Belgian for Beginners

The One-Year Mark

2009-09-21T20:34:00.000+02:00

J and I have officially lived in Brussels for a year as of today, which seems like good enough of a reason to break out of a blogging funk. One year in, some likes, dislikes, and random opinions:

+ As a city to live in, Brussels really is easy, comfortable, and manageable. That being said, what provides the ease and comfort can also become a downside: at times it feels outright boring.
+ The possibility of having a gorgeous apartment for a fraction of the cost elsewhere, again ameliorating the quality of living.
+ The open-air markets and the fresh, unprocessed food they provide.
+ The quality of the healthcare.
+ The opportunity to speak French.
+ The wackiness. Which actually usually comes disguised as inconvenience and frustration until some time (like, a year) has passed.

- The sheer shabbiness of it all (without, sadly, much chic to speak of). Brussels can really feel like the neglected, redheaded stepchild of Belgium. And the rat-like graffiti . . .
- The racism, which could actually be more of a Europe-wide phenomenon.
- The lack of interest in commerce.
- The fact that most main courses at any decent restaurant cost upwards of 20€.
- The pigeons on our terrace and elsewhere, who seem to have followed us from NYC.
- The fact that one can easily be run over by a car while stepping in dog poop on a sidewalk - given the high probability of each event separately.

Deep Breaths

2009-07-07T15:08:00.001+02:00

Mindfulness skills are key to daily life here: just noticing, accepting, and not judging are essential to survival. To illustrate, a couple of scenarios in which the aforementioned skills (would) have been greatly helpful recently:

- Going to Dexia to withdraw some cash from an ATM (not even the infamously slow one in Place Châtelain, which wears out even the Europeans standing in line - not just impatient Americans). Only 2 out of 5 cash machines were working, so the line went out the door. To add insult to injury, everyone kept on trying to cut the line.

- Going to Prémaman on Chaussée d'Ixelles to register for an upcoming baby shower in the States. It was mid-day during the week; the store was completely empty. I was kindly informed by one of the three salespeople that it was "far too early" to register for a baby that's due in late October. In all fairness, Europeans do not have showers and tend to buy gifts after the baby is born. So I explained that my shower would take place in early August, which led a greatly pained expression to form on her face. Well, she said, if I really wanted to, I could register for some essentials, as the seasonally appropriate clothing (for babies?) would not arrive until later in the summer. "Great," I said, "Could you help me with picking out some essentials?" To which she replied by placing a catalogue and checklist in my hands, telling me to take it home so that "we won't waste any of your time, and you won't waste ours."

- Dropping off my dry cleaning. For the first time in my life, I noticed that the dry cleaners were actually selling unclaimed items for 5€ apiece. (I'm aware of the threat on the ticket that they will do so, if you don't claim your dry cleaning within, say, 90 days, but I've never actually seen the policy actively put into practice.) The woman at the counter was quite nice, but informed me with a smile that, while I could certainly drop off my items, the dry cleaners to whom they outsource were, in fact, en congé, and I would not be able to pick them up until the end of the month (i.e., about a month from now). After a moment's hesitation (i.e., I was actually considering waiting a month for dry cleaning), I told her I would go elsewhere. She smiled and agreed that was a good idea.

Bruges: Antiques, Crafts and Train Tickets

2009-06-26T17:36:00.003+02:00

One reason for my absence of late is the presence of visitors, which in turn brought me to Bruges (for the nth time) this past week. While there, we stumbled upon a lovely antiques/crafts shop called Au Bonheur des Dames. The shop is run by Sophie, a very sweet Bruges native who also teaches various crafting workshops, including one in which one learns how to make a hilarious teddy bear pencil holder/étui.

I also could not resist buying a between-the-wars KPM tea set at the fantastic (and reduced-on-the-spot) price of 65€, along with some antique fabric for reupholstering. Let me know if you would like to join me for a crafting class . . .

From this trip, I learned that train tickets to Bruges are significantly costlier during the week (25€ vs. 14€ round trip). I also bought my tickets online and thought I was being exceedingly clever when I picked the option of "storing" the tickets on my electronic ID card. Unfortunately, the Flemish conductor was not as impressed when she could not locate the tickets on my card with her bulky cardreader. (She let us off the hook once I showed her the receipt, which luckily I had printed out.) Later, on the return visit, another conductor gave me some more grief for not having validated my electronic tickets on the way there. Unfortunately, no amount of explaining - in Dutch! - could remedy the situation. In the future, I will simply print out a paper ticket.

Some Love from the NYT

2009-06-26T17:20:00.000+02:00

These are a bit (i.e., days) old now, but was surprised to see two articles in the NYT this week - one pertaining directly to Brussels and another to a castle with a purportedly excellent garden relatively near here. I should probably also start reading Le Soir and De Standaard . . .

