'Tis the season....

'Tis the season...for a transcontinental move.

A few weeks ago, I had to go into Dreamland (a local store that is sort of like the best departments of Target - a small books and electronics department, school supplies, toys and seasonal stuff) to buy a birthday present. The parking lot was cram-packed, and a quick glance at the register when I walked in the door revealed lines of 15-20 people.

Yikes. What the heck was going on?

And then I realized: It was noon, and it was the week before St. Nicolas Day.

St. Nicolas Day seemed like such a minor entry on the list in my jumbled mess of a head, that I almost forgot all about it.

Let me back up just a bit. Here in Belgium, children get all of their presents from St. Nicolas instead of  Santa Clause. That first year here, with a five and three-year old, it took us a bit of scrambling to explain this discrepancy. But we settled on the concept that there are different "Christmas Territories." St. Nicolas covered Belgium, and knew that we were American and that Santa would be visiting our house on Christmas Day, so he only brought us small gifts on St. Nicolas Day. When Isabelle came home from school this year, with a "Barbie House" on her "St. Nicolas List" she looked at me like I had three heads when I explained the Christmas Territory concept. So I had to add in the fact that St. Nicolas knew that we were moving before Christmas and that any gifts he brought would have to be small enough to fit in a suitcase or else she would have to wait for our cargo shipment (six weeks) to get to play with it.

Whatever. St. Nicolas brought us a bunch of French books and CD's this year, and everyone was disappointed (except AJ who is all of the sudden into French Pop music.)  

But it got me thinking about how the meaning of Christmas was going to be very different for our family this year. And how maybe I could make that into a good thing.

I want my two stamps. Please.

A few months ago (probably late summer, just before school started) I was at the grocery store using the nifty new self-check out machines. I learned, by the nifty new machine, that I was entitled to my "five euros" bonus certificate.

Sigh. To anyone that has ever shopped with Macy's bonus certificates, or a good ol' BOGO shoe sale, a "five euro bonus" must sound pretty lame. Here's how it works. Every time I go to the grocery store, I hand them my loyalty card and I earn "points" based on the amount of money I spend. And when you reach 500 points, you get a five euro certificate. In reality, it takes F-O-R-E-V-E-R to earn that five euros (and I shop for a family of five.) But when it happens, I get excited. (Lame, I know.) But nothing is ever on sale here, nothing is ever for "free."There are no BOGO shoe sales or major Macy's coupons. My bargain hunting skills are slipping.

By the way, did you know that here, in the grocery store, you can buy wine? And here, you can get a decent bottle of French wine at the grocery store for about five euros? (It's probably the ONLY thing that's cheaper here than in the U.S.) So in my head, five euros = free bottle of French wine.

Anyway, I went to the information desk to claim my five euros. In front of me in line, was a mother and her little girl. Now, whenever I am in line at the grocery store, I eavesdrop on anyone and everyone around me. (In the name of French practice, just to see how much I can understand.) This woman was in an argument, all be it a very polite one, with the store clerk. About how the ad posted a savings of 56 cents (or something similar) and the receipt showed that she had just paid full price for the item.

You might say, "Are you serious?" Is it really worth the 56 cents to stand in line and argue about it? But the thing is, that happens all of the time here. I read an ad, I chose a product at the store based on what I read on the ad, only to realize later that I paid full price. Or the little sale signs that are posted throughout the store? I've learned that I ALWAYS have to check the date in the fine print on the sign. Because a lot of the time, it's a promotion that ended the day before, or something that starts the next day. I like a deal (as I said, they don't happen here often) but I don't like to be tricked into buying two of something when I really only wanted one.

So when this mother gave me a small, apologetic smile for how long it was taking for the store clerk to get the ad to read it for herself, I smiled back and thought, "You go girl." You get your 56 cents in the name of all of us that have ever been scammed in the same way. Which is, actually, all of us.

Well, last week, I had my turn. I know I am dating myself as a child of the 80's, but do you remember the movie "Better Off Dead" and the kid on the bicycle? The one that runs around for the entire movie yelling "I want my two dollars." Well, that was me last week but with Christmas tree stamps. One of the grocery stores is doing this promotion for Christmas, where you spend 20 euros (it might even be 25 euros) but whatever, and you get a Christmas tree stamp. And after you save, like, 25 stamps, you get five euros off your purchase. I know, that five euros again. And don't even tell me the math equation because it's all just too ridiculous for five euros. But not for free French wine.

Anyway. So last week, I needed just two more stamps to fill in my Christmas tree card. And we are trying to clear out our cupboards, so I haven't been spending a lot with each trip to the grocery store, making those two stamps a long way off. But I was walking through the store for a few quick things and noticed that if I bought a pack of the bottled water I usually buy, I would get two stamps. Having learned my lesson, I read the fine print. AND I even pulled out my phone to double check the date. Yep. Two stamps, coming my way.

So when I paid for my groceries, and didn't get any stamps, I asked for them. (Because that's the other thing they sometimes do, not give you your stamps unless you ask for them.) She looked at my ticket and said, "Sorry, you don't get any stamps,"(but in French). I politely explained, "But the sign on the shelf said I would get two stamps if I bought this today (only my French wasn't as good as hers, but she got the gist.)

Then, she made everyone wait (she was the only check-out lane) while she got out her weekly shoppers and read them. All of them. That's when I gave everyone in line my polite apologetic smile. She didn't find it, so she shook her head. Probably hoping I would go on my merry way. But dang it, I was right, and I knew it. That doesn't happen very often to me in Belgium. So I said again, "But the sign said two stamps." (Well, I sort of said it. My French isn't as good as it should be.) She called for back-up and started ringing up the next customer.

The guy answered her page, she quickly explained "the problem" and he went all the way to the far back corner of the store to look for the alleged sign. Several minutes later, he returned and held up two fingers with a nod. (I did an imaginary fist pump in my head.  Yes! I was right. I knew it!) She tore off two little Christmas tree stamps from her roll of about 320 and handed them over.

Sometimes, you just have to fight for it when you know you are right.

Our very own Turkey Trot.

I have vivid memories from when I was a little girl, of my mother in the week leading up to Thanksgiving. She would pour over recipe books, trying to find something new and special. She would make multiple trips to the grocery store in search of the perfect ingredients and fill the refrigerator with all sorts of strange and exotic things. And I love going to John's family's house before a big holiday, I like seeing all of his mother's lists everywhere. One of my favorite holiday memories at their house was realizing that his mother was checking her list just before we all sat down to eat, to make sure she didn't forget anything.

Last Saturday was just a typical Saturday. Football (soccer) matches to coordinate, household tasks to catch up on, that sort of thing. I managed to fit in a run in between matches, and when I got back John said "Maybe we should do Thanksgiving tomorrow?" I stopped and stared.

If I've learned anything in the last five years of living here, it's this. First, of all of the holidays, Thanksgiving is the hardest to replicate. The actual holiday itself is a wash. The kids have school, the rest of the world (here) goes about their daily business. Sure, we could try to have a turkey dinner at night, but who wants to eat loads of turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy and stuffing and pumpkin pie at 7pm on a weeknight? And then get up for school the next day? We've solved that problem by celebrating with a dinner either the weekend before, or after. My preference is actually the week before (because then we get an extra week of Christmas prep!) But John was traveling last week, we hadn't talked about it, I didn't plan for anything and I just assumed our Thanksgiving dinner would be the weekend after.

The other thing I've learned after our time here, is that when you really want, or desperately need to find something at a grocery store in Belgium, it's pretty much a guarantee that you won't be able to find it. We don't exactly have Butterballs lining the cooler cases here, if you know what I mean. Ocean Spray cranberry sauce? Not on your life. Stove Top? Nope. The last two items are usually a non-issue. These are always premeditated, and this year were imported on John's last trip from the U.S. That left the most critical element to fate. Oh, and don't forget, stores here are closed on Sunday. There would be no second chances. 

It felt like I'd been handed my very own Amazing Race challenge: Find a turkey in the grocery store, somewhere in Belgium in the next 45 minutes. Ready? Go. 

It might have been the Nike labels I was wearing that made me say this, but I turned to John and said, "Ok, let's do it." I called Monkey into the kitchen. "We're leaving for your football match now, I have to stop at the store first." I called to Miss B, "Let's go," I said, "We're going on a mission!" We all hurried out the door.

I need to stop right now and explain something else. Here in Belgium, women do not wear workout gear to go to the grocery store. Ever. I was committing a major fashion faux pas by leaving the house in my running clothes, and *gasp* baseball hat. But it was all in the name of pulling together a major American holiday. I figured I was wearing the perfect outfit.

There are two grocery stores in our town (La Hulpe). One was recently remodeled so I ruled it out as a stop immediately -- ever since they moved everything around, I am completely out of sorts when I go in there and can't find anything, let alone waste precious minutes trying to find a turkey. We tried the other one, and got our potatoes. And Monkey picked out a toothbrush for his brother. (A long story, and totally unrelated topic, but it has to do with him not paying attention to which toothbrush he grabs when he is in a hurry.) I found turkey, but it was a small breast. And get this (I'm warning you, don't choke) it was 10 euros for .3 kg. (Don't miss the decimal point.) In any event, it would work in a pinch.  If I found nothing else, I would cough up a lot of money for a tiny piece of "dinde" (french turkey). With maybe some chicken pieces thrown in for good measure. 

