The
following Sunday I wake up to the sound of absolute tranquility—the rain
falling and cars humming past.
Clouds crowd overhead imparting that wonderful grey haze. The air smells sort of sweet and
sticky. I couldn’t imagine waking
up any other way than with that sound, and when I groggily roll over and pry
open one eye, I see this:
It’s like a scene out of a movie. I’ve always found Europe more romantic
in the rain (maybe because I arrived in Paris when it was raining and
immediately fell in love!).
Given my previous day, I’m reluctant to leave
my tiny bed… So I don’t. I stay in
my pajamas, grab my laptop, and proceed to work on finishing my last blog
post. My body hasn’t quite
acclimated to the time change yet so that even at noon I have barely an
appetite, but I know I ought to eat so I wander downstairs to our kitchen and
make myself a bowl of cereal and milk, which I then proceed to eat in bed—in my
pajamas. Can you blame me?
Meanwhile on Facebook, I arrange a meeting the
other students in my program who have arrived in Brussels. We decide to meet in front of Le Cathédrale Sainte
Catherine at 6:30 and have dinner, but
a few of us are eager to get out and explore so we decide to meet two hours
early. 4:30? I have plenty of time to change out of
my pajamas and get ready to hit the ground. Of course I’ve never taken the metro in Brussels, but I
reassure myself by remembering how I learned the metro systems in Paris and Lyon
and later even Barcelona. Surely I
can figure out how to get Saint Catherine’s!
I planned to leave around 4 so that I had half
an hour to get lost, take the wrong line, whatever. I might be confident about my metro skills, but I’m not a
complete arrogant idiot… I mean, at least at the time I didn’t think so.
The day before when Madame Caenen and her
husband drove me to my foyer, they pointed out the metro and told me it would
be easy for me to take the tram to the metro and get to classes. I simply walk up the street from my
foyer to the main boulevard where the tram line runs, turn left, and proceed to
walk a few blocks until I see the metro signs. Easy enough. I
leave at 4:10 or so having gotten distracted with my e-mails or Facebook, and I
hurry to be sure I won’t be late.
I cross the street and head off in the right direction. Given the rain and chilliness, I’m
wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and my Converse, but evidently this late in the
afternoon the weather has flipped completely. It is sunny, and it is hot. I immediately begin to sweat, but I keep my pace knowing I
have less than 20 minutes to find my way, figure out which metro line to take,
and make it to Saint Catherine’s.
I walk, and I walk, and I walk some more… I see
no metro signs.
Did I hallucinate? Didn’t Madame Caenen tell me there was a metro right
here? I was so tired and
overwhelmed yesterday it could have very easily have been another direction. Not
to worry, I tell myself. I’ll
simply take the tram to Saint Catherine’s. I remember distinctly within my jetlagged haze yesterday
that Madame told me to take the tram number 25. Pas du probleme!
I cross the street and stride up to the tram
station which is an open area beside the tracks in between both directions of
traffic. There is a screen with
directions, tram numbers, and minutes until the tram arrives. The names constantly change from Dutch
to French every few minutes, leaving me confused at first since I can’t read
Dutch and don’t understand why there is a name for the same place in two
different languages. I check the
map on the back of the seating area to gain my bearings and decide which line
and direction I need to take. What
faces me is an array of brightly colored lines scribbled across Brussels,
intertwined and tangled with minute numbers beside them to mark which is
which. I can’t even find the
tramline 25 let alone locate my current station let alone figure out how the heck I’m going to get to Saint
Catherine’s! I don’t even have a
map of Brussels to consult. I’m
flying blind, and my confidence turns on its heels and runs with its tail
between its legs.
Ok, Emily, you don’t have a map. You don’t know which direction to go,
which stop to take, or how to get to Saint Catherine’s. Rather than hoping on the first tram
that comes along, maybe you should go back to your foyer where you have
internet service and make a plan before you try again! It’s 4:20. There’s no way I’m going to be able to run home, figure out
where I’m going, and make it on time to meet my friends to explore. Still, I leave the tram station and
head back in the direction of my foyer, torn as to what I should do. I’m sure most of you are yelling at
your monitor, “Ask for directions!”
