[I know that I promised to tell you about the most special thing in my neighborhood. But I've decided to save that for later.]
Today was the start of our second week of classes at Vesalius College. For me, this meant 1.5 hours of Introduction to Economics followed by three hours of American Politics and Government, with an espresso and a peanut butter and honey sandwich in between.
I really detest Econ. It's just one of those things that my brain doesn't do. Instead, my syllabus is covered in drawings of flowers, penguins, and unicorns, and when I'm not embellishing those, I study my classmates. About a third of them are American, while the rest come from various European countries. Most are majoring in business, economics, communications, or international relations, and their English is excellent.
You can always find the European students in a classroom. Good things to look for are graph paper notebooks, cigarettes, nicely coordinated outfits, and a lack of pores. I think I will befriend one of those girls just to steal her skin regimen.
That is all there is to say about Econ. I get to drop it in a few weeks, when I pick up a literature class at the Université Libre de Bruxelles— the French-speaking school here. Because Vesalius is an American style university, it follows a semester and exam schedule similar to what I'm used to back home. But the ULB is European style, so the semester runs from the start of February through the first week of May, with final exams not taking place until June. They like to see how much students remember after a three-week study period, I think.
My American Politics and Government class is wonderful. I have lots of things to say about it, so many that it will be a different post.
During our orientation here, they devoted a large chunk of time to discussing "culture shock." They told us that culture shock will happen to each of us in different amounts and at different times, and that it involves hitting an emotional low point, which we eventually overcome. I mostly ignored that part of orientation. I was probably thinking about lunch— either, "When is lunch? I'm hungry" or "Man, that lunch was awful. I'm still hungry."
I suppose, though, that what I am feeling right now could be called culture shock. I am not miserable, and most of the time, I am thrilled to be here. But adjusting to Vesalius classes, strange notebooks and hole punches, a new definition of the word "cappuccino," lukewarm baths, and the value of the USD versus the euro is difficult. I am constantly frustrated by communicating in French, which has always been challenging for me. And I miss my dogs.
Studying abroad is the best way to learn an appreciation for another country and a new group of people. But culture shock, the little week or two of grumpiness we feel somewhere during that experience, is the best way to learn an appreciation for home and the people there.
29 January 2008
24 January 2008
Since I haven't given you any pictures yet…
This site has a nice little slideshow of pictures from Brussels.
22 January 2008
Cozying In.
Well there are obviously a thousand million things to tell you about since the last post. We've moved into our apartments, explored our neighborhoods, and started classes. So I guess this note will go somewhat in that order.
I live in a mainly residential area about 10 Metro minutes from our campus. My house has many stories. I'm not really sure how many there are, but if you just keep climbing stairs until you can't anymore, you get to my apartment. I have more roommates than I expected, and their nationalities were a surprise as well. There is one German girl, one Italian girl, two Spanish girls, and then the three of us. Yes, boys, they are single.
Our kitchen is a sort of patchwork of all of our tastes. We each have a few shelves of our own, and you can pick out the American ones easily. They contain peanut butter and, in general, many more things. I'm still learning the European style of buying ingredients the day you intend to use them.
In fact, I'm still learning lots of things about grocery shopping in Belgium. Even more than at home, I spend most of my time in the produce section. There are all kinds of new fruits and vegetables to try, or just to try to figure out. For some reason, all the sweet potatoes come only Calle-sized. Cucumbers are arm-sized, regular potatoes are tiny, and squashes are nowhere to be found.
There is a small gourmet shop near my apartment, with the prettiest veggies you've ever seen, plus plenty of tasty cheeses, nice olive oils, and fresh quiches. It is a much more traditional type of place. When I walk in, the old man who owns it comes out from behind the counter and gathers together whatever I ask him for. He doesn't know it yet, but I think we will be best friends forever.
The selection of green edibles isn't the only reason why this area is perfect for me. There are also four parks within about a half mile of my house, and they are all perfect for running. They are also good for dog watching. Belgians love their chiens, which are most often tiny and fluffy, and they take them everywhere. Even right past the "no dogs" sign at the entrance to the mall.
