Yet Another DC Mussels Joint

For some reason Belgian food is super trendy in DC. Not only have there been a ton of new bistro-style restaurants opening in the past few years, but there was even an official "Belgian Restaurant Week" leading up to the National Day which I suspect had more fanfare than in the homeland! Seriously, I think I've eaten more mussels here than I ever did in Antwerp.

With so many moules frites to choose from, here is a helpful guide to your options in the District:

Et Voila - Tim and I found out about this place because they served amazing waffles at the Belgian ambassador's national day party (yes, we are fancy). They are in the Palisades area of DC, and thus only accessible by car or taxi, but there's a huge upside: if you make reservations after 9:30pm, you get a free bottle of wine. Good Spanish wine, too! I had veal sweetbreads (a guilty pleasure of mine) and curry-flavored moules frites. Tim had smoked trout which he loved, and stoofvlees which he loved a bit less.

Bistrot Le Zinc - this place is located on Wisconsin Ave. north of Glover Park, about 20 min walk from where we live. It's only been open for a few weeks but we were really impressed with both the food and the service. I had a tasty hot goat cheese salad and red snapper with an eggplant tapenade, which was really strong tasting but good. Tim had a sea scallop appetizer and giant delicious leg of lamb for his main course, and we split a chocolate cake for dessert. We want to become regulars here, we liked it so much.

Marvin - this U street restaurant is an interesting mix of soul food and Belgian cuisine, based on the few years that Marvin Gaye spent living in the seaside town of Oostende. We visited during Belgian restaurant week and the chef whipped us up a tasting menu right on the spot. We had a bunch of small plates: garlic & beer mussels, lobster waterzooi and pork cheeks. The caramel toffee cake was to die for, and so was the lavender ice cream that went with the chocolate cake.

Belga Cafe - I visited this place for brunch with a Belgian friend, and we were unimpressed. It was really American food - savory waffles, for shame! The portion sizes were much too small for the price, as well. It's a pity because this is one of the few places on this list that actually has a Flemish chef (who is married to Greet Dekeyser, the Belgian TV foreign correspondent based in the US*). The lines get out of control on the weekends here, when everyone is out shopping in nearby Eastern Market.

Brasserie Beck - This place is known as being a popular happy hour spot for K Street lobbyists, but we went here for Sunday brunch with a few friends. Although one friend had a bad experience with her shredded chicken omelet, the rest of the food was good, including their fresh blueberry pancakes and a seafood salad. This place is pricey, though: the stoofvlees (carbonade) will set you back $27 and a seafood plate costs almost $100.

Granville Moore's - This is a rustic pub that's housed in an old doctor's office on H Street. The food is a mixture of mussels and burgers, but their beer list is extensive and impressive. Show up early or in a smaller group because they don't take reservations. There are plenty of bars around to grab a drink while you're waiting, though.

Bistrot Du Coin - this trendy, noisy Dupont French restaurant steals Belgian menu items. Our waiter bristled when we asked if the place was Belgian-style or French. "Of course we are French!" she sniffed, then proceeded to bring moules frites to half of the table. They were good mussels, though!

*She had to stand outside today in Annapolis and get pummeled by Hurricane Irene on live TV. Pech gehad!

Voila! There you had it, the Belgian restaurants in DC. The only restaurant missing from this list? Marcel's, which is located near the White House and is the kind of place that only serves prix-fixe menus, such as the hoity-toity sounding "pre-theater menu." Anyone feel like sponsoring us?

Coming to America

After waiting nearly a year for his visa, The Boy has finally arrived! And anyway, I figured it was about damn time I broke my blog vow of silence on the subject. Especially since I'm going to marry him.

Like immigrants of American yore, The Boy arrived with only his suitcases to his name. Suitcases which enclosed many delicious treats from Belgium, like Speculoospasta. Also plenty of liquor, but let's not mention that part in case Customs is reading this.

Just like the tales of many other immigrants, Tim's name has been unwillingly changed by various brainless officials. Usually they just smush the 2 words together into "Vanaelst", but my favorite, Geico, called him just "Van" on his auto insurance. I'm pretty relieved that in Belgian tradition, I don't have to change my name upon marriage - who knows what might happen if I did.

