Laundromat treasures

There's something just a touch romantic about laundromats. Okay, okay, I know, that's a strange thing to say, but I bet you can think of at least one romantic scene in some movie or t.v. show that takes place in a laundry mat (remember Ross and Rachel on Friends?). How many commercials have there been with the laundry mat as its setting - the soft whirl of the dryers, the florescent lighting that puts everything in plain view, the gorgeous girl folding her delicates, and some guy's inner monologue -- "Oh God, there's Megan. Okay, just say hi to her...be cool. Be cool." You know you've seen it. Multiple times. It usually ends in them sharing a coke or something.

We don't have a washer here, but thankfully, there's a laundromat practically right next door to our apartment. I did the laundry there for the first time yesterday. Not that I'm in it for the romance. Truth be told, it was cold and felt dampish and I was the only one in there besides an older Hungarian woman who literally sat right in front of the washer and did nothing but watch it spin around and around in a bit of a creepy way, and who spoke to me in Dutch and then tried to speak to me in Hungarian (she kept saying that I LOOKED so Hungarian).

But romance comes in all shapes and sizes. I always end up washing things that don't belong because I forget to empty my pockets - spare change, receipts, grocery lists, gum wrappers, all kinds of things. As I was transferring a load from the washer to the dryer, I picked out a wet receipt that was globbed to the damp ball of clothes, and, after putting in the money and hearing the comforting sound of the machine at work, went to throw it in the trash. Lifted the lid, and there, on top of plastic rap and lint balls, empty detergent boxes and water bottles, was a fifty-euro bill. Literally, just sitting on top. Waiting for someone to find it. Yes, it was in the trash can. But it was dry, clean trash. It was crinkly and had the slightly faded look of a bill that had just gone through the dryer (like I said, I've seen plenty of those in my time). I closed the lid. I opened the lid again. I looked at the Hungarian woman who was intently staring at the whirl of her clothes in the dryer, paying me no mind. I hesitated. I shut the lid again. Do I take it? It's not mine, it really belongs to someone else. But how would you even go about finding the person who threw it away (and we'll assume it was by accident)? You can't. You just can't. But I'd feel kind of sleazy. I mean, it feels a bit like stealing. Then again, if I don't take it, the next person will, and why are they more deserving than me? Or worse, nobody sees it again and it ends up in a landfill. When I could have taken it! After all, if I found it on the street, just lying on the sidewalk, I would have no qualms about picking it up. It's in a public place. In a trash can... Blog reader, I opened the lid again and took it. Slid it casually down in my pocket. I examined it at home that night, and it has all the appearance of being a legitimate 50 euro bill. Is it pretty gross that I took it out of the trash can? Perhaps. Does it make me a greedy, sleazy person? Maybe. Will karma come swinging back around to show me a thing or two? I don't know. I'm considering it a down payment on 10 future loads of laundry. A reward for not rushing out and spending money on a washer and dryer, money that we should be saving. Maybe I was meant to find it. The universe, after all, works in mysterious ways. At the very least, it'll make my next visit to the laundromat a little bit rosier. Who knows what I'll find.

Bike culture

In Philadelphia, I had a bicycle that I was really excited about and then rarely used. A few rides in Fairmount Park, and much fewer into the city. When it got down to it, I was often concerned that I would have to carry things home (I had no basket on my bike), or make numerous stops (and who wants to lug a bike around to 10 different stores), or the weather was bad (I just couldn't ride in the winter. Just couldn't do it.), or the city traffic seemed to whiz by at just the right amount of intimidating for an amateur rider like myself.

Okay. So it was often quite often the last reason there.

When I first put foot to petal in Philly, it was the first time I had ridden since I was about 10 years old. And even as a kid, trips around my tiny hometown block seemed like excitement enough for one ride.

Here in Belgium, the bike culture stands tall and firm as reality. Everyone bikes here - the kid going to school to the mother buying fresh bread to the retired. Bikes are just as frequent as cars, and it makes sense - cities are too small and streets are too narrow to worry with a car for a simple errand.

H and his family found the bike that was destined to by mine in a bush at his grandparents' house. At least I think that's the story. When nobody came to claim it after 3 months, they figured it was fair game, and I got a free bike. I'm glad to have it - it really does make some trips so much quicker. But, mind you, I'm not quite up to Belgian riding standards. You see expert riding here - people literally carrying a bag of groceries and biking, or biking with someone perched on the back, or just pedaling away with their hands at their sides instead of on the handlebars. (This always makes me narrow my eyes. Stop showing off, you Belgian cycling nut.) It's like they were born attached to a bicycle.

