene, though, that stayed with me was the one in which the protagonist and his (ex-) wife leave a London dinner party prematurely because of a comment one of the guests (or was it the host?) makes regarding 9/11.

Which brings me to what's not okay. Notice to Europeans dealing with Americans, particularly those who lived in New York at the time: It's not okay to suggest that we deserved 9/11, that we may have brought it upon ourselves in the first place. It's not okay to comment that perhaps Americans should view 9/11 as an incident in which they received some "useful feedback" from the rest of the world. The latter, in fact, is exactly the argument that was presented to me in a job interview the other day.

I agree that many atrocities take place around the world on a daily basis that suffer the fate of the proverbial tree that falls in the woods. I also agree that the lamentable actions of our outgoing administration have not helped us make any friends - particularly in this context. And yet these are no excuses for trivializing what happened in New York on September 11, 2001.

A Visit to the Post Office = Brunch at Prune?

One thing I'm going to have to get used to here is the pace of daily life. In the US, I'm the one who asks for coffee, dessert and the check. Call it impatience or efficiency - but it's not going to work here.

For instance, I paid a visit to the post office yesterday. My first visit had already been comical enough, with me not understanding which button on the machine to push and finally being helped by a lovely old man who had undoubtedly been watching my cluelessness with no small degree of amusement.

Armed with my new knowledge, I strode in confidently yesterday . . . only to find a large number of fellow postal patrons sitting around like it was the DMV - camping out, reading, smoking, picknicking . . . .

I decided to take a ticket anyway, even if just to exercise my newly learned skill. But the number on my ticket was so much higher than the one on the screen that I decided to go to run some errands instead. A few errands and a pilates class later, I remembered that I still had my ticket from the post office. About two hours had passed. I decided to give it a shot. I only had to wait a few minutes until my number got called. While it worked out this time, I have absolutely no idea how real Belgians live their daily lives.

Strike!

There may be no better example than the general strike on Monday (to protest high prices and a general decline in pouvoir d'achat) to illustrate the animosity between Flamands and Walloons.

We had been warned to keep food supplies on hand, as many stores might be closed. However, about half the stores in Brussels remained open - provided the majority of the employees were Flemish-speaking*. Apparently, the Flamands did not agree that there was much to protest and certainly did not want to get caught supporting an initiative they viewed as largely Wallonian in origin.

*Information provided by a new friends in Brussels, a category that is actually beginning to exist. Yay!

Sending Shouts Out to People I Miss

1. Every time I stub my toe, trip, or destroy my shoe (and if you're me, it's often), on the omnipresent cobblestone streets here, I think of Noa. (And I'm not even wearing stilettos!)

2. My li'l sis's work blog has kicked off. Check it out. She's creative and stuff. And I joined the waiting list for a Chevy Volt, being the America-proud eco-dork-living-abroad that I am.

Day of Rest . . . and Other Misunderstandings

Those who know me are aware of the fact that I sometimes have "encounters" with people I run into in daily life. So it goes without saying that I have to be particularly careful to keep my emotions (especially unfounded ones) in check when a colossal linguistic or cultural (or both: culti-linguistic? lingo-cultural?) misunderstanding lurks around every corner.

Last Saturday, J received a little chastisement when he asked in perfectly polite, well-accented French whether the newsstand would be open the following day - Sunday. Granted, the likely answer was no, since most shops are closed here on Sundays, and even on weekday evenings past 6:30PM. But since it was a newsstand, and those things called newspapers tend to be churned out even on Sunday, it seemed worth asking.

Unfortunately, the saleswoman was not amused, wagged her finger at J, and retorted, "Monsieur, you should know that Sunday is a day of rest."

I then made the mistake of asking her if she had the Michelin guide for Belgium. She proceeded to yell at her husband, who was upstairs, to ask. The husband, who seemed quite good-natured, then came downstairs and began to disassemble the bookshelves blocking the window display - it turned out he had only one copy left.

As J and I were regretting having set foot into this Agence Presse in the first place, the woman - who I now began to realize could potentially benefit from a psychiatric intervention - stared at me and asked pointedly, "What do you want it for? To consult it?" At least, that's what I thought she asked in French. This seemed a rather strange question, so I just nodded my head. To which she replied explosively: "And you are asking my husband to dismantle the store? Just so you can consult the guide?"

