The Journey to Brussels

I got a fortune cookie the other day.  Inside it said, “Sometimes it is better to travel hopefully than to arrive.”

Well, fortune cookie, I call bullshit.

Sitting in Heathrow Airport between my flight to London and my flight to Brussels, I am very, very, very eager to arrive!  I’m ready to unpack, to settle in, to relax, and to take a scalding shower. 

Somehow I don’t recall my flight to Paris last summer being nearly this exhausting, but really I can’t blame my weariness on today’s events alone.  It’s been a culmination of a week of anxiety-ridden, sleepless nights, stressing over packing, and silently mourning leaving my heart in Texas.  Even though I went away from home for college straight out of high school, I remained in Texas within driving distance of my family.  Whenever I was going through a hard time or better yet brimming with news to share, I could just pick up the phone and—BOOM—I could talk to my family.  In light of that, maybe you can understand why I had a heavy heart boarding my flight to Brussels.  Between the time difference, my soon-to-be packed schedule, and international calling, I won’t be able to hear my mom’s voice, crack up over a joke my Aunt Kim tells, listen to the nightly report of the raccoons and possums who visit our backyard, or talk to my big brother (Oh wait, that never happens anyway!).  Suffice it to say I’ve never been so far away from home for so long, and that saddened me more than I even expected it to.  I also had to leave my baby monkey angel, aka my cat Anabelle, with my parents for the year (I bawled my eyes out when I had to leave her).

I say all of this to make a point: I’m exhausted mentally, emotionally, and physically before I even step foot in the airport in Houston.

Of course when I have to say goodbye to my dad, mom, and brother, I’m in tears again because I know it very well might be the last time I see them in some nine months.  This continues on and off even after I board my flight, unfortunately for my seatmates, who probably think I’m flying to a funeral.

But I digress… International travelling out of Houston is efficient albeit extremely time-consuming.  The line for security zigzags across the length of a large auditorium, and it feels infinitely longer since you have to pick up your bags every five seconds to move them a centimeter forward.  It’s like a marathon of snails.  Then of course by the time you finally get up to the security point, you’re moving lightening fast so as not to hold up any of your other flyers, which inevitably backfires because it’s impossible to unbuckle your shoes, dig out all your electronics, remove your watch, and go through the metal detector simultaneously.  So half the time you’re hopping on one foot, waving your camera, and saying a Hail Mary that they don’t do a body search.  Naturally the security guards takes one look at me and makes me go to the huge, super scanner.  It’s like a tanning bed in shape and the position you have to hold for a period of time, but when you step out of it, there’s only angry security guards to greet you with their latex gloves.  Once I was passed on quite flippantly, I proceeded to scramble and wrangle up all my boxes, rearrange my stuff, and put my shoes on.  Whew.  I think I broke a sweat.

Needless to say it took me a little over an hour to get through the line and through security.  After exchanging some cash for Euros and finding my gate, I was about an hour and a half early.  So I texted my last goodbyes, called my parents, and tried not to acknowledge the nerves building in my stomach.  As I mentioned earlier, I don’t remember being this anxious for Paris, but maybe I’m wiser this time around.  I know what I’m getting myself into: all the beautiful streets and delicious meals but also all the fumbling French phrases, the studying, and the hard work.  Only this trip doesn’t end after three months.  It’s three times that long!  So, I admit it.  Yes, I was scared.  I was scared of leaving my family, saying goodbye to my friends, flying over 5,000 miles away from Texas, speaking another language with no reprieve (last time I had my fellow UT students to give me a break every now and again), living on my own rather than with a host family, having to tackle my first big girl job in another country in a foreign language… I mean really the list in my mind was daunting.

But I got on the plane because the thought of surrendering without a fight is even scarier.