Well if you’ll recall my last post, you’ll know that didn’t work out so
well for me when I was trying to find the Carrefour. I also am
extremely paranoid about singling myself out as a tourist. I’m sure my walking around in circles
already alerted everyone around me, but it’s the one way I try to protect myself
from unwanted attention, i.e. pick-pocketing, insults, etc.
However, as I’m walking toward my foyer away from
the tram station, I see an elderly man crossing the street to walk in front of
me. Having travelled somewhat
abroad and having been lost numerous times and being that I’m very paranoid, I
know what I look for if I ever have to approach someone: a woman, a girl around
my age, families, or elderly people.
Maybe I’m crazy, but I don’t ask directions from men, groups of
teenagers, or sketchy people.
I hurry forward to catch up with him and ask, “Pardon, Monsieur, mais
savez-vous comment je vais à Sainte Catherine?”
“Ou?” he asks.
“Sainte Catherine,” I repeat, but I’m a bit
flustered and nervous turning my French into some garbled, guttural sounds.
“You speak English?”
“Yes.”
I will speak whatever you want me to if you just tell me where the heck
the metro is!
“Oh, ok, and what are you looking for?”
“I’m trying to get to Saint Catherine, but I’m a
bit turned around.”
“Ok, ok.
Let me think.”
We stop at the street corner where he looks off
into the distance and purses his lips.
I shift uncomfortably from foot to foot, aware that one of the peddlers
on the corner has perked, stood up, and is watching us. This is another reason I don’t like
asking for directions. In cities
like this, someone is always watching.
“Ok, ok,” he says after some time. “You will take this tram here.” He points to the station I just walked
away from. “Either number, it
doesn’t matter. Take the tram to
Montgomery. You get off, and you
walk up the stairs and take the number 1 to Saint Catherine. Yes?”
Oh, Montgomery? That sounds simple enough. Actually, it sounds familiar. I have the odd tingling sensation that Madame told me this yesterday...
“Thank you so much,” I say and give him a big grin
which he happily returns. This is
why I ask old people. He probably
thinks I’m his granddaughter’s age and is happy to help me.
I head across the street yet again and to the tram
station somewhat more confident.
Ok. Tram to
Montgomery. Metro 1 to Saint
Catherine. I can do this.
The train comes, and I step in the front where the
conductor is separated from the passengers by a glass division.
“Bonjour,” I say to get his attention, amounting
mostly to him turning his profile my direction. “J’ai besoin d’un billet s’il vous plait.”
He picks up a ticket and mutters the price under
his breath.
“C’est combien?”
“2.50 Euros,” he replies louder.
I pass him a 5 Euro bill, take my ticket and
change, and head deeper into the tram to find a seat. I watch as other passengers board, waiting and listening for
the Montgomery stop, and make an embarrassing discovery. Yes, I bought my ticket, but like the
tourist I am, I forgot to scan it! I cringe inwardly and face my next
dilemma: should I just pretend I’m a dumb tourist and not scan it? Or should I do the honorable thing and
walk up there to the scanner and scan it in front of the entire tram? I jockey between the options for
several minutes, not completely satisfied with either one, and suddenly I decide
I will scan my ticket when I leave.
My stop arrives at last, and I hurry to the front to scan my ticket and
exit the tram. Fortunately, no one
says anything.
Unlike the exterior tram stations that I had scene,
Montgomery station is a proper underground metro station. I take the escalator up a level,
glancing at the signs and following their arrows toward the metro line 1. Only there are two different directions
on the metro line 1 on opposite sides of the station, and in the center the
different sides are divided by exit and entry stations. I wander up and down the metro at first
trying to see if I can figure out what to do next. I only have the ticket from the tram, and I had to go and be
honorable and scan it!
I notice three metro workers loitering around a
ticket booth talking. It’s 4:32. I’m already late, but they might be
waiting for me. If I hurry, maybe
I can catch them. I walk toward
the gates, catch one of the workers’ attentions, and wave. He walks over to me and asks what is
wrong.
“I need a ticket,” I tell him, “and I don’t know
where I buy one.”
“You don’t have a ticket?” he asks me.
I shake my head.
“But you just came out of the metro, yes?”
“Yes.”