Worst of all, like many other immigrants, Tim is unable to go back to his home country. Not because of financial strife or war (although come to think of it, Belgium has been without a government for a year). No, it's because of immigration rules: K1 visa holders cannot leave the US until they get their green card. This takes 6-8 months, if you're lucky or if you have a relative who works at US immigrations.

Snide comments aside, this rule certainly curtails our international travel plans for a while. But not to worry - Tim and I have already bought tickets for our honeymoon, as far away in the US as you can get: Anchorage, Alaska. Maybe we'll be able to see Russia from our hotel!

Yes? Yes? NO!

It has been forever since I updated this blog. Since September, I have been working part time blogging for other people so that took precedence, proving about how strong my blogging "keeping it real" principles are. Now that I'm somewhat less gainfully employed, I can go back to what I love best: telling strange stories about the French in their natural habitat.

Tim and I were sitting in a bistro in Reims, in the north of France, enjoying ourselves some delicious moelleux au chocolat (translation: lava cake. Is your mouth not watering?). In fact, it was so good that we started a fork swordfight over the last piece. The battle endured, but I swear we did not cause a scene. However, we were so absorbed in the fight that we did not notice the middle aged, very intoxicated French gentleman creeping toward us with a fork of his own. Seriously, we are pretty sure that he drank a whole bottle of table wine by himself.

As soon as we noticed him, mouths agape, he decided to be polite. "Yes? Yes?" he asked, fork quivering with anticipation. "NO!" Tim and I both shouted, maybe a little too loudly. He tried a different tactic. "American?" he asked.

Now, this was a moment of personal shame. I always make a point not to stand out as the American wherever I go, especially somewhere like France. I swear I was not wearing white tennis shoes, a baseball cap or sweatpants in public. I made a conscious effort to use my indoor voice.

Tim was wearing a Giants sweatshirt. "It's because of you," I hissed, glaring at the man. I considered saying some random things in Polish to throw him off.

"English? Allemand?" he tried.

"Espanol!" Tim gleefully replied. I facepalmed at that; we would make two of the most pasty-skinned Spaniards in history.

"Yes, American," I gave in.

The Frenchman may have guessed correctly, but he still couldn't have our cake. He went back to his seat in defeat, then proceeded to discuss where Tim and I might be from loudly the rest of the evening with his dinner companions. Loudly and clearly enough that even I could understand most of it.

So basically what I concluded from this experience is that based on fork swordfighting and overall gluttony, the French rank Americans number one, followed by the English and then the Germans. Either way, they figured that all three nationalities would give them carte blanche to speak about us loudly because there was no way we would actually understand it. Or no way that one of us might just turn out to be a Belgian who happens to enjoy watching American football.

But damn. That last bite of moelleux sure was delicious.

Almost heaven

It's a little bit of a sad realization after only a month living here, but D.C.? A little pretentious.

At least it is in comparison to little Frederick, Maryland, where I went with friends this weekend in honor of their annual "In the street" festival.

Frederick - like many other small towns in this neck of the woods - is the kind of place where you expect townsfolk to dress up like Civil War* soldiers and fight mock battles in their spare time. As a matter of fact, the Battle of Monocacy Junction** was fought just outside of town, and Frederick is on the Civil War Trail - meaning busloads of elderly tourists in matching T-shirts roll through to visit all the numerous war museums and historic markers.

Sounds like a pretty frumpy crowd, but luckily just as we arrived the early-bird-special set was already getting back on the bus to go back to their hotel, and the rowdy locals had taken over. It was clear to us that they had been in the street since breakfast.

Something about the Frederickians put me at ease. It wasn't just the lower ratio of government-issue ID cards - who other than a cop has an ID card in a place like Frederick? It had something to do with the fact that when the band played "Country Roads" the entire bar burst into song. And maybe the preponderance of very, very good local breweries that hold their own Oktoberfest every year.