Car Shopping à la Belge

2009-05-30T17:45:00.002+02:00

Today we took two separate trams to Drogenbos to do some car shopping. And . . . wow. Never would I go so far as to say I miss car shopping in the U.S., where the greasy used car salesman is a well-tread stereotype (usually lived up to or surpassed). And yet, I have never in my life encountered salespeople as passive as these. Not that I am unaccustomed, at this point, to hearing Ce n'est pas possible upon entering a store, or a local vendor being exceptionellement fermé on the day you happened to count on them being open. But not until we went shopping for a car - as our purchases go, a fairly big-ticket item - did I realize the extent of this country's lack of interest in commerce.

Our first stop was MyWay, a VW, Audi, and Skoda dealer, which came recommended by a Belgian friend. I asked upon entering the showroom whether they had occasions/tweedehandse auto's. In response, I was first met by a blank stare, which then morphed into a facial expression that was basically the equivalent of "Duh," and told in English to "go look around in the lot outside, and write down the number of the parking spot if you're interested." Bowled over by his aggressive sales tactics, J and I did as instructed. Some cars were marked with year, mileage and price; others weren't. Similar cars were identically priced, but somehow the estimated monthly payment fluctuated wildly. The highly motivated salesperson later explained that "these numbers are meaningless, just the calculations of the marketing people." From whom, it seemed, he could stand to learn a few tricks.

After marking the numbers of the cars we liked, we tried to ask some questions while standing opposite the desk where our distinguished salesperson was lounging. At no point did he invite us to sit down, or did his mildly irritated facial expression, as if we were bothering rather than trying to buy a car from him, leave his face. It was almot impossible to extract anything beyond basic information from him, and even the basics ("How would you compare diesel to gasoline?" "What are the advantages of the Turbo Diesel vs. the Trendline?") were elusive. Rather than answering our questions, or uttering a single phrase that might spur us to purchase a vehicle, he appeared perfectly satisfied to respond exclusively with facial expressions conveying something along the lines of "What are you, stupid?" (He spoke English fairly well, so language wasn't the problem.) Right before we decided to leave, he deigned to recommend two cars on the lot that we might consider. But by that point, we had been on the premises for almost an hour, and were beyond discouraged.

We decided to visit a couple of other dealers in the vicinity, with somewhat dissimilar but equally bizarre results. The saleswoman at Ford was more motivated - although we had to approach her in her office, where she was chatting with a colleague. Here, too, most of our questions were answered with facial expressions along the lines of "What, do you have a brain the size of a pea?" This included the question about financing, to which she responded, "Well, if you really want a financing plan from us, we can work it out, probably, but why don't you just go to the bank?" (Maybe because you can make more money off of us if you just answer the question and offer a financing plan.) She then pulled out a calculator, but only while sighing as if we had asked for her first-born child.

Another stop was the Fiat dealer, who did not have used cars, so we stopped to admire the Cinquecento. I explained to the beachwear-clad salesperson that I liked the car a lot, but that we were expecting a baby, and it was probably too small for us. To which he replied, Désolé, or "I'm sorry." A greasy American salesperson would have quickly ushered us to a car the next size up, but not so in Belgium.

Prague

2009-05-25T15:46:00.000+02:00

I realize it has been a good long while since my last post. But we've had quite a few visitors as of late, and last week I was able to sneak off to Prague, Bratislava, and Vienna to accompany J on a work trip. And I have to say, one of the best things about living in Brussels is still the fact that places like Prague are just an hour away by plane. Speaking of air travel, we decided to chance it with discount airline Sky Europe, which bills itself "Central Europe's first low fare low cost airline." It was fine on the way out (even though you have to pay for your beverages), but a horror coming back from Vienna (flight delayed 3.5 hours, coupled with whiplash-inducing landing).

But let's get back to Prague, shall we. It was my first time, and I have to admit I fell in love a little bit. Walking around, it's tough to find a street corner that's not photogenic, to the point where I was worried I wouldn't have room left on my memory card for Bratislava and Vienna. Locals were very friendly and a bit wacky (my favorite combination), and most spoke English. Unfortunately, I had to pack my whole experience into little more than 24 hours, due to our travel schedule. But here's what I did:

11:00PM Tuesday. Upon arrival, gaze longingly out of hotel window at Prague Castle. Hotel was slightly weird (full kitchen but no cutlery?) but well-located in Mala Strana.
10:00AM Wednesday. Start leisurely walk to Gehry's Dancing (or Fred and Ginger) Building along the river. Cross Charles Bridge, which is already swarmed with tourists, into Stare Mesto. Consider buying "Kaffee mit Kafka" mug but decide against it (probably should have, given amount of Czech Koruna left).
11:00AM. Stumble across excellent Contemporary European Glass Sculpture exhibit. Visit it.
12:00 PM. Having taken a few pics of Dancing building (I'm surprised to be the only dork visibly doing so), wander from Nove Mesto to Stare Mesto.

