Skinny Mec and Smurfette

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

Mail Strike

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.

Driver's License

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.

In Pursuit of Milk

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.

The Policeman Just Came

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

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

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

Adventures in Belgian Healthcare

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lost without Cyberspace

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

Sorry for Asking

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

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

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

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

Completely perplexed, I decided to walk home.

Day of Rest . . . and Other Misunderstandings

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

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

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

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

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

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

Working Out Is Hard to Do

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

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

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

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

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