Life with “The Others”

…The country, not the food.

I’ll be off for this weekend to the sunny shores of Bodrum, Turkey with some girlfriends to celebrate the end of treatment and the coming of summer. I’ll do my best to bring back some of the beautiful weather, and some stories.

Ahhhh, this past Sunday is one of the reasons I moved to Europe. Summer is here (that’s no mistake; spring seems to have lasted exactly 2 days), and in all of the northern countries that are starved of sunshine for months on end each winter, people’s “summer-selves” are out. A summer-self is exactly what it sounds like. People here are drastically different in the winter and the summer, and it’s palpable. Suddenly, people are smiling and occasionally saying “excuse me” when they bump into you on the street. Even if it’s cold, as long as there is sun, the people are like city pigeons – flocking to perch on any available spot around the city. They will cover every friendly bench. Instead of crumbs they seek out cold ice cream and lick it greedily like they’re stuck in the tropics.

This Sunday actually was hot and, like everyone else, Del and I welcomed any excuse to be outside. We packed up a late lunch and headed out to the old abbey near us, with it’s two weeping-willow lined lakes. The fountains were on, the ducks, swans and other various birds that are housed there on the islands and in special birdhouses seemed to be enjoying the attention of so many people prostrate on their banks. Del and I settled on a shady spot with our snacks and watched the city’s children run helter-skelter, all topless and acting like old play pals, our summer-selves not minding when they tripped over our legs or awkwardly threw their Spider-Man decorated balls on our heads. The kids even made an interesting show, us trying to figure out which one belonged to whom and whether or not they knew each other or were simply accosting other strange children in blind enthusiasm to play. We wished it would be so easy for adults.

After a while, with their screams mingling with duck calls in the background, I read my book and Del fell asleep, head on my stomach. After a few hours we packed up and headed home, holding hands, walking along the pond banks, daydreaming about owning the gorgeous art nouveau apartments on either side. Reaching the bus stop, we sat on the deep ledge of a store window and continued to people watch the varied population joining in our wait. A group of African women lingered in front of us, speaking their language from home. Wearing different versions of clothing from home, they were all clad in the bright primary colors and energetic patterns of Africa.

Most likely they were headed back to Matonge, the neighbourhood around the corner from our place that is appropriately named after a part of Kinshasa, Congo. Were we to walk through Matonge later that night, surely we might have found them among the numerous hair salons that crowd the quarter, all so filled to the brim with clients and visitors that the seeming illogic of having the same type of business side by side by side (by side by side) is made moot. They will either be distinctly women’s salons or barbershops, but all of them will be packed like there’s free candy inside, everyone chatting, gesturing out some story being told, and listening to the radio. All while someone is on the pump-action chair with locks of hair mid-fondle in some treatment. It is a noticeable spectacle that is difficult to exaggerate. I wouldn’t be surprised if Matonge means “great big hair salon” in Congolese. Invariably, this is The Thing to do in Matonge, just as it is in Congo (so we’ve been told).

Del and I once walked through Matonge on a Saturday evening. It was being in another country. While the neighbourhood is known get a little sketchy at night, and we were noticeably the only white people around, we felt very foreign but not necessarily unwelcome. As a matter of fact, we were the only ones who seemed to notice that “one of these things is not like the other”. More obvious was the fact that were were not in a salon, nor a part of The Other thing to do, which is having drinks in plastic chairs set out onto the sidewalks all around the salons, undoubtedly many of this group being men pretending to wait for the women in the hair ritual. Basically, Matonge becomes one big impromptu outdoor cervaceria with hair styling as the entertainment.

When the bus finally arrived we all crowded on, not even irritable that it was so crowded it was all elbows and asses. We were all relaxed and happy, left with a pleasant feeling from bonding with the populace in the city-sanctioned sun worship. While I don’t claim that this type of day is unique to Europe, it seems to be for me. When I lived in the US, I simply didn’t do this kind of thing. If I did it was a rare event and not just a regular weekend. Here, it is the fabric of free time. Everybody’s out doing something, be it a museum or a park. Perhaps it is simply the grouchiness of winter that frames the seasons beginning with s- in a way that shows off their best traits. Whatever it is, I never had a summer-self before, and I like her.

