Tournament of Books

For some years now, I have been religiously following The Morning News' Tournament of Books, a literary competition (of sorts) styled after March Madness brackets, a self-described "annual battle royale between 16 of the best novels published in the previous year." While in New York, I would try to convince my fellow bookclub members to actually participate in a pool - usually to no avail. But even from rainy Brussels, I can follow the proceedings, which also involve a "Zombie round," in which previously defeated books with the greatest popular support are given one more chance, right before the finals (imagine if this happened in the NCAA). Best of all, the winner receives an actual, live Rooster - in honor of David Sedaris' brother by the same nickname in Me Talk Pretty One Day. This year,  I was saddened by the early defeats of Netherland and Unaccustomed Earth, but will definitely stay tuned tomorrow when the results of the championship match are announced.       

Lady GaGa

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I can't believe I'm blogging about this - but what I really can't believe is that Lady GaGa is actually American. Because, Really?! When I first saw her video at the gym, I just assumed she was one of legions of Euro pop tarts. Imagine my surprise when it turned out she was American. More than anything, she seems straight out of a terrible SNL skit like "Deep House Dish," a joke-as-emblem of exactly the type of European phenomenon that Americans would label/mock as "Euro," with or without "trash" as suffix. Just look at the crystal mask from the future. Maybe there's some elaborate joke I'm not getting. But otherwise, shame on you, Mark Ronson.

Harassment

Brussels-based expat mag The Bulletin caused a big uproar recently with an article entitled "Single, but not safe, in the city." According to the article, which cites an attempted strangulation in January and testimonials from a number of the author's friends, verbal and physical attacks on women are rampant in Brussels. Which is terrible, obviously, but not something I was really aware of. After the article was published, J's secretary asked him to tell me she thought the article was a bunch of baloney, but one of J's colleagues countered that his Scandinavian partner gets harassed all the time.

All this talk about the article made me realize something: whereas I had become used to the highly annoying and offensive catcalls most women receive on a routine basis in New York, I have not been subject to verbal harassment a single time since moving to Brussels. (Unless you're counting all the ni haos, that is.) When I told one of my friends in New York about the contrast, she responded matter-of-factly, "Of course not, you're an oddity to them." By which she meant that my Asian- and other-ness has unexpectedly rendered me immune to harassment. Which is just fine by me - I'll happily take it.    

Skinny Mec and Smurfette

Every morning around 6:30 AM, like clockwork, footsteps best described as belonging to a mythical giant begin to resound in our bedroom. What's most miraculous is that this noise is being produced by our diminutive upstairs neighbors, a young French couple - he a skinny mec, and she, frankly, no taller than a dwarf - hence the nickname Smurfette.
Unfortunately, we live in an old maison de maître, with paperthin floors and ceilings. And under the floorboards, which once harbored fleas, there is no insulation. Which is why J went upstairs a few nights ago intending to have a friendly, neighborly talk - more along the lines of "We're all in this together; do you mind paying a little attention?" rather than "Keep it down!"
Smurfette (who is, in all fairness, very nice) answered the door and immediately called for Skinny Mec, as she speaks no English. (I had considered going up myself, but after deliberating with J, decided my French might lack politesse.) J explained the situation - thin floors, no insulation, lots of noise - in the least confrontational and accusatory way possible.
At this point, Skinny Mec completely flipped: "Non, I weell not! You cannot tell mee how to leeve! I weell not leeve like dat!" He went on . . . and on, throwing a prototypical French fit straight out of the kitchen of a Disney movie. I could hear him downstairs and pictured smoke coming out of his ears. With his tail between his legs, J came back downstairs. Poor guy. Being a nice, reasonable person, J almost wondered if Skinny Mec's inexplicable tirade meant he had done something wrong.
Of course not. But afterwards, we sat for a while in our apartment, contemplating the episode in complete consternation. For one, did Skinny Mec and Smurfette really find it outrageous to be asked to be slightly considerate of their fellow neighbors?
Which, unfortunately, opens up an altogether broader topic - that of level of consideration, and whether we as Americans are perhaps overly polite. People do not open doors for you here, preferring to let them slam in your face as you're entering a building. (Apparently, it's because Belgian women take offense if a man holds a door open for them - but I don't entirely buy this explanation.) Petty line cutting is common. And the other day, while my friend and I were walking on Avenue Louise, an older, quite bourgeois Belgian lady decided to bulldoze between us, parting the distance between us as if it were the Red Sea. To which I can only say: Really?! I thought people from New York were supposed to be rude.

