Train trouble

Before I started work, H fretted over me having to take four trains every day, two there and two back withe a change-over in Brussels. I gave him a whimsical shrug. I didn't mind, I said. It seems romantic to take the train every day. I love trains, I love train rides. He looked at me incredulously, and then, after reflecting, mentioned that car rides were much more romantic to him than train trips. He had trains growing up, I had cars, and I guess in the end we both wanted what we didn't have.

That was before. After just two weeks of commuting by train, I'm amending my opinion on the train system here for the much, much worse. In theory, when it works, it could work beautifully, and there are certainly moments when I find myself in a particularly quiet and uncrowded car, gliding along, watching the patches of green and red and gray fly by, and thinking to myself how nice this is. It feels cozy and safe and warm. But the train system here has proven itself to be a veritable mess. I took about two trains last week that were actually on time - that's two trains out of twenty trains I take per week. I'm not very good at math, but I'm sure that that's a pretty lousy record. This is only after I had two trains totally cancelled on me the week before. I reluctantly climbed into a cab and gave the address of my office building. Twice in one week. At twenty-five euros a pop. (It was either that or be almost an hour late for work in my first week. Perhaps I'm old-fashioned, but it seems to me there's only so many times you can call in and let them know your train was cancelled.)

Recently, my husband picked up a pamphlet from the NMBS - the train system here in Belgium - with the title, roughly translated: We thank you for your understanding and your trust. It explains that in the last few years there has been a massive influx of people commuting by train on a regular basis. Expansions have been planned, construction has begun, and disruptions are an inevitable result. Delays. Cancellations. The panic-stricken faces of people scanning the announcement boards for alternatives to their interrupted course. The crowds in Brussels-North Station that are hurrying in mass unison, two minutes before their train leaves, from one track to another because a change in arrival was announced at the last minute. The people standing in the aisles during a rush-hour ride because, when a train is actually on course and on time, everyone better take it.

This has apparently been the month with the worst train record in the history of Belgium. I can feel the ripples in the pond. When I get into that quiet train car where I can settle back, stick my nose into a good book and let the steady whir of the train relax me, I still hope I find the ride romantic. In the meantime, maybe I always underestimated car trips. Maybe I can borrow some of H's visions of the open road. The symbol of independent adulthood for over half a century. Sounds romantic enough. I will, at the very least, give her a good try.

Working

I'm impressive in interviews. I've been to lots, I know the ropes, and I can knock the ball out of the park at any time. I wiggle my way around questions ("Because of my extensive experience unjamming photocopiers and refilling staplers..."), throw myself whole-heartedly into management speak ("Firstly, I think it's very important to pre-plan for the planning before you plan..."), and come across as the most easy-going person ever ("There was nothing I didn't love about my last job. God! I would have married it if I could have!").

I started a new job this week. It all happened very quickly - I submitted an application in early December and was interviewed two weeks later. They called within 24 hours and offered me the job. Because I'm just that good. They knew they couldn't live without me the moment I left the interview.

Okay. The truth was they were slightly desperate (someone left last-minute), they didn't do a very good job of advertising the position, and it's quite possible that I was the only person who applied.

And so, I'm a working woman again, in a slightly different field, but sitting behind a bigger desk than I had in Philadelphia (and I mean that quite literally - my desk is, for some reason, the size of sturdy six-seater dining room table). I feel silly now for all that stewing and hand-wringing I did over whether or not I would find something. All those hours after Dutch class I poured over job ad sites, more and more obscure as the time ticked away, feeling a restlessness slowly build into panic.

And now, after all that, my time off seems so short. Not that I'm complaining. Because, as much as I joke, it really is nice to feel like I'm contributing to something again, to get up every morning and have somewhere to go, have things to do that people are depending on. One step closer to calling Belgium home. And for that, I have to say I'm thankful.

Heavy History

A holiday display at the Keulen train station of the city in ruins after World War II bombings. A manger scene was placed in the middle.

When we were asking fellow travelers about what to see in Keulen, they would mention the Cathedral, the view of the river, the Christmas markets, the shopping district. And somewhere along the way, through the course of the conversation, they would casually mention the ambiance of the city as a whole: Well, you know, because practically the entire city was destroyed during the Second World War, all the buildings are new. I mean, it's a great place to live, but if you want old Europe charm, you won't find it there. Old Europe charm you might not find, but it's amazing to me how quickly such a city brought itself back after being reduced to rubble. That in itself, really, is something to see.