We dropped Monkey to his match for his warmup, and synchronized our watches. We had approximately 30 minutes to get back to La Hulpe before John needed the car to go back to Monkey's match. We pointed our car towards Waterloo, the neighborhood of the American school and home to a lot of expats. If we were going to find a turkey under a time limit, the weekend before Thanksgiving, I knew it would be there. Holding hands, Miss B and I ran into a store. I knew it was a long shot, but it was on the way to my biggest hope, so it was worth a stop. We saw a friend from school, "We can't stop to talk," we gasped, "we're trying to find a turkey for our Thanksgiving dinner!" No turkey at that store either.

So we went to the "big" store. There, in the back by the meat counter, we found what would be our Thanksgiving turkey. But it was all in bits. I spent 20 euros on a breast, and two leg parts. But we had turkey. Miss B and I high-fived each other and went home to share the good news. We had managed to "piece" together Thanksgiving in 45 minutes. (Ha, get it?) That has to be some sort of expat record.

Sunday, we had our turkey dinner. With the leftovers planned for tonight. I am thankful for so many things in my life. But especially for this experience, the perspective it has provided, and how thankful it makes me for the little things I never thought to think about before - like making sure we have turkey to eat on Thanksgiving.

The Kitchen of Death.

Catchy title, huh?  I bet it made you want to jump right in and read this blog post.

I figured out what happened to the MIA mouse/mice. 

My first clue came from the horrific stench coming from the cabinet under the sink. And by horrific, I mean, one of the worst smells you could possibly imagine. It started small, and grew, and grew...and grew some more.

I first noticed the smell on Thursday. So let's see, that's about four days after the last known mouse sighting and/or scat evidence. (That's wilderness talk, not to mention a more ladylike way, to say "mouse poop.") My mystery writing research has yet to lead me down the path to searching for "decomposition rates and factors" but if Law & Order/CSI episodes count for anything (which I'm not sure they do) four days would be about right for a stench like that? I really don't have any idea, I just knew that it smelled and it had been awhile since we'd seen anything scurrying about.

By Friday, I was compelled to pull everything out from the cupboard under the sink, just to make it stop. With trembling, plastic-covered hands, I pulled every bottle out of the glass recycling. I replaced the PMC recycling bag. I took the paper and cardboard out of the recycling box, piece by piece. My theory (at that point) was that it crawled into one of the aforementioned containers and got stuck. My oldest watched in amazement and told me I had a lot of courage. So I guess there's that. But to both my horror, and relief, there was no dead, stuck mouse. 

Huh.

The mouse poop told me that he/she'd been there, but was long gone. Ahem. No pun intended. I cleaned everything with bleach laden products and put it all back, stumped. How does a mouse just die? 

And then, my mystery-writer-lawyer-fact-finding-brain figured it out. You see, a few years ago, we got a new dishwasher. And when they installed said dishwasher, the holes for the screws didn't line up with the holes in the wall in exactly the same way. Unconcerned, the installers said, "Meh, don't worry about it, it will be fine." (But in French.) When we had to have the dishwasher serviced a few months later (because a bolt of lightning shorted out the electric), that serviceman said the same thing. When my cousin, who grew up on a farm and is a descendant of my grandfather, (which means he can fix ANYTHING), looked at it and said, "there's no way to fix it." We gave up. The result, is that when the dishwasher is really full, when the racks are open, the entire dishwasher tips forward, just a little, sending the plates crashing into each other. 

So back to my theory: One day, when the dishwasher was really full, it tipped forward with the loud crashing noise it makes when it does this. And however many little mousy critter(s) were hiding underneath, finding themselves in the relatively open space, scooted themselves back up against/under the dishwasher. And when the dishwasher got shut and therefore straightened back into its rightful position...well. You can probably guess. Said little critter(s) got squashed. Which brings my personal philosophy that "everything happens for a reason" to a whole new level.

But leads me to my next question. How long does this horrid stench last? A google search revealed loads of interesting information. One post said that a dead mouse smells like "death." Um. Yeah. Thanks, that helps a lot. But I guess now I know what death smells like. The consensus seemed to be that one tiny mouse, supposedly, equals two days of smell (longer for more, or other, larger dead things.) Um....let me just point out with a big shiver that we're going on Day SEVEN here. Another post said the only way to get rid of the smell of a dead mouse in the wall was to cut a hole in the wall and find it. Hmm. Go ahead and ask me how excited I am to yank the dishwasher out of the way to retrieve the seven-day-old decomposing carcass of one (or probably more) dead mice (or possibly other large rodent-type-animal that starts with the letter "R" and I won't let my kids say out loud in my presence). Go ahead. Ask me.

To which another poster replied that if a mouse dies in the wall, you could feasibly end up with ten or more holes in the wall because there is no way to know for sure if you have the right spot, and it's better just to wait. A big shout out to that voice of reason! Ok, let's just assume, for all intents and purposes, that there is no possible way to reach the dead rodent. 

Some tips for dealing with (getting rid) of the smell: heat and candles help to dry out the rotting dead thing and burn the odor out of the air. My radiator in the kitchen is set to as high as it will go. I pulled out every candle I owned and have kept a candle vigil going in the kitchen for the last 24 hours (but obviously except for when I leave the house or go to bed) because that would just not be good for fire safety. And it would be just my luck to get the car back, only to start my kitchen on fire.

As I write this, my kitchen is about 100 degrees and smells like a melding combination of cornflower-blueberry-cinnamon-apple pie-vanilla-pine tree...and let's not forget...death.

Sigh. 

At least I have my car back and I can leave to go get takeaway for dinner?
  

Tomorrow is another day. And I hope that one of these days, I can stop saying that. 

When it rains, it pours...

Do you ever feel like the Universe is messing with you?

By the time John picked up the boys from football (soccer) practice on Friday night, he could barely get the car home. The electric went out again and the car wouldn't accelerate (not good, but especially not good in a town with a lot of hills). The dealership had closed thirty minutes before, and the mechanics wouldn't be in again until Tuesday morning because of the holiday weekend (Armistice Day). It was a long rainy weekend of waiting, looking out the window at a car we couldn't drive.

On Sunday, two more mice showed up in the kitchen. We've since figured out their traffic pattern -- they come in from a small hole under the dishwasher, and disappear through a similar hole under the refrigerator. It appears as if our kitchen is some sort of mouse super highway. Yet the trap in the corner remains empty. These mice seem to be smarter than their predecessors, and if we hadn't seen them for ourselves, we would have no way of even knowing they'd been there.

Tuesday morning arrived, with more rain, and a tow truck. It was the same driver from last week. One of the blessings on that list I mentioned in the previous post? The emergency tow service John signed us up for last year. (Unlimited FREE Towing =  Huge). Anyway, with a really confused look, the tow truck driver said (in French), "This seems familiar." "No kidding," was my answer.

When John arrived home from taking the kids to school, we discovered that our internet was down. It was starting to feel like Belgium was trying to send us a message: "Get the F@#* out."

I eavesdropped for the next several hours as John tried to work it out with various online assistants. I try not to complain about customer service here in Belgium. I don't expect Belgium to be the same as the United States, and I have come to learn that there are cultural differences that translates to different expectations, especially with customer service. And besides, like with everything, sometimes people are helpful while others are not no matter where you are in the world.

But this particular company is notorious for its poor customer service. And with everything else we've been dealing with lately, I was impressed by how patient my husband managed to stay throughout the day. (I heard a few random, loud swear words, here and there, but never when he was on the phone, which, when you read further you will know would have been justified.) We reached a point during the afternoon, where there was nothing to do but laugh and ask each other "Is this really happening?"

Here are a couple of my favorite excerpts from those eavesdropped moments to customer service:

1.) "Ok, I've got a stack of bills here from the last six months with multiple passwords and codes, but not the e-code that you are asking for. Is there any other way I can prove to you that I am authorized to access this account?" (The answer was no.) Side note: After that particular call, I heard ten straight minutes of really loud Led Zeppelin coming from John's office.

2.) After driving to Waterloo in search of a new modem, the store manager announced to the six people waiting with broken modems, that they were out of  modems. John called the service line again, to suggest that the service tech bring the necessary modem to the appointment the next day. The agent instead suggested that John drive to a store in Antwerp "to see if they had one." (He did not.)

But by the end of the day, the internet was back up and running (thanks to John's patience and perserverance). And today, the sun is shining. A phone call to the car dealer revealed that they think the know exactly what is wrong with the car, finally, and we should have it back tomorrow. And while I'm not holding my breath, it's a more hopeful answer than we've had in the past ten days.

