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In an attempt to widen my cultural horizons my mother took me, aged 15, on a coach trip to Rome. On arrival our Tour Guide gave us two options for the half hour window we had for a ‘cultural horizon’ photo opportunity. Walk right for 15 minutes and we could photograph The Trevi Fountain OR head left for the same time and we could snap the Spanish Steps. However, not for the faint hearted, there was a third option .... If we ran, we could just about do both in 30mins. But no stopping for a Gelato.
Never say a Brit forgoes a challenge. We ran through those ancient street like marauding Gaols returning proudly, if not a little battle scarred, from photographically conquering Rome. One brave solider had even managed an Ice Cream.
It’s pretty much the same when you have visitors. You want to do and show them everything, even if it means sticking to a schedule that mirrors a battle plan. Here’s a tip in case you have visitors planning an invasion, I mean stay.
Plan adequate loo and snack breaks!
Seriously, you can guarantee when you’ve planned a tight sightseeing timetable some bugger will say “I need a wee” or ‘I’m hungry”. And before you know it, you’ve no time for an open-top bus tour and the battle is lost.
Some interesting facts: The Romans were one of the first known civilizations to have flush toilets. And in 62 AD they also invented ice cream.
They also won many battles!
Aalst U Blieft
After 39 years I'm expecting ...
A Dutch bike! Or to use the correct biological terminology ... an Omafiets
My husband is over the moon, internet research has taken over our lives, names have been short-listed and room has been made for the new arrival.
It's due next week, though as we can't decide (thanks to recent advances in technology) on a colour, it may be later.
Mother is doing well, though learning to ride a bike has become a priorty.
Aalst U Blieft
OK, I've been here six months now and life in general is seeming less alien to me. I've started Dutch lessons, I have a car that is happy to drive on the wrong, oops, right side of the road (I did scare a lot of locals when I moved here). I don't buckle at the knees when I'm asked 'Hoe gaat het met u?' and I know the best cure for a hang-over is frietjes met stoofvlees sauce. In a word life is good, in two words heel goed !
Not long after moving to Belgium I joined an ex-pat group in Brussels and although I wasn't sharing similar experiences to many of the members, many come here on short term work contracts (I'm here for the duration), I was given some very good advice from an ex-citizen of Madagascar. And that was to expect to feel home sick, then displaced, then at home. I'm in my second stage of settlement. I love living here but feel on holiday, when I recently returned to the UK I also loved it, but felt on holiday too.
Where is home?! Here everything is exciting, you throw yourself into every new experience as if you were on a package holiday. Salsa classes, balloon trips, food tasting and village festivals (another story altogether), they are all so appealing, ”yes, sign me up Red-Coat!”. And in the UK too, English pubs seem quaint, fish and chips shops nostalgic and miserable Post Office staff amusing. At the moment I'd say I'm a European tourist.
I have my feet unfirmly 'onder de tafel'. But watch this space!
Aalst U Blieft
No, not a Howling Wolf blues track, but an affliction that cuts you down like a bolt from the blue. Thankfully I have read about the EPBs but they still leave you feeling violated and insecure when they leave.
Having experienced a few bouts I'll try and advise on a few antidotes.
1. Get tickets for a British band playing locally - please remember this is mainland Europe and locally could mean a 3 hour drive. I would like to take this opportunity to pray at the feet of Mr & Mr Craig of The Proclaimers. I'm actually a Londoner but whenever the boys are in town/country/continent, I'm Scottish to the bone. I love them for making me feel normal instead of foreign in a strange land
2. Find a supplier of a familiar food - for me it's Licorice Allsorts. I never liked the foul-tasting sweets when I lived in England but now I can't start my day without a handful followed by a slice of toast and Marmite. All washed down, of course, with a cup of tea!
3. Cook your friends from your new hometown a traditional British roast followed by a plate of British cheeses and a trifle. The downside of this option is your Yorkshire pudding may not rise and your sherry infused custard may not set. The upside, your friends will know no better! WARNING: during digestion, this meal may cause 'problems' for your non-Brit mates.
4. Move back home. This however is not an option taken lightly, when everything gets really bad, and it will, just remember; the crime rate, the house prices and worse, Starbucks filled with middle-class nannies and their over-confident charges. Or is that just in Clapham?
I promise any period of sadness will pass and like a ray of sunshine your new homeland will make you feel happy you made the right decision to move there.
I'd now like to take this opportunity to thank everyone who has given me a smile and spared some of their time since being here in Belgium. It means a lot.