12:30 PM. Mildly entertaining walking tour of Wenceslas Square courtesy of Lonely Planet (I love LP's walking tours - I just can't help it.) Allows me to take a few pics, including gorgeous Tesla Radio stained-glass window and Horse by David Cerny (whom, fatefully, we will see later that night). Slightly disappointed by Cubist lamppost. Sit down in Franciscan garden for a rest but have to move after overhearing two Irish guys' obnoxious conversation ("They're getting married?" "Well, you know how all women are. They just want to tie you down.")
1:30 PM. Inquire at gym/spa near Franciscan garden about possibility of getting a pedicure. Despite heavy use of charades, am shown to tanning booth. What does one have to do in Europe to get a pedicure?
2:00 PM. Getting really hungry now. After wandering through Old Town Square and its throngs of tourists, catching a glimpse of the Astronomical Clock, end up having lunch in garden of cute little restaurant Alma. Pay less than 6€ for excellent 2-course meal and beverage. Decide to travel only to countries that have not yet adopted € from now on.
3:30 PM. Meander around Josefov's Jewish museum sites. Realize most of the people here are Jewish American families from Long Island and New Jersey. Some of them seem to be eyeing me, wondering what exactly this Asian girl is doing here. Learn from LP that the reason these sites are so well preserved is that the Nazis preserved them because they planned to build a 'museum of an extinct race.'
4:30 PM. Consider buying Golem book, but decide against it. Consider buying Mucha 2010 calendar (shopkeeper pulls out three alternative versions as soon as she sees me eyeing one - Czechs appear refreshingly interested in commerce, at least compared to "Ce n'est pas possible" Belgians), but feel Art Nouveau'd out by Brussels. And apparently having a cheap day.
5:00 PM. See NYU in Prague campus sign. Have a little giggle. (Used to work for NYU.)
5:30 PM. Return to hotel for nap. After all, am with child.
8:00 PM. J and I meet fellow journos (of his) at Palace Hotel. En route, manage to make up for day without commerce by picking up a few items at Botanicus. (From NYT article. See also their latest take on Prague, which came out after we left.)
9:00 PM. Have been escorted by Czech journalist, via walk and tram, to "tourist-free" pub in Mala Strana. Wish I remembered the name (it's near the American Embassy). Have another cheap meal (my first in an endless series of Wienerschnitzels on this trip). Go downstairs to book launch party of local macroeconomist. Apparently, the whole town is here (and getting down on the dancefloor), including local "bad boy" David Czerny of Entropa fame/infamy. Turns out Czerny only wears his signature black wifebeater, because his last name means "black" in Czech. His girlfriend seems to have gotten the memo and is wearing a matching outfit. Czech intelligentsia remind me vaguely of college.
12:00 AM. Time to call it a night. Leaving early for Bratislava the following morning.

(Slightly less-detailed posts on Bratislava, Vienna, and Wachau to follow.)

"How I Learned to Love the European Welfare State"

2009-05-03T12:27:00.001+02:00

Not sure I'm there yet, but here's an article from today's NYT Magazine that I found interesting in light of certain parallels between the Dutch and Belgian social welfare systems (the differences are many, too), and in the context of impending health care reform in the U.S. Also, after my family lived in the Netherlands from the mid '80s to the early '90s, my parents became committed Democrats after having voted straight Republican tickets from the day they became U.S. citizens - in part because they felt the Dutch system worked.

I would also like to add to the quote from the former McKinsey consultant ("If you tell a Dutch person you’re going to raise his taxes by 500 euros and that it will go to help the poor, he’ll say O.K. But if you say he’s going to get a 500-euro tax cut, with the idea that he will give it to the poor, he won’t do it."). Well, if you tell a Dutch person you're going to raise his taxes by 500 euros and that it will go to help poor Dutch citizens of Turkish and Moroccan descent, he might not say O.K. Or say O.K. begrudgingly and go vote for the far Right party.

Parents' Visit, Au Thé de Pékin

2009-04-27T13:12:00.002+02:00

My parents came for a visit last week. They'd spent some time in Brussels before, so were willing to skip the usual tourist destinations. We spent a lot of the week scouring open-air food markets, as my parents are possibly even more serious about food than I am. (They were super-psyched to find herring matjes and an abundance of white asparagus.) One thing that's funny about my parents is that, almost 40 years after emigrating to the United States from Taiwan, they still cannot travel without seeking out Chinese food. So a trip to Brussels Chinatown was mandatory - for a meal, and to set me up with a local purveyor of Chinese supermarket foods. Before their visit, I had gotten by with visits to Super Store Tagawa (Chaussée de Vleurgat, 119) but was eager to find both a Chinese supermarket and go-to restaurant. As usual, the 'rents delivered: we had a fantastic meal at Au Thé de Pékin (Rue de la Vierge Noire, 16-24), and I will be going to the smelly (and thus authentic?) Kam Yuen (Rue de la Vierge Noire, 2-4) for all future Chinese cooking needs.