Belgium, if you are trying to make it easier for me to leave, I appreciate your efforts. But it's too late. I have loved every minute of living here, even when those minutes seem like they are trying to teach me something. Nothing you do now will change that.

But I would appreciate it if you'd stop trying.

One thing after another....

We began last week with cash flow problems. Getting paid in one part of the world and getting the money to a bank account in another is something we've gotten used to dealing with while living here. But on November 1, something at our bank changed with respect to international wire transfers (either a law or an internal bank rule, not sure which). When John tried to make his regularly monthly transfer, he was told "It might take us a few weeks to sort through the new rules." His reply was something along the lines of "No. That's not going to work."

Next, do you remember a few posts ago when I alluded to how it wasn't such a good idea to rent a car and leave ours here for the week? Well, here's why. We live next door to a forest. I'm not kidding, there is a twelve-foot hedge along the back drive, and behind it is a forest. If you look up our address on Google maps, you will see a giant estate, complete with its own chateau and private lake. It belongs to some upper echelon Belgian citizen, and is home to all sorts of critters.

The wildlife here is mysterious and keeps to itself. In Minnesota, you can tell a lot about the wildlife by what you see dead along the side of the road -- a lot of squirrels, maybe a deer and even an occasional skunk. That doesn't happen as much here. For one, there aren't as many animals (I think they were all hunted to the point of near extinction a long, long time ago). For another, there are a lot of fences and tall hedges and walls that keep the wildlife fenced into a certain area, cutting down on the roadkill issue quite nicely.

One animal we've heard about, but have never seen, is a type of wild weasel/ferret thing that lives in the woods. We've heard about it because it supposedly likes to climb into a car engine and eat the wires. That always sounded like the sort of thing that happens "to someone else," so we filed it away under the category: "stuff-not-to-worry-about." So we didn't think twice about leaving our car in our back driveway for a week. We should have.

By Tuesday last week, the electric went out in our car and it wouldn't accelerate. A quick peek under the hood revealed that something decided to have quite a feast at our expense. We had to have the car towed to the dealer Tuesday morning. On Tuesday night, John left for a quick trip to London.

By Wednesday morning, I felt like I could get a job as a delivery service dispatcher. I sat in my kitchen, and with my laptop and phone managed to coordinate all of the comings and goings of my children. I managed to get everyone, not just to and from school, but also to most of their extracurricular activities.

Mid-morning, my neighbor rang the bell and asked if I needed a ride to the grocery store, which I happily accepted. Later, with a cup of coffee, I caught up on this blog and waited for AJ to come home (the others were off to friends' houses before their afternoon activities). That's when the mouse walked into the kitchen as if asking me to make him lunch. My scream sent him scurrying away, somewhere into the living room. I settled down enough to get back to the blog, and that's when I looked out the window to see the large rat amble down the sidewalk as if he were out for a midday stroll. Obviously under siege, I ran back to the neighbor's house and he promised to take me to the hardware store for traps as soon as AJ got home.

I bought a little wire cage-trap, with a spring-trapdoor and two sides. The trap lets you catch two mice at once, without killing them. And while this is the more humane option, I bought it because I didn't want to deal with seeing carnage on top of everything else. Plus, my neighbor promised to help me set them free if I caught anything.

That afternoon, AJ and I locked ourselves in the kitchen and strained our ears to see if we could hear the trap in the other room, and kept our eyes watching out the front for any more of the larger vermin. Our wait was in vain, and our trap sat empty throughout that night. The next morning, I sent the kids off to school with a neighbor, and went down to start a load of laundry. My light startled a mouse who scrambled into a dark corner. Excited, I got my trap and put it in the corner. An hour later I had two mice. By Friday morning, I had two more. I named them Eeny, Meeny, Miney and Moe and they have been resettled at an internment camp somewhere in the woods near the creek behind the rugby field. Thanks to my neighbor.

By Friday night, the traps were still empty, and we had our car back. My neighbor's cat needed shelter from the rain (did I mention the rain didn't stop once last week?) so I happily let him sit in my kitchen to wait for his people to get home. And I was up to the double, if not triple digits, in counting my many blessings. One of which was the borrowed cat. I also added "ferrel cats" to my list of "reasons I'm excited to move back to St. Paul." Sometimes, the bad stuff has to happen so we can see how good we have it. Friends and neighbors step forward to help. You get through it and feel glad it's all over. Peace had settled on our house and all was right with the world.

For about ten minutes.

The Hills Are Alive.....

Ok, this is my last post about our big road trip adventure. For those that don't follow regularly, this is not meant to be a travel blog, but a lot can happen when your family spends a good deal of time together in the car!

When I first came to Europe, for a backpacking adventure with my best friend before law school, Salzburg was one of our destinations. In part because I had just started dating John and he probably would have broken up with me right then and there if I was planning a trip to Germany and Austria and  didn't make a stop in his favorite city.

But we had another reason for stopping in the city: The Sound of Music Tour. When I was a little girl, The Sound of Music was on television every year at Christmas and we always made a special night out of watching it. I remember acting out the scene where Gretal sings the goodnight song and falls asleep on the steps. As I got older, I daydreamed I was Lesiel singing with her boyfriend. (I cannot believe that I just admitted to that, but it's true). And, here's a fun fact from the Sound of Music Tour: they've had to close the gazebo to tourists (you can see it to take photos, but not go in it) because they've had too many people get hurt trying to re-inact the dance...so apparently I'm not the only one with that particular daydream.

Anyway, we have the movie here, and we've always meant to watch it with the kids but never did. At Christmas, there was always something more Christmasy to turn on, and with our massive DVD library we've collected over the years we've lived here, it's not exactly the first thing the boys would think to grab for Friday Night Movie Night. But in anticipation of our Salzburg trip, we planned a special family Sunday afternoon movie day.

Miss B was in awe of the singing and dancing. The boys liked it much more than they (and I) expected. But then again, they have a much better understanding of the Nazis than I ever did as a kid.

After Munich and before Salzburg, temperaments among the passengers were wavering. In a streak of mischievousness, John and I pulled out the movie soundtrack. I laughed to myself thinking about how we had given the kids the perfect "remember when we were driving into Salzburg and mom made us listen to the soundtrack for the Sound of Music?" But seriously, I double-dog-dare you to listen to that music and NOT start singing along and feel better about being in the car. Especially if you are driving through the actual hills themselves!

In the end I was so glad we thought to show them the movie and bring the music in the car. Miss B skipped her way to dinner on the first night singing "I am 16 going on 17..." And when we walked through the park where "Doe A Deer" was filmed, even though it was dark and rainy, she shouted "This is where they jumped up and down the steps singing!" (It made me grateful that I had taken the cheesy tour so many years before.)

And she watched the movie on my laptop no less than five times throughout the entire week. What a great movie to have on a road trip - it's a long one.

It helped to make this a road trip that none of us would ever forget.

You mean we can eat those?

The last stop of our big road trip was Strasbourg, France. We have some friends from school, that used to live here in Belgium but had to move back to Strasbourg. They have become our adopted family, their kids are like the cousins we don't have here, so we wanted to visit them one last time before our big move.

We love our trips to Strasbourg, because whenever we go, we always get to do something we've never done before. Once was a hike to the site of Saint Odile. Another time we made Tarte Flambee (flat pizzas from Alsace) in an outdoor oven while the children played along the river. This time, we went on a hunt for mushrooms in the woods.

We went to a secret spot in the woods, known within their family to be a good place to find mushrooms. The children have all studied mushrooms in school, Miss B has been talking about different kinds of mushrooms for weeks. But John and I had no clue what we were looking for. I'd always been told, "Don't ever touch a mushroom in the woods, it's poisonous," so this whole outing was a little bit out of my comfort zone.  But I trusted my friends and their knowledge of all things edible within the woods. 

Not much was found within the first hour. Every single mushroom I pointed out was deemed poisonous, thus reaffirming my original strategy: don't ever touch mushrooms in the woods. But then we found a bunch of good ones growing out of a stump -- little yellow ones with the right caps -- I can't remember now if they were curved in or out - it makes a difference. And we found some others, known as "pieds du mouton" (translation: sheep feet) said to be very expensive in the store. 

By the end of our outing, we had bags filled with edible mushrooms. I even found my own, rather large, stash of the sought after pieds du mouton. We ate them all for dinner and they were wonderful. That night I had nightmares about mushroom poisoining. We all woke up the next morning without incident, so there was really nothing to worry about. 

But I don't think I'll ever go foraging for mushrooms without a trusted expert. I will, however, start buying some of the more exotic kinds of mushrooms in the grocery stores.

Full Circle, Part 2

When it comes to World War II history, we make all sorts of necessary exceptions to our travel budget. In fact, I should do a whole separate blog post tracking our WWII stops (note to self.)

WWII is not something many Americans think much about anymore. But it has always been a part of our family history, John's grandfather was killed crossing a river in France. We live in what was an occupied country during the war, and we are only an hour's drive from where the Battle of the Bulge was fought. Add the phenomenal HBO series, The Band of Brothers, to the mix and you've got yourself a bucket list of WWII sites.