Aalst U Blieft
There’s an expression here that goes ‘Every Belgium has a brick in their stomach’. No, not a reference to the cuisine, but to the fact that in every Belgium, supposedly, there’s a builder eager to get out. Unfortunately for the skyline quite a few have!
Having always lived in and loved old properties I was amazed when we first came to buy a house in Belgium that outside the beautiful attractions of Gent, Bruges and Antwerp, you’re likely to find Dallas style ranches, Spanish haciendas, Swiss chalets and ultra futuristic grand designs that would leave Kevin McCloud speechless.
And, all on the same stretch of road!
Where are the Flemish town houses I’d seen in Van Eyck paintings? The rural farmhouses of Streuvels novels? I know Flanders was caught geographically in the cross fire of both world wars but surely some architectural history survived?
Town planning is your answer, or rather lack of it. In the UK if you live or have ever lived in a listed building or an area of outstanding natural beauty, you’ll know planning permission is the bug you reluctantly bare. Here, sadly, build as you please appears to be the norm and characterless communities merge in to one another. Two years ago building restrictions were introduced and finally pockets of beautiful Flemish architecture are being preserved.
Which brings me to the house we’ve bought. Countless weekends were spent trying to find a property with history and old features. Eventually we found one, a wonderful Herenhuis, a gentleman’s house, in the centre of a small village opposite the church. Hooray.
We’re already the talk of the village, Richard Branson and his glamorous wife (ok I made that bit up) are moving in. I don’t know where they got the Richard Branson idea from.
And the first question we’re always asked by our neighbours, yes you’ve guessed it
‘So, are you knocking it down and building a new house?’ NO!
Thankfully you’ll find no brick in this stomach.
Aalst U Blieft
For the last four years, together with my husband Nick and our two Labradors, I’d been living a typically normal country existence in Kent. We lived in a traditional oast house, drank local beer and took our dogs on walks through apple orchards. Being only 38, 39 and 21 dog-years respectively we were beginning to think perhaps we were too young to be living the retired dream. So when the opportunity to move to Belgium came our way we thought why not, it’s only 100 miles from England, it’s a similar culture, we’d been on work trips there and we felt we knew the place pretty well.
We were duped! Yes, it’s only 100 miles from Kent but here in Aalst that’s where the motorway from Calais and our preconceived ideas ended. We’ve been here for 3 months now, we’ve bought a house, employed an architect to rebuild the house, rented another house and between contracts and visits to solicitors realised this is as foreign a country to us as China.
On a daily basis I’m left with my mouth ajar at some experience, sighting or exchange I’ve encountered. Yes, the red tape, languages and social differences you can read about and try to prepare yourself for, but it’s only when you land here on planet Belgium you realise you are indeed an alien.
I could tell you about the trams (don’t park on a tram route unless, like us, you aren’t too attached to your wing mirror), don’t be surprised if the lady in the corner of the bar buys everyone a drink. Also don’t be surprised if the lady in the corner is in fact a man in an ill-fitting cocktail dress. Invites to people’s funerals you never knew are normal. As are visits from the local priest (you could offer him tea but he prefers Trappist beer, Orval being a particular favourite). And what’s wrong with having an ostrich in your garden?!
No, what I want to share is an early experience that still leaves me feeling mortified at my stupidity and lack of, well in this case, a bra…
Unlike the UK, identity cards are the norm, no-one here thinks Big Brother is watching and civil liberties still seem to be intact. The importance of having an ID card can’t be overstated, you need to produce one for so many aspects of everyday life, opening a bank account, starting a business or even getting your ironing done. Yes really.
Part of the identity process is an interview at your home by a local policeman, the idea being they check you actually reside there and you’re not a ‘criminal type’. You don’t know when he’ll knock but without his OK, there’s no ironing!
Our knock came on a Sunday morning at 8.30 (7.30 UK time!). I was in bed and Nick was out getting croissants. Yes, the uniform and unfamiliar grey moustache should have been a clue, but I was half asleep and thought it was my husband returning with pastries. I just opened the door, turned, shouted back an order for coffee and told him to come back to bed as soon as possible as it was freezing. I’m not sure who was more surprised.
My bad cop interview was conducted in our living room; I was only wearing a John Deere t-shirt. No bra, no make-up, no hope of ever being considered an outstanding member of this community. I was so nervous I forgot my name, my husband’s occupation and when asked what I did for a living, instead of saying an experienced, well-respected freelance graphic designer, I just pointed upwards and said I worked from home. I couldn’t see his notes but I’m sure under occupation he wrote down ‘Madam’.
I’m still waiting for my ID card but the croissants, when they finally arrived, were delicious.
Aalst U Blieft
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