With my newfound courage, I strap into my seat and brace for take off.  Apparently the universe thought I was getting too big for my breeches or just enjoyed rattling my nerves.  We taxi out of the gate and onto the launch pad, me crying silent tears like some Audrey Hepburn movie, but nothing happens.  A huge thunderstorm rolls in out of nowhere, and we’re stuck literally on the runway in the rain waiting for it to clear up.  The pilot tells us not to worry, that it’ll be over in about 10-15 minutes… 45 minutes later we take off, but not before scaring the heck out of every passenger onboard.  With the rain pouring down, water is leaking in through the doors.  I know this because I was seated on an emergency exit aisle watching the stream of water fall from the door and bleed into the carpet.  Being that we’re all—uh—human, we’re like, “That’s not right.”  Except that a charming British flight attendant pops up to tell us it’s very normal and nothing to worry about.  We’re not buying it.  I mean we were in the early stages of a mutiny when the plane took off.  It’s kind of hard to unleash anarchy when you’re 33,000 feet in the air.  Fortunately, there was no breach in cabin pressure causing a massive airborne explosion (I was sitting on my butt for 45 minutes: Of course I planned out my horrible, worst-case scenario fate!).

I also have to point out that at my pre-departure family lunch, Dad jokingly said I would get the plane with a broken toilet.  The toilet right in front of my broke before the plane even took off.

Our near death experience avoided, we eat.  I requested a vegetarian meal knowing how sensitive my stomach is and how picky I can be about my meat.  Turns out I’m a ggeeeennniiiuussssssss.  I got Indian food, y’all.  Nom nom nom.  Even though it was pretty delicious, I was too nervous to make much of a dent in it.  I’m tired.  I just want to curl up and sleep and wake up in Belgium.  That doesn’t happen.  Instead, I toss and turn, looking longingly at my seatmates who are passed out and near drooling beside me.  Babies onboard get into screaming matches, but evidently I’m the only one of the plane sensitive to screeching high-pitched sounds like shrill sirens for nine hours.  My neck is stiff, my shoulders ache, my eyelids are half hanging down my eyes.  I just want to sleep.  Eventually I fade off in ten or twenty minute incriminates for a total of about an hour.  Then it’s time to land.  Being that this flight is swiftly turning into the flight from hell, I can’t simply walk away.  No, by the time we land in London, I have a roaring migraine to the point that I want to throw up.  I’ve somehow managed to break the strap on my laptop case necessitating that I carry it in my arms like a baby in addition to my huge carryon tote and purse.  I’ve also miraculously broken five of my nails without the faintest clue how or when it happened.  Oh, and did I mention just how cute I was having cried off all my makeup and mascara?  I resembled something like a pale, swollen-eyed banshee stumbling into Heathrow.

Coming off the plane in that shape, you can imagine the last thing I want to do is lug my baggage through customs again.  I mean after all I took a British Airways’ flight, landed in London, and haven’t left the secure area.  But no.  I have to get in another obnoxiously long zigzag line with a Spanish family stepping on my heels and a German guy trying to line cut.  Back off and grow up, people!  Not in the mood for it!  Yet again, I have to do that oh so annoying security tango of hopping one footed toward the metal detector and praying for the best.  After another hour has passed by, I am finally out of their custody and free to board my next flight.  By now my splitting migraine has almost paralyzed one side of my body—not really, but it felt imminent.  My shoulders are so tense from the flight that carrying my baggage around is excruciating.   And I’m stumbling around half-asleep like a zombie.  I end up in a small bar/café because I’m too tired to go any further, and there’s a nice quiet little booth in the back where I can be alone.  I order a pot of Earl Grey tea (yes, I’m a stereotype), pop some Excedrin, and top it off with a croissant.  I was too nauseous on the flight to eat my “breakfast”, i.e. whole wheat roll and fruit cup, so I’m starving by this point in time.  I down my tea in two cups, and I am ravaging that hot buttery croissant.  When I happen to look up to breathe, I realize two model-esque young men are sitting across from me and enjoying the show.  I wipe the crumbs from my mouth and try to regain my dignity.  Oh universe how you love to harass me some days.

Fortunately, the triple threat combo—caffeine, food, medicine—banished my migraine, and I was able to head to my next gate in lighter spirits.  I even appreciate how beautiful the airport is and snap a few photos (You were right, Aunt Rosemary!).  