Hmm. It should come as no surprise to you that I am up too late and have class early in the morning. So I'll stop now, with a promise that tomorrow I will tell you about the real gem of my neighborhood and what it's like to take classes at Vesalius. And undoubtedly, I'll have something more to say about food.
Such as: I could really go for a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup right now. The choco-PB combination doesn't exist here :-(
I live in a mainly residential area about 10 Metro minutes from our campus. My house has many stories. I'm not really sure how many there are, but if you just keep climbing stairs until you can't anymore, you get to my apartment. I have more roommates than I expected, and their nationalities were a surprise as well. There is one German girl, one Italian girl, two Spanish girls, and then the three of us. Yes, boys, they are single.
Our kitchen is a sort of patchwork of all of our tastes. We each have a few shelves of our own, and you can pick out the American ones easily. They contain peanut butter and, in general, many more things. I'm still learning the European style of buying ingredients the day you intend to use them.
In fact, I'm still learning lots of things about grocery shopping in Belgium. Even more than at home, I spend most of my time in the produce section. There are all kinds of new fruits and vegetables to try, or just to try to figure out. For some reason, all the sweet potatoes come only Calle-sized. Cucumbers are arm-sized, regular potatoes are tiny, and squashes are nowhere to be found.
There is a small gourmet shop near my apartment, with the prettiest veggies you've ever seen, plus plenty of tasty cheeses, nice olive oils, and fresh quiches. It is a much more traditional type of place. When I walk in, the old man who owns it comes out from behind the counter and gathers together whatever I ask him for. He doesn't know it yet, but I think we will be best friends forever.
The selection of green edibles isn't the only reason why this area is perfect for me. There are also four parks within about a half mile of my house, and they are all perfect for running. They are also good for dog watching. Belgians love their chiens, which are most often tiny and fluffy, and they take them everywhere. Even right past the "no dogs" sign at the entrance to the mall.
Hmm. It should come as no surprise to you that I am up too late and have class early in the morning. So I'll stop now, with a promise that tomorrow I will tell you about the real gem of my neighborhood and what it's like to take classes at Vesalius. And undoubtedly, I'll have something more to say about food.
Such as: I could really go for a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup right now. The choco-PB combination doesn't exist here :-(
21 January 2008
How to Live in a Noble Family
I live with Gino. Gino Asselman. This fact came as a bit of a surprise considering I’d stressed in my housing preferences that I wanted a homestay with kids. Nowhere did I mention a single man in his early 50s. But as I read more of my housing details form, my initial disappointment soon melted away. “Gino is an excellent cook and lives in a very large apartment right in the center of Brussels. His dinners are legendary.” That doesn’t sound too bad. “Languages spoken: French, Dutch, and English.” (I later learned that the list should include German, Italian, and at one time even Swahili.) The coordinator of our program eagerly offered his own Gino rumors while pointing out his address on a map. A few people overheard him use words and phrases like “mini-royalty”, “a great chef”, “unique”, “loves art and opera”.
“Aren’t you the one living with the chef?” I still get asked. All these descriptors can’t quite prepare you for Gino.
We live on a street filled with high-end fashion shops and restaurants of several styles. We have Moroccan, Thai, American (McDonald’s), Chinese, and even a Spanish tapas restaurant that constantly circulates tempting food and desserts around all the tables using a huge conveyor belt (Allie can’t wait). The night before I moved in, Allie and I admired the apartment building from across the street before a tasty meal at the Thai restaurant.
The taxi drops me off into the obligatory rain shower. My bags in tow, I navigate between cars to the sidewalk. There is a brass button next to GINO ASSELMAN. Buzzzzz. “Hallo! Fourth floor!” someone yells into the intercom. The black metal outer door opens when I push, and I struggle to get my bags up the stairs to the second door in time. Just missed it. Buzzzzz. “Hallo! Fourth floor!” he repeats. This time I miss it again because I pulled the stupid door instead of pushing. Buzzzzz. “Uh, il y a un petit problem avec la deuxieme porte. Pardon.” “OK! Fourth floor!” Third time’s the charm.