You know the phrase “take the money and run”? Of course you do. Did you know that it originated right here in Belgium? Ok, I am lying, but it should be true.

When I first moved to Belgium, my foreign friends and I were all perplexed by the way Belgians constantly formed long, slow lines at ATMs. Oh, the bliss of ignorance! What we didn’t yet know, was that Belgium has a very strange relationship with cash. The first part of the endless ATM line equation is that, while the rest of the world is using more and more plastic, Belgium feels stuck on cash. Many surprising places, namely restaurants and grocery stores, often do not accept credit cards. So you really need to keep some green handy. The second part of the equation is that people hang onto it like it’s going out of style (even though here is the only place it’s not). ATMs are few and far between. If you find one, you better grab some money, cause you won’t find another one. And if you do it will either be out of money or broken. All those people I’d see standing in line that I thought were silly? Were probably pitying me for not being in it.

I made the mistake, just before my trip to England for Easter, of running out of cash. I went to an ATM, where I discovered that I didn’t have any in my accessible account. So I had to go to another place with a special (different) machine down the road where I can transfer between accounts. Luckily that machine had opened at 10am and it was just past. Even so, this money would not be made available to me until later in the day. Taking the 4 euro train would require me purchase from the window, since they also accept cards there, rather than from the ticketing machine. You see, the machine doesn’t accept credit cards (only local bank cards, where my money was not yet accessible), but like ATM lines, the ticketing lines are so unbearably long that it requires advance planning to schedule them in. Many a person must’ve missed a lifetime of trains waiting in those ungodly queues. So I paid 35 euros instead to take a taxi to the airport as I could pay by credit card (they accept them, go figure).

When we returned from England, we still had no euros. As we returned by train, the amount wasn’t high enough for the taxi to accept cards. No problem, right? I go to the ATM in the station – mind you, there’s only one, even though the station houses a food court, a mall, and is home to the Thalys and Eurostar trains for Belgium – only to find it out of order (after 10 minutes in line, of course). We explain to our cab driver (after 20 minutes in line for a cab. This is starting to sound like Communist Russia, no?) and he agrees to stop by an ATM. We stop at one machine. Out of money. Drive to another: no money. I go to the 3 in the bank hall. One out of order, 2 out of money. The one around the corner only accepts its own cards. We drive to another. The score= 1 out of money, 1 out of order, and inside the bank hall, 2 working. BINGO! By that time our 8 euro cab fare was 15. I’m stating to think this money chase is not so accidental after all.

To rub salt in it, the ATMs are so slow that I’m not even sure they can technically be said to have computers inside. These are probably purchased on discount from someplace like Belarus. And the banks haven’t realized their suppliers sell ‘kumpooters’, not computers. When you put your card in, it takes what I would guess is a full 30-60 seconds to read your card. Literally. (And I do know how to use the word literally.) The absolute fastest that someone can use an ATM here is probably 4 minutes. It might not sound long, but in the world of automatic cash, it’s an eternity. Whether or not I’m right about those estimates, it is definitely three times as long as it takes in the US. The machines are just….so….sloooow.

I wish I had money to put into an expensive start-up. I’d start a company that installs modern ATMs all around the country. I would charge a small fee like US banks do. I’m sure I’m not alone when I say I’d be perfectly willing to pay to use a faster ATM here (or, say, one that actually has money in it!). With this business I’d make life more convenient for everyone in town. Hell, I’d bring banking in Belgium into the 21st century. The best thing about the fact that I’d also make lots of money? Thanks to my machines, I wouldn’t have to wait so long to get at it!

So what was the biggest surprise I’ve had in England (perhaps in western Europe) so far?

Treatment of upset stomach with morphine.
Seriously. Morphine. I’m not even talking about a medicine that “kind of” has something in common with morphine. Or a medicine that “secretly” has some relation to morphine. I mean morphine, written right on the bottle as if it were nothing more unusual than toothpaste or shoe polish.