History, as in a series of events that happened before the lifetime of you and everyone you know, as in lectures about dead people that school children are forced to listen to with their eyes half-closed, is certainly experienced differently across the world, and I think the time of the Second World War, and the decades leading up to it, are gradually becoming real history in the U.S.

My Great Uncle was an American soldier. He died about seven or eight years ago. I knew him only as a distant relative, someone I saw every few years growing up. He spent his entire life totally silent on his time at war until the very last year of his life, when he suddenly started pulling out boxes and dumping the contents on the living room floor - German helmets, swastika arm bands, photographs depicting things so horrific that even holding the small gray images seemed like an act with the weight of lives behind it. As a teenager, I didn't know these things were apart of our family at all. It is stunning to me beyond words that this simple mid-western family man carried this with him silently for so long, and that he still recalled even the objects of this life chapter with such heavy distinctness that he would come back to them, like a frantic last confession, before he passed away.

But I tell this not to pull at your heart strings, only to relay the potency of seeing past events not as history, but as something urgent and real and affecting. I am among the last of the generations that will know people who were apart of that time, and when I was a child, we often would lean over desks and compare family histories too eagerly - I know someone who had one grandfather that was an American soldier, and the other was a German soldier, and they were stationed at the same place!... I know someone who knows someone who was a survivor of the Holocaust!...We may have been flippant at the time, but we were at least interested in our own connections. If my children are educated in the U.S., I imagine with a touch of apprehension that their eyes will droop a bit more when the lessons of the Second World War begin. They will have fewer living stories to fuel a different reaction.

In Europe, though, I'm school children even of the next generation will feel that history more personally. Particularly, of course, in Germany, the relics of war are still evolving (we visited a Gestapo house in Keulen, notes of the victims who were tortured there still etched on the walls), and the cities themselves, at least, are still testifying to thick and heavy memories (the newness of most of the city contrasted to the Cathedral, which began construction in the 13th Century, resonated with me). Perhaps some Germans are ready to move on, and I'm sure the daily lives of those who live in Keulen aren't affected at all. But as an outsider, especially coming from elsewhere in Europe, I still see a potent history etched in Germany's landscapes. Even in cities and economies that are thriving. And that is, I would think, both a burden and a blessing.

A white Christmas

The Leuven University Library looking lovely in the snow.

It began to snow in the evening last night, what started as a light sprinkling and steadily built momentum. It's about the sixth time that it's snowed here during the last two months, but this one was heavier and closer to Christmas, so it was that much more special. We have ventured out, last night and today, to see the frosted buildings, the snowball fights, the kids screaching with delight as they pummel down the shallow hills on sleds, and the frustrated students who are yanking their wheeled suitcases through the stuff to make it home for Christmas Eve dinner.

Leuven City Hall snowed up.

We slept in the living room rather than up in our attic bedroom so that we could watch the accumulation during the night. I woke up several times and peered out the window to see whether it was still falling. It didn't stop until this morning, and I woke up feeling warm and cozy on a beautiful Christmas Eve.

Tredging through the park on Christmas Eve.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

Fantasy Christmas Markets

Christmas markets make the holiday in Europe really wonderful. Roaming around, eyeing sweets and toys and pretty little crafts, drinking steamy hot cocoas or ciders or - for those who really want to feel the warmth - wine, add a cozy glow to Christmas that I've never quite found on public ground in the U.S. In short, I love Christmas markets, even the busy ones where you get elbowed and have to squeeze your way through the crowds, and this year, with the snows we've had, it seems to double the Christmas cheer.

I'm technically not supposed to leave Belgium until my visa is settled. It would have been tempting to go to Keuln, Germany this weekend since they are known for having one of the best Christmas markets in Europe, and it is a mere hour and a half by train (and travelling by train requires no passport-stamping). But, of course, instead of leaving Belgium, I stayed home and went to the Leuven Christmas markets:



If I had been to Keuln, I might tell you that the Christmas markets made the Leuven market, sweet as it is, look like cardboard boxes held up by broom sticks (there are, by the way, five markets in Keuln). The booths in Keuln would have been elaborate fairy-tale gingerbread houses, complete with colorful characters and a soft glow that made you feel warm, even in the freezing snow:



And, if I had been to Keuln, I might tell you that I circled at least one of the markets about four times in hopes of sampling sweet butter cookies, still warm and just crispy enough to melt when you bit into them, and spice cookies and cakes, reminiscent of the Speculoos cookies here. And chocolate. Chocolate coconut cookies, chocolate-covered fruits, chocolate for chocolate's sake. I didn't have any sauerkraut or bratwurst, but choices of it there were aplenty.