The lift (elevator) is an old-fashioned, open-the-door-with-your-hand-and-step-in kind. You might expect to find one like this in Paris. There is barely enough space for me and my two bags. I press the button for IVeme etage (fourth floor!). Nothing happens. I check the weight limit and convert it from kilos to pounds. Meh, should be fine. The second press yields nothing. This guy is going to think I am really an idiot if it takes me half an hour to lug these huge bags up there. Finally I notice a second door that also needs to be shut, and the lift unexpectedly heaves me up to my new residence. The door of the apartment is open. Gino Asselman stands before me, smiling.
He is balding but keeping up a ponytail, rather tall, and well dressed. His purple silk tie is held together by a jeweled tiepin, the jewel colors complementing his light green dress shirt well. Over the shirt and tie ensemble, he wears a white vest with a subtle floral pattern. As luck would have it, I’ve just come from my interviews. In this hand of fashion poker, I call his silk tie, dress shirt, vest, and raise him a pair of cufflinks. Although I guess he holds the better hand with his fancy jeweled tiepin. Plus I get the feeling that this is his everyday-wear. Hopefully he doesn’t get the impression that this is my normal style.
The apartment is breathtaking. Not that I would need breath, because Gino launches straight into how things work and where things are and what he likes. I half pay attention, half try and comprehend that this is where I’ll be living for 4 months. My bags go in my room, which has a lofted doubled bed and a desk underneath with plenty of workspace. There’s a sink and mirror!, a large closet, and six expensive-looking paintings hanging on the walls. The bathroom I will use has a marble bath and separate shower. I can choose, he tells me, between the old-fashioned overhead showerhead or modern close-range ones. Gino sees I am starting to get overwhelmed by the place, so he suggests we leave for dinner.
My first mistake is assuming we'll have a quick bite to eat (4 hours). Gino has already quizzed me extensively on what types of food I like, and he decides on Italian. From the moment we walk in the door, we seem to receive a great amount of attention. One waiter takes our coats and scarves while another apparently alerts the owner of our presence. She is the wife of the chef and races out to great us in Italian. “Bonjourno” is all I’ve got. Apart from the chef, everyone working helps to prepare the table perfectly for us. The focus is on me as we are seated. What will be my apero (before dinner drink)? I had wine back at the apartment already, so I opt for ,5 L of still water. Gino orders some fancy Italian drink that is rushed out and looks delicious. Mental note: let him order first and get the same thing.
Again in Italian (then French for my benefit) the owner offers the specialties of the day. I understand most of it in French, the gaps of understanding made up for by her grandiose gestures. First course, some type of red fish. Then two types of fish, one grilled one not grilled. Then special (uh oh?) pasta. Gino knows what is best here, I figure. I stick with the plan to place my dinner choice in his hands.
“This will be a feast of fish!” he declares. Before the first fish course, bread appears out of nowhere on the bread plates. Here I make my second mistake.
“Ah ah ah.” Gino stops me as I spread butter across the bread. “Do you plan to eat a sandwich?” he asks. “Uhh, no,” I respond eloquently. My first etiquette demonstration follows as Gino takes butter from the dish with the butter knife and puts it on the side of the bread plate. He butters one piece at a time. Ohh, got it now. Butter knife in hand, I attempt to cut a bite sized piece of bread.
“Oh you poor boy. We do not cut bread.” I’m defeated. This is my second mistake in as many minutes. At this rate, we’ll be here until tomorrow. “Rip a piece, butter it, eat and repeat.”
Vindication comes my way during the first course. Gino expects me to make the American mistake of switching my fork between my hands, but I am learned and practiced at the European way. The knife stays in my right hand, the fork in my left, and I don't put the knife down even if I only need the fork. Sometimes they work in tandem. The knife aids the fork to pick up a large mix of greens and red tuna. The only etiquette points Gino make are the proper way to take a drink while eating, and what is conveyed by the placement of the utensils on the plate. Crossing them into a triangle at the bottom means NOT DONE. In the olden days, fork down was just NOT DONE, whereas fork up screams NOT DONE & I NEED MORE. The latter, however, is rarely used except in the fanciest of places (this restaurant being one of them) or diplomatic dinners and the like. Gino stresses that etiquette's purpose is not to make you look fancy; it is merely practical.
By this point I’m making a conscious effort to mirror my hostdad (and as he often reminds me, hostmom). I mimic everything: from the way he uses a fork to squeeze more lemon juice over the greens and tuna, to the angled way he sits in the chair. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think you’d come across two nobles (nope just one).