At Au Thé de Pékin, I would stick with the non-dim sum menu; I read somewhere that all dim sum in Brussels is frozen and brought here from Paris, although I don't know whether this is true of ATP's. What I do know is that they don't bring it around steaming on carts, but that's probably due to lack of volume and demand. That being said, the dim sum assortment for two was perfectly passable and included some verifiably juicy xiao long bao (loosely translated, little juicy buns). In even better form were the gan cao niu he (stir-fried wide rice noodles with beef), kong xin cai (sautéed water spinach), ji ding (chicken) with cashew, and shrimp with vegetables. My mom even went so far as to pronounce the dishes "possibly better than Joe's Shanghai," our predictable but trustworthy New York mainstay. I agree, except for the xiao long bao.

Hiatus Over, New Blog

2009-04-27T12:25:00.000+02:00

You may have been wondering where I've been lately, with nary a post since early this month. Well, the honest truth is that I've been incapacitated by nausea - make that "morning" sickness of the morning, day, and night variety. Now that I've entered my second trimester and the cat's out of the bag, feel free to read about my (mis)adventures in becoming a parent in a foreign country.

Passover, Au Pays des Merveilles

2009-04-03T18:36:00.002+02:00

Passover's coming up next week, and I was thinking of trying to help J throw together a seder - until I realized I have absolutely no idea where to procure the ingredients. (The koshermonger?) I am not Jewish, but J is, and in New York we occasionally hosted a seder for a mix of Jewish and gentile friends, usually with a ceremony obtained from the internet (as opposed to the Maxwell House version used by J's parents). One google search led to another, and eventually I found a list or two of Jewish traiteurs and kosher restaurants in the area.

Along the way, I also found a fellow expat's blog which mentioned a bagel place in Saint Gilles, Au Pays des Merveilles. Driven by a mixture of homesickness and yearning for Jewish food (J has always said my stomach is more Jewish than his), we paid a visit today. The weather was unusually sunny and warm, so we sat on the terrace outside. The waiter, unfortunately, was neither service- nor detail-oriented. After screwing up the order for the table next to ours, he brought me a rather strange concoction: cream cheese with little pieces of red onion mixed in, with golden raisins and sliced apple on a poppyseed bagel. I had ordered a sesame bagel with cinnamon, honey, raisin, and walnut cream cheese. Go figure. That said, the bagels were tasty enough (more like Bruegger's or Einstein Bros. than Murray's, Ess-a-bagel, or H&H, but still), and it's fun to order an everything bagel as "un bagel everything."

Tournament of Books

2009-03-30T15:27:00.000+02:00

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

2009-03-16T18:47:00.000+01:00

IMAGE VIA DAGUNKZ-REMIX-BLOGSPOT.COM
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

2009-03-16T18:23:00.001+01:00

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

2009-03-05T14:14:00.000+01:00

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

2009-03-05T13:49:00.002+01:00

PHOTO VIA PHOTOBUCKET
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

2009-03-05T13:35:00.001+01:00

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

2009-03-03T18:26:00.002+01:00

IMAGE VIA HTTP://WWW.VOYAGESCOLAIRESECURITE.ORG
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.

Master Chef vs. Top Chef

2009-02-24T22:36:00.001+01:00

PHOTO VIA BBC.CO.UK
I miss a lot of my TV shows. A friend asked recently if I've been watching Big Love, and the sad but obvious answer was no. I briefly considered buying the season pass for Lost on iTunes, but decided I didn't want to shell out actual money for the ultimate wind-up. Top Chef is another show I don't watch anymore - not because it's not on here, but because Belgian TV (on which one channel, Vitaya, appears dedicated exclusively to reality TV) is about three seasons behind.
BBC, however, has its own reality cooking show, or as they call it, "cookery competition" - Master Chef. And I was thinking tonight that I might actually like it better. Here's why:
1. No annoying Padma. Seriously, is she on prescription painkillers? Everything she says is soooo draaaaaawn ouuut. Those commercials where she was dancing were so . . . embarrassing. And she is obviously too skinny to know the first thing about food. I do miss Tom Colicchio, though.
2. I think they make the contestants work harder on Master Chef. Tonight, they sent them to Buckingham Palace to cook for the employees' cafeteria lunch service there. Not an easy job, and not likely to prompt illusions along the lines of "I could do that!" Last week, each contestant went to a well-known London restaurant to carry the lunch service. (Notice that they're not sent during dinner.) This all stands in stark contrast to, say, preparing for a cook-off before a ballgame.
3. There is less drama - the contestants are simply there to cook. Sure, one could argue that this makes the British show less fun to watch. But I can do without - at some point Top Chef began to suffer from Project Runway-itis, i.e., when it becomes obvious that not even the top contender will actually become the celebrity chef (or designer) for whose job they are supposedly vying.
4. Also, MasterChef is on several times per week. And not even at the same time, just to make things more interesting!