I can tell he’s confused by this, but my blank
stare offers nothing. I don’t know
what the heck I’m doing. You’re
the metro worker. You tell me how
I got here and need another ticket to continue!
After a moment he motions for me to walk down a
ways and lets me come through the gate.
He walks me to a ticket machine and proceeds to show me how to use it.
“Do you want one jump or an aller-retour (go and
return)?”
“Aller-retour,” I decide since I’ll have to come
this way again to get home.
He enters the information, and tells me it will be
3.70 Euros. The machine only
accepts coins and cards, so I open my purse and begin to search through my
money for the coins. He stands
nearby, watching me fumble for some 5 minutes trying to dig out the appropriate
amount of change, before I finally purchase my ticket.
“Where are you trying to go?” he asks.
“Sainte Catherine.” Please, will someone just tell me how to get to Saint
Catherine??
“Go through there,” he motions to the side of the
metro station opposite where I came up.
“Take the metro line 1 in the direction of Weststation and take the stop
for Sainte Catherine.”
“Merci!”
I hurry off in the direction, aware he and his
buddies are watching as I try to figure out how to insert the ticket and get
through the gates. I try several
gates which don’t open. I try to
insert the ticket the wrong way and have to flip it and try again. At last, I’m able to go through and
rush down the stairs to the platform.
I’m pretty sure the man and his friends are laughing behind me, but I
don’t really care. It’s around
4:50. I have to go, go, go! I’m not even sure that they’ll be
waiting for me when I get there, but I’ve made it this far. I can’t turn back now.
I take the metro to Sainte Catherine, walk up the
stairs, and find myself standing in the square in front of Sainte Catherine…
Finally!! I’m near jogging as I
head across the square and toward the church. It is beautiful, but I don’t have time to appreciate its
Gothic façade, the petit cafes surrounding it, or the fountain in the
center. I’m too busy trying to
locate my fellow students whom I’ve never even met before. It’s 4:54. I’m beyond late.
To my surprise, I see them: Trisdon and Becca
standing in the square talking.
Becca happens to look my direction, and I wave. It’s me! I made it! I
made it!
I apologize numerous times about my tardiness,
but they shrug and explain they were running late as well. Oh, you have to love college kids. We’re never on time anywhere. We chat for a little while, and I’m
pleased to discover they’re as chill and kind in person as they are on
Facebook. Thank goodness. As we head out, Trisdon asks if we should
speak in French or continue speaking in English? Becca and I hesitate.
Obviously we should speak in French to practice, but there’s something
so easy and comforting about speaking your native tongue with someone from your
country. Still, we both smile and
begin speaking French. You have to
step out of your comfort zone sometimes.
Given that Trisdon arrived the Wednesday and
has therefore had almost four days to explore, he is our guide. He decides to take us to the Grand
Place. We discuss our flights,
lack of sleep, lodging, and more in French. Becca and I stumble along, dusting off our French skills,
but it’s easier to speak with a non-native in that sense. You both make mistakes, correct
yourselves, and continue on. No
big deal. In time, we don’t even
think about it. This is one thing
I’m happy for that I wished I could have done more on my last study
abroad. When you speak half the
time in English with your American friends, your French tends to stay at the
same level. You have to immerse
yourself completely to reap the benefits of studying in another culture and
language.
We wander through cramped, cobblestone
streets. Around us people
alternate between French and Dutch.
I love the European charm, the wrought iron details on gates, the brick
facades of buildings, the canopies on cafes, the smells, the sounds… It all
seems distantly familiar. At last
we round a corner, and we find ourselves at the Grand Place. Suffice it to say, I was in awe.
The square is buzzing with tourists of every
nationality, and Becca and I are quick to shuck our cool and pick up our
cameras to take photos. You can’t
be a student over night. You have
to be a tourist for a little bit!
Once Becca and I have taken our fill of photos
from every direction and angle and light, we head down a narrow side street
where we find a huge mural of graffiti.
This is one of things about Europe that I love: the simultaneity of past
and present. You walk on Medieval
cobblestone streets beside Gothic churches and find graffiti right alongside it
as though it has every right to be there.