How do we fill the gaps between lessons in nobility? No small talk, that’s for sure. Topics breached include: the presidential race, capital punishment, creationism, the big bang, religions, tipping in the US and Europe, language policy, and so on. We talk so much in fact, that I am taken aback for my next lesson, which brings me back into the present, reminding me we are sitting down to dinner. By this point, there is swordfish and a different type of tuna in front of me, and a huge plate of pasta. Every centimeter (inch, if you like) of the table is now completely filled with glasses of wine and water or plates of bread, fish, and pasta. No more room at the inn. Soon to be no more room in the stomach.
Like with bread, we do not cut fish. Unlike with bread, we do not tear bite size pieces of fish with our hands (siyo Tanzania, hapa). The fish knife is specifically designed. (We get new silverware brought to us with each plate.) Point the tip of the knife into the fish, pull down, and it falls away beautifully. Practical, not fancy.
Gino excuses himself to use the restroom. Earlier my phone had started vibrating during conversation, but I doubted the classyness of checking your cell phone in this locale. I take this opportunity to check it. A text from Allie:
"My place is cute! Is everything good boyfriend?"
I think about this question: the apartment, the food, the conversation...
All I can do is smile.
Have an appropriate question about Gino? Ask it in a comment. I heard some people didn't know how they could leave comments. You just check the box marked anonymous and then sign your name at the bottom so we know who it's from. That's likely the easiest way. Bon chance.
“Aren’t you the one living with the chef?” I still get asked. All these descriptors can’t quite prepare you for Gino.
We live on a street filled with high-end fashion shops and restaurants of several styles. We have Moroccan, Thai, American (McDonald’s), Chinese, and even a Spanish tapas restaurant that constantly circulates tempting food and desserts around all the tables using a huge conveyor belt (Allie can’t wait). The night before I moved in, Allie and I admired the apartment building from across the street before a tasty meal at the Thai restaurant.
The taxi drops me off into the obligatory rain shower. My bags in tow, I navigate between cars to the sidewalk. There is a brass button next to GINO ASSELMAN. Buzzzzz. “Hallo! Fourth floor!” someone yells into the intercom. The black metal outer door opens when I push, and I struggle to get my bags up the stairs to the second door in time. Just missed it. Buzzzzz. “Hallo! Fourth floor!” he repeats. This time I miss it again because I pulled the stupid door instead of pushing. Buzzzzz. “Uh, il y a un petit problem avec la deuxieme porte. Pardon.” “OK! Fourth floor!” Third time’s the charm.
The lift (elevator) is an old-fashioned, open-the-door-with-your-hand-and-step-in kind. You might expect to find one like this in Paris. There is barely enough space for me and my two bags. I press the button for IVeme etage (fourth floor!). Nothing happens. I check the weight limit and convert it from kilos to pounds. Meh, should be fine. The second press yields nothing. This guy is going to think I am really an idiot if it takes me half an hour to lug these huge bags up there. Finally I notice a second door that also needs to be shut, and the lift unexpectedly heaves me up to my new residence. The door of the apartment is open. Gino Asselman stands before me, smiling.
He is balding but keeping up a ponytail, rather tall, and well dressed. His purple silk tie is held together by a jeweled tiepin, the jewel colors complementing his light green dress shirt well. Over the shirt and tie ensemble, he wears a white vest with a subtle floral pattern. As luck would have it, I’ve just come from my interviews. In this hand of fashion poker, I call his silk tie, dress shirt, vest, and raise him a pair of cufflinks. Although I guess he holds the better hand with his fancy jeweled tiepin. Plus I get the feeling that this is his everyday-wear. Hopefully he doesn’t get the impression that this is my normal style.
The apartment is breathtaking. Not that I would need breath, because Gino launches straight into how things work and where things are and what he likes. I half pay attention, half try and comprehend that this is where I’ll be living for 4 months. My bags go in my room, which has a lofted doubled bed and a desk underneath with plenty of workspace. There’s a sink and mirror!, a large closet, and six expensive-looking paintings hanging on the walls. The bathroom I will use has a marble bath and separate shower. I can choose, he tells me, between the old-fashioned overhead showerhead or modern close-range ones. Gino sees I am starting to get overwhelmed by the place, so he suggests we leave for dinner.