Guess I just have a little hillbilly in my blood, but I think I'll be back in Frederick sometime soon - corn maze, anyone? Pumpkin patch? Oktoberfest?

* Or the War of Northern Aggression, if you're Southern

**For the record, the Confederates won

Hand over the keys

I was so excited to get my car back upon coming to the US again that I forgot one important thing: I haven't driven regularly in two years. And now every time I get behind the wheel I think it's going to end up like the picture.

I thought I would be reasonably prepared after dealing with insane, elderly and foreign drivers in Orlando, who tend to cut you off randomly, go 45 in the left hand lane, or accidentally drive on the left. I thought wrong.

For one, the DC area is known for its legendary long commute times because of near-constant heavy traffic - a friend of mine drives an hour to cover a distance that should take less than 20 minutes. Not to mention, this is a place where there have been, I kid you not, road rage induced gunfights.

The other day, I was lost on the way to a job interview and was on the phone getting directions, and a middle aged woman gestured wildly at me and flicked me off because I was too slow in pulling out of a parking spot. There were plenty of other parking spots around, but she had to have mine, dammit! It's funny because in all other circumstances people around here are really friendly; apparently they turn into demons once they get behind the wheel.

Why not just take public transportation, you may ask? Call me crazy but I just feel less safe on public transportation here than I do in Europe. DC's metro is crummy looking - it is gray concrete block, no artwork anywhere, dirty and stained trains, and rather than a recorded voice announcing the stop clearly, it's the driver, whom you can hardly hear muffled over the loudspeaker. There is a also sort of stigma about public transport in America - as in, why would you ever take it if you can drive?

Anyway, if you need me, I'll be walking to Whole Foods - a whole 15 minute walk uphill... let's see how long my car protest lasts.

the prodigal daughter returns

So for those of you who don't already know, the girl on the road has found herself a new home base. At least through 2012.

It's hard having to describe to people that my plans changed so quickly, from a permanent job in Prague to moving to Washington, DC. As much as I hated to leave Europe, I ain't the type of gal to pass up such a good opportunity, nor am I afraid of a little risk in doing so.

Needless to say, or at least until my reverse culture shock has worn off, I'll try to keep this blog going.

While I'm here, I'll be attending Bill Clinton's alma mater. I can't think of Slick Willy without thinking of John Travolta's amazing impersonation of him in Primary Colors. The political circus in DC was a lot more fun circa 1998.

Check it out, if you haven't seen it already - and let's hear it for the Mommas!

Soccer!

Why is it soooo surprising that Americans can get excited by the sport everyone else calls football? Every time any news source mentions the US team, it's always qualified by, "But, you know, Americans will never love it the way Europeans/South Americans/anyone else does."

Judging by what I have seen in Prague in the games against the UK and Slovenia, it's simply not true. Of course - it seems to make more sense to be rowdy if you're in a bar in Europe versus one in say, Buloxi, Mississippi - because you are much more likely to encounter people who actually support the opponent.

The UK game was played on a Saturday night, which I spent in a beer garden in the neighborhood park, Riegrovy Sady. There the benches were full with guys draped in American flags like Rocky, others with Uncle Sam hats, getting in chanting wars with the inebriated Brits and even holding their own against them.

As soon as the UK fans started with, "You're not singing anymore" their goalkeeper let by an embarrassment of a ball into the net. And everyone was excited! I shouldn't have to explain that - of course we were.

One thing I liked about the American crowd is that even the sorority girls in sundresses get into it. There seems to be a stigma in Europe about girls who play, or who are interested in, soccer. From what I'm told it runs along the same lines of the stereotype about girls who play softball in the US. Anyway, as someone who started playing the game at the age of six at the insistence of my high school soccer coach of a dad, I thoroughly reject this idea.

I saw the last minutes of the game against Slovenia in the main square of Prague, where study abroad students, English teachers, and whoever else had turned into a red, white and blue mob. I heard the anger when the ref took away Maurice Edu's perfectly good goal in the 86th minute and prevented the US from getting the win. Beer cups were thrown down, slurs were yelled.