I explained as politely as I could that I wanted to buy the guide in order to consult it and that I would never ask her inexplicably sweet husband to dismantle the store for no reason. I also wanted to tell her - but decided against it - that in some religions, Saturday is the day of rest.

Chasing Uni

Thanks, Livia, for sharing this delightful posting on one of my favorite foods, sea urchin. Can't wait to go to Italy . . . . In the mean time, will have to locate a raw bar that features oursin - the adorable French name for uni - which (I believe) means "little bear."

Working Out Is Hard to Do

I hardly enjoy working out as much as, say, J does. And yet the incessant ingestion of frites, baguette sandwiches, and beer suggests that I should probably at least consider starting some semblance of a workout regimen.

The only problem is that it's not so easy to find a gym in Brussels. J and I went to check out Passage Fitness on Charleroi and were assaulted by a pandering, hyper-aggressive sales associate who demanded that we join that day, or else lose the discount on the initiation fee. Since we're not looking for a local Ballys-for-life, we said no.

I then went to Aspria Avenue Louise, which admittedly is a gorgeous gym - but it comes at a price: around €200 per person, per month. And that's excluding the ridonkulous €500 initiation fee. Since Brussels appears in most other regards to be a relatively modest city, I'm not sure who can afford such fees (although the crowd in the café gave some indication).

Finally, we went to Physical Golden Club (if nothing else, these places have great names) on Place du Châtelain, which was unassuming enough - but I couldn't get over the women's communal showers.

So if you know Brussels better than we do, feel free to send a shout out with recommendations.

Starbucks-Free Zone

Believe it or not, the entire country of Belgium is almost entirely sans Starbucks.

Thanks, Julie! And welcome to Belgium, too.

Forecast: Rain All Week

After a beautiful weekend of lounging in the Bois de la Cambre and house hunting (more to follow), the weather has now reverted itself to what we were warned against: chronic rain.

The Bulletin was also so kind as to point out, in a lovely article by Leona Francombe, that "Belgium occupies roughly the same parallel as Irkutsk and Moose Jaw."

I believe we're in for a long, wet winter.

And I Got to Eat Matjes

Also known as herring.

Drinking Wine in the Rain

We went to the Châtelain market last night, which involved browsing stalls of produce, cheese, charcuterie and other delights - all without the politically correct smugness of an American greenmarket.

We then did as all the locals (read: expats) do and drank a glass of wine in the rain.

Not sure how high this experience ranks on the ALC (Authentic Local Color) scale, but it certainly was enjoyable.

Who Knew?

Falling under the category of news I would certainly remain oblivious to in the U.S.:
Croation federation fined for fans' racist behavior

Zebra-Themed Hall Decorations and Other Excesses of Charm

I have been spending my days pounding the pavement in search of an apartment. We were very excited about the prospect of inhabiting a traditional maison de maître bruxellois - until I encountered some of the specimens I have seen. Let's just say that this picture is an understated representation of these real estate gems - and that apparently beaucoup de charme generally means unrenovated and spectacularly tacky. Possibly haunted, too.

While viewing one of these apartments, I was informed that the upstairs neighbor is, in fact, a Duchess (Keira Knightley, I hope). The apartment itself could best be described as a nightmarish version of your Versailles-obsessed grandmother's digs. I was also told that the housekeeper (housekeeper?) who had recently been brought to Belgium from the Phillipines, could, for a fee, "help with extra ironing."

The best part was when I actually got to meet the Filipina housekeeper, who asked me whether I was Chinese, because, she said, pointing at her own eyes, "I can see it in your eyes." (Wow, haven't gotten that one since grade school.) I think (but am not sure) the exceedingly formal Belgian real estate broker was embarrassed.

Contribution from J

J wants me to share with you that the subway (which I have yet to brave) here smells like chocolate croissants. Not only that, but they apparently also play soft rock (J's favorite musical genre, I might add).

Seems like pure torture to me - someone who never wakes up on time to eat breakfast - having to endure a daily commute that not only sounds like Céline Dion, but also smells like pastries.

McCain asks for an extension

I know this financial meltdown is as big a deal as big deals get, but is McCain seriously asking for the debate to be postponed - even though it would be the perfect opportunity to present a "joint statement" aimed at resolving the debacle?

