FIRST IMPRESSIONS

I have not yet had enough time to walk around Brussels peacefully, visit the numerous museums and simply enjoy the city. Most of my walks were related to flat (or, more specifically, room) hunting, but I must say that what I see, I like. And since the spring is just around the corner, I'm looking forward to discovering the various charms of Brussels. If the job thing goes well for both of us, and we manage to get installed here for a few years, I believe I'll be happy.

Later on, I'll tell you about the sights of Brussels (I believe I should see them myself before I make recommendations). First impressions are never about the sights, though. It's rather the vibe your new home gives you, the butterflies-in-the-stomach feeling of discovering something new and exciting. What is it that I have learned about Brussels, then? That it can be home to everybody. The real melting pot. The heart of Europe.

Let's start small: with our own street. Walking down Chaussée de N., you pass all the possible nationalities - people from Africa, Morocco, Liban, Brasil, China, Poland, Spain, Belgium (probably)... the list goes on. Consequently, the street is full of relevant shops and restaurants. There are several Moroccan/Libanese butchers, a Moroccan tea room, a Polish shop and bakery, three Chinese restaurants, a Moroccan/Libanese/Turkish (forgive my ignorance!) snack bar and a pizzeria of the same origin (!), followed by an African shop and several Belgian bars (one of them run by a Russian lady).

Upon leaving our neighbourhood, it only gets more complicated: Spanish shops and Polish hairdressers appear, not to mention Portuguese and Italian restaurants. Finally, there are whole thematic parts of the city: the Moroccan district with its wonderful tea rooms and delicious cakes, the African neighbourhood which I have yet to visit, the Turkish one, the Spanish street, the European district, the crazy international Marché du Midi... It really makes your head spin.

I like it, though. In Brussels, I'm not weird, I'm not special. Here everyone is different, which actually makes you feel you belong. The linguistic and cultural chaos in the streets of Brussels is very similar to the one in my head. I thus embrace it as my own; I feel I can find myself within this diversity.

First impressions: positive. Let's see what comes next.

STAYING FIT IN FOREST

Still nothing to brag about jobwise. Instead of complaining about the fact that, for the time being, nobody wants to employ such a fab professional as myself, I'll tell you about another aspect of getting a life in Brussels. Namely, the gym.

There are some good points about leaving Africa, you'd think. For one thing, you can find a cheap gym close to your home, which will offer BodyCombat courses to your heart's content (and a swimming pool for your boyfriend, ideally). Well, not so fast. I'll have you know that most gyms are located in the distant land of far far away, they are expensive and, to top it all off, they offer neither BodyCombat nor swimming (am I too demanding? Try BodyCombat first and then judge me).

And thus I had to settle for the next best thing. My new fitness club is very close to our house in the lovely neighbourhood of Forest, and it's relatively cheap. Cheaper than the other ones anyway. And as staying fit (or, let's not fool ourselves, shall we? - getting fit again) is as important for my mental health as work, I decided to invest my precious euros in the abonement.

The reception desk is usually empty. If you lean over the counter, however, you'll notice a huge enormous gigantic dog, whom the owner dismissively refers to as ma Fifi. I've been there twice so far, and the dog did not seem to move during the time I was absent.

The first class is free, so I decided to check out what is interestingly called Aerosteps. I walked in and the room was already filled with girls. They all know one another, as it often happens in small gyms, and they were in the middle of a lively conversation on whether the course instructor (who turned out to be the receptionist and owner of the big enormous dog, by the way), would appreciate their way of distributing the steps. Apprehensive, seeing that the instructor was ten minutes late, they invented several excuses for him, and were not at all indignant at the light way in which he takes his responsibilities. Instead, they commented on how busy he must be. Are they paying customers?, I asked myself.

But here he comes, he enters the room, energy in every move, the obvious star of the show. No apologies for his tardiness are offered. All the ladies, apart from me, the innocent new girl, automatically start doing semi-sit-ups