I would say that the one thing that's really missing from the US soccer team is a star. A star who is so famous that he could get first name status like Pele or Ronaldo and little kids would put up posters of him on their walls. The only player who I think even comes close to that is a female player - Mia Hamm. When I was playing as a kid, all the girls would fight over who got to have her number (9) on their jersey. Who can do that for the US men?

Right now - nobody. But that won't stop me from screaming for blood when I go watch tomorrow's game against Ghana - who booted us out of the 2006 world cup. Vengeance is ours -- USA!
USA!

This mother has claws!

In my first few weeks here, Prague confounds me. It's not that I don't like it - after all there is the weird coincidence that there is a PKP (Polish rail) office right in my apartment building. No, it's just too full of things that make you go, "huh?" Here are a few so far...

- Next to the royal botanic gardens, overlooking the river and with a beautiful view of the city, sits a giant metronome. It is bright orange, rusty and creaking, and the ground beneath it is littered with glass from beer bottles. What is it counting time for? Why orange? Why did it have to sully that view?

- If you take a metro and bus for 30 minutes outside of Prague, you arrive in the hills of Northern Vietnam. There is a whole village called Sapa complete with shops, restaurants, a school, hairdressers and God knows what else. Good luck communicating unless you speak Czech or Vietnamese*.

- Dutch coffee shops attract a bizarre crowd: hippies drinking huge steins of beer while jamming to Hank Williams Jr.

- Speaking of substances, on Saturday, there was a "Million Marijuana March" that went past my house, people yelling, Jamaican and pirate flags flying, music blaring. It's not only strange that high people would get so excited - it's strange that they are marching because marijuana is legal here.

- Today I happened to watch the very last place competitor in the Prague marathon finish as I was walking around town. The guy wasn't feeble, elderly or out of shape. He was running backward. He had been doing that for at least seven hours.

Living the surreal life in Prague must have inspired Kafka - as for me, I'll stick to the inspiration from the best margaritas I've had on this continent - from Las Adelitas down the street.

* In the '80s when it was easy to move between Communist countries a bunch of Vietnamese people came to Prague. Nowadays there is a 2nd and 3rd generation, which is becoming more and more successful. Their parents own the night shops; they are becoming real estate dealers and other professionals. It's interesting because there are very few immigrants in other places in central Europe (although some people count gypsies).

Trying really hard to be positive. Take that, EU!

As I'm now applying to live in my third EU country, it's just too easy to whine about the bureaucratic nonsense, feeling like a puny worthless peon against the wily, impenetrable forces that yell at you on the phone while simultaneously losing your paperwork. In practice, it doesn't make you feel existential angst - although if France is anything like Belgium it sure explains a lot. No; it makes you very, very, angry. So in lieu of adding more fuel to the already brightly burning fire, I want to think about some nice things that happened as I worked on paperwork so far throughout my life.

My favorite story comes from when I was applying for my Belgian visa in Warsaw. I had to get my fingerprints done for an FBI background check. After getting hilariously lost on my taxi ride to the wrong address that I found on the criminal bureau's (apparently never updated) website, I finally arrived. I was greeted by a little old man who was 80 if he was a day. He was wearing a suit that he had clearly had to dust off after not wearing it for years, and greeted me enthusiastically in Polish. I explained in a bizarre mix of Polish and English that I needed the fingerprints to send to the FBI, and I could see the man's eyes widen in excitement. Somehow I had made this guy's day - the G-Men would see his work! He was so happy that he even accompanied me on the tram to the train station to see me off.

Honestly I have no such happy stories about my current struggle. Maybe I'll just think about how much easier taxes are over here...

Being with you and not being with you is the only way I have to measure time. -Borges

Here's a dance you should know

Last weekend, I had the privilege to attend a real falutin', hootin', hollerin,' countryside Flemish birthday BBQ. Not firing your gun into the air in celebration? But surely Europeans aren't country the way Southerners are!, you might say. So I thought, too, until the country music started twanging from the speakers and people actually started line dancing to In Zaire by Johnny Wakelin. There was even a song about Indians where at one point enthusiastic revelers clapped their hand over their mouth and made the "woo woo woo!" Indian noise. I was mystified. I was jealous, even. They never taught me these songs in redneck public school. "But this comes from America!" everyone told me - the lyrics had just been changed into Dutch!

