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.