La Cuisine and Pudding Rock

2009-02-17T21:28:00.001+01:00

PHOTO OF LA CUISINE VIA VINO GUSTO
As you may have noticed, I've been slacking on the blog lately. Perhaps J and I are, quite simply, getting used to Brussels and having fewer Eureka! moments (this excludes our conclusion the other day that being here is a little like Lost - the expats are the plane crash survivors, the locals are The Others, and you're always wondering if there might be more of you, especially ones from New York. But anyway.)

As I've mentioned before, one thing that very seldom fails us here, even when (or particularly when) we're feeling disgruntled or lonely, is the food. In that vein, brief reviews of two restaurants we recently visited:

La Cuisine, Rue Lesbroussart, 85. I've walked by this place many times and found it fetching enough to look at, but then succumbed to the charms of its even-more-beckoning neighbors L'Annexe and Chez Oki. Which, it turns out, is not entirely fair to this little gem of a restaurant, which serves typical Belgo-French (and then some) fare. The night we went, J had mushroom toast and Argentine-style steak, whereas I started with carrot soup, followed by roasted skate and delicious Brussels sprout stoemp (for those who don't know, like me upon arriving here, stoemp is basically mashed potatoes with something else, usually a veggie, mixed in). Dessert: an equally delightful rhubarb tart. All in all, an enjoyable, affordable neighborhoody joint that I would wholeheartedly recommend.

Pudding Rock, Rue du Mail, 76. Like La Cuisine, and most other finds in Brussels, I discovered this place on a walk (in fact, my thrice-weekly walk to French school, which I recently re-started). Went there with some friends for lunch last Friday, and was more than pleasantly surprised: from the tuna tartare amuse bouche to the very last dish of my tasting platter (or, really, tray), I was reminded of much more expensive - and pretentious - restaurants in Manhattan. Which is probably what I like best about Brussels' (and most of Europe's) foodie scene - yes, there are the Michelin-rated institutions, all of which I would like to visit at some point. But in the mean time, a seemingly endless supply of other, more moderately priced restaurants will accommodate my credit-crunched wallet. Although the origins of Pudding Rock's name remain elusive (the interior was vaguely Scottish, the way, say, Gwen Stefani's L.A.M.B. line is), the quality of the food was unambiguous. Somehow, the chicon (endive) purée was reminiscent of the cauliflower pannacotta I once had at the Modern. Mmmm.

Cornelia Parker

2009-02-04T12:08:00.049+01:00

IMAGE VIA FLICKR

If I go to a museum, and one piece stays with me, I consider the visit a success. This happened last Thursday when J and I popped into the Tate Modern and saw "Thirty Pieces of Silver" by Cornelia Parker for the first time.

I believe the piece speaks for itself, but there was something about steamrolling giant quantities of abandoned (but presumably once highly prized) family silver that felt novel, even subversive. And then the act of suspending these pieces from the ceiling - barely touching the ground, these flattened family heirlooms appeared to be floating - created an illusion, and an installation, that was also truly pleasing to the eye.

Just Sharing

2009-02-04T11:50:00.019+01:00

Because isn't that what blogs are for?

Nice FT article that sums up some of my sentiments about, as well as providing decent advice for, being an expat.

I know everyone in NY has seen it, but this NYT blog post made me smile while it was still dark out this morning. A rarity indeed. (Some of the older posts are treasures, too.)

And now that you've seen "I LEGO NY," I shouldn't even bother, but I did post some pictures on fb the other day to prove that I've actually been up to something since I arrived here. Enjoy.

London vs. NY vs. . . . Brussels?

2009-02-02T16:54:00.162+01:00

The relative merits of London vs. New York have been the subject of endless debate (e.g., here). But heading to London this past weekend, I was curious to see how the city would feel - coming from Brussels rather than New York. Survey says: it feels like America. Big time. Yes, the English are still English - pouring out of pubs despite looming snowfall. Whilst in the suburbs, we even saw a typical (aka clearly bombed) English lass squeezing herself into her car, cigarette hanging from mouth, wearing nothing but a tank top, despite the freezing temperature. Some of these people put Britney Spears to shame!

My point is - London feels a lot like New York, especially coming from Brussels. Let me count the ways:

It is fashionable. Some people think NY is more so than London and vice versa, but the point is really that they both are. Belgium, particularly Antwerp, may be the seat of great design, but a lot of people here look like a prototype out of a Medieval hamlet, pre-mass-distributed self-care regimens. (Which is probably also why the gym is strange here.)

People speak English. I realize this is completely self-evident. And that some would argue they don't really speak the same language (see cockney rhyming slang). Don't get me wrong, I love learning and speaking French. But it was also really nice to be somewhere where making (or receiving) small talk was effortless, and where I could walk into any store and buy what I needed without playing charades with the shopkeeper.