We then find our way to the La Galerie de la
Reine which is a beautiful shopping center with chocolate shops, boutiques,
cafes, and more. It’s breathtaking
how light pours through the arched glass ceiling.
We walk around aimlessly through the streets of Brussels without any determined direction. Even so, we wonder upon beautiful cathedrals, sleek professional buildings, haute rues, perfectly manicured gardens, and even a music festival!
We decide to make our way to Le Manneken Pis before we head
back to Sainte Catherine to meet up with the others for dinner. I remember studying about this in my
French classes, and I’m giddy to see the real life statue and solidify the
connection between my studies and my life in Brussels. It does not disappoint.
I mean how can you not find it kind of hilarious
that Brussels is known for a statue of a little chubby boy peeing? Japanese tourists are taking pictures
in front of it. There’s something
gut-wrenchingly funny about that to me.
After taking several photos, we head back to
the cathedral. Trisdon leaves Becca and I to look out for the others while he runs back to his hostel to contact some of his friends who are supposed to meet us for dinner. Becca and I inevitably return to English while we sit outside of Saint Catherine's chatting about all variety of subjects from our studies to where we live to our flights yet again. We notice a girl walk past us and look after her.
"Is that Mary Kate?" I ask.
"I don't know," Becca answers. "She looks familiar, but I can't tell. I've only seen her on Facebok."
She continues to walk away, so we hesitate, trying to decide what we should do. We don't want to accidentally harrass some random person! I decide I'll yet out her name, and if she turns, then we'll know.
"Mary Kate!" I call out after her, and immediately her head snaps our direction.
Yep! She wanders over, and we talk while we wait for Trisdon to return. With him comes the return of our dutifully spoken French. His friends are too tired to meet us for dinner, so it's the four of us. Trisdon takes us back to the Grand Place, since it's nearby and Mary Kate hasn't yet seen it. It's as beautiful the second time around. We discuss what we want for dinner, and I'm adamant that I want a Belgian meal. It's an absolute must! Of course the cafes and restaurants around us are a tourist hotspot, and a single meal can range anywhere from 20 Euros to 40 Euros! Ridiculous!
We head deeper into the back streets away from the commotion, eyeing the menus propped outside the restaurants from meals that interest us at a price we can live with. One man takes us and begins to walk us through his menu in an attempt to gain our service. We're not totally sold. The next man grabs us and tells us about his menu and lures us with the promise of a free beer. Free beer? Ok. We can do that.
We're seated within a couple of feet of the other man whom we denied not even a minute before, and we avoid eye contact. Sorry, dude, but you know how this goes. I decide to order les moules-frites (mussels and fries) since it's a stereotypical Belgian dish, and it sounds delicious! We drink our free beers and talk sporadically in English and French, fighting off jet lag and hunger as we wait. European restaurant service is not known for its speediness. It's simply not the mentality. A meal is a lengthy, relaxed affair. We Americans aren't too great at that. Eventually my meal arrives.
The mussels are steamed in some sort of white wine, celery, and onion mixture. They're salty and tender with a tang of the sea. The fries are crisp and delicious. I think I've died and gone to Belgian heaven. Alongside my free glass of Stella Artois, amazing!!
And for dessert, we decide to continue our stereotypical tourist day and have waffles. Oh yes. I would show you a picture to tease you with how crisp, buttery, and fluffy my waffle ways, but unfortunately I was too enamored with it to pause for a photo! Obviously that only means I have to have another... :)
With our bellies full, we leave the restaurant and head back toward the metro. Trisdon and Mary Kate head their separate ways while Becca and I discover were take the same line and get off at Montgomery together. There we part ways, and I continue on my own to the tram and to my stop at Roffiaen. It's right in front of my street, meaning I only have to walk about 3 blocks or so back to my foyer. I arrive home around 11, and I'm exhausted but content.
I'm in better spirits than I've been since I left Houston. No more fear or timidity. I'm excited and happy, perhaps it's knowing that I'm not alone on this trip. There are other American students like me who are facing the same obstacles and adversities, and so, I don't have to worry so much. At least I can share my experience with someone.
When I got to sleep, I still wish for my little Anabelle, but at least I'm optimistic about the day to come. Tomorrow I go to the IFE building for orientation.
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