Our Nomadic Journey, Part 2: Christmas Vacation

The second phase of our trip was all about Christmas. (Yes, at this phase of our move, I was still thinking about it like it was all a big "trip").

We spent the first weekend with my brother and his wife. And we were so happy to be there, and catch up and let the kids get reacquainted with their cousins. We snuck over to our new/old house to leave some luggage, and have the wireless internet installed. Then, it was on our way "up North" for a good old fashioned fun family Christmas with John's family.

It was the second week since we'd been out of our house and it really felt like we were on a much needed vacation. The cousins played. The grown-ups ate and drank. It was wonderful to hold the nine-month-old baby we'd finally gotten to meet, and take time to "be" with everyone. I can't tell you how much we just appreciated - and still do appreciate - the chance to see everyone.

We hadn't had much of a chance to "get ready" for Christmas. But thanks to internet shopping we had enough to suffice. And if there was ever a year not to worry about it, this was it. This was the year that Christmas was all about our family in a way that it had never been, nor probably will ever be to the same extent, ever again.

Buzz Kill.

The flight went as well as could be expected. There were lots of movies to watch, and everyone was tired and worn out enough to sleep a little.

Traveling with three kids, I learned a long time ago that it's best to just pack everyone a box of (mostly healthy) stuff I know they'll eat, and let them eat what they want whenever they want, rather than rely on the airplane food choices. So yes, Ms. Flight Attendant, I am perfectly fine with my ten-year old son refusing, your delectable offer of a meal. Please save your judgmental looks for someone else. Not that it's any of your business, but he ate his peanut butter sandwich when we got on the plane, because that's when his body told him it was time to eat. And yes, I am also fine with him refusing your hot-pocket-type-pizza-sandwhich and only accepting the ice cream cup during the "snack" service. My kids aren't familiar with that sort of gooey cheese goodness (yet) and let's not forget, that it is almost midnight Belgian time. He might not be that hungry.

We got off the plan in a jet lag stupor, and got ourselves through customs. This not being our first time re-entering the good ol' U.S. of A., I knew that one of my biggest jobs as a mom of three was to get rid of all of the forbidden foods before we got off the plane. That meant we had to dump all of the cheeses, uneaten salami sandwiches and fruit. And I didn't feel the least bit bad about throwing it all away as most of it had come from our refrigerator before we moved and it had served its purpose well.

We dragged tired little bodies through the line at customs, and each child even answered the customs agent when spoken to. And not one word was mentioned about our extra bottles of wine. All was good. A.J. was in a pile against the wall while we got our NINE suitcases. "You'll be ok," I told him. "It's just the jet lag. We just have to get on the elevator and through the door and Uncle Ryan will be there to take us home."

We shuffled ourselves through the last customs agent. Balancing two carts, wheely carry-ons, backpacks and tired kids, we pushed everyone just a little bit further. "Just get to the elevator," we said again. "Uncle Ryan will be there when it opens to help us."

Only, when it did, there was no Uncle Ryan. (Sorry Uncle Ryan, if you are reading this, I didn't mean to call you out in front of everyone.) But it was kind of funny, to see all sorts of families waiting with signs and balloons for their college-age kids coming back after spending a semester abroad. And then have to dig out my Belgian phone to say, "We're here!"

In all fairness, our flight arrived ahead of schedule, we needed two cars to pick us up, and it was the middle of rush hour on a weeknight the week before Christmas. Kind of a lot to ask of anyone, but especially of two working parents with little kids. It was enough to know we were going to their house, and their house was close to the airport.

Thankfully, my cell phone still worked and we had plenty of luggage to sit on while we waited. Soon enough, we and our pile of luggage and backpacks, were on our way and in our blurry tiredness, we didn't even really notice or remember that we had to wait a few minutes.

The Fowler Family was home.

And in the end it turned out to be a good thing A.J. didn't eat much on the plane. Somewhere along the way he picked up a stomach bug and spent his first 24 hours in the U.S. with a high fever and unable to keep anything down. But it passed quickly enough and we were just happy it didn't hit any earlier than it did.

On to Christmas!

Our Nomadic Journey, Part 1: Saying Goodbye

On December 12, we moved to our temporary apartment.

You should have seen the look on the guy's face when we pulled up. With nine suitcases.

Let me back up. We knew our "pack-up and move-out" would take about a four to five days. We knew that this would be exhausting. We also knew that at the end of that, we didn't want to wake up in the morning, get on a plane and fly away. So we planned an "in-between" week. Somewhere we could transition ourselves out of Belgium.

A key factor was location. We needed somewhere nearby so the kids could finish off their last week of school, and we could wrap up whatever was needed as we wound everything down. We found the perfect place.