Still, my flight to London haunts me.  With my jagged nails, I’m like Edward Scissorhands slicing open things and getting caught in my sweater.

I’m one of the first passengers to board the flight to Brussels because fate has finally decided to throw me a bone.  Around me, young families are filing onto the plane and settling into their seats, the majority speaking French.  A little girl beside me is playing with her dolls and singing French nursery rhymes.  For the first time since I stepped foot in an airport today, I feel my anxiety whittling away.  In its place is thick, unforgiving sleep.  Those who know me know how paranoid I am and how hard it is for me to fall asleep in public.  No joke, I was so tired I was nodding.  I kept waking up just in time to catch my head, and eventually I turned in my seat and passed out for the hour and a half that I could.  I didn’t care about refreshments or snacks.  It’s glorious.  I only wake up when I hear the pilot announce it’s time to land.

No surprise, we come to a shaky landing in Brussels, and my nerves are back with a vengeance!  I’m having trouble putting one foot in front of the other I’m shaking so badly.  Sad but true.  It’s a combination of excitement and nerves.  I hug my broken laptop bag in my arms and head off to border control.  The officer barely gives me a second glance before stamping my passport, and I’m welcomed into Belgium just like that.  My suitcase comes out slightly scuffed but in one piece, and I’m onto the arrivals area where Madame Caenen, her husband, and her little baby girl are waiting for me.

I see her walking through the crowd, craning her neck at the passengers flooding out.  She notices me as I approach.

“Madame?” I ask tentatively.

“Emily?”

I nod, and she burst into rapid French and grabs me to kiss my cheek in greeting.  I naturally move for two kisses, but she stops me.

“We only do one kiss in Belgium.”

Oh right.  I’m not in France anymore.  This must be how Dorothy felt.

She introduces me to her husband who shakes my hand, and yet again I’m reminded: I’m not in France (I think I once kissed ten French people at a dinner—on both cheeks!).  I might be thrown off by the subtle cultural change, but Madame and Monsieur are so sweet that I soon forget it.  They introduce me to their three-week old little girl, Ophelia.

“Like Shakespeare,” I say, and Madame lights up.

A literature lover, she complains that most people don’t get the reference. 

Emily: 1.

They help me with my bags and guide me out to their car, all the while asking me about the flight and Texas heat and such.  Madame has a way of speaking in French that I dread: all her words roll together, and she speaks very softly, almost breathlessly through her lips.  I’m practically giving her that second bisou with how far I have to lean in to properly understand what she’s telling me.  I feel clumsy and rusty with my French.  I understand most of what she says, but my stunted replies reflect my lack of practice as well as my exhaustion.  I can’t formulate intelligent, lengthy French replies.  Fortunately Madame is happy to talk at me about past participants of the program, about her daughter, about literature, and more.  I take the time to drink it all in as we drive.  I’m almost like a dog rushing from window to window to see what’s waiting next.

Brussels has the Old World charm of Paris mixed with modern elements.  It reminds me of France with the open greenery, lack of billboards, and European model cars buzzing past, although all the traffic signs are in Dutch.  It’s Greek to me, so I nod and chirp out “Oui” from time to time while I lose myself in the surroundings. 

They take me to the student quartier of Brussles, called Ixelles, where I will be living.  Old buildings sit cheek to cheek, each face offering a different color, texture, pattern, patio, etc.  No two are alike, and I’m instantly in love.  Madame points out the tram which I will take to reach the center of the city along with instructions on how to buy a ticket (“Get on the tram and buy one from the conductor.”  Simple enough.  Let’s wait and see how I screw that up).  Her husband and she then take me down the road from my foyer to a Carrefour where I’ll need to do grocery shopping before the day is out since nothing is open on Sundays.  I don’t want my first memory of Brussels to be me starving!

Then, finally, they take me to my house.  It’s an unassuming cream-colored building with a large door.  Madame opens it with a warning, “This is the only key.  Don’t lose it.