Real estate is crap. Finally, an area in which Brussels outshines its rivals. Despite supposedly falling rents in New York, we do not miss you, New York apartments. Not from our architect-renovated floor-through in a Bruxellois maison de maître. (It's true that we had fleas. And the weather outside is usually the same color as our smoky chic interior. But still.)

It is multi-ethnic. Walking around London, what struck me the most was that I was not surrounded by the repetitive cross-breeding of the members of one, maybe two tribes. No, London is teeming with the sights and sounds of multi-ethnic, multi-racial existence! Just like New York. Which makes me feel right at home.

People are sometimes quite obnoxious. You know the sayings, the myth making: multiple variations on the "If you can make it in New York, you can make it anywhere" theme. London has the same spirit, to a degree, resulting in part from the collection of a great number of people who are really good at what they do. The global financial crisis has moderated the narcissisistic tendencies of both cities, but only to a degree. There remain an outsize number of large personalities - and personality disorders, too. (Witness DABA, an absurd showing of Wall Street widow self-promotion and book deal grabbing. She could only have been born in New York, but would consider moving to London). On the other hand, almost everyone I've met in Brussels is modest and nice - even if they are quite reserved or shy (without a doubt, traits non grata for the NY-London set).

Antwerp

2009-01-28T18:48:00.004+01:00

On a recent Saturday, J and I headed to Antwerp for a leisurely lunch and some sale shopping. (In Belgium, by law, sales are allowed to take place only in the months of January and July.) I had not visited Antwerp since childhood, when I briefly attended Antwerp International School. I was eager to go back and check out how the city had changed. And at a mere 35 minutes from Gare du Midi for only 7€ RT pp, I knew the journey there would be quick, cheap, and pleasant.

I found Antwerp changed, and impressively so. Throughout town, one finds the omnipresent footprint of the Antwerp 6, as well as a number of spectacular new buildings and cleverly repurposed old structures. And, especially compared to Brussels, the town is exceptionally clean - which I found to be a welcome surprise. Based on Antwerp's appearance alone, it isn't too hard to believe the Flamands are the flourishing half of this country.

After slogging through soft (but unrelenting) rain, J and I settled in at Tabl'eau, a cozy little restaurant near the Schelde. Excited to use the remnants of my Dutch, which has gotten pretty rusty after years of disuse, I ordered 2 glasses of warm kriek. The waitress looked at me with a mixture of disbelief and confusion. Turned out it wasn't my Dutch, but rather that warm kriek is not typically served as a beverage. Instead, it was offered here as "coupe warm kriek," or ice cream with warm kriek. (This despite the Bulletin reporting that warm kriek had become the toast of the Brussels Christmas market, after vendors had run out of vin chaud.) I also ordered tongrolletjes, which I felt fairly certain would be (beef) tongue rolls (non-adventurous eaters, keep your comments to yourselves). I was therefore slightly surprised when I ended up with pinwheels of sole, which also turned out to be rather tasty, if not meaty. J ordered salmon risotto and enjoyed his meal without incident.

Steven Seagal, In Synchrony

2009-01-27T23:09:00.021+01:00

As of right now, not one, but two Steven Seagal movies are crowding the Belgian TV airwaves. Wow. (Do you think this might be because Seagal is the closest thing to Jean-Claude van Damme's arch nemesis?)

PHOTO VIA WWW.HEAVEN-EARTH.COM

On Bedrest, Pondering Race Relations

2009-01-22T11:16:00.004+01:00

I am writing this post with my head cocked to the left, and with considerable distance between how high my left and right shoulders reach. For the first time in my life, I am seriously craving the services of a neck brace. While I'm not a medical doctor, I'm fairly certain I'm suffering from a pinched nerve. How did this happen?

Well, the answer is I'm not sure. I imagine it has something to do with sleeping on my back wrong, and maybe even being so elated during the Obama inauguration that, while weeping like a baby, I moved my head/back in a wonky way. (Just to pile on with the masses - how awesome was that speech? I didn't really think feeling inspired and moved by a politician was available to those born after JFK. And please, don't even mention Reagan.)

But as far as explanations for my pinched nerve go, I keep going back to a yoga class I recently attended in which the instructor doled out very forceful adjustments, alongside (unintentionally?) racist remarks. And it just might be due to the trauma sustained in this class that I now find myself in a state akin to Daniel Day Lewis in My Left Foot.

Let me explain. As in any group fitness class in Brussels, students in this class consisted of both local, French-speaking Bruxellois, as well as a sprinkling of foreigners. In this particular class, the instructor wasted no time singling out the étrangers: a Tunisian woman, a Brazilian man, a Chinese man, and me. His way of pointing out our otherness - which I realize may not have been his intention - was to pay us more attention. He wanted to know our names - mainly that of the Tunisian woman and me, as he already knew Paolo, the Brazilian, and Mr. Wong, the Chinese guy (who, for some reason, was the only student he referred to by his last name, à la Mr. Miyagi). Tempted to tell him my name was Suzy Wong, I settled for my real moniker.