My first mistake is assuming we'll have a quick bite to eat (4 hours). Gino has already quizzed me extensively on what types of food I like, and he decides on Italian. From the moment we walk in the door, we seem to receive a great amount of attention. One waiter takes our coats and scarves while another apparently alerts the owner of our presence. She is the wife of the chef and races out to great us in Italian. “Bonjourno” is all I’ve got. Apart from the chef, everyone working helps to prepare the table perfectly for us. The focus is on me as we are seated. What will be my apero (before dinner drink)? I had wine back at the apartment already, so I opt for ,5 L of still water. Gino orders some fancy Italian drink that is rushed out and looks delicious. Mental note: let him order first and get the same thing.
Again in Italian (then French for my benefit) the owner offers the specialties of the day. I understand most of it in French, the gaps of understanding made up for by her grandiose gestures. First course, some type of red fish. Then two types of fish, one grilled one not grilled. Then special (uh oh?) pasta. Gino knows what is best here, I figure. I stick with the plan to place my dinner choice in his hands.
“This will be a feast of fish!” he declares. Before the first fish course, bread appears out of nowhere on the bread plates. Here I make my second mistake.
“Ah ah ah.” Gino stops me as I spread butter across the bread. “Do you plan to eat a sandwich?” he asks. “Uhh, no,” I respond eloquently. My first etiquette demonstration follows as Gino takes butter from the dish with the butter knife and puts it on the side of the bread plate. He butters one piece at a time. Ohh, got it now. Butter knife in hand, I attempt to cut a bite sized piece of bread.
“Oh you poor boy. We do not cut bread.” I’m defeated. This is my second mistake in as many minutes. At this rate, we’ll be here until tomorrow. “Rip a piece, butter it, eat and repeat.”
Vindication comes my way during the first course. Gino expects me to make the American mistake of switching my fork between my hands, but I am learned and practiced at the European way. The knife stays in my right hand, the fork in my left, and I don't put the knife down even if I only need the fork. Sometimes they work in tandem. The knife aids the fork to pick up a large mix of greens and red tuna. The only etiquette points Gino make are the proper way to take a drink while eating, and what is conveyed by the placement of the utensils on the plate. Crossing them into a triangle at the bottom means NOT DONE. In the olden days, fork down was just NOT DONE, whereas fork up screams NOT DONE & I NEED MORE. The latter, however, is rarely used except in the fanciest of places (this restaurant being one of them) or diplomatic dinners and the like. Gino stresses that etiquette's purpose is not to make you look fancy; it is merely practical.
By this point I’m making a conscious effort to mirror my hostdad (and as he often reminds me, hostmom). I mimic everything: from the way he uses a fork to squeeze more lemon juice over the greens and tuna, to the angled way he sits in the chair. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think you’d come across two nobles (nope just one).
How do we fill the gaps between lessons in nobility? No small talk, that’s for sure. Topics breached include: the presidential race, capital punishment, creationism, the big bang, religions, tipping in the US and Europe, language policy, and so on. We talk so much in fact, that I am taken aback for my next lesson, which brings me back into the present, reminding me we are sitting down to dinner. By this point, there is swordfish and a different type of tuna in front of me, and a huge plate of pasta. Every centimeter (inch, if you like) of the table is now completely filled with glasses of wine and water or plates of bread, fish, and pasta. No more room at the inn. Soon to be no more room in the stomach.
Like with bread, we do not cut fish. Unlike with bread, we do not tear bite size pieces of fish with our hands (siyo Tanzania, hapa). The fish knife is specifically designed. (We get new silverware brought to us with each plate.) Point the tip of the knife into the fish, pull down, and it falls away beautifully. Practical, not fancy.
Gino excuses himself to use the restroom. Earlier my phone had started vibrating during conversation, but I doubted the classyness of checking your cell phone in this locale. I take this opportunity to check it. A text from Allie:
"My place is cute! Is everything good boyfriend?"
I think about this question: the apartment, the food, the conversation...
All I can do is smile.
