The Drive

When we were back in Philly, we drove to my hometown a couple of times, over the dreaded Pennsylvania turnpike and then through the hills and eventual flat of the Midwest. It always felt long. I’ve never been one for car trips, and the trip across the four or five states seemed to drag on forever.

The U.S. is big. Huge. And it’s a driving country. I know people from Ohio who hop in their cars every winter and drive to Colorado for the skiing – practically in one sitting. People who have driven literally all alone from the California coast to Tennessee without so much as a shrug. People in Philly with a little place on the coast of North Carolina. Ten hours’ drive. For a long weekend. No problem.

When H. proposed driving down to Corsica, my eyes got wide and I shook my head slowly. What? Drive? Are you serious? It must be, like, twenty hours. Through the entirety of France? That’s just not doable. It turns out, as Google maps showed me, it’s more than doable. It’s doable in a day. Well, friends, we did it. We left after work on Friday and drove to Strasbourg, then completed the trip the next day, between the mountains of Switzerland, heading down to Italy, through the rolling hills of Tuscany (if we squinted and waited for a part in the bushes, we could actually see the Leaning Tower of Pisa!), and finally to the port town of Livorno, where we (and our little two-door car) caught the ferry at 8 a.m. the next morning. And the drive, quite honestly, was beautiful. And doable.

Everyone talks about the differences in mentality when it comes to distances between Americans and Europeans, but the fact that southern France is reachable in a mere day still comes as a surprise – and strikes me as a romantic luxury. When we got back, our car dusty and ready for a break, H. nudged me and smiled. This opens up so many possibilities for travelling! he said. Prague is probably the same distance by car! He knows I’ve always wanted to visit Prague. And do you know? It’s even closer.

Corsica

We took the one week I have off before August and decided to do something big. H. was the one who suggested Corsica. Mediterranean? Beachy? Warm and sunny? Gorgeous views? Yes, please.

We drove down – wasted no time and left on Friday after work. For some reason, as the ferry brought us into the port of Bastia on a spectacularly sunny day, the short boat ride over from the coast of Italy, I was surprised at how incredibly beautiful it was. The whole island is just one amazing landscape after another, a patchwork of very small mountain towns that seem to be built into the green landscape, cascade off the jagged cliffs and nestle themselves into the nooks of valleys.

Driving in Corsica is not for the faint at heart. The roads twist and turn around the edges of the mountains, and, if you go fast enough to keep up with the natives, you’re flung from one side of the car to the other over and over again until you stop resisting. But every turn, every bend and every passageway, offers views that will take your breath away.

We went on two hikes while we were there, up and down the mountain ridges, explored hidden beaches where the water was so blue and so clear it makes you ache. The weather was not hot enough for bathing suits, but it was perfect, nonetheless, sunny and cloudless, with a breeze that kept the shady areas cool. And we did swim, once. We couldn’t stand not to, since we were there. We changed into our bathing suits the car and ran into the cold water. Goose bumpy and paddling to warm up. The tourist city of Calvi leaning over to us close by, rising off a mountain ridge, the color of sand, like the beach climbing vertical.

It was a lovely, lovely vacation. The weather held out for us, and on our last day, after our final half-day hike was over, it started to rain. We left the island in fog and rain, and drove back to a surprisingly summery Belgium. For now, after such a wonderful week, I feel like the sunshine is following us.

Coming into Bastia from the ferry.

Bastia restaurant and a blue, blue sky.

A private beach.


A lovely cup of coffee.

Expatriates

Last weekend, I attended a shin-dig for a tried and true expat population. There was champagne and wine and beer, and we were seated at a table full of American couples (there were some Canadians in the mix, but damned if I couldn't tell the difference). Business men and their wives, relocated corporate managers and their trailing spouses. They laughed loudly. They slapped each other on the back and talked about sports. They teased each other and toasted their friends. If I closed my eyes, I could swear I was in the U.S. The man sitting next to us wrapped his knuckles on the table and told us about the crime rate in Brussels. He discussed Brussels politics with my husband, with interest. And at some point he gestured across the table to a petite, pretty brunette. My wife, he said, is Italian. But she's become more American here in Belgium than she ever was in the states. I looked at her friends, women who were perfectly quaffed for the evening out, women who spoke with the wide, standard accent of American English. They left me at one point at the table, alone with the men, a pack of them off to the bathroom to check their makeup and chat, and me sitting between my husband and the manager of a shipping company, a short man with a moustache, who cradled a Belgian beer. So how did you end up back in Belgium? the man asked my husband. My H. opened his hands and replied: It was a mutual decision. She wanted to come. We both wanted to come. The men laughed and shook their heads. Just wait until she's away, and we'll get the real answer out of you! She followed you! That's what you gotta tell people! Because, I suppose, that is what they tell people about their own wives. That's probably what their wives tell people, too.

Later in the evening, after even more wine and beer, that same short, moustached man leaned over to us once again. This country's great for expats, he said. We live in an expat neighborhood here. We have a great community. In fact, you're practically the first true Belgian we've met! An expat neighborhood, I imagine, full of iron-gated houses and large, green gardens. They shake their heads when they discuss Belgian bureaucracy, and speak loudly to the postal carriers to compensate for not knowing French or Dutch. And why should they learn, after all? For many of them, this is stop number four or five on an endless string of relocations, a fleeting arrangement that will surely fold in on itself if they make any drastic movements towards permanency.

The entire crowd was all very American, in fact -- a few other Western Europeans scattered in, those who know English well, Swedes and Dutch and Germans and, of course, the British. They are a tight group. I am endlessly lucky, I find myself thinking, that my native tongue is English. Had I been a Spanish speaker with weak English, or an Arabic speaker with a smattering of English, or a Persian speaker with decent English, my job would have been inaccessible to me.

The very next day I attended a party, a lovely little picnic on a lovely day with fresh watermelon and wine. There were French speakers and English speakers, and an invisible line drawn between them. I sat snug on the English side, and smiled shyly when a Francophone would make their way over for a brownie or a refill. I do know Belgians just by virtue of being married to one, and I do take part in their culture, at least on holidays and special occasions. But I enjoy life here partly because of this English crowd. I am comfortable with them, I don't struggle to express myself with them, and we cling together in some ways, people navigating a different terrain, but with things, very valuable things, things normally not even an issue, in common.

I persist with Dutch and I must admit, being around those French speakers even for an afternoon made me anxious to get back to working on French. I take little, comfortable steps, and I certainly don't live in an expat neighborhood. I do feel like I put up something of a fight to challenge myself. Then again, the transition to life in Belgium has been smooth, and I know that's partially due to the English that's so accessible, the speakers, native and otherwise, who are scattered the globe over.