Driver's License

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

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

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

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

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.

A Visit to the Post Office = Brunch at Prune?

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

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

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

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