But he wouldn't let things rest there. What language did I speak? English. Where was I from? The United States. No, no, that couldn't possibly be right, where was I really from? The United States. (J volunteered later that, in the future, I should just say Texas.) But you are really from China, no? Yes, my parents are. (Normally I am not a stickler on this issue, but come on. I was annoyed. And born in the United States!) All of this while we were supposedly in a calm and centered yoga class! After this exchange, he left me alone for a while, so he could go bug the Tunisian woman. He kept botching her name to the point of slaughter, replacing it with more commonly known Muslim men's names. Then he would go pester the Brazilian guy, announcing to the class that he was "traveling to Latin America."

Before long, he was "traveling back to Asia." (Mr. Wong's mat happened to be placed directly behind mine.) I think I was taking all of this in stride until he addressed Mr. Wong and me, collectively - because we're together, didn't you know? - in what could only be understood as very bad Chinese. I say this, because it sounded a lot like "Ching Chang Chong." Hilarious! Noting the look of disbelief on my face, he decided to clarify and asked me - heretofore established as an English speaker only, mind you - "How do you say 90 degrees in Chinese?" Since I was momentarily rendered deaf mute, Mr. Wong answered for me: "Jio shi du." (Which, of course, sounds nothing like Ching chang chong.) To which, with an insult comic dog's impeccable timing, the instructor replied, to the class, "Mais moi je ne peux pas parler chinois!" (But I can't speak Chinese!) To which, the Bruxellois crowd, on cue, responded by bursting out in roaring laughter.

Perhaps you can now appreciate how I might have acquired a pinched nerve. But the point is that, to me, incidents like this prove that the United States is light years ahead in terms of dealing with race relations. Rather than being purposefully offensive, this yoga instructor simply could not conceive of the fact that someone who is not Caucasian could actually be American - just as the Turkish and Moroccan immigrant populations, despite being here for more than a generation, are seldom considered Belgian. Hopefully our new President will be one of the forces that will help change such attitudes. Watching the beautiful, multi-ethnic extended Obama family sitting behind him at Inauguration, it was hard to imagine he won't.

Chez Oki

2009-01-15T18:20:00.001+01:00

One thing that has not failed us since arriving here is the food. Time and again, J and I have felt ourselves soothed by a meal, a snack, a galette at the market. This seems particularly likely to happen when we're questioning the soundness and well-thought-out-ness (both questionable) of our move, lending a completely new perspective on the concept of "comfort eating." Ok, make that bingeing.

Last weekend proved no exception. To celebrate/mitigate the misery of our return, we headed to Chez Oki. It was fantastic. Halfway into the first course, J and I were frantically trying to figure out how to trade up to 5 from the 4-course menu surprise we had selected. But we had no luck flagging down the waiter, so we just decided to come back another time.

Among the offerings: Oki's signature foie gras maki, tuna tartare laid on a bed of 2 decidely French sauces (and it worked), a perfectly prepared steak enclosed in panko breadcrumbs. My lackluster descriptions notwithstanding, this is the kind of food that could restore fusion's kind-of-tacky reputation. (After all, what could possibly go wrong when you combine good French and Japanese cooking?) I also enjoyed witnessing chef Oki (?) deftly evade a demanding patron's request to be told what exactly would constitute the menu: "Madame, that is why it is called a menu surprise."

I'm not very good at taking pictures at restaurants (one reason I will never be a successful blogger), mainly because I forget to before tucking in. Luckily, the ones on their site are illustrative, as well as this little Zen one swiped from Be My Guest.

In Pursuit of Milk

2009-01-15T00:08:00.003+01:00

IMAGE VIA DISCOVERY EDUCATION

We've been back in Brussels for a little less than a week, and I will freely admit I might be losing it a bit. Granted, the jet lag doesn't help (or the excellent selection of movies offered by British Airways - thanks to The Duchess and Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2, I did not sleep a wink), which is then exacerbated by the teensy portions of daylight offered by Lady Bruxelles this time of year. (Nothing like waking up at 8AM and thinking it's about half past three.)

But what baffles me the most is how some of the seemingly easiest tasks can prove quite complicated here (in all fairness, the reverse is also true - see, for instance, Health Care). For instance, on Monday, I set out to purchase, among other things, some milk. But milk was nowhere to be found. The guy who sells it at the market (in unwieldy but eco-friendly glass bottles) was MIA. So were all of the half-full milk bottles at the small GB Contact where I stopped on the way home.