Of course there’s a bit more of an explanation than that, but not much more. You see, there’s an old-fashioned (I’ll say!) OTC medicine called Kaolin & Morphine. Packaged in a tinted glass bottle with a fittingly old-fashioned label (at least to my American sensitivities), it’s just translucent enough that you can look at it and see whether or not it needs to be shaken. I don’t know what Kaolin is, but it doesn’t mix with water. The two ingredients love each other in a similar fashion to oil and vinegar, except here the good stuff floats to the top.

Apparently, many Brits are under the mistaken impression that K&M is no longer legal. I’m not sure how information like that slips under the radar of your average 15-22 year old trouble maker, but while many “chemists” (pharmacies) do not sell it anymore, it seems to be a matter of knowing where to ask for it. This is probably no accident, as there were once problems with – you guessed it – druggies buying it and siphoning off the morphine. I mean, c’mon! The stuff separates itself out for you! You couldn’t imagine a more fake sounding “legitimate medicine” if you tried. Yet somehow it has successfully fallen off the radar of public awareness.

One of our friends that joined us at my boyfriend’s family’s house for Easter was offered K&M by the father. The family groaned about how the father swears by it but no one else can “bear” it, as if it were Bengay or mothballs. After some convincing that its perfectly legal status and medicinal use would serve as a defence in the unlikely event that it should turn up on a drug test (he works for an American company, which loves the very un-European habit of drug testing as does the US company I work for), he went for it. While we teased him about the listed side effects (most notably “confusion”), he assured us that it worked like magic. I’m tempted to buy some and take it back to the states, if only to see how much drama it causes at customs. Word on the street is that it works, and now I’ve learned something I didn’t know about morphine. It is a wonder drug against diarrhea. People, take note.

England is hosting my Easter weekend this year. Ahh, the land where they use cute little words like poorly, alight, and trod. The weather is shockingly beautiful, the flowers are in bloom, the sun is out. They’re even silly enough to think we might want to go for a dip in the pool, but I of course come from a place where pools are actually for warm summer days (not just a break in the clouds), so I’m not as thick-skinned as all that. Anyhow, I think English pools are for looking at and pretending you might get warm enough to want to get in.

Speaking of pretending…the father took me for a drive on Thursday to visit his twin brother, who lives in an idyllic little village called Sulgrave. It’s a huge horse racing and fox-hunting area – well, it was before fox hunting was banned a few years back (something they are still very sore about). And they’ve kept their dignified hobby alive in a way that’s surprising, but I guess appropriate for a sport that always had the odds stacked in ridiculous favor – by having someone lay a fake fox scent and then running the dogs and horses out, where they all pretend to chase it. It’s, uh…not the consolation activity I would have come up with to assuage people that rioted violently to keep their hunt, but apparently it keeps them busy. Everywhere there were horses, either in the field or being walked or ridden around town, which added to the feeling that we were in the England of years ago – you know, a time when it was a country that people associated with class and culture, not soccer hooligans and chavs. (see one of my favorite Brit comedy skits: Katherine Tate playing Lauren Cooper taking a French Oral exam…”Am I bothered?”)

Sulgrave also happens to be where George Washington’s ancestors came from. The Washingtons’ house, which is open as a museum, was 2 days away from being open to the public for the season. George’s great (5x) grandparents bought the house from King Henry VIII (you know, as middle class schmoes do) in the early 1500’s. Even though we missed the opening, they were nice enough to let us walk around the grounds and gave us a little history. This village is the England we see on TV. Every house is made out of light colored stone, full of old dark wooden beams, and appears to be at least several hundred years old.

The village also has a collective store, which is undeniably sweet. Their only store had closed down, so the neighbours all got together, got a grant from the government, and decided to run it together. Now everyone takes turns running the store, offering their time as they can, a few times a week or month. Who says England doesn’t have community spirit?