The Eagle's Nest, Obersalzburg, just outside of Berchtesgarden, Germany, is where Hitler went to escape from it all, to relax and kick his feet up. While up in the mountains, it is not far from Salzburg and it is something John had never seen (and also in the Band of Brothers). We decided to go there before checking into our hotel in Salzburg. The town itself was beautiful, and we took our time wandering around before deciding to find the road to Hitler's famous hideaway.

We wound our way through the rain and clouds, up and up and up until we got to the parking lot. We found our way to the ticket booth, and watched a bus pull away and head up the mountain. (You have to take the bus or hike, they won't let cars drive the whole way.) The "kind" (and I use that term loosely) woman at the ticket window told us we had just watched the last bus drive away. When John pointed to the times on the boards and asked her about the bus at 4:35 (in German) she "kindly" explained that what was supposed to be the last bus, was cancelled due to weather conditions. We looked at our watches to see that it was 4:15. Maybe there was a big blizzard coming in the next seven minutes that we didn't know about? 

Ok, no problem, we were in town for a couple of days, we would come back on our way out of town. The day we left Salzburg, was gloriously sunny. The view from the mountains was incredible. We dressed in our hiking boots and filled our backpacks, planning to park and walk up to Hitler's palace. Only to be told by another "kind" employee that we missed the very, very last bus, two days before by five minutes (the one that we saw pull away). She also explained that the house itself was closed for the season, it was a three hour hike, and that they were doing dangerous tree work in the mountains and she couldn't guarantee our safety.  So instead, we went to the museum (mostly because we all had to use the toilet, and that was the only way we could.) 

We've seen a lot of WWII sites throughout Europe, but this was our first from the German perspective. We didn't like it so much. The very first photos after walking through the doors were graphic, confirming that we will never go to see a concentration camp. The story boards that lined the halls to the bunker, highlighted a lot of the propaganda and sort of made me sick to my stomach. And something that struck me immediately was that nothing, nothing at all, was in English. 

With the exception of the Charter of the United Nations. So I took out my phone to take a photo  -- to AJ's horror. He proceeded to point out all of the "no photo" signs and the video camera. To which I said, "Ok, thanks" and moved to an angle so as not to be seen by the overhead camera. "Let them try and make me delete the words of the UN," I told him. 

Now I'm not an American that expects everything to be in English. We work hard to try to always speak the language of the country we are visiting. Between John and myself, we can cover French, German and Spanish and we make the kids speak a few words of Flemish if and when we need it (to their utter horror.) But most of the war sites we've visited have paid tribute to the Americans by using English captions. Not so much here. With the attitudes of the "kind" employees and the lack of English, I was starting to feel like our little American family wasn't very welcome here.

It made the following words stand out very loud and clear:

WE THE PEOPLES OF THE UNITED NATIONS DETERMINED to save succeeding generations from the scourge of war, which twice in our lifetime has brought untold sorrow to mankind, and 

to reaffirm faith in fundamental human rights, in the dignity and worth of the human person, in the equal rights of men and women and of nations large and small, and

to establish conditions under which justice and respect for the obligations arising from treaties and other sources of international law can be maintained, and to promote social progress and better standards of life in larger freedom,

AND FOR THESE ENDS to practice tolerance and live together in peace with one another as good neighbors, and 

to unite our strength to maintain international peace and security, and to ensure, by the acceptance of principles and the institution of methods, that armed force shall not be used, save in the common interest, and to employ international machinery for the promotion of the economic and social advancement of all people, 

HAVE RESOLVED TO COMBINE OUR EFFORTS TO ACCOMPLISH THESE AIMS.

Accordingly, our respective Governments, through representatives assembled in the city of San Francisco, who have exhibited their full powers found to be in good and due form, have agreed to the present Charter of the United Nations and do hereby establish an international organization known as the United Nations.

A good reminder that we can learn a lot from history. And that world events can have a profound effect, no matter how self-sufficient we might think ourselves to be.

In the end, I think it was a good thing that we never made it to the top. I didn't need to see Hitler's golden elevator or hear anymore about the riches he pilfered. 

I think I'll let my last WWII tour site leave me with the words of the UN. 

Full Circle.

  

Full Circle, Part 1

We haven't done a lot of traveling around Europe with our little family. My husband and I had the chance to do some traveling before we had kids, before we moved here. We have always said that our move here was about the experience of living in Belgium. But we still had a short bucket list of places we wanted to go with the kids. So when time and the tight budget allows, we do what we can and try to choose destinations that the kids will remember.

One of the destinations forever on our list was Austria, and more specifically, Salzburg. When my husband, John, was in college, he worked hard (to bring his grades up) to earn himself a place in the study abroad trip to Salzburg, Austria. He stayed with three other friends at the home of an older couple, the Peskas. At the time, they were 70 years old. It was there that he learned to speak German, just by talking to them at their kitchen table. He fell in love with Europe and discovered a passion for connecting with people from other cultures.

Salzburg is an 8-hour drive from Brussels, which just seems really far with little kids. We pushed it down the bucket list priority, in favor of other destinations: warm, sunny Spain and easy-to-get-to London. But here we are, with a time-clock ticking, and one last week of precious school vacation. So we threw together a six-day road trip adventure (cue Chevy Chase's Holiday Road music).

On Monday night, we got everyone in the rental car. (We rented a minivan so as to avoid putting miles on a car we are about to sell. More about how this was a bad idea, later.) We took advantage of John's jet lag (he had just returned from a trip to the U.S. two days before) and drove through the night. We arrived in Munich at 2 in the morning, to one of the best hotels this family of five has ever found. (Double-decker suite - the NH is awesome.) Usually, a family of five has to have two hotel rooms in Europe, and that can add up in a hurry.

The next morning (late morning) we drove the last hour or so to Salzburg. Actually, we drove past Salzburg to explore the German mountain town of Berchtesgarden (more about this to follow in Part 2). We arrived in Salzburg just in time to walk to dinner. At a beer hall John remembered fondly from his college days (the Augustiner).

Now, my husband has seen a lot of the world. There are not many places that he walks around in awe. One of the first times I saw his eyes gloss over in amazement was at the Rock of Gibraltar. Another was in the town of Tel Aviv. But he walked through the town of Salzburg that night in complete wonder, with a look of nostalgia in his eyes. (But do keep in mind that we were also operating on very little sleep.) My goal, however, was to get three hungry, tired kids to dinner and back to the hotel for a decent bedtime (for myself).

The beer hall destination turned out to be a perfect choice - ready made sausages and schnitzel all around, we were out of there in 30 minutes. By the time we got back to the hotel, it was clear that John needed to go wander around by himself for awhile and get some reminiscing out of his system. I happily volunteered to stay with the kids. In his wanderings, he checked in with some friends from his study-abroad group and learned that his "house frau" might still be alive.  

So the next day, we hopped on the bus, and rode the route he used to take to go home from school. And we walked down a little street and around a corner. And rang the bell on the gate. And there, in the window of a little house, an old woman peered out the kitchen window. She came and let us in, and upon seeing John, threw her arms to the heavens and said "Johann. My Johann." She is 93 years old.

It was pretty cool.

We followed her into the house and she gave each of the kids a bottle of soda, and cut up a cake (that the kids later said tasted like cardboard). She made us coffee, gave Johann a beer, and talked to us in German. We listened to Daddy tell stories that we had heard before, but meant so much more sitting in the house where they happened.

For all of us to get to meet Kathe Peske in person, and see the kitchen table that sparked the passion that grew to the point of us being able to live here, was priceless and worth every hour we spent in the car last week.

Trick-Or-Treat: Halloween fun from abroad...

We have come to learn that there are three American holidays that are particularly painful to celebrate from abroad. This is mostly because the rest of the world goes about their lives as if it is just another ordinary day, while we, as expats, know it shouldn't be. You can probably guess the holidays: Fourth of July, Thanksgiving and yes, Halloween.

We've solved the dilemmas of Thanksgiving and Fourth of July. Fourth of July is easy, we just make sure we are on holiday (usually to the U.S.) for this one. Thanksgiving is the most painful, but we've solved it as well by celebrating with a big turkey dinner on the Sunday following, and we usually invite some friends that have never celebrated Thanksgiving before (some Belgian friends, or our British neighbors.) Thanksgiving Day, the kids have school but John usually has the day off. So we've created our own tradition which involves a lunch date and some major Christmas shopping.

Of the three, the expat community rallies the hardest for Halloween. While trick-or-treat night is never on Halloween (because everyone has that whole week of school as holiday for All Saints Day). We have our choice of two neighborhoods within which to trick-or-treat the week before. One is near the American school, the other is in a Flemish neighborhood not far from where we live. Of the two, we prefer the former, as the neighborhood is an American style one with (mostly) square blocks and the houses closer together. We can cover the neighborhood quickly - knocking on about fifteen doors within an hour or so. Yes, I said fifteen.

At the end of it all, A.J. held up his little ziplock sandwich bag of candy with a big grin on his face and said, "Look at how much I got!"