Too bad Obama already finished his homework and doesn't need an extension. What's next, McCain, your dog ate it?

I can already tell that following this nail-biting election from Brussels is going to result in a great deal of insomnia.

That G-D iTunes

Just for the record, it takes way too long to download Gossip Girl here. I just purchased it, and the current ETA of "The Dark Night" on my hard drive is: 9 hours remaining. Doesn't that kind of defeat the culture of instant gratification the show stands for in the first place?

What to Wear

Trench coat - Visual Dictionary - Copyright © 2005-2008 - All rights reserved.

Before I arrived, I was wondering whether people would wear trench coats as much as I expected them to. So far, the answer is yes.

What Would the Wallonians Think?

Just wondering whether Google Maps has purposefully chosen the side of the Flamands in the near-civil war being waged between French and Dutch-speaking Belgians. The reason I ask is that every time I use said program, it gives me the street names only in Dutch - even if I enter the name in French! While fairly harmless when the street is, say, Avenue Louise (or Louizalaan), this becomes significantly more confusing when we're talking about Rue Ducale (or Hertogsstraat).

Day 1: Panic Tourism

After arriving here yesterday morning, my mood has been what could best be described as bipolar: I've been vacillating between great excitement about what Brussels has to offer (like the cleverly designed mailboxes, left) and a range of more negative emotions, ranging from mild homesickness to outright panic.

In order to deny ourselves the opportunity to completely freak out, J and I embarked on an extensive walking tour of Ixelles - where we're staying on Avenue Louise - Chatelain, and Sablon (both Places Grand and Petit), eventually winding our way to the tourist-swarmed Grand Place, where we will not be making another appearance until our first visitor arrives or the Christmas market starts, whichever comes first.

Of course, we did not manage to do all of this without getting lost - or having a piece of beef chucked at us (specifically, J) while lost in Marolles. Along the way, we saw some nice examples of Art Nouveau, courtesy of a Lonely Planet walking tour (which should be an item on Stuff White People Like if it's not already).

At the end of the stroll, we had dinner in Place de Grand Sablon at a fairly nondescript brasserie across from Pierre Marcolini chocolates. The going price for moules frites seems to hover around €22, which was a little higher than I expected. While the food was good, I also wondered whether it will be one of those places we will chuckle at having dined on our first night a few years from now. After all, both J and I thought the Slaughtered Lamb was "authentic" when we first arrived in New York.

Snowy/Milou

Walking around the East Village, I have been spotting at least a couple of fine real-life specimens of Tintin's constant companion Snowy (Milou in French, ? in Dutch). This inspired me to look up Snowy's breed, which turns out to be the wire fox terrier. While I would love to get a dog once we arrive in Brussels, wire fox terriers do not appear to make the best pets. Wikipedia observes that "Among the less desirable traits of all fox terriers are their energy, digging, stalking and chasing of other animals, and yelping bark."

My best bet may be to learn fun facts about Snowy instead. More from wikipedia:

Basics: "[He] is Tintin's four-legged companion who travels everywhere with him. The bond between the dog and Tintin is deeper than life, and they have saved each other from perilous situations many times."

Linguistic and paranormal abilities: "With a few exceptions, Snowy never speaks (although he is regularly seen thinking in human words), since he is 'only a dog' . . . . Snowy often adds to the story in many interesting ways. For instance, Snowy is the only character in Flight 714 to remember that he was abducted by aliens."

Alcoholic tendencies: "Like Captain Haddock, Snowy is fond of Loch Lomond brand scotch whisky, and his occasional bouts of drinking tend to get him into trouble, as does his acute arachnophobia."

Evolution of the character: "The character of Snowy . . . was most dramatically affected by the introduction of Captain Haddock in The Crab with the Golden Claws. Before Haddock's appearance, Snowy was the source of dry and cynical side-commentary, which balanced out Tintin's constantly positive, optimistic perspective. When Haddock entered the series, the Captain took over the role of the cynic, and Snowy gradually shifted into a more light-hearted role, serving to create comic relief by chasing the Marlinspike cat . . . , drinking the Captain's whisky, etc."