And I might have told you that, in the shadow of Keuln's remarkable, breath-taking Cathedral that resides right in the heart of the city, made the markets that much more special:

But of course, I wasn't there (and you can't prove that I was!!), so I guess I wouldn't know.

The snack cabinet

I was recently walking through the Leuven Christmas market with a friend, and I grabbed a free chocolate - one of the last truffles that was balancing delicately on an offering plate at the front of a booth selling candy. I thought I was justified. I wasn't going to buy anything that day, but I had bought a bag full of those very same truffles the day before to send home in a Christmas package to my state-side family. My friend gave me a suspicious look and said "I think you're addicted with chocolate."

Chocolate maybe not, but sweets, definitely. Since coming to Belgium, our snack cabinets have changed, little by little, adapting to the local culture. Tonight I was searching around for something - anything - to eat that wasn't a spreadable treat or a crunchy cookie, and I realized that we were woefully low on...well...anything that wasn't laced with sugar. Sure, there's fruit, but if you're not in the mood for sweets, a tangerine doesn't quite fit the bill. I found some old crushed walnuts I used in a Thanksgiving recipe and munched on them.

And so, readers, I give you our snack cabinet - one of the most accessible cabinets in the kitchen:

Yes, those are two jars of Speculoos spread (different brands!...and for those of you who aren't in Belgium, that would be a delicious, graham-cracker-y (or maybe gingery) sugared spice spread that's delicious on...well...anything). Two chocolate bars (one milk and one dark, because you HAVE to have a choice of both!), a jar of Nutella (and hidden coyishly behind this first jar is a locally-made version of the same thing), peanut butter (okay not too sweet of a spread, but a spread nonetheless), and to top it off, Christmas cookies at the far right. Oh, and don't forget the actual sugar, good for recipes or on plain yoghurt, in the white and red carton (makes it easy to pour!).

Your teeth may be throbbing with sympathy pains right now, but in my defense, I overbought sweets to send home for the holidays. That's right, some of this represents surplus that would have gone to my family if the box had just been big enough. I was only, let's say, prepared and diligent about my Christmas shopping. After all, the holidays come but once a year and what better time to explore the rich tastes of Belgium? I'll start with the milk chocolate please, and work my way back.

Belgian kissing

Living in another culture provides endless, uncontrollable swerves into embarrassing situations, and the formality of greeting someone for the first (or second, or third) time, someone you don’t know, someone you hope to build a relationship with (a cousin-in-law, perhaps, or a friend of a friend), offers up the perfect slippery slope down into the depths of the kind of outsider-humiliation that only the most socially graceful can avoid. And if you’re especially socially awkward like I am, the humiliation can just keep coming.

In the U.S., this is problem enough. After not seeing a classmate for ten years, do you offer them a hug? A firm handshake? An elbow bump? But here, the awkwardness is taken to a whole new level.

The famous bisous of the French (two kisses – one on each cheek) are manifest in other cultures all over Europe in various forms. Here in Belgium, I always learned that it was three kisses – left cheek, right cheek, then left again. But the rule is fraught with exceptions. If you’ve seen someone recently, it’s just one kiss. If you know them very well, it’s one kiss. Sometimes there are more Frenchy-types who stick to two kisses (leaving me hanging in the air awkwardly with my lips pressed together like I’m ready to lipstick up). Sometimes you kiss on first meeting someone, but in more formal situations, sometimes you don’t.

My first embarrassing experience with bisous was, of course, in France, those many (seven…wow) years ago. An American friend of mine introduced me to a neighbor, and when she leaned in for a greeting, I literally arched my spine back like a kid trying to avoid a spoonful of spinach. She had thick glasses. For some reason I thought she was just very near-sighted. You know, coming in for a closer look. (I know, that’s a weird assumption. Made sense in my head at the time.) Let me tell you, my friends who were present for that little gem had a hay day with it.