Not again, I thought.

Case in point: International Women's Day, which people were shocked I had never heard of because it came from America. As I discovered, Women's Day is celebrated on March 8th and consists of all women workers getting flowers at the office. It's kind of an unofficial second Valentine's Day where men are guilt tripped into buying more stuff for the ladies. Because it's targeted specifically toward women workers, my first impression was that it had socialist or communist roots (which it did). After that it kind of made sense that people from South America, China and Central and Eastern Europe were the ones who had kept celebrating it. But I'm not so surprised it was dropped in the US: "Socialist" is a bad word these days, plus to be politically correct we'd have to have a men's day too. And a transgender day. Oh, the politically correct possibilities are endless.

In the end, of course I was completely wrong about the songs heard at the Flemish hoedown. They were totally American. Just check out the Hucklebuck and I dare you to stay in your chair and not dance along with Norton and Ralph.

How the Saulpaugh girl lost her accent

I feel like a Garcia girl...recently a friend of mine told me that I have "significantly lost my American accent after coming to Belgium." Never mind that I was in Poland for a year before that. Even at work, the Canadians I hear on the phone confuse me with an Austrian girl on our team (she's a far cry from the Governator of California, but still!).

Is it a good thing or bad thing that I now seem to be fluent in "International European English"? It's already become second nature to avoid obscure idioms and slang, mostly out of sheer laziness, but does that have the effect of making me a lazier thinker overall? And as a former coworker once told me, does living as an English speaking expat strip you of your personality until you fluently speak the local language? As someone who will soon make making a living as an in-house writer, I've gotta think about it.

When I first went to Poland, I made myself a list of common mistakes that, no matter how long I stayed abroad, I would not make. This mission has already failed, but nonetheless, here they are, in all their grammar Nazi glory:

1. Saying "Make the picture" instead of "take the picture". Once, I even said I was going to "make the bus tickets" in front of my translator friend. Man that was embarrassing.

2. Forgetting articles such as "the" "and" & "a". This one only happened in Poland, where they don't use articles. Flemish has articles, so they seem to do better with it here.

3. Saying "How it is in English?" instead of "How do you say it in English?" or "What it is in English?"

4. One for Belgium: directly translating the word abonnement to "subscription." If you go to the gym, it's a membership. If it's an event for work or a class, you sign up. If it's a yearly train or bus ticket, it's a pass.

5. Incorrect use of "does": "What he does?" instead of "What does he do?"

6. Answering "fine" to "What's up?" or "Nothing" to "How's it going?". Actually, I was guilty of this one in the US, too... mostly based on being an overall awkward person.

7. Saying prepositions like "on" at the wrong times, like "I was on the party" instead of "at". Prepositions are so hard to learn in a language that's not your own, so I will cut everyone some slack. In other words, please don't ask me the correct ones in French...

8. Saying "kitchen" instead of "cuisine", and other borrowed words. In English, it sounds fancy to say cuisine in terms of type of food. Kitchen is the room in your house.

9. Confusing "funny" and "fun" and "bored" and "boring"

10. Saying "take" a beer or meal instead of "have" a beer. This one is my all time favorite since it suggests that my friends are asking me to go around stealing beer from the tap at pubs.

So, who wants to go take a beer tonight?

No, not from my fridge.

Kamiel Spiessens says that it's easy!

Flemish culture is a tricky beast. Unlike my experience in Poland, it remains mostly hidden to those who don't yet speak Dutch. Case in point: a friend of mine was in a gym, and was invited to a drink. "Do you speak Dutch?" he was asked. Upon giving a negative answer, he was told, "Oh, that's too bad, you can't go out with us then!"

I think it's a symptom of some of the strong regional pride that's been around for most of history in this area. I can't blame them, but still find it frustrating - and most expats I've spoken to agree. I haven't stopped trying, though.