Ode to the Redhead

There's nothing like leaving a city, not to mention the City, to make you appreciate its charms. I've spent years grumbling about my block's annoyances, including cat-size rats, a condemned corner building that endangers the lives of pedestrians, a drunk singing neighbor permanently perched on the stoop, and no less than 4 different waste management companies that make the nightly rounds.

It never hurt, though, that Momofuku Ssam was just a stone's throw away. Before David Chang became a total rock star, we (4 close friends, J, and I) were lucky enough to celebrate New Year's over some delightful pork butt - with maybe 4 other diners. We actually worried about the sustainability of the restaurant and its insistence on making extra-tasty Chipotle wraps during the day. How things have changed.

It wasn't until the Redhead moved into the old Detour that we had a canteen again. Chef Meg Grace heads up the venture and has spent time at the Modern, as well as Brennan's, in New Orleans, which means she turns out food that soothes my Chinese Southern soul. I've enjoyed most of the menu, although my favorites include the One-Eyed Caesar Salad and Pan-Seared Trout, and the Ginger Snap off the drinks menu. SE: New York has a full review and some delectable pictures.

Smurfs #2

I never really thought I would start a blog - let alone a blog containing not one, but two (and counting?) posts about Smurfs. It's just that moving to Belgium is bringing up a treasure trove of childhood memories.

The other day, I was researching the difference between transformers and converters, which I still can't say I completely understand. But then I recalled learning at least one part of the lesson the hard way, back in the day.

We had just moved into our new house in Roosendaal, the Netherlands. I must've been about 9 or 10 years old. Even though I was a girl, my room was decorated according to a (not-atypical in Euroland) red-and-white Formula One theme, straight out of the Ikea catalogue. I think the prior inhabitant, a boy, had slept in a racecar bed. Nevertheless, I loved my room and did not yet resent my parents for being Chinese and uninterested in ameloriating or personalizing interiors.

One day, I decided to play a record on my Smurfs turntable, which had been carefully shipped from the U.S. I had watched my parents use the converter with their grown-up devices, and figured it would allow me to do the same. Unfortunately, shortly after plugging it in, the record player began to emit smoke before basically exploding in my red-and-white room.

Lesson learned: Do not use converters on appliances better served by transformers. And identify which is which.

Dr. Windmill

One of the challenges of moving to a new country - especially if a work visa is to be obtained in the process - is having to jump through various hoops. Some of these are tedious; others, colorful and odious, among other things. So far, one of the more pleasant ones has been to meet and be examined (in some fashion) by a certain Dr. Windmill.

Dr. W and his wife operate out of a one-bedroom apartment in Midtown East and are the lucky recipients of referrals from the Belgian and other francophone embassies. They also appear to service francophone expats on an ongoing basis.

I had been warned by J that Dr. W may not exactly be politically correct. Among other things, he had recommended to J at the conclusion of his visit that he might want to lose some weight, because he is "a lee-ttle chubby." (Let's just establish that this is not the case.)

So, it was with some trepidation that I entered Dr. W's office. No comments were made about my portliness. He did, however, ask me a number of seemingly irrelevant questions surrounding my ethnicity, including my favorite, "But where are you from?" after I made it known that my nationality is American and I was born in Texas. (In all fairness, I don't look the part.)

The clinical conversation then progressed to the topic of venereal disease. After asking me a couple of questions, he volunteered that I would not believe the varietals of STDs - and "bad behavior" from which these might result - that he regularly encounters in his practice. I sadly admit I tried to egg him on. At which point, he reconsidered: "I could not possibly tell such a nice young woman such terr-eeble things."

Although I can't recall with complete certainty, I believe he also took my blood pressure.

The Gray Lady Weighs In

This article is now a couple of days old - which is significantly younger than my last update - but worth a quick reference.

Highlights include:
The German newspaper Die Tageszeitung a few days ago called Belgium the “most successful ‘failed state’ of all time.”
Okay, but I imagine with significantly less bloodshed than most.

“A Flemish friend,” Mr. Dannemark [an editor at Le Castor Astral, a French-language publisher, who prints translations of Flemish writers] said, “put it to me this way: ‘Flanders has nothing in common with Holland except language, and the Flemish and Walloons have everything in common except language.’ But there’s almost no communication between the two communities, except through rock music, which everybody sings in English, and sports, which transcend everything.”
Thank god for soccer and rock 'n roll . . . but what about waffles and mussels?