I haven’t learned my lesson. I met a group of people out for dinner a few weeks ago, and gave a firm handshake to everyone in the party in a fashion that I apparently don’t think twice about. Until another girl showed up. Kisses all around. Ah yes, I reminded myself. The funny thing is, it hadn’t even occurred to me to go in for a bisous-style greeting. At the end of the night, while a couple of the other females of the party were getting their cheeks slathered in kisses, everyone turned to me and…waved. Awkwardly. As in: Uh…we’re guessing you object to the bisous? You’re not used to it? We don’t know, but anyway, we’ll be avoiding that landmine for the time being.

Since then, I’ve gradually proved myself a bisous-er in the crowd, and the akwardness is slowly waning. Very slowly waning. And I’m learning, sometimes it’s better to go in and give it all you got. At the very least, I can use my outsider status as an excuse. And, at most, I’ll have a good laugh at myself.

Exploring Brussels

When we first began talking about moving to Belgium, there was a time that I was rooting adamently and passionately for living in Brussels. There, I was sure, I would be able to carve a niche out in the expat community, I would feel like I was living more of a cosmopolitan life, and I would, most likely, find an easy commute to a job in the city.

We, of course, didn't end up there, but we're close enough sometimes to feel the city's tugs and nudges. I have been to Brussels several times since we settled in Leuven, for various errands. We spent a weekend there a couple of weeks ago, after the last of my Dutch Level 2 test, and we walked from the north to the south in one go on Sunday morning, through dreary skies and bustling markets. I came away feeling like I knew the city just a little bit better. It's a city that has a lot in common with my former home - Philadelphia, with a brooding center that will also take your breath away with its monstrous, elaborate, and yet lonely architecture. Brussels, I feel, has that same personality, a monumental but serious beauty, one who will let you admire all you want, but will give you the cold shoulder if you try to snuggle up too close.


A city with its shoulders clenched a bit, built for deep-cutting winds and dreary rains. Or perhaps it's because I've never been there on a sunny day. Either way, I guess I prefer my cities with this kind of personality. Like feeling a city's flexed muscles. Its pose should be unwavering.

Passed

Just a quick update: I passed, with pretty good marks. Level three starts Monday! Whew!

Exams for beginners

I promise pictures in the next post (or maybe the one after that...heh heh), but I just had to write about this first...

Last Thursday and Friday, I took my first Dutch final exams. I always knew that the educational systems in the U.S. and Belgium were different, but one week of intense studying and a few panic-stricken days of threatening all kinds of crazy nonsense if I didn't pass, I sympathize much more with the Belgian student situation than I did before. This doesn't exclusively have to do with the cultural difference, it also has to do with my own personal background - I was an English major in college, and as all English majors will testify, nine times out of ten the "final" is a clean, double-spaced ten-page paper, typed out over late nights of thinking and analyzing and drafting and thesis-making in your pajamas, at your pc, spicing things up with some nuggets of delicious research after spending a few solitary hours in the library stacks followed by meticulous footnoting. My papers were things of beauty, my friends, and "exams" (the type where you sit down for two hours without any props or booster texts to help you along the way) weren't even a glint in my eye most semesters. And that's the way I liked it.

Here, it's not just that I've changed what I'm studying (I will admit that there is something to be said for testing language students). It's that all those little homework assignments, all those writing tasks and vocabulary activities count for naught. We even took tests to keep us on track with the curriculum - they mean nothing in the face of the final exam. Even showing up to class on time and on a regular basis (which I did -- perfect attendance, I might add!) only means that you can hope (hope!) all the class anecdotes, all that time put in will give you a head's up during the exams.

In the U.S., all this work during the semester would give you accumulating credit for your final grade. Lots of it.

For this exam there were exactly four hours and ten minutes (albeit, broken up over two days) reserved for me to prove myself worthy of moving on to Dutch level three. And even after I felt ready with the material, I was still incredibly nervous: What if something terrible goes wrong? What if you wear the wrong sweater and your back itches through the entire four hours and you can't concentrate? What if your stomach is suddenly not behaving? What if, ten minutes into the exam, you suddenly have to pee so bad you can barely hold it, but they refuse to let you out of the exam room? All nightmares of a novice test-taker.

Oh yeah, and as a former English major, I will also say that memorizing stuff is hard.