Although I'm completely guilty of spreading myself too thin with languages, never becoming really fluent in any of them, I am still enamored of Dutch, and one boy in particular who speaks it. The other day, he taught me the following song, sung by a comedic farmer character named Kamiel Spiessens. That's him on the left.

Now the fun part: I'll translate the song for you now, to show you how easy it is!

Mijn naam is Kamiel Spiessens My name is Kamiel Spiessens
En ik droom niet van actrices And I don't dream of actresses
Ik hang nooit aan de toog I never hang out at the bar
Ben amateur-archeoloog I'm an amateur archaeologist
De natuur dat is een wonder Nature is a wonder
Met de wespen de gedonder With its wasps of thunder*
In mijnen hoofd is 't goed It's good in my head

Wanneer ik spit en delf en wroet When I dig and dig and dig**

refrain:
Het isj nie moeilijk It isn't hard
Het isj gemakkelijk It's easy!
Het isj nie moeilijk It isn't hard



Elk terrein heeft zijn geheim The terrain has its secret
En dat zit 'm in de grond And it sits in the ground
Als ge staat onder uw voeten If you stand under your feet
Als ge zit onder uw kont If you sit under your ass
Wat erin zit haal ik eruit What lies therein I get it out
Wat ik eruit haal zet ik terug What I get out I put it back
Zo'n tijd snel loopt het zweet Soon after quickly runs the sweat
Helegans van mijnen rug Whole down my back


refrain


Een doos biscuit, een treinticket A box of cookies, a train ticket
Een tijgerslip en een raket A pair of tiger underwear and a rocket
Een vals gebit, een perenpit, een jas van bont A pair of false teeth, a pear pit, a fur coat
't Is niet te doen wat dat ge vindt onder de grond There's no telling what you can find under the ground


Ik ben UV-bestendig en ik word dus nooit niet bruin I am UV resistant and I never get brown
Al graaf ik ganse dagen in mijn grote groene tuin I spend all days in my big green yard
Naar dingen onder 't gras For things under the grass
Onder de grond, onder 't gewas Under the ground, under the sod
Ik ben niet echt begaafd I'm not gifted
Maar wel op zijn minst verslaafd But at the least addicted


refrain


Ze zeggen mij "Kamiel, They say to me, "Kamiel,
Doe niet zo imbeciel. Don't be an imbecile.
Dat is toch genen stiel? Are those steelmakers' genes?

Zeg, vind gij dat nu veel wiel?" Say, do you find that many wheels?*
Dan zeg ik "Luister Bobbie, Then I say, "Listen, Bobbie,
Laat mij gerust, het is een hobbie. Leave me alone, it's a hobby.
Zowaar, ik ben Kamiel Behold, I am Kamiel
En ik spit met hart en ziel." And I dig with heart and soul."

refrain

*note: this makes no sense in Dutch either

** these are different words in Dutch but all are synonyms of dig

Where should I go next?

You know, my gig here in Antwerp is almost up. In fact, I have only three measly months to get my act together! So I'll ask you out in cyberland for a little help: do you think there is any place that fits my needs, as outlined below?

1. After living a stone's throw from Wawel Castle for a year, I think I need to reenact my princess fantasies.

2. Out of the Beatles, my favorite is John Lennon. This is mostly because I love telling one person in particular that I "will never be the Yoko".

3. I have not lost my fascination with impossible languages. Especially Dutch!

4. I like good beer.

Hmm, this might be tough. Any ideas?

Karma...freezes

A few days after I posted that goshdarn tropical picture of my backyard, God decided to have a laugh at my impudence.

That's right. Better put on ski socks with those flip flops, because it snowed in Florida.

By the time I saw it, it was only cold rain, since I was too busy packing to come back to Europe. But see this car, (which is stolen from the WESH Orlando local news website)?

That sure ain't no powdered sugar from a Krispy Kreme donut.