Today we spent the afternoon at one of the local pubs. I thought how nice it would be in American families could gather in the sunshine at the local pub with their parents, siblings and babies, as this town was doing today. Then we went home to watch the 153rd Oxford vs. Cambridge boat race. Apparently this is a big thing, as I watched it last year for the first time. The English girl that lives next door had the equivalent of a Super Bowl party for it, except in English style they party for 5 hours and the boat race lasts for 20 minutes. I’ve come to enjoy the boat race though. For some reason I get tense and convince myself I care about who wins. Cambridge took the honor this year. (Boo.) But that’s ok, now I have my excuse to go back out to the town bar. As part of the lesser refined tradition of English pubbing it, I guess we can all now pretend to drown our sportsman’s sorrows.

Friday night was a typical Friday on Place de Luxembourg (a.k.a. PLux or “Temptation Square”), with happy hour regulars descending on the place like locusts. Foreign accents, suits and ties filled the line of bars’ outdoor areas until the crowd spilled over onto the cobblestone road, as if the early week’s sun hadn’t played the hideous joke of ducking behind clouds just before the weekend. The local expats apparently decided to pretend not to notice that it wasn’t beautiful out.

It was a particularly enjoyable group of friends that was gathered (not too many different ‘pockets’ of friends to split time between but rather one harmonious group of good conversation), and we all needed up gorging on burgers at Fat Boys, an American sports bar known for its hideously expensive but unarguably quality burgers (quite a rarity in this town). Of course we (being a dinner group of 7 expats) didn’t miss a discussion of Belgium’s particular brand of terrible customer service. It is one of the most common complaints and a popular discussion, as it is so bad as to be both offensive and just plain old mysterious. Brussels, I’d argue, makes the French look like amateurs when it comes to relieving customers of the silly idea that a store cares about your money or your business.

Here, stores close early without warning and act like you are crazy for having the idea that you could buy something. They might turn out the lights on you when you’re in the dressing room, yell at you for challenging them about the fact that they will say they don’t sell something you need instead of looking for it (when they clearly sell it because you buy it there regularly); they might refuse to take back merchandise that was broken when you opened it or sold to you wrongly. There’s no end to the stories that we have to tell. It doesn’t mean we don’t like it here or want to be whiners, but it is something that’s difficult to get accustomed to. As if to prove our point, Del and I had a taxi ride home that I can only entitled “do you believe me now?”.

We get in the cab and, conducting our business in French I say “good evening” and then “Rue [blah blah] number 142″. I even followed with a “please”. He’s speaking a very fast and mumbly French, which is cranky from the start. I think he asks where it is. I’m unsure about this however because, aside from his lack of effort to make himself clearly understood when I’m obviously speaking what is to me a foreign language, the question sounds unlikely. Rue blah blah happens to be one of the main shopping streets in Brussels, and is in the same neighbourhood as the taxi rank.

So I ask him, “pardon?” and he barks, “it’s a simple question!” I am little taken aback at his tone. I’m completely confused by it actually, as we’ve certainly not been offensive. I say something like “But…I just asked you -”, and he suddenly yells. Vehemently. Spittle flying and all. “GET OUT OF MY CAR!“

“Monsieur-,” I start. He yells again, “get out!” We’re perplexed. It’s like a scene out of the movie “28 Days Later”, except I’m quite sure no raging zombies have dripped blood in the guy’s eye since we got in the car. (Though if I’m wrong we’re in trouble too after the saliva he sent flying in his rage!)

But now I’ve had it. I am not one for confrontation, but living in Belgium has earned me stripes. I lean forward from the back seat towards the front and give him a reproachful look. “What. Is. Your. Problem?”, I pose sternly.

There’s basically a few moments of us arguing back and forth. I tell him firmly, “no”, we will not get out. “It is your job to drive us. We’ve given you no reason not to. So we’re not getting out.” Del is quite tipsy and offers assistance by blurting out, in English, “JUST !@%&# DRIVE US!” (That always endears people to you, no?)

The driver is fuming but gives in with a huff. He screeches tires pulling out, almost hitting several people in the process. Del and I have a little panicked search through our pockets for anything less than a 20 euro bill, as not having smaller change is sure to bring another confrontation. I’ve had arguments with perfectly non-psychotic drivers who refuse to break bills. I don’t want to give this guy an excuse; I’ve seen what he can do without one. Luckily, we assemble a handful of heafty coins.