I took the exam, and thankfully, little interrupted my concentration besides a slight draft in the room and a few squeaky chairs here and there. I'll find out tomorrow if I passed or failed. So stay tuned...

Styling up

Everybody knows that coming to Europe means learning to tie a scarf in about 40 different ways, to fit any outfit and any occasion. I know of two, but don’t challenge me to a scarf-off with those two, because you’d be scrambling to gather your little threads off the floor at the end, my friend. I’ve mastered them.

A fashionista I have never been. But here in Belgium, I am both blessed and cursed with a family-in-law filled with women who are, as they say in Dutch, modieus. It’s not so much that they are interested in fashion as they are careful about looking quietly stylish, with just a touch of elegance, at all times. Imagine my surprise the first time I bounded down the steps in Belgium, ready for a day of site-seeing with H’s family, in a t-shirt with my alma mater splashed loudly across the chest, shorts and sneaks (of course, what else for a day on your feet??), only to be greeted by his sister. In a skirt. And high heels. Boy was my American face red.

But, as they say, when in Rome…Here in Belgium, I’ve begun to make an effort, at least most of the time, to dress nicer on a daily basis. As in, not just for nights out and special occasions. Of course, I wore high heels at my former job all the time, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t slip them off at the end of the day and throw on some flats to get me home. The less time I spend in them, the better – that was my motto. But here, I was lucky enough to find some very comfortable high-heels that I’m actually wearing to walk around town. In the daytime! By myself! Admittedly, the first time I wore them I shifted my weight wrong and the heel toppled in a ridiculous jolt to the side of my foot about eight times in the two hours I was out. (Then I debated whether looking decent was worth the humiliation of not being able to walk right in high heels on uneven cobblestone streets. I decided begrudgingly that it was.) It’s getting better. My average now is maybe two times of slight tripping per day.

So, my resolution is quickly evolving into results, and I feel good about that. Not so good as to drop my habit of slipping into my pajama pants and a comfortable sweatshirt the moment I get home for the day, but at least I look decent in public. And perhaps in the next few months I’ll even try a third scarf-tying technique. Not to get ahead of myself, but you never know. I just might be ready for it.

Time away

When I was a junior in high school, I was accepted into a summer academic program, a sort of overnight camp for nerdy types, and my parents dropped me off and left me hours away from the house I grew up in. It felt huge. I spent six weeks living in a college dormitory and attending a class on African literature (of which I remember very little, so don’t ask), and by the fourth week, it felt like an adrenaline rush to the finish line, a tight-rope walk to when I could be home again. I still vividly remember, after getting home, standing upstairs in the hallway that led from my parents’ room to mine, running my hands over an old quilt that they hung on the back of a chair, and feeling like I could relax, like there was something in me that had stayed tightly wound for all those days and hours that could finally unravel a little bit.

It’s funny how, as you get older, big gobs of time feel so much less epic, and not much more than a drop in an expansive ocean. Six weeks now rushes by in the blink of an eye. We’ve been here for about one blink, and there have only been one or two fleeting pangs of homesickness. Home over the past ten years has been divided between so many places – my hometown, my college town, Philadelphia – but I’m lucky to be far enough away from the entire expanse of my country that I get to miss it all, in one fell swoop, every now and then. Technology makes it so easy to keep in touch with the people I’m close to, and to see them, so that most of the time I don’t feel so far away. But every once in awhile, something sets my head reeling just for a moment. Seeing pets over the camera is one of them. You can’t chat with pets, and when my sister’s cat makes her way into the camera’s view, I feel the distance a little bit more. When my mother’s dog looks pitifully at the talking computer that seems to know his name (before he scrambles away – he’s the sweetest dog, but he’s incredibly cowardly), I feel like tearing up, just for a second.

I was a frequenter of independent coffee shops first and foremost in the States, and I only ever went to Starbucks because I was desperate (and it was the absolute only place to get a warm drink in the independent-business-wasteland of a neighborhood where my job was located in Philadelphia), so when I saw that big, round, green and white glow during a recent trip to Antwerp, I was surprised at how jelly-legged I suddenly felt. It was a cold and overcast day, so I sat and had an Earl Grey tea. The smell evoked something vague and desperate, no specific time and no specific place, not even specific faces. But it was something melancholy that made me think carefully about where I was, and, just for a minute, reminded me both cruelly and sweetly of where I was not.

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.