Also, this video accurately describes me when I first saw snow at the age of 19:

home is where the absurd is

I spent the first 3 days of my ostensibly triumphant return holed up at home, trying to shelter myself from the reverse culture shock of seeing my hometown again. Luckily, it was pretty easy to do with cookies to be baked, family friends to entertain and jetlag to get over. But today I decided to venture into the wild, rough streets of Orlando on my own. I had prepared myself for this moment - I had been hearing "because

of the crisis" as a reason for everything for months anyway, so I figured that would also apply here. Basically, I was expecting to see tons of homeless people, foreclosure signs, and shut up storefronts everywhere. My fears were (mostly) unfounded, except for the notable demolition of the local ice cream joint, Coney's (which was formerly known as Dairy King - the estranged husband of the queen, I presume). But the other greats like Austin, the tea house on Edgewater Drive, and Orange Cycle are still around. And the traffic on 436 sucks as hard as ever.

I have to say, one of my favorite parts about being back is eavesdropping. My Mom and I went shopping in the old money part of town today (Park Ave., in Winter Park) and I heard some very interesting things. Ah, America, for better or for worse, there's nothin' like ya. Here are my favorites:

Overheard in Chico's, a middle aged women's fashion emporium

Overenthusiastic salesgirl, holding up blouse: "So, do you like this one?"

First snooty middle aged French lady: "I HATE it."

Salesgirl smiles awkwardly, shuffles away

Second snooty middle aged French lady [in French]: "I cannot find anything in this store..."

Overheard in a cosmetics store

One salesgirl to another, angrily: "I DON'T like avocados. They smell horrible, they taste horrible, it just makes me want to vomit!"

Overheard in a fair trade store

Flamboyantly gay salesguy to customer: "These purses are made out of used burkas. The women just sew them up when they finish with them, it's fabulous! But we're all out of black. As you would expect it's the most popular color..."

Overheard in a hippie dippy incense-stinking boutique

Southern accented lady with a bouffant who doesn't seem like she could possibly own a hippie store, but does:"Can y'all believe how cold it is out there? I hear we're going to have some cold air blownin' down all the way from Atlanta tonight..."

Meanwhile, I'm wearing shorts and flip flops. I guess I forgot to mention, Christmas in Florida looks something like this:

Could be worse, right?

back to basics

Sometimes I feel like I can only handle simple things, like when I recently congratulated myself for getting up the motivation to leave the house when it was minus 12 outside (I work in degrees C now, boys and girls). Or when I was waiting for the bus for 45 minutes in the cold because it was late, and then took such a hot shower that I successfully felt my little toes again. Although I sneered along with the other Krakowians last year when London shut down because of snow, I have to say it is not fun to experience a blizzard in a country not used to a real winter. At least I know that I should wear shoes with tread, unlike the lady I saw on the way to work today who almost ate it walking on ice in her high heels.

These are much more satisfying victories than the more technically difficult things I accomplished this weekend, such as learning how slippery it is to ride a bike in ice when it hasn't been plowed or salted. Also, I won't tell you how, but I also learned (cue soundtrack of choir of angels) the Correct Way to Make Belgian Fries. I would give you the recipe, but then I would have to kill you. Let's just say it involves a little voodoo magic and a whole lotta love.

So let's focus on the simple stuff. Hit it, Ray!

all i want for Christmas is...

Since I decided to quit French class, endlessly frustrated with not enough opportunities to practice it, I have a new hobby: trying to make money or win stuff by writing. Or at least get published.

My first endeavor: a contest at a travel writing website. First prize: a trip to Hawaii, woo hoo! Second prize (which might be even better for my hobby): a contract to freelance write some stories for the website.

Check out my entry & vote by clicking here:

http://www.trazzler.com/trips/miss-emily-s-blue-bee-bar-in-bs

If you're reading this, please take a few seconds to vote! You won't get spammed because the site connects you directly through facebook (or you can log in separately if you don't have an account). The deadline is December 23. If you have time to explore, the site is kind of cool because it recommends trips based on your location and the other trips you like. Sort of like Pandora but for traveling.

If I win, my plan is to take the opportunity to join up with an around the world sailing vessel: http://www.yacht-jennifer.nu/startpage.html?lang=2

I just read this guy's book, he spend 10 years sailing from port to port, circumnavigating the globe. Highlights on his last tour include diving at the infamous bikini atoll, and being the first sailboat to dock in Ho Chi Minh City after the Vietnam War. This, my friends, is the dream.