We found a furnished apartment that was advertised as a bed and breakfast, and low and behold, it was halfway between our house in La Hulpe and the kids' school. Perfect. It was a loft apartment with one bedroom and a room with a kitchenette and a pull-out couch. We told them we wouldn't need the breakfast service. I don't think they knew what they were getting into when the agreed to rent us the loft apartment above their garage.

We settled in and as sad as we were to be out out of our home, we were happy to have one of the hardest parts over and done with and a quiet place to live out our last week.

We took the kids to school in the morning. We finished off the last of the football practices. With the cleaners hired, and football (soccer) practices behind us, that left us the weekend to be tourists. We took a day trip to our favorite Belgian town in the Ardennes (La Roche en Ardennes) and Sunday we went to the Christmas market in Brussels.

We celebrated Miss B's birthday on Monday with her favorite dinner (saucisse and frites) by temporarily stealing back the grill we had given to the neighbor and grilling at our apartment. Tuesday, we rented the upstairs room at the local pub and really confused our Belgian friends with the idea of an open-invite happy hour. Not having my class lists meant we couldn't send a mass invitation email, which meant that we had to rely on word of mouth, which meant that the kids were in charge of the invites. But in the end we had a great turnout and a fun night. Although, I really hadn't expected all of the going-away gifts and it just about threw me over the edge in terms of packing. Thank goodness John had reached his rainbow gold sparkly status at Delta and it no longer mattered how heavy our bags were.

That left us one last day of school. And one last night in Belgium, which was spent at a dear friend's for dinner. She helped drive us to the airport in the dark the next morning.

Of all of the trials and tribulations I have ever faced living as an expat in Belgium, the last day and night I spent in my beloved adopted country, was one of the most difficult days of my life.

It will be a long, long time before I can think about all of those goodbyes without tears running down my face.

Moving Out.

In Belgium, when you move out of a rental property, you have to leave it in pristine condition. And by pristine, I mean sparkling. The good news, is that the designated life of a paint job is six years (which we were short of by just a few months.) So we already knew they wouldn't be able to charge us for all the places that Miss B wrote her name in crayon. (As long as it was on a wall.)

Over the years, we had heard plenty of stories from neighbors that had moved on, to know that our landlords are very, very difficult at the final walk-through. Their goal is to try to keep your entire deposit (which is double, if not triple a standard deposit in the U.S.) We already had a relocation agent to assist us with all things required to leave the country, but we were also advised to hire an expert to attend the walk-through, as well as hire a professional cleaning company that specialized in a move.

We had quotes from cleaning companies. Jeesh. I could think of a lot of other ways to spend that kind of money in Europe before moving, but we also knew that we didn't want to spend our last weekend in Belgium scrubbing sinks to make them "shine like the top of the Chrysler building" (to quote Ms. Hannigan.)

So I saved. And I saved, and I saved. We had to sell a lot of stuff. Lamps, appliances, a washer and dryer, all kinds of stuff that plugged into a wall there, that wouldn't be able to plug into a wall here. It was also a good time to get rid of any furniture we knew we didn't want to move back across the ocean. Fortunately, the expat community is efficient. I knew all of the sites to post everything. I negotiated. I "bundled" items together to get rid of more and give someone a deal. I sold it all - from the espresso machine to the iron. From the toaster to the television. And I sort of enjoyed it. John called me "his own personal Turkish trader." And he's been to Turkey several times over. I guess he would know.

Every euro I earned by pawning off all of our stuff went into the "cleaning fund" envelope that I had squirreled away. And on Saturday morning, when John stopped by the house to let them in, and I instead made a cup of coffee and scrolled through my Twitter feed, I knew it was worth every single cent.

So when the walk-through came around on Tuesday, we were feeling pretty confident. It was one of the strangest moving experiences I've ever had. We sat in the kitchen with the landlord, while our expert walked through the entire house with their expert. They bickered back and forth about every little knick, dent and beautifully colored surface (thanks again Miss B) in the entire four-stories (counting the basement.)  And then, they went in a room, shut the door and negotiated how much each knick, dent and scratch was worth as subtracted from our damage deposit.

In other words, had we not had our cleaners, our relocation agent and our expert we would have been utterly and royally screwed.

But in the end, we got enough of our damage deposit back....(drum roll please)....to pay our boys' catholic school tuition for the rest of the year.

Cue the big sigh of relief.

Ch-ch-ch-changes....

How does the song go? Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes, turn and face the strange ch-ch changes?

(It's David Bowie. I cheated and looked it up. If I'm going to put a song in your head, I should at least give credit where credit is due.)

There have been quite a few changes in the last month. But I will try to catch up with all of it, here.