It's the carrying things that's the problem for me. And the few times I've tried it, it just hasn't gone well. Last week, I got groceries with my bike and was smart enough to bring a messenger bag I could wear on my back. Until it fell forward, tipping me over into the side of a truck. I literally fell into a truck. I've biked to my new gym a couple of times balancing my gym bag carefully on my right shoulder. For any Belgian, a quick flick of the bag when it seemed to be teetering towards the precarious place where shoulder meets arm would be an effortless and casual readjustment while pedaling perfectly straight uphill. For an unpracticed American amateur biker, it's me chanting in my head 'please don't fall to my arm', raising my right shoulder awkwardly while I try to find a good place to stop pedaling and coast a bit on a quiet stretch of street. This, so that I can reach my hand up as quickly as possible while letting the bike swerve out of control for a second to secure the bag. And I don't always make it. The bag has fallen before and thrown me off balance. Today, I literally just fell off my bike in the middle of a busy intersection. I also couldn't turn quite sharply enough and ran into a pole.

So much for fitting in, I guess. But of course, I'll keep trying. Until then, I hope the Belgians know to get the hell out of my way.

P.S. - We finally have internet in our apartment! Finally...

Wireless in Leuven

I've hinted at this in earlier posts, but finding free wireless in Belgium is like finding a contact lens in a pool of unpoppable bubbles. Last week, when I first got here, I scoured the city looking for a coffee shop with the tell-tale signs - quiet tables of one, laptops out, brows furrowed and eyes wide with the possibilities of all the virtual worlds there in front of them. The idea of asking whether a place had internet before ordering (and then, if answered with a negative, turning around and walking out) totally mortified me, and seemed beyond rude in a culture that puts even culinary simplicities like afternoon coffee before wireless access, so on the first day of looking I made it a point to order a drink first and then, ever so casually, ask if they had wireless, with a smile and a shrug if they didn't. I had three cups of coffee that day. (Okay, so it wasn't coffee every time, but it sounds much more dramatic that way.) I saw only a single person on a laptop that day, in a cafe that I eagerly made my way into, only to find that he must be connected to the University's wireless system, password-protected.

I find it both charming and frustrating that this small city doesn't offer more wireless. It's nice, in a way, that people still go to cafes to visit, and enjoy an afternoon treat. It's also nice that apparently this country isn't so addicted to the Network. The University Library, for instance, has about two computer terminals that I've seen. We visited the reading room in the spring during finals time, only to see a sea of students with their noses pointed into books, a practice that I think, sadly, is dying in higher education in the U.S. How charming!, I thought at the time How refreshing and healthy.

Yet, when I found an American style coffee shop down not two blocks from our apartment, with free wireless, laptops perching at attention, and individuals ordering drinks in a mix of accented English, alone, ready to turn their attention to their virtual connections, I couldn't help but sigh with relief. It just feels so familiar.

Dutch for non-beginners

When I signed up for French courses at the Alliance Francaise in Philadelphia, my last experience with language learning, I took a placement exam that literally included 5 minutes of conversation with the head of the school, followed by a simple recommendation from her about how I should be placed. For some reason, when I showed up to take my Dutch placement exam last week, I was expecting something similar - an informal, easy-going, in-and-out-in-ten-minutes kind of deal. I showed up fully planning a big grocery shopping trip afterwards, bag in hand. I was led to a large lecture hall with at least 80 other students, their pencils sharpened and erasers at the ready, and what I got was a formal, timed test - two hours for 100 multiple choice questions and an essay, followed by an oral exam with a language teacher furiously scribbling notes about my stilted performance. Three hours later, I left after it was dark outside, and with the exciting and slightly scary reminder that I was, in fact, now a student at a real university again. Because I was lucky enough to go to a graduate school that offered dutch in the U.S., I came here with two semesters' worth of knowledge (albeit that knowledge is now over 3 years old). Hence, I signed up and tested for the third level. I went into the language school bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning, scanned the posted roster for my name, only to find myself listed with the second-level students. And so, to class I went with a slightly bruised ego and the wrong books. There are around 20 students in the class, and at least 4 of them are retaking it after failing the first go-round, which makes me sweat a little bit, but will also hopefully light a fire under me. Six weeks and 3 hours a day, I'm suddenly relieved not to have started work, and hoping for a quick adjustment into a territory where I feel at least comfortable with everyday conversations, like pulling off a band-aid. Of course, the university reminded me with their definitive placement of my skills in the second level, not to put the cart before the horse. So, I am both humbled and hopeful. I'll stay on my toes, level two.

P.S. - Forgive me for my sparse appearances on the internet for the next few weeks - we have no connection at home, and it's the devil trying to find free wireless in this town.