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.   

  

'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.