No pressure.  Inside, off-white tile lines the entryway.  Ahead narrow orange stairs stretch up into the heart of the building.  The heat that meets us is a bit surprising given how beautifully cool and sunny it is outside, but then again there is no A/C and no fans.  I’m well versed in this from France, (though it remains an enigma for most Americans I think), but I’ve been spoiled by Texas A/C and immediately feel the sweat running down my back.

“Are you ready?” Madame asks me and gives me a loaded look.  “You’re on the fourth floor.”

I laugh.  Inwardly I’m cringing.  I’ve mentioned that the fourth floor in Europe usually translates as the fifth floor.  So some 85 winding, narrow stairs later we arrive breathless at my room.  My heart’s racing in my chest as I stare at the old door with peeling orange paint.  I’ve been waiting for this since April.  Madame unlocks the door and lets it swing open to reveal… a closet.  Well a closet that’s been stuffed with a desk, a bunk bed situated over the desk, some drawers, a “closet”, and a few lamps.  I’m not going to lie.  I was underwhelmed.  Madame’s description via e-mail promised cabinets and a sink and desk and chair.  Ok so I have those, but like the midget IKEA versions.  Still, I smile and walk in masking my dismay with a Cheshire grin.  The saving grace is the view from the window.  Narrow streets stretch out underneath and beautiful brick buildings with terracotta chimneys crowning them bob into view in the distance.  Madame opens the window, and a fresh, crisp, cool breeze flushes out the stuffy air.  I guess it’s not so bad.  Staring at that view, breathing in the Belgian air, I start to think it’s not cramped.  It’s cozy. 

But where am I going to put my shoes?

Ophelia begins to wake and cry, leaving Madame to abandon me and Monsieur so that she can feed her child.  Left to our own devices Monsieur dedicates himself to fixing the internet connection so that I can access my e-mail and contact my family.  He politely asks if he can see my laptop and then proceeds to do things to my wireless I didn’t even know could be done.  He tries again and again and again, but not one single page will load.  Not even halfway.  I give up thinking I’ll find a café with internet, but Monsieur is balancing on my rolling desk chair and messing with the wifi router.  I wonder if I should tell him it’s not necessary, but then an hour later, he does it.  I am forever grateful, Monsieur!

Around that time one of my housemates shows up.  She’s very sweet and friendly and stops to talk to us for a while.  I feel completely out of my league.  She’s Spanish originally but going to university in Belgium.  I can’t even pronounce her name properly (I even tried to read it on a note on the fridge and still don’t have it.  I’m going to have to make her spell it).  Regardless, it’s a relief to meet one of my housemates and to know that she isn’t a snotty, little brat.  I know we’ll get along, once I figure out her name that is.

At around 4 o’clock in the afternoon, Madame and Monsieur decide to leave but not without giving me some warnings first.  Here are some things I’ve learned:

- Don’t make eye contact with strangers—especially men.  They take it as an invitation.

- I’m lucky I’m brunette because apparently most sleazy creeps go after blondes.

- Don’t wear sneakers if you’re not going running, or you might as well put a sign on you asking to be pick-pocketed.  Same goes with American university T-shirts and carrying around plastic water canteens (better hide mine in my bag).

I generally had an idea about these, but it was nice for her to explicitly state them so I know.  We girls have watch out for each other!

Once they leave, I change my shoes and tell my housemate that I’m going to go grocery shopping.

“What?” she asks.

“I’m going to go grocery shopping at Carrefour.”

“What?”

I say it another way, and her face relaxes.

“Oh.  You’re going shopping,” she emphasizes, making it clear I hadn’t annunciated well enough for her to understand me.

Homegirl, I just landed.  At least give me a night to pull together my French accent.

I say goodbye to her and head out.  There’s something liberating and exciting about walking out alone into a new city.  I know generally where I’m going, considering it was just one direction down the street.  I tread across a couple of blocks, stretching my neck to take in my new neighborhood, but eventually I begin to doubt myself.  Hm.  It hadn’t seemed like this long of a walk when we were driving. Inevitably I realize I’m lost.  Given the beautiful buildings dwarfing me, the casual charm of people walking down the street, the little cafes marking each street corner, I don’t really mind.  I wander around, zigzagging my way up and down a series of blocks knowing that Carrefour is on one of them and therefore it’s inevitable that I stumble across it.  When I look at my watch, however, time has crept past me.  Carrefour closes at 6.  I have to get in there today since they won’t be open tomorrow!