To which I laughed, and said, "Just wait until next year."

Roadways and Roundabouts - Revisited

When we first moved here, learning to navigate the roads was a challenge.

In a creative attempt to slow traffic, communes turn busy streets into an obstacle course. They add speed bumps -- long ones that stretch across the road, and sometimes it is difficult to know how high they are until the kids hit their heads on the ceiling if I don't slow down enough. There are giant square speed bumps that are usually positioned next to each other, leaving drivers to wonder if they should try to go through the middle or attempt a "one-side" hit, where half of the car goes over the bump. I've learned that the most effective approach for minimal bump-age is straight on (the biggest part of the square goes right between the tires).

There are also the road blocks. These are big structures that block half of the road, making it impossible for two drivers to pass each other at the same time. Sometimes they even make them pretty, by planting flowers in them. Drivers are forced to take turns going through, meaning that driving in my neighborhood can easily turn into one big game of chicken, especially if someone doesn't know the rules about who has the right-of-way.

And we also have lots of roundabouts. These help with the traffic flow and keep everyone moving through busy intersections - much better than traffic lights and stop signs, in my opinion. To add just one more level of excitement, there is also the "yield to the driver from the right" rule. This means that at unmarked intersections, drivers on the right, always have the right-of-way regardless of who gets to the intersection first, unless the road coming from the right is a smaller road, coming into a major road. Ahem. You can probably guess that not everyone agrees about when a road is "smaller." I know the culture of my own neighborhood's streets, but I still get paranoid driving in unfamiliar neighborhoods.

As you can imagine, Saturday and Sunday mornings sometimes reveal carnage from the late night drivers of the night before: tire tracks in the flowerbed of a roundabout; pieces of a broken headlight combined with a missing chunk of cement from a roadblock; or even a fallen streetlight. In all fairness, if you aren't familiar with the streets, the roadblocks aren't always easy to see in the dark whether you've had a few drinks or not.

On our house-hunting trip almost six-years ago, I remember feeling like I was driving with Jason Bourne. My husband zipped our little rental car up and down the side streets like he was being chased. He might have had fun weaving in and out of roadblocks, and bumping over speed bumps, but I remember gripping onto my seat and yelling at him to slow down. For friends and family who have followed this blog since its inception, they might remember an early blog post about our drive to school. (I would link to it, but the host-site doesn't exist anymore.) Our drive to school over bumps and around the roundabouts, combined with his nerves and yogurt for breakfast, made Monkey carsick. He even threw-up all over me one morning.

It's funny, as we get ready to move, I am coming face-to-face with a lot of new expats just arriving. After all, I have to sell everything in our house that plugs into a wall, and new expats are buying everything for their house that plugs into a wall. It's a symbiotic relationship. Part of me is jealous that they are just beginning their experience, as ours is coming to a close. The other part of me feels like I did my senior year in college - it was fun while it lasted, but it is time to be done. But it is also providing me with a fun reflection - of how I felt and what I thought, when we first arrived, as compared to how I feel now.

A recent FB post from a new expat friend reminded me about how scary it was to drive here in the beginning. Last week, we had one morning where everyone got out of the house without drama. Everyone remembered lunch boxes, swim bags, and we were even on time. That morning, I slowed down to the perfect speed to go over the speed bumps and no one hit their heads. My car wove in and around the roadblocks in perfect sync with oncoming drivers, waving my gratitude to the cars that paused when they were supposed to yield. Zipping around the roundabouts at a smooth pace so as to be considerate of Monkey's sensitive tummy. It felt like a fine-tuned choreographed dance. One that is soon coming to an end.  

I Am A Twitter Convert

It's true. I am a Twitter convert. Not that long ago, Twitter was a social media tool that was very far out of my comfort zone. How does one "tweet" to strangers? And I had to figure out how to use a "hashtag".

But I persevered and I'm glad I did. If there is one thing I've learned in the past few months, writers have to tweet. Twitter is the place where all aspects of writing come together: publishers, agents, bloggers, published authors and those aspiring to be published authors. Publishers and agents tweet about what they are looking for in a project or query. Writers tweet book suggestions and writing advice.

And contests! There are pitch contests galore. And while it's not easy to condense my entire manuscript into a 140 character pitch, it is a great exercise that every writer should do with each manuscript they write. There is something about having to weed through the characters and plot twists, to find the simple words that summarize the entire story. It is a road that leads to clarity and purpose.

And I found my Twitter sprint group! There is a group of writers, that gather at their computers every Friday night. And in thirty minute segments, they write and write and write. When the 30 minutes is up, they report word counts. It begins on Friday night, U.K. time, and at some point changes off to a U.S. group. If I wanted to, I could even wake up early on a Saturday and catch the end of the U.S. sprints in the morning. (But that would require waking up early, and therein lies the problem.) I used to be a closet Friday night writer, but now I don't have to be.

And let's not forget my ghost groups. I love ghost stories. I always have, they fascinate me. I love ghost stories so much that I write my own. And on Twitter, I can follow a plethora of paranormal research groups, all in once place.

As Facebook is the social media tool for family and friends, Twitter is the tool for networking. Especially within my particular passions. And I am happy to be a convert! @NCTFowler

Travel Spaz

I learned something else on that trip to London, besides how lucky I am. I learned that I am a spaz when I travel by myself. The week was busy, it’s never easy to plan a big disruption in the middle of the week. And - me leaving in the middle of the week for an overnight and all of the kids going to different houses to sleep - was a big disruption.

Monkey had swimming, so he needed his swim bag. He and Miss B went to one friend’s house for the night, so they needed their overnight bags. AJ went to a different friend, he needed his bag. I needed my bag for an overnight. It gets to be a lot to pack and a lot to remember, just for one night.

Fortunately, my writer/lawyer brain categorizes everything and remembers the tiniest of details, from Monkey’s inhaler to snacks and swim bags. Unless, of course, it is something critical that I need for myself.

The last time I traveled by myself to London was for a writer’s conference. And I missed my train connection. I just read my ticket wrong or something and I missed my train. Anyone that knows me, knows I don’t do stuff like that. Normally.

Today, on the train from La Hulpe to Midi, I realized I forgot my Belgian id card. I had my passport of course, but not my id. I spent a solid twenty minutes in a panic sweat about it. What should I do? Taking the train back to La Hulpe to get it would take hours. I decided to go ahead anyway and see what would happen. They rarely ask for it on the way out of the EU, and once I was out, I could worry about getting back in later.

Well, the border agent asked for my Belgian ID. Of course. But somehow, someway, I got a really nice border guard. With a smile she gave me a stern warning to always carry it with me (reminding me once again about the power of a U.S. passport). 

In the end, my worry and panic was for nothing. Well, not really for nothing. I walked away with a lot of mental notes about what the panic felt like and how worried I got about something that turned out to be nothing. 

Now, the next question, which of my characters needs to worry about an interrogation? Because now I know exactly how to write the scene.  

Unbelievably Lucky.

I feel very lucky today. Well, I feel lucky every day that I wake up in Belgium. But today, I feel even luckier. (Is that a word? I think so, my spell check didn’t flag it.)

Today, I took the kids to school, and tonight, they will all go stay with friends overnight. So, I feel lucky that we have friends here that are willing to take our kids for an overnight, and I feel equally lucky that I know our kids will behave and not be too much trouble (hopefully.) Luke was a little weepy this morning when I left. But I handed him off to his third grade teacher who had managed to turn his tears into a smile before I even walked away. I feel lucky that Luke has such a good teacher this year, even if it’s just for a few months. (What is that, reason number 4?)

Then, I drove to the La Hulpe train station and got on the train. I feel lucky to live in a city with trains. Then, I rode it to Gare du Midi. There, I cleared customs (reason number 5 or 6, I've lost count, for feeling lucky, but deserves its own blog entry) and boarded a Eurostar train to London. I feel lucky to live close enough to London that I can take a train and get there before lunch.

I am going to London today, because fifteen years ago, I got married. I married this guy, who had a passion to see the world and a gift for talking to people. Specifically, he has a talent for being able to connect with people from other countries and cultures. Talk about luck. This guy took me to London for our honeymoon and it was our first trip abroad together. I remember riding the train into London from the airport, watching the gardens of the houses rush past, thinking, “I could live here someday.”

For the past five years -- one third of our marriage -- that dream came true. (See original reason for feeling lucky today, above.) My parents were here this summer when we celebrated our fifteen year anniversary, and not that I’m not thankful for the nice dinner we had with them on August 8 (thanks again Mom and Dad), tonight I’m meeting John in London so we can go out for a date. We have tickets to see Les Miserables, a show that we saw on our honeymoon.

I’m on the train now, and everyone around me is talking about where they will go first when they get to London. Which museum? Which neighborhood? The Italian guys near me have a map spread out between the four of them, and they are taking this conversation very seriously.

And it occurred to me, that this is the first time I’m going to London, and I don’t want to “see” anything. The first thing I’m going to do when I get to London is go for a run. I’ve always wanted to run the loop around the bridges between Covenant Garden and Big Ben. But I never have my running stuff because there is never enough time. Or else we end up walking too much and I’m too tired.