Mail Strike

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There was a mail strike here earlier this week. Really. We even got a little warning email from DVDPost, the Belgian version of Netflix.
A few comments on the Belgian mail service:
- Its usual functioning could almost fool you into thinking they're striking, even when they are not. L'il Sis received her birthday card almost 3 weeks late, about a month after I sent it. Mail that arrives late is still luckier than mail that does not arrive at all, which also happens.
- If you're going to the post office, good luck.
- I love the new self-adhesive Smurf stamps.

Real Estate

Not sure what the NY Times is thinking, but J found this "Great Homes and Destinations" feature on a townhouse for sale in . . . Brussels. Because there are so many people moving from NYC to Brussels? Or who desire a pied à terre here? Didn't think so. But anyway, I know exactly where this house is (and when I was house hunting, saw one of the apartments next to it). I agree it's a nice location, with a lovely low-key, high-cuisine restaurant (Parachute Parc) around the corner.

Driver's License

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I spent a good two-and-a-half hours at the lovely St. Gilles commune today. I needed to go there for my certificat de bonne vie et moeurs, or background check, for my work permit application, to certify that I haven't committed any crimes in the five short months I've spent here. Shockingly, it only took about five minutes for the document to be printed, stickered, stamped with the requisite number of official stamps, and signed (across the stamps and stickers, to enhance its feeling of authenticity and official-ness). Emboldened by the swiftness of this transaction, I thought I would try my hand at the driver's license counter.
I naïvely walked through the door marked Permis de conduire and explained my case: I recently moved here, have an American driver's license and realize I must replace my American license with a Belgian one. The bureaucrat (and by that I really mean Platonic form of bureacrat, as Belgium produces a good many of these) attentively listened to my less-than-perfect French, inexplicably snatched my certificat de bonne vie et moeurs out of my hands, thoroughly inspected it, dismissively handed it back, and demanded where my ticket was. Turns out I was supposed to take a ticket outside the door, in the style of visiting a butcher/baker/cheesemonger. I apologized and took a ticket, and the waiting commenced. 

I waited long enough to finish "The First Night" of The White Tiger - thank god I brought a book. The scene outside the bureau could best be described as civic unrest - other people-in-waiting shaking their heads, sighing, complaining to one another and to friends and loved ones on their cell phones, in multiple languages, occasionally barging through the door, demanding to be seen a little sooner. All ineffectively, of course.

Eventually my number was called. I explained my case, again, to the other bureaucrat. He took my New York driver's license and inspected it thoroughly, bending it, deciphering it, committing various acts short of smelling it. After reading that I was born in Texas, he and his colleague began singing a charming song consisting of the sole word "Texas." It lasted a while. At some point, he complained that the license's hologram hurt his eyes. I tried to explain that it was supposed to prevent fraud, but could not think of the French word for "to falsify" and gave up. He then began to scan a giant database on his computer, presumably a list of driver's license provenances reciprocated here in Belgium. At some point he exclaimed "Aha, New York State, ça va!" which presumably meant I was in luck. Well, sort of. 

It turns out that, in order for my license to be traded for a Belgian one, I have to give it - and all driving privileges - up for at least a month, during which time the Belgian police will "investigate" my license. Should they find it worthy, I will then become the proud owner of a low-tech, non-hologram Belgian license constructed of paper. And my American license will be stored for the duration of my stay in a safe in St. Gilles commune. And although it felt a little bit like signing my soul away, I said, yes, that's what I would like to do.