Have an appropriate question about Gino? Ask it in a comment. I heard some people didn't know how they could leave comments. You just check the box marked anonymous and then sign your name at the bottom so we know who it's from. That's likely the easiest way. Bon chance.
How to Burn Your Hair and Ruin Lunch
Allie has been pretty high on EXKI. No, EXKI is not a Belgian drug. EXKI is a fast, natural, organic, fresh food-to-go place that she mentions in a previous post. Meeting her there one afternoon quickly becaome a minor catastrophe. Later that day we were finally moving out of Sleep Well and into our apartments or homestays. As exciting as that was, I was of course my typical sloth-like self. After a French placement test and interviews with two international companies located in Brussels, I just wanted to rest my head. Without realizing that the tea candle on Allie's table had other plans, that is just what I did.
Allie freaked out and started swatting my head. I didn't realize it was so rude to rest your head in a RESTaurant. When the melted wad of hair fell into Allie's palm, I realized that this wasn't something cultural. The two Belgian ladies nearby exchanged a knowing glance at each other, and perhaps a quick chuckle behind my back. I wonder who had the last laugh when I left immediately and the smell of burning hair remained.
Allie freaked out and started swatting my head. I didn't realize it was so rude to rest your head in a RESTaurant. When the melted wad of hair fell into Allie's palm, I realized that this wasn't something cultural. The two Belgian ladies nearby exchanged a knowing glance at each other, and perhaps a quick chuckle behind my back. I wonder who had the last laugh when I left immediately and the smell of burning hair remained.
Misnomers
Maybe these misnomers are retribution for all the Belgian inventions that no one attributes to Belgique. Sure, we know BELGIAN CHOCOLATE and BELGIAN WAFFLES. But how many Americans know the Smurfs are Belgian, and even FRENCH FRIES! Survey says: 0
Thus our first week here en Belgique the 50 study abroad students were put up by our program in the Sleep Well Youth Hostel. Now, I know you may be thinking, "Sleeping well is something I normally associate with names like Plaza, Ritz Carlton, or Four Seasons. But not cheap, crowded youth hostels." There's a good reason for that association. It's similar to how the smell of tequila instantly brings back that one terrible night when...well let's just say you know to stay away.
As far as hostels go, Sleep Well was actually great. The showers unpredictably alternated between freezing and scalding, and I blew the electrical outlets in a room of 8 guys on the second day, but we did survive. The 8 guy room soon smelled of feet, smoke, cheap vodka, and stale beer, which meant that sleeping with the window open was practically a necessity. Unfortunately enough, yours truly occupied the top bunk closest to the window. So can I slay I slept well? Nope. Was it worth it to get to where I am now? Absolutely.
Misnomer #1: Sleep Well Youth Hostel
Betternomer: We're What You Can Afford So Deal With It Youth Hostel
One convenient thing about WWYCASDWI Youth Hostel was location. Right next City 2 Mall. Wait, did I say "mall"? The formal definition (http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/mall) aside, malls usually have a food court, department stores, clothing stores, and no tricky escalators. Our enormous group of 50 used the metro station under the City 2 Mall on our first little trip together. Little did we know what the escalators sometimes do in Belgium.
They start out harmless enough as moving steps. So maybe you continue a conversation you've been having by riding it backwards, because it's an escalator and you trust it. Not en Belgique. You could hear 50 different reactions as many people literally stumbled onto the discovery that an escalator is liable to flatten into a moving walkway (and then become an escalator again) without telling you. "Oh!" "Cool!" "Holy Shhhh--" "What was that?"
Misnomer #2: City 2 Mall
Betternomer: Best 2 Watch Your Backs In Here, Américains!
Thus our first week here en Belgique the 50 study abroad students were put up by our program in the Sleep Well Youth Hostel. Now, I know you may be thinking, "Sleeping well is something I normally associate with names like Plaza, Ritz Carlton, or Four Seasons. But not cheap, crowded youth hostels." There's a good reason for that association. It's similar to how the smell of tequila instantly brings back that one terrible night when...well let's just say you know to stay away.