So today, I feel really lucky that I’m going to London just because I can. And I will have time to go for a run.

A Football Photo

Last night, AJ had soccer practice, and they were doing a dedication of the new Ohain football field at the club. Monkey’s coach sent a message that all players were invited to be a part of the “photo” they would take as part of the inauguration ceremony before the first match at the new field.  I thought it would be really cool for the boys to be part of this. With our upcoming move, this would cement them in the history of our adopted home. What if they hang the photo in the new clubhouse? How cool that they could come back years later and find themselves in it.

Everyone had to wear purple soccer gear. AJ’s practice was at 5:30, and Luke was instructed to be there at 6. AJ’s coach said that they would have practice first, and join the festivities when they were finished (his practice finishes at 7). This should have been my first clue.

Not wanting to drive back and forth to the field, we came at 5:30 prepared for the duration. Miss B brought her doll, and her stroller, and her coloring books and for backup reserve, I had my iPod loaded with Blue’s Clues. (We are used to killing time at the football field.) The sun was warm and bright, and we had fun sitting in the stands watching everything around us. There was a party tent pitched by the field where the politicians were giving speeches and toasting glasses. A beer truck was attending to thirsty crowd goers.

But it was a school night. In the middle of a really busy week. Knowing we would be later than the already late usual, I was even more organized than my usual self. I had a dinner, ready in the oven at home. All I needed to do when we walked in the door was turn on the oven to Broil to melt the cheese on top. (Seriously – it’s the best recipe for a rushed night: Make some penne pasta, mix in a bolognaise sauce and a layer of mozzarella cheese across the top. All you have to do when you walk in the door is turn on the oven to broil. But be careful not to let the top burn – it goes from golden brown to black really fast. I usually make Monkey stand there and watch it.)

But I digress. We sat in the stands of the old field and played. And colored. And watched Blues Clues. And then the sun went down and it got cold. Monkey’s team was running around together. AJ’s practice was finishing up. There was lots of purple everywhere. Except for one group of older boys wearing green. This probably should have been my second clue, but I was too tired and cold to be rational about anything at this point.  

We made our way over to the new field where most of the crowd was gathered. I stood with other moms who were equally worried about dinner, unfinished homework and it being a school night.  And we wondered together, where was this picture going to happen? When was this photo going to take place? No one really knew. Eventually, all of the action moved to the new field. I found an old sucker in my pocket for Miss B.

The speeches concluded, the young players lined up. Finally, this was it. The moment we had all been waiting for, the photo.

It wasn’t a photo. They had all of the kids line up, and cheer on the players who were there to play the first match on the new field. I don’t even think they took a photo.

Ok, so it was cool. Sort of like at a Wild or Twin’s Game when they invite a group of kids onto the field – on a much smaller scale of course.

But it wasn’t cool enough to stand around in the cold, entertaining a bored, hungry four-year-old on a school night. But the silver lining, was that this didn’t happen because I misinterpreted something. The other moms all thought the same thing I did, that there was going to be a big historic photo, and there wasn’t. In the end it didn’t matter, we were home later than normal, but dinner was quick. Homework got finished. Bedtime was a little late, but the fresh air meant everyone fell asleep really fast. In the end, it could have been worse. It could have been raining.

Perspective, Continued.

So after my "experience as an expat" conversation with the lady in the spot next to me at the boot sale (back up and read the previous post if you need to catch up) I was glad that I brought my lap top so I could work on edits for my book during the lulls if I needed to. Which I did from then on after that conversation.

But at one point, she did ask me what I was doing and if I was able to concentrate with everything else going on.

So I explained. I was working on a mystery novel, and while the creative part - the writing of new words - needed quiet and solitude (or at least a cozy coffee shop), I had learned to do the edits amidst a plethora of distractions. I have three children, after all, I have to do a lot of things with a plethora of distractions.

She asked if she could read my books anywhere yet -- everyone always asks that when I tell them I am working on a book. I explained that first, I had to find an agent. Then, the agent had to sell it, etc. etc. (I've come to learn that writing the book itself is actually the easiest part of the process.)

She looked at me, and I could almost see a thought bubble above her head that said: "You are insane." 

And then I got some more of her wise words (seriously, go back and read the previous post if you haven't yet.)  Which were, something to the effect of: that's a boatload of work that you have to do for something you might not ever get paid for doing. (I so want to tell you her nationality right now, but again, I won't contribute to stereotypes.)

I calmly explained to her that writing was something I did because it was my passion.*  Something I lived  to do. Something that if I didn't do, I would explode. (Ok, so it wasn't quite as eloquent as that. My memory has built it up just a touch.) But I did tell her that writing wasn't a job for me, it was something I did for fun, not for money. If the money ever came, that would be a bonus.** I explained that most days, I would rather write my own stories than watch television or read a book.

She looked at me skeptically and raised a single eyebrow.

I smiled politely, opened my laptop and got to work. And was so very grateful I had made that trip back into the house to get my computer before I left that morning.

At the time, I remember feeling annoyed that I had to explain myself to her. I even felt a little bad for this lady, who had such a narrow view of the world and her place in it. But now, I look back on the conversation and I am grateful for it. Because now that we are living the reality of a move, and I am receiving one rejection letter after another, and the days have brought more discouragement than not, I think back to this conversation and it reminds me why I'm doing what I am doing. Anytime you have a chance to stop and reflect on your purpose, it's a good thing.

* I need to put in a footnote. A thank you to my Management Professor from the University of St. Thomas who told us -  over, and over, and over again - "to find our passion and pursue it." I know, it sounds simple enough, but to a college kid who is hungover from Thirsty Thursday, and "living in the moment" more than any other person on the planet, it's a good thing to have echo in your head all these years later.

**Ok, I admit, getting paid for my writing would be more than a nice bonus. The validation would be incredible. And seeing my name on the cover of a book is my biggest daydream. But for purposes of this conversation, I stuck with the altruistic explanation.

Perspective

We've been anticipating a move back to the U.S. for awhile now. I think it's just something an expat learns to live with - that uncertainty that at any moment the phone could ring and life as you know it will change. I deal with it the way I deal with a lot of things - live in the moment and enjoy and appreciate what I have while I have it.

But, in the back of my brain, the wheels are always turning and planning. Part of it is the whole "what if we have to move" factor, the other is that we just have a small house and everything in it has to be worth its weight. So one thing I've tried to do while we've lived here, is to cycle the stuff out. By that I mean getting rid of the baby gear, clothes, books and toys that we've outgrown as we outgrow it. Sometimes, I'm too efficient as Miss B will tell you - last spring she pulled a rain jacket out of the garage sale pile that still fit her.  

Garage sales in Belgium are awesome, especially within the expat community. First of all, there are a lot of online outlets, different facebook groups or email groups to reach out to. And after five years, I belong to them all. There are also organized sales, one in particular that is called the Nearly New Sale held twice a year for kids clothes, toys and gear. I'm proud to say that I've sold more than I've purchased at that one. (But that's where nearly all of Miss B's dresses come from. I'm sorry, but why would I ever pay 25-30 euros for a dress when I can get a really cute one there for 4-5 euros?) 

That takes care of the kid stuff, but what about the household stuff? Last spring I discovered the beauty of a boot sale. Boot,  meaning "trunk" for those of us that speak American English. Last spring I purchased a parking space for 25 euros and I could sell whatever I wanted in it. Twice. The first time, I made my entrance fee back with the sale of a stroller. For the second, I had a connection to get a spot at the American school. I brought two car loads to that one and came home with less than half a car. I worked the crowd at that one. If I saw someone looking at something, I immediately threw in an extra item (or several) for half-price or whatever I could negotiate them to walk away with. I even talked a woman into taking a broken camp bed, for free of course, but my recycling conscious self just couldn't throw the whole darn thing away after it broke before we even used it. (Ahem, no, Johnny, it does not hold the weight of your athletic 6'6'' frame.) She probably had to throw it away, the leg was broken. But the point is, I did not have to take it home. Yay!

Wait a minute. I started off this post with the intent of talking about the lady next to me at this boot sale, not the sale it self. 

So as what typically happens at a sale such as this that begins at an ungodly early hour and goes until the afternoon, you start chatting it up with your neighbors during the lulls. Thanks to my wheeling and dealing, I didn't have many lulls, but when I did I started talking to my neighbor. She was a teacher at the school. She thought it was interesting that I wasn't a parent from the school (remember it was the American school) and started asking me about our expat experience in Belgium. I explained that we were in the country indefinitely and when we arrived the children were the perfect age for immersion so we chose a local french school. We wanted them to be able to play with their neighbors and join the local sports teams so we didn't always have to do everything with Americans. (I left out the part about how we never, in a million years, would have paid the tuition that the American school asks. I know the facility is amazing, the teachers are top rate, but it's kindergarten. At the same price tag that I paid for my senior year of college. At St. Thomas.) But I digress. 