I ask a woman walking her dog for directions and realize all too late she doesn’t speak French.

She points.

“Straight ahead?”

She nods and moves her hand.

“And to the left?”

She nods again.

With a vaguely better idea, I start off yet again, walking and walking, but I’m no closer to finding this mythical Carrefour.  Growing aggravated and losing time, I ask a couple for directions.

“Coiffure?” he misunderstands and mimes a brush in his hair.

“No, Carrefour,” I annunciate more clearly.

“Carrefour,” his wife translates, another person pinpointing my mispronunciation.

I nod, and they begin giving me directions in English.  Well, damn.  I guess I couldn’t expect to pass myself off for a Belgian student on my first day, but still.  It’s been awhile since a French-speaking person has reverted to speaking to me in English.  He gives me explicit details, and I thank them and head off in the right direction, all the while practicing “Carrefour” under my breath.

I finally arrive at the mythical Carrefour and encounter a whole knew obstacle: the European grocery store.  Yes, the idea is the same with fruits and veggies, meat, frozen things, boxed things, and all, but somehow it’s alien.  The labels are different.  You have to pause and inspect things to decide what they are since half the time the labels are in Dutch or use French words I’m not familiar with.  I walk up and down aisles grabbing random things without any sense of how it will become a meal or how I’ll make it a cohesive plate.  I’m just grabbing, thinking I’ll plan better when I have more time to think about the meals I need to make.  For now, I grab cereal, milk (which took my about 10 minutes since I couldn’t read the Dutch labels and grabbed the only one that said “milk” in English somewhere on the carton), smoked sliced ham, Camembert, broccoli, mushrooms, tomatoes, yogurt, Starbucks bottle frappacinos (I didn’t check to see if there was a coffee maker before I left, so I want to be safe!), crackers, Dijon mustard, balsamic vinegar, a 2-liter bottle of water (I’m not sure if I want to drink tap water yet), and sunflower oil.  Don’t ask.  I don’t know what I was thinking.  I also grab a French Glamour magazine and a spiral notebook for my classes.  All in all it comes to about 42 Euros.  I’ll be smarter in the future about how I shop, but at least this is a start.  Now that I’m loaded up, having also purchased two Carrefour bags since they don’t give you plastic bags for your groceries, I then carry my bounty back to my house.  Even though I know where I’m going, it’s still a decent 10-minute walk so that my fingers and hands are swollen and red from carrying my groceries when I finally arrive home.  Oh right, and I still have to walk up 63 stairs to reach the kitchen (I’ll have to do a separate post on the “kitchen.”  For now suffice it to say Mom, your head would explode).

Considering I share this kitchen with multiple housemates, I try to consolidate my food and fit it all onto one shelf.  When my Spanish housemate wanders home, she stops to chat with me for a moment, opens the fridge to tell me which shelf is mine, and fortunately tells me I’ve chosen the right one.  So I was correct to think we each only get one shelf!  She leaves before I can ask her if I’m assigned a cabinet, so I choose one that’s empty and has the number 4 on it (I live on the fourth floor) and use that one.  I take my bottle of water and crackers upstairs with me and am left to conquer this tiny closet-sized room and my two full suitcases.  Awesome.

I arrive home around 5:45.  Two hours later I’m unpacked and arranged in my room.  I encounter numerous dilemmas, chief among them the previous owner.  Evidently this chick used my room as a dumping ground under the guise that she was being generous and leaving things behind to help me.  Girl, I don’t want your seven worn out sweaters, five dirty towels and three dirty rags, half-used bottle of hand cream, almost dried up pens, left over random sticky notes, two cheap candles, and more… I barely enough space for my own stuff without having to find a place for all your leftovers.  I still don’t know what the heck I’m going to with all these bulky, oversized, worn sweaters… I’m hoping there’s a European version of a Goodwill somewhere.