The only (sort of) good news is that, apparently, speaking English is viewed as non-hostile by all parties.

Mobile Foods

I tried DessertTruck for the first time yesterday evening, and now am hitting myself over the head for doing so belatedly. The "mysterious" J and I shared the Milk Chocolate Mousse, which is described as a "peanut butter cream center topped with caramel popcorn" (as featured in Food & Wine) and the Goat Cheese Cheesecake, "topped with fresh blackberries, rosemary caramel, and a pistachio crisp." Suffice it to say that these descriptions barely do the desserts justice.

Next stop: the competitively parked wafels & dinges. (I hope this answers a certain commenter's question.)

Stinky Drains

I'm not sure how people moved abroad in the past sans Internet - like my parents from Austin, TX, to Putte, the Netherlands, in 1985. Without Google, I would not have been able to find this gem of a welcome site for Americans, primarily military servicemen, moving to Brussels.

A few useful facts:

"Pour water into any drains you have in the garage on a routine basis. It will prevent an unpleasant odor." Hmmm.

"It is an unwritten law/tradition in Belgium that Sunday is a day of rest. If you work, do not mow your grass or do any loud outdoor work." I may be warming to this Belgium.

Good to know:

"Men and boys using the restroom anywhere outdoors is accepted as normal. Knowing this in advance can ease the initial shock."

Who knew?

"If you like candles, they are plentiful and inexpensive in Belgium." Phew.


And then, the best part - common sense that someone bothered to write up:

"When you receive local mail at your home, ensure it is nothing important before you throw it away, even if you can't read it. If unsure, get it translated!"

The Bane of My Existence

The ingenious-yet-sadistic momofuku ko online reservation system is driving me, for lack of a better word, bonkers. I am not alone in this; (more luminary) others have expressed similar frustration and despair.

My pathetic ritual goes as follows: I feel boundlessly hopeful every morning around 9:57, only to be inevitably let down by a red X-filled landscape mere minutes later. I have learned to position my mouse in the right quadrant of my screen, ready to pounce on yummy green checkmarks. If said checkmark appears on the grid, I feel elated - only to be casually informed shortly thereafter that someone else has "nabbed" my spot. My productivity ebbs and flows throughout the day as a function of my constant stalking of the site. In short, I am in need of serious help (or a convenient move to Brussels).

Belgian Smurfs

The title of this post is redundant, as it turns out Smurfs (or at least Peyo, their creator) were Belgian to begin with. Not only that, but they - as a species, I suppose - are turning 50!
Happy birthday, Smurfs!

Primers

We've been doing a bit of recce, and I just learned that we will have to decide whether to live in the French- or Dutch-speaking district of the city. Apparently, the inner areas are French, and the outlying parts - only 10 km from the center - are Dutch. This allows certain guide books I've picked up to declare Brussels to be "one of very few cities that can claim a spilt personality." A city with dissociative identity disorder - imagine that.

In order to learn about the EU, which is a topic most Americans (including me) haven't the first clue about, we've been pointed in the direction of the latest (2008) edition of The European Union: How Does it Work? by Elizabeth Bomberg.

Finally, the most useful advice we've gotten to date is probably to "bring umbrellas and raincoats!" Thank goodness I have a closetful of absurd-looking print wellies.

Moving to Brussels

I am starting this blog because I found out we will be moving to Brussels, Belgium. We will be leaving New York due to a change in my husband's job. In the mean time, I will be gathering information on all things Belgian. So far, I have learned that, coming from the East Village, Ixelles is the neighborhood we might want to live in, and that the cost of living and quality of life there will compare quite nicely to that of our current hometown.

That said, telling die-hard New Yorkers - which most of our friends seem to have become - that you are leaving New York can be quite a chore. Apparently, many people think that by telling them, you are actively soliciting their advice, despite the fact that most of them have never actually been to Brussels.

Of course, both my husband J and I have mixed feelings about leaving New York in the first place. We've lived here for ten years, and despite our constant complaints about the burdensome logistics of living here, it's hard to imagine making a home in another city. Not to mention leaving our friends and social life - or the simple fact that the latter exists.

So, this will be an adventure. Bienvenue and welkom.