I told her that we had a great experience in Belgium, we loved living here, our kids were happy and well-adjusted. She too was an expat (from another european country, I'm not going to name it as I don't want to contribute to any stereotypes in any way) having lived in Belgium for a long time and raising her family here. And then it came up that we were anticipating a move in the near future. And she proceeded to tell me how awful that would be for the children. How horrible it would be to "rip" (her word) them out of the world that they knew and put them in a culture that they didn't know/understand any more. Or never knew (I had told her that Miss B was born here.) 

Ahem. Excuse me?

I explained to her that we felt very strongly that the value in our experience here as expats was two-fold. And that the most valuable enrichment for the children would come after we moved back. After they learned to live life in another country, and then went back to their own. After all, if we stay here, they will only be European, they won't have the other culture to compare it to. The comparison of both cultures, is where you have the enrichment, the value. My husband and I have that, because we knew one first and then the other. The kids don't have that, yet. They only know one. The easy choice would be to stay here. But the growth will come from going back. 

And I also explained that one of the reasons we loved living here so much was because we knew that precious timer was ticking down and we needed to enjoy it and appreciate it while we had the chance. And her response was still, something to the effect of "yeah, but that will suck."

I heard my mother's voice in my ear at that moment and it said, "Only if you let it."

Rocket Fuel.

This entry is to be filed under: Things that would never happen in the U.S.

Last spring, Monkey's class finally got to go to Classes Vertes. We call it "Green Week" at our house, and basically, the kids get to go away to a summer camp setting for a week with their class and teachers. The kids absolutely love it and they come back much more mature and independent, so the parents love it too.

Each time they go, there is a theme. The first year A.J. went, the theme was Robin Hood, and everything they learned was centered around the theme. This year, Monkey's theme was science, and the first day the kids built a laboratory in the woods. They did all sorts of nature experiments and even learned some basic chemistry.

One of the projects was to make a rocket out of a 2L bottle, fill it with a naturally made gasoline of some type, and then shoot it off into "space." Keep in mind that we weren't actually there, so this is all hearsay, but that's the just of what I understood.

A few days after they got back and were settled back into the routine of school, Monkey told me he needed to bring a glass jar to school. Monkey never remembers anything like that, and I was proud of him for remembering something that he needed to take to school, all on his own. So much so that I forgot to ask him why he needed a glass jar in the first place.

A few days later, he brought home his glass jar. Filled with a strange purple liquid. "Be careful with that," he said, when he saw me pulling it out of his backpack, "that can't touch skin."

"Excuse me?" I said, "What do you mean by 'it can't touch skin'."

"Well," he explained, "my teacher said that if it touches our skin, we have exactly five seconds to wash it off with soap and water, and we don't want to know what happens if we don't."

"But what is it?" I asked.

"Rocket fuel," he answered. "I want to make rockets and fly them at home."

Huh. And this came home with you in your backpack?

The jar of purple liquid sat on a shelf for six weeks. I was afraid to dump it down the drain for fear of contaminating the general population's water supply. I assumed that this was the very purpose the teacher had distributed it among the second graders. Every time he asked about flying a rocket, I had about a million and ten other ideas for him to do instead. Mr. Wizard, I am not.

Monkey has long forgotten about flying rockets at home, and so the mysterious purple liquid is now safely disposed of, along with its container. And next time Monkey tells me he wants to take a jar to school, I will be sure to ask why.

P-R-O-C-R-A-S-T-I-N-A-T-I-O-N.

Procrastination: P-R-O-C-R-A-S-T-I-O-N. Procrastination. The putting off of something that should have been done a long time ago. Such as... buying school supplies for three kids. In french.

I usually refer to my school supply lists as the annual scavenger hunt. Because that's what it feels like here. I've never had to buy school supplies in the U.S., my experience is based on what I remember from my own school days. But the lists here are COMPLICATED! Even my francophone friends say-so.  Let's talk about art paper, for example. The list does not say to buy "art paper." It says, something like, "size A4, 224 grams." But in French. Which would be fine except that then, the different papers aren't marked size A4, it's marked 35 cm x 47 cm with a weight of 220 grams. But in French. And it costs 10 euros per pad of paper, so I don't want to buy the wrong one because returning anything here is just a general old pain in the you-know-what. And each list requires two different kinds of papers (colored and white) and there are three lists, and no teacher specifies the same paper in the same way, so that means six different kinds of paper. And that's just the paper.

There is no Target with the giant corner dedicated to any and everything "back-to-school."  My Belgian friends will say, "but what about Carrefour Planet, and their school supply aisles?" To that I say, you don't know Target. And then they will say, "but you also have Dreamland and Club for anything you can't find at Carrefour," and to that I say, exactly my point. It is impossible to buy school supplies here without going to each and every one of those stores. Thus, the reason I call it the annual scavenger hunt.

But this year, I procrastinated. I didn't even look at the lists until last week. Sigh. I paid for that. Over the years, I've developed a strategy. My strategy is that I try to figure out as much as I can on the list by myself, and then at each different store, I pick one item that I have no clue about, and then I ask an unsuspecting clerk to help me with that one item. If they are nice, I push it to a second item.

This year, I actually knew what everything on the list was before I went into the stores. Mostly because I made A.J. sit down and read them all and help me. Then, I made them all come to the store with me. I handed the older ones their lists and pointed them in the right direction within each part of the school supply aisle. Divide and conquer, I thought. Not really. It was a lot of me yelling "focus" and "No, Miss B, you don't need [a stapler/white out tape/file cabinet/insert whatever-other-obnoxious-item-she-was-holding-at-that-particular-moment]. But I never needed to call on any sales staff for assistance. I was proud.

But we managed to get through most of it. We still needed a few things, but I knew that Dreamland would have the grid paper (specified 1cm squares) that the boys both needed and a few other things. My confidence restored, we saved that for later in the week. Only, when we got there, they were out of the right paper. For this, I decided to ask a clerk. She took me to the shelf I had just been staring at, shook her head and said "pas encore" (no more) and then she ran. I'm not kidding, she ducked away from me before I could ask for anything else. I hadn't planned on asking for anything else, but she never would have given me a chance. I spotted her a few minutes later, hiding in a different aisle checking her watch. (It was almost lunch time.)

I guess back-to-school shopping isn't just hard on the moms that have to do it.

This year's statistics so far: five different stores, two items to return/exchange and a couple more to get. I'll figure it all out. Eventually.

Even after all this time, I still miss Target.

Car Trouble.

Once a car reaches a certain age, it has to pass an annual test. Last spring, our car was due for this "controlle technique," it's called. John's travel schedule was hectic, so I volunteered to handle this whole process and cleared my schedule to do so.

I went, I waited, I spoke french - although it was automotive words, so I didn't speak enough of it or very well. And after the mechanics determined this very fact, they stopped talking to me. I was waved through the test and pointed in the direction of the office to pay the bill. It was only after the big red document came off the printer that I realized I failed.

The people in line behind me tried to help me understand what the problem was, but the information was vague. Something about the headlight alignment, and something else about the parking break. Bottom line, I had two weeks to get it fixed and back to the testing center. I drove straight to a mechanic's shop with my paperwork, where I secured an appointment, for the first available time - which was sometime the next week. They assured me they could fix everything to retake the test and pass.

I went to the appointment, and was surprised to be out within the hour. With only a 15 euro bill for something to do with the lights. "But what about the break?" I asked. "Oh, we don't do that here," I was told, "you'll have to go to the dealership," they said. Hmm. So I drove straight to the dealership. And begged for an appointment for sometime that week. Then I told them I would wait with the car. They hate when people stay with the car, they always want us to drop it off and then it usually takes them three days. Not so easy when you only have one car.

I had one day after the dealership to get the car back for my retest. I went to the dealership, prepared for a long day, and to my surprise, was out of there before lunch. With enough time to go get the car retested. Did I mention it was all before lunch?

Success!

This was all a boring build-up to get to the next part. The following week, the car made that "clicky-clicky" noise indicating that one of the turn signals was burnt out. Sigh. When I took my driver's ed class, I think we learned basic car maintenance, like how to change a lightbulb. But now, when I pop the hood of our Chevy, the inside is so complicated, you can't even see how to open anything near the lightbulb, let alone change it.

On the way to school, the boys tutored me in all the ways to say "light bulb" in french. I drove back to the garage that fixed the light alignment. They were my buddies now. Feeling more confident with my automotive words, I asked for them to change the lightbulb. I used every word that A.J. taught me. Me and the mechanic, we both nodded our understanding. He even had time to fix it right then.

I got back in the car, turned out of the parking lot and heard the "clicky-clicky" noise again. I turned back into the lot and went back into the shop. This time, they got the guy that spoke english. Turns out, the original guy (the one that nodded and smiled a lot) thought I meant I had a leak in my tire and he tested the tire for leaks. There weren't any. No kidding. They said they'd be happy to fix the lightbulb, but didn't have an appointment for that until later that afternoon.

