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."