This is the point at which I have to digress and discuss two particular dichotomies (I told you I was losing it). First, full (lait entier or volle melk) vs. half-full (demi-écrémé or halfvolle) milk. (I realize this is leaving out karnemelk altogether, but that's a whole other story - mainly of milk that tastes spoiled.) In the U.S., one has the choice between full (I think), 2%, 1%, and skim milk, as well as some illegal unpasteurized varieties. I suppose that means we're spoiled. Here, I am perfectly happy to opt for half-full, except it is quite frequently sold out. Which is annoying. So when that happened the other day, I decided not to go for the full milk (or for the frighteningly non-refrigerated, ultrapasteurized version), but to try my luck at the larger supermarket. Which brings me to my next dichotomy - that of the small and large urban Bruxellois supermarket.

Again, this is somewhat of a false dichotomy, since, categorically, there exist more than just small and large supermarkets in Belgium. There are also some bodegas (but don't go there for milk). But, outside of the market, my supermarket shopping happens either in a smaller City Delhaize or GB Express, or in a larger Carrefour or Delhaize. The difference is significant - the selection in the larger supermarkets is pretty incredible, whereas the smaller markets are pricier, with more luck-of-the-draw offerings. One large Delhaize (Molière) even had a self-scanning system, with which I of course fell in love. The only problem is that the larger supermarkets are located considerably further away from my apartment, and a trip to one of them virtually guarantees some neck and shoulder pain. (This has led me to consider prematurely buying one of those granny wheely-carts, but I'll save that discussion for another day). However, most of the time one will find what one requires at one of the larger chains.

You can imagine, therefore, my surprise, when I hoofed it all the way to Delhaize Flagey (which apparently was the first "large, American-style" supermarket in Brussels) the other day and found nary a bottle of milk (full or half-full!) in sight. I really wanted to cry. Instead, I gave in and bought the überpasteurized kind. And, in the end, have found it to taste not so bad in coffee.

BRU-Bound

2009-01-06T00:27:00.001+01:00

In case you were wondering, BfB has been on an extended State-side holiday. We've been here for a few weeks now, first in (what felt like) the bombed-out hollows of post-Lehman, post-Madoff New York, then in Houston, where J opportunistically caught the first Rice Bowl game in about 50 years, and now in Boston's wintry mix. Back in Brussels (still a beginner, hoping to advance to intermediate) later this week . . .

The Policeman Just Came

2008-12-10T18:30:00.000+01:00

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

2008-12-10T15:18:00.002+01:00

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

2008-12-10T15:08:00.000+01:00

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

2008-12-09T14:32:00.003+01:00

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

2008-12-08T20:00:00.005+01:00

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

2008-12-08T19:36:00.000+01:00

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

2008-12-08T19:34:00.003+01:00

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

2008-12-08T19:24:00.001+01:00

(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)

2008-12-01T17:32:00.006+01:00

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

2008-12-01T17:03:00.005+01:00

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

2008-12-01T16:48:00.000+01:00

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

2008-11-25T17:02:00.011+01:00

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

2008-11-25T16:42:00.001+01:00

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

2008-11-09T13:02:00.003+01:00

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

2008-11-09T12:45:00.001+01:00

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

2008-11-05T16:12:00.000+01:00

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

2008-10-29T16:51:00.005+01:00

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

2008-10-29T16:24:00.000+01:00

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

2008-10-27T14:58:00.001+01:00

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

2008-10-27T10:34:00.004+01:00

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

2008-10-15T15:41:00.004+02:00

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

2008-10-13T22:24:00.006+02:00

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

2008-10-08T20:37:00.004+02:00

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?

2008-10-08T19:07:00.004+02:00

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!

2008-10-06T18:34:00.002+02:00

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

2008-10-04T20:21:00.003+02:00

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

2008-10-04T20:19:00.005+02:00

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

2008-10-01T14:09:00.004+02:00

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

2008-10-01T13:28:00.004+02:00

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

2008-09-30T13:05:00.006+02:00

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

2008-09-30T12:50:00.002+02:00

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

2008-09-25T23:15:00.002+02:00

Also known as herring.

Drinking Wine in the Rain

2008-09-25T23:00:00.002+02:00

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?

2008-09-25T22:54:00.002+02:00

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

2008-09-25T22:35:00.007+02:00

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

2008-09-24T22:54:00.006+02:00

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

2008-09-24T22:38:00.006+02:00

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

2008-09-22T21:25:00.006+02:00

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

2008-09-22T15:54:00.002+02:00

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?

2008-09-21T20:36:00.002+02:00

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

2008-09-21T14:53:00.008+02:00

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

2008-08-27T15:42:00.007+02:00

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

2008-08-26T21:43:00.009+02:00

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

2008-08-26T17:36:00.012+02:00

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

2008-08-06T16:39:00.002+02:00

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

2008-08-06T16:04:00.007+02:00

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

2008-07-11T20:23:00.005+02:00

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

2008-07-08T16:08:00.002+02:00

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

2008-07-08T16:01:00.009+02:00

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

2008-06-27T19:46:00.000+02:00

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

2008-06-26T18:13:00.000+02:00

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

2008-06-24T05:13:00.000+02:00

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.