First and foremost, let's get an obvious discrepancy out of the way shall we? The name of this blog is "My Adventures as an Expat in Belgium." I should probably change the name to "My Adventures as an Expat in Belgium that has Now Moved Back to Minnesota." But that is just way too complicated.

I started this blog as a way to keep family and friends updated on our new life in Belgium. After all, we had taken the grandchildren to live far away from their grandparents. The least we could do was post some pictures and stories about our life in a new country.

Well, that blog evolved. My readership grew, and my original format on a private blog site was forced to go public when technology changed. Originally, I was only blogging for friends and family back in the U.S. But over the years, my blog became just as much for my expat and Belgian friends. They thought my observations about my adopted country were amusing, offering them a chance to see their country through different eyes.

And now, I'm sure they are wondering what life is like now for my little family -- after working so hard to  integrate into a new culture, how does one, just go back? And friends here are interested to know how we are adapting, and what we find challenging.

So, the thing is, I still have stuff to talk about. So I will keep writing it. Even if the title isn't exactly as true as it used to be.

The meaning of Advent....Fail. Or maybe not?

I knew all along that Christmas would be very different for us this year. The movers were coming on December 10. We wouldn't have much time for a tree. Childhood goes so quickly, and as I looked at boxes of decorations and ornaments in the basement that would go a whole year without being opened, part of me felt like we were stealing a year of Christmas memories away from our kids.

The other part of me rallied to make the best of it. And repeated the lesson of the Grinch: Christmas isn't about the wrappings, it comes anyway. (Only Dr. Seuss rhymed it better and was more eloquent.) I looked at those boxes and decided that our focus this Christmas would be on Advent. We would bring the Advent calendars with us in our suitcases, and countdown the days to Baby Jesus no matter where we were.

We have three advent calendars at our house. One is a magnetic board with the creche scene. Each day, we open a door and add a new magnet: a star, a cow, Joseph, etc. The last door is Baby Jesus. Another calendar is in the shape of a Christmas tree, with numbered drawers. When you open the drawer, you turn it around and eventually all of the drawers make a winter scene. I bought it at Starbucks several years ago, and it was filled with the worst chocolate I have ever tasted in my life. But I liked it because it was reusable, and now I can fill each drawer with three pieces of whatever candy I want. (Want to know a secret? I use their Halloween candy. Shhh.) Last year, we had an elaborate system for taking turns and with the two calendars someone had to sit out each day. So I bought one last Advent calendar. This one is a snowman, and he has little pockets. I decided that I would write a little advent message for each pocket, things that would help get our hearts ready for Christmas. Something like "do something nice for someone else in your family without being asked" or "be a good friend to someone at school" or "smile at someone that looks sad," you get the idea. Next year, one of the first pieces of paper is going to read "Do not fight with your brother and/or sister over who's turn it is to do what with the advent calendars."

We got off to a good start and the kids were all in. It took a day or two to figure out who was doing what in the rotation, thus the 'note to self' about a note about not fighting for next year. Miss B, the sneaky devil, preferred the magnet board and it took a few days to catch on to her evil plans to commander that one for herself. But I digress.

The movers arrived on the morning of the 10th and all was a whirlwind after that. Before they came, I remember thinking that our pack-up would take forever, and "no one can be more efficient than our American packers five years ago, those guys were good." But these guys were better. They were Flemish. And organized. They arrived at our door at 7:30 in the morning, smoked a cigarette and came right inside and got to work. That first day, I made John take the kids to school so I could keep an eye on things and finish our suitcases.

I learned a lesson with our first move: make sure you have the suitcases packed before the movers show up. Last time, I was still finishing up my own suitcase when the packers got to my room. I came around the corner to find my dresser had been packed. The result? I had to go to Target to buy new underwear before we flew out. I wouldn't make that mistake this time. But no matter how many times I told Johnny to pack his suitcases, he still hadn't. "How can I think about what I need to pack for the next six weeks?" he said to me every time. Before he got back that morning, I called him to say "You better figure it out quick because I can't keep track of all these guys at the same time and there's one upstairs and I don't know what he's doing."

In all of that chaos, I forgot the one thing about Christmas I was going to salvage. The advent calendars. The magnet board and snowman both got packed when I wasn't looking. I did save the candy filled Christmas tree. A good thing too, as we weren't allowed any sort of food items in our shipments. That would be all we needed, our container to get flagged at customs thanks to a few pieces of chocolate and gummies in a Christmas tree box.

In any event, the suitcases got packed, the boxes got packed, and soon we were on our way in a journey that would end up taking a long time with many emotional ups and downs. We shifted our eyes to look ahead to Christmas. Not to the trimmings and trappings, but to our family. For the first time in six years, we would get to spend Christmas with our families. That was our anchor through the next few, very difficult, weeks.