'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.