Are you kidding me? How many Belgian mechanics does it take to change a lightbulb, anyway?

I drove home, handed the keys to John and said "I give up. You're in charge of getting the lightbulb changed."

And guess what? Just yesterday, the same lightbulb started making the clicky-clicky noise again. I think it's a conspiracy.

Oui, mon chéri, Paris!

Last spring, we took the kids to London for a weekend. It was an amazing trip, because London is where John and I went for our honeymoon. And this was the first time where all of the kids were ALL old enough to appreciate the city and remember it.

We took them to a Thai restaurant that we ate at when we were on our honeymoon, and the SAME lady still works there/owns it. John makes several trips to London throughout the year, and tends to frequent the same places, so she easily remembered him, and was beyond flattered that he brought his family back to see her.  We went to a show - The Lion King. They were all fun at the theater, but Miss B especially. I assumed she would connect with the actors and dancers, she is all about being on stage. But instead, she turned to me halfway through and asked "Mommy, where do all the dress-up clothes come from?" I explained that there was a costume designer, and she insisted on knowing the name of the person in charge of the costumes. That was pretty cool.

Wait a minute. Wasn't this post was supposed to be about Paris? Hold on, I'm getting to that part.

Monkey especially loved the Natural History Museum in London. He would have looked at, and read about, every single rock if we'd let him. None of the rest of us are really big museum people --Something about large crowds and patience levels I think. And it was a whole lot of rocks. But Monkey was thrilled and couldn't get enough, and it broke my heart to have to hustle him through faster than he would have liked.

I left thinking, we've got to get this kid to the Louvre.

So for his First Communion present this spring, monkey got a train ticket to Paris. It was a tough job, but I volunteered to "take one for the team" and go with him. Monkey and me on our very own overnight date to Paris. I bought a museum pass that would get us in and out of several different museums over the course of two days, the Louvre included - without waiting in line. I cleared my head so I could answer any and all questions he might ask, and ask he did. I stopped counting when we were waiting on the train platform. To leave La Hulpe. He was already at 53.

My favorites: At the Musee d'Orsay he asked: "Mommy, is the fence around this statue electric?" No, I answered. Three second pause. "Oh, you're right. It's not."  And also from the Orsay: Mommy, why didn't they call this room the "naked" room.  All the people in these paintings are naked.

It was a delightful two days. We walked in and out of museums, just because we could. We made two visits to the Louvre, the first day to the Egyptians and the mummies, and the second day to see the Mona Lisa. We made two visits to the Orsay. We saw Monet at the Orangerie. He asked room monitors questions, in french, to their utter delight. He made friends everywhere (just like his father does). He was a fun dinner date. He bought souvenirs for his brother and sister, with his own money. The only disappointment was when he lost his sunglasses (it is monkey after all, it wouldn't be a trip if he didn't lose something.) And also not being able to find a good nighttime view of the Eiffel Tower (that subway line was closed for repairs and even though we walked forever, we just couldn't see more than the top.) Oh well, I explained, that just leaves us something to do for next time. He agreed.

I will forever be thankful for those 36 hours with my monkey.

The Battle of the Slugs, Continued.

Go back a post or two if you need to, just to catch up and get the background on the slug situation.

But just a quick recap: The beer bowls didn't work. Well, it worked but it didn't really make a dent in our slime population. It wasn't enough. Plus, we were basically just providing free booze to the neighborhood creepy crawlies.

I'd really rather not do poison if I can help it. It's definitely not the first tool I grab in an infestation situation. (See a previous post about rats.) But I've learned to never say never, and sometimes, you've just got to do what you've got to do to take back your garden.

And it was time to take back the garden. I sprinkled it around and it actually smelled good. Let's see what happens, I thought.

Um. The next 24 hours revealed carnage I never thought possible.

So, whatever it is they ingest, causes extra slime trails. Our patio, was a spiderweb of crystalized slime trails.

And.

For some reason (I think it's a conspiracy) they prefer to live out their last moments in the wide-open. As in they come out to the patio (or the middle of the boys football space/net - lots of bald grass spots) to die. And this, mind you, is an extra-oozy, disgusting, writhing death. (I felt bad, really, I did.)

The result was, that we had to implement a "slug-removal squad." Yep. That would be me with a shovel. I have to go around and flick the slimeballs into the bushes before anyone will go outside to do anything. I've been doing this all summer.

We thought the situation was under control. Until the other night, when we had to do another round of chemical warfare. So there I was, the next morning, flicking sluggy critters into the bushes.

Sigh. This is what my life has become.

But then. An amazing thing happened. My three children, who up to this point had been whining and complaining about something or other (for sanity purposes, I stopped listening to the whiney voices sometime last month) banded together.

Somehow, they came up with this system of water and buckets and they worked together....just a minute, let me say that one more time, they worked TOGETHER to clean-up the crystalized slime trails that covered the back yard.

So I did what only a good mother would do. I took that as my cue and slipped into the house, unnoticed. Leaving them collaborating and using their imaginations to fix the backyard.

And it was beautiful.

Good Intentions.

Like a lot of other moms, I'm sure, I began the summer with the best of intentions. I had lists.  One was called "What to do When You are Bored." Another was called "List of Jobs You Can do to Earn Money"and the last one was called "Summer Rules." One of the rules was that if you were bored, you had to read the list of What to do When You are Bored, and/or pick a job from the List of Jobs."

I was going to achieve that perfect balance between activity and laziness. Have enough stuff scheduled to keep us busy, with a few empty days to relax and enjoy not having a regimented schedule. It's ok to be bored. Boredom encourages imaginations, so I said. Boredom might get some of those jobs on that list done, so I hoped.

Boredom also encourages fighting and teasing and plotting and general, all around mischief and trouble-making. Especially when you are four, and you just really want to play with your big brothers. Except that you don't know how and it's just easier to hit them than to try to work it out with words.

It doesn't help that I'm yelling too much. No one is listening to me anymore. Not even me.

They are bored. I'm frustrated. None of the jobs got done. No one is following rules, it's an all out free-for-all. But I meant to do better. Does that count for anything?

It must be time for school to start.

A Summer of Slugs.

We remind ourselves all of the time that slugs are better than mosquitoes. Yes, they are gross and ugly and leave a nasty trail of slime and ooze behind them wherever they go, but all in all, they are pretty harmless.  You just don't ever want to go barefoot in the back garden at night or morning. Or maybe ever. Just in case.

Slugs are a novelty for our American visitors, especially the ones that hail from the Midwest. The climate in Minnesota is a good one for mosquitoes, not slugs. So when our cousins from Apple Valley came to visit the first week of summer break, we of course had a BBQ. This BBQ stretched into the late evening hours. And then the slugs came out.

It was funny, at first. To see a big, fat, slimy slug trailing ooze across the patio. The teenagers laughed, and my kids remembered that not everyone has slugs in their garden. However, when our slimy intruder invited his siblings, grandparents, descendants and best buddies, it stopped being funny.

I went out to the patio one night after everyone went to bed to cover the grill and straighten the patio. I'm glad I remembered to turn on the light, because there were at least fifty oozy invaders having an after-party. Had I stepped in the wrong place at the wrong time, I would have brought a whole new meaning to the word "busted."

We'd never had them like this before. What once had been an occasional slug in the garden, had turned into a full-fledged slug infestation. We didn't have much time to worry about it, the same day our guests left us to go on to find more excitement in Paris, we headed off on our own holiday. As a last minute attempt to make a dent in the slug slime, I poured a can of beer into two bowls and placed them strategically in the garden. By strategic I mean, easy to climb into, hopefully not so easy to climb out when that buzz takes effect.

We came home a week later, and to my surprise, it worked. I probably had twenty drowned enemies in both bowls. Yuck. If I thought the living slimeballs were bad, the drowned, fermented, decomposing ones were worse. But one thing was sure, the population had dwindled. I patted myself on the back for a job well-done.

I filled the bowls again (new ones, of course) and went for Round 2. And while I hated to waste the beer, I felt ok with it morally. Yes, I was intentionally killing a living creature, but from the infestee's perspective, it had to be a heck of a good way to go. It's not like I was dumping poison everywhere. Beer bowls in place, we sat outside one evening after dinner. And actually had fun watching the grotesque creatures hone in on the beer like it was a beacon, calling them home. They fell in, and lolled around and got clearly, stinking drunk. By the time we called it a night, there were at least twenty drunk slugs.

And the next morning, I went out to deal with the carnage...and they were gone. As in not in the bowl. I assumed they were probably tucked in their little sluggy beds somewhere with a very big hangover. If our intent was to open the most popular slug saloon in town, then we succeeded.

It was time to consider alternatives. My children were threatening a slug strike. As in, refusing to play  in the backyard if we didn't get the slug situation under control.  My husband was threatening a patio strike, as in, it was too gross to eat dinner on the patio knowing that there were slugs lurking everywhere...waiting. It was the beginning of the summer...I already faced long, dark days ahead of me...and to think...without a backyard...without a patio.

We were approaching desperate times, it was time to take back our garden.