We ride further in silence and get home in record time. I see no meter running, so ask him what we owe. “Nothing,” he says in perfect calmness. “Mais…monsieur, that’s not necessary.” Del and I are doubly confused now, wondering if it’s some sort of trick. However, he sticks to it and remains perfectly calm. His mumbly French is back and he says what I swear is “Not a problem, Rue blah blah, it’s always free.” So we get out and scramble off. (Aaaaand……scene!)

What came over the driver we still can’t say. Perhaps he was angry because it was a small fare. Maybe that’s what his last comment meant. But not accepting any money seems like cutting off his nose to spite his face. Maybe he was so mad he forgot to start the meter and feared an argument from us. Maybe he felt bad for yelling (somehow I don’t think that’s it). Hell, maybe he’d just, at that very moment, realized that fat-free chocolate really is less satisfying. Whatever the reasoning for either the explosion or the free ride, I’m sure it’s about as good as the reasoning for every other freakish commerce confrontation I’ve had here.

There are a few conversational threads to take from here, but those are ripe for other days. For now let’s just say we’ve established that there’s a laundry list of things you don’t do if you want to be a “good customer” in Belgium. Little by little we can attempt to come up with a complete methodology for “how to buy something in Belgium and come away not feeling like a complete jackass”. But such a plan will take some time. For now let’s just start by putting: “Whatever you do, don’t ask them to repeat an odd question” at the top. I think our next meeting at Place de Lux is the perfect place to start our list. With such a task if front of us, no wonder we need happy hour.

A week on and Spain is still with me, most powerfully in the form of this damned sinus thing I picked up from wearing myself ragged on the trip. But it has kept the trip close to mind…

Something that I find interesting about Spain is how it’s nagivating the changing times. I think it’s doing an impressive, and unique, job. What I mean is, around the world, younger generations get less conservative than those before. Of course I’m speaking generalizations, as I’m prone to do here. But, a least in Europe, people become less religious, it becomes more acceptable for people to live together, marriage is not necessarily a pre-requisite to children. I’ve no interest in arguing here about whether or not these things are good or bad. Simply, these are typically slow developments that happen in graduated steps, a little more each generation. These things take a long time to develop.

Except in Spain. While I am no sort of expert, from my Spanish friends I get the feeling that the difference between just one generation in Spain is relatively enormous….all while a lot doesn’t change. For example, Spain is still pretty Catholic. While this could be argued I’m sure, it’s certainly Catholic compared so, say, Belgium. Here, everyone says they are Catholic, but the only time anyone form this generation has stepped into church is for confirmations. Belgium is what I call “culturally” Catholic. Nary a practicer in sight.

In comparison, most all of my Spanish friends are rosary-owning, at least occasionally Mass going, Catholics. When the Pope died I was living in Leuven, and I heard the local cathedral was full of people over 70…and my Spanish friends. However, they’re quite “open” compared to their parents. Most still live with their parents until they get married and that’s quite normal still. Yet Spain has legalized abortion, as well as same-sex marriage and even same-sex adoption! That’s pretty impressive changes for such a short time. Many a country that’s less identified with a particular religion is fighting these issues ferociously.

It’s remarkable when one considers other countries like Poland. None of my Polish friends are as openly or at least as traditionally Catholic, yet the country is more torn by hardcore Catholic pressures. Poland is having a much tougher struggle with which paths to take in the modern world, as is Italy.

Where am I going with all this? No where in particular. But Spain is certainly not a country that’s waiting to follow the example of its peers. It’s definiately making its own path. Not that this should be surprising, considering Spain had one of the largest empires in history. Somehow, that fact seems to be lost to most. Everyone knows the British Empire, the Roman Empire…well, the Spanish one was right up there!

Now, I had an elegant finish here. But I can’t lie: this draft has been parked here all weekend and now I’ve forgotten it. I was planing on being stubborn and perfectionist about this, but the merchandise is backing up after a busy weekend of tales to tell. So, I’m going to put this one on the streets, with apologies for not giving it a final wax. Next time, I’ll throw in free window dice and a soda while you wait.