That is all.

You're a mean one

Why is it that the Christmas season in Belgium is Christmas, interrupted?

Right now, there are about 30 small Christmas trees and 2 large ones in and around Antwerpen Centraal train station, and only half of them are decorated. They have been up for a week, and some lazy tree trimmer even left the lights dangling off one of the big trees halfway up, like he was interrupted mid-trim, and then forgot to come back. He can't even use the two past weeks of constant rain as an excuse, because half of the undecorated trees are inside. Shame on you, Mr. Antwerp tree trimmer! There are small children just waiting for the decorations to go up, and you are off drinking hot wine somewhere! You're as cuddly as a cactus, and you're as charming as an eel!

Not only that, every time I try to visit the Christmas market in Antwerp, it's closed up. This could possibly be because I work normal working hours, which tends to exclude you from a lot of things in Belgium. So, I decided to go to the market in Brussels today instead, and could only find 20 of the 240 stands the website claims were up there, and nary a sign of the ice skating rink. However I did find a totally unnecessary light show in the Grand Place. There were a lot of tourists taking pictures, but I think they were as confused as I was.

Mr. Brussels market planning guy, you could have made so much more money off me today than you did! Your heart is filled with unwashed socks!

Believe it or not, today I met someone even worse of a Grinch than the lazy tree trimmer and the poor market planner. He was in disguise of a middle aged businessman, and got escorted off the train by SNCB security guards because he forcibly pushed small children out of the way trying to get on. On Sinterklaas day! Sir, given the choice between you and a seasick crocodile, I'd take the crocodile.

Let's hope someone in Whoville invites these guys to a feast of roast beast soon, the world has enough people with their hearts two sizes too small...

and they shall eat turkey

There's something funny about bringing new world traditions to the old world. I was never one to spend much time or effort on Thanksgivings past; it was more of a time to grumble a little bit about the commuting that had to be endured, eat a lot of pie and watch football with my Dad.

But something about being away makes you want to carry these things on, even if you don't get the day off. This is my second year putting on a 30+ person Thanksgiving in Europe, and I have to admit that sometimes it's better than the real thing. For one, the turkey in Belgium is infinitely fresher ("Hold on, we're just cleaning them, they're right off the truck," the butcher told me as I went to pick up my two 10 pound birds). Last year, after we finished eating, I watched incredulously as my Thanksgiving turned into a full blown dance party.

But traditions, I'm now realizing, are really important. Despite the near disasters, the expense, the hassle, it's worth it - maybe because it's a way to maintain your identity. Not only that, Thanksgiving is the perfect holiday for me and the people I tend to meet because it is a holiday expressly made for new immigrants eating together with natives.

Damn, I wish I had thought of that while I was making the toast. But to all who made it great, this cup of leftover wine is to you!

Sitting in a park in Paris, France...

I came home from a day of frustration the other day, and decided to have a nostalgic moment. I started listening to songs written by expat folk singers in Europe, like Joni Mitchell and James Taylor, singing of their states when they were feeling lost in France and Spain. I think the nostalgia is a product of the impending Christmas decorations you already see everywhere, but also of just being out a little too long. And tomorrow I'm going to Paris. I've been in four countries this week, but it's not as exciting as it used to be.

I sing a lot of the time, even often without realizing it, but that doesn't mean I'm not ever homesick. I feel like I have to hide it - I have well-rehearsed scripts to respond to questions, such as why In God's Name I Would Ever Leave A Tropical Paradise. It annoys me when people make assumptions that one place is better to live in than another without having tried it themselves --- but on the other hand, experience hasn't been that much of a guide to me either.

In 5 weeks, I'll be in Florida for the first time in 18 months. That's a hell of a long time to be off your continent. And I'm nervous about the measurements that I will have to make. What has changed? Who has changed? Will I hate it and rush back across Atlantic shores? Or will I relish the anonymity of no longer being the American Girl?

Will you take me as I am?