As far as hostels go, Sleep Well was actually great. The showers unpredictably alternated between freezing and scalding, and I blew the electrical outlets in a room of 8 guys on the second day, but we did survive. The 8 guy room soon smelled of feet, smoke, cheap vodka, and stale beer, which meant that sleeping with the window open was practically a necessity. Unfortunately enough, yours truly occupied the top bunk closest to the window. So can I slay I slept well? Nope. Was it worth it to get to where I am now? Absolutely.
Misnomer #1: Sleep Well Youth Hostel
Betternomer: We're What You Can Afford So Deal With It Youth Hostel
One convenient thing about WWYCASDWI Youth Hostel was location. Right next City 2 Mall. Wait, did I say "mall"? The formal definition (http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/mall) aside, malls usually have a food court, department stores, clothing stores, and no tricky escalators. Our enormous group of 50 used the metro station under the City 2 Mall on our first little trip together. Little did we know what the escalators sometimes do in Belgium.
They start out harmless enough as moving steps. So maybe you continue a conversation you've been having by riding it backwards, because it's an escalator and you trust it. Not en Belgique. You could hear 50 different reactions as many people literally stumbled onto the discovery that an escalator is liable to flatten into a moving walkway (and then become an escalator again) without telling you. "Oh!" "Cool!" "Holy Shhhh--" "What was that?"
Misnomer #2: City 2 Mall
Betternomer: Best 2 Watch Your Backs In Here, Américains!
16 January 2008
First Impressions.
Hallo! So we have been in Brussels for about three days now, and we've finally overcome the jetlag (mostly). It seems like time to give you some initial thoughts on this funny city.
Brussels is very small, but it is incredibly diverse in both its people and its places. All Belgians study Dutch, French, and maybe some German in school, because those are the country's national languages. To get by and get hired in Brussels, though, they also must learn English. It's amazing to see so many people who can so quickly switch their brains from one language to another to another without much trouble at all. I've seen shopkeepers, servers, and students all do it equally well. While I do get a little jealous of their abilities, I try to convert that to motivation to practice my French.
There is also a huge non-Belgian population here, about 25% of the total. The largest of those groups come from France, Italy, Morocco, Portugal, and some other places that I can't remember. We hear all sorts of languages and accents around us every day. Ceej has even picked out some Swahili.
Having all of those people living in one city means that there is a real variety of restaurants, neighborhoods, and architecture here. On our bus tour yesterday, we saw a Japanese pagoda and a Chinese house, both of which were bought by the former king when he admired them during trips. Other buildings around the city were done in either Gothic, neo-Gothic, or neo-classical styles, depending on their age and what country was ruling this area at the time. There are even huge remnants of the wall that encircled Brussels centuries ago.
But right next to all those pretty things are lots of broken down apartment buildings, cranes that don't seem to move from day to day, and bowling alleys with neon signs. There are also plenty of cigarette butts and Haribo wrappers littering the ground. And it rains most days, or is at least cloudy, which doesn't help the image much.
Some days I might wake up and be a bit grumbly about the grey outside. But I think then I'll just find the nearest cafe, buy myself one of those delicious European coffees and a speculoos, and wander over to the Grande Place. How could that not cheer anyone up?
Speaking of food... let's talk about that. So far, I have enjoyed my meals here better than those in Paris. We found a wonderful place called Exki that serves lots of cheap, vegetabley, declicious things. Of course, they also have some nice desserts. I had a cheesecake (hi Mike) with a speculoos crust. Speculoos, a Belgian specialty, are a crunchy cookie that tastes like a mix between a gingersnap, a Teddy Graham, and a molasses cookie. I think they're made with cinnamon and brown sugar.
In truth, though, I'm getting a little tired of always eating out, which is an annoyingly long process here. So I'll be glad to move into my apartment tomorrow, along with two other girls from my program, one French student, one Belgian student, and one Spanish student. It sounds just like my favorite French movie, L'Auberge Espagnole (The Spanish Apartment). Rent it!
I've been writing from the computer lab of our tiny little college, which consists of about three buildings. But our professor is going home for the night, so it's time to pack up. I'll write more soon!
Love,
Allie
09 January 2008
Welcome
This is our blog. You are welcome to watch it, surf it, scroll it, pause it, click it, read it, then reload it, cut it, paste it, save it, check it, mock it, love it, hate it...oh just forget it. Daft Punk "Technologic"!
08 January 2008
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