Before (Sorry it's sideways!)

I’m exhausted but satisfied.  With all my things out of my suitcase and spread out in view, I have a sense of ownership.  I claim this closet in the name of Emily!  Ah, maybe I’m delirious.

After!

By this time, I also realize I’m hungry.  I haven’t eaten since that croissant in the Heathrow airport, which was some 13 hours ago.  I wander downstairs to the kitchen to address my meager one-shelf of refrigerator space.  What the hell was I thinking?  Eh, I grab a yogurt, the smoked ham, and Camembert.  Around this time my housemate arrives home out of breath and sweating.

“I just came back from a run,” she explains as she grabs a glass and proceeds to chug some water.

“At the park?” I ask, remembering that Madame had pointed out the park and mentioned there was a jogging trail.

“Yes, it’s a great place to run.”

I smile and tell her I like to run, and I continue to shuffle around with my random “meal.”

She tells me, “Bon appétit,” and hurries upstairs to probably change.

I thank her and begin to dig around in the cabinets to find the plates and silverware.  The more I see, the more I cringe.  I’m not a germaphobe even, but this is a whole other level… I eat a slice of smoked ham, my apricot yogurt, and a bite or two of Camembert.

It’s not exactly the dinner of champions, but it’s enough.  I think I’m too tired and too overwhelmed to have much of an appetite.  I replace my food, wash my dishes with soap and my hands (the sponge is a color that does not promise cleanliness), and head upstairs to work on this blog post.  I plan on going to bed around 10 or so since I’ve had such an exhausting day and need to work on acclimating myself to a Belgian schedule.  I wait, listening, for my housemate to shower before I take my turn.

The shower is down a level from the kitchen on the second floor, so I lug all my toiletries, towel, and such downstairs to the shower.  It’s tiny, but I suppose what was I expecting?  There’s only a little maybe two feet by two feet area to undress, and then the shower is a walk in around the same size with a glass door that slides closed.  There’s no bench or seat to place my clothes on.  There’s no bathmat to step out onto.  I end up laying out my clothes and towel across the heater, and I step into the shower with my sandals on (I really am not a germaphobe, but I do have concerns).  I turn on the water and wait, shivering.  The water is ice cold—not even lukewarm.  I wonder if I really need to take a shower.  Maybe I can e-mail Madame and tell her about the shower, but then when I really fear there is no hot water, the water finally begins to warm up.  I breathe an exhale of relief and begin to wash my hair.  In European showers, they don’t have a fixed showerhead that you stand under.  It’s a portable head attacked to a little hose so you have to use that.  It’s something very simple, but even in France, I remember thinking it was unnecessary work.  When it comes time to rinse out the shampoo, I discover the plumbing is not nearly finished torturing me.  The water is searing hot.  I mean so hot I can’t stand under it.  I nudge the knob barely a hair over, and the water is back to being ice cold in seconds.  So I have my choice: searing hot or ice cold.  There is no middle ground.  Maybe I’ll tell Madame.  She might laugh and tell me it’s an old house, and this is just how it is.  I guess I’ll figure it out.

I dry off and head upstairs to change into my pajamas.  It may not have been the best shower in the world, but I feel refreshed and reinvigorated.  I’m almost wide awake, but then again, I think my body doesn’t know what the heck I want from it so one minute it tries debilitating weariness and when that doesn’t work, it wakes up.  Even though my body is awake, my mind is tired.  I don’t have the focus to finish this blog post.  I mostly rearrange my room and clean up after myself before I climb up into bed.  I’ve never had a bunk bed before.  I don’t really know how I feel about having to climb up every time I want to lay down.  I turn off the lights and leave my window cracked to have some fresh air.  Outside I hear drunken men roaring with laughter, motorcycles grumble past, cars honk… Being the light sleeper that I am, I should be pissed, but somehow in Europe, I don’t care.  Then again I have been awake for more than 24 hours.  I hug my travel neck pillow and wish I had packed Sir Lambsalot or that Anabelle were sitting next to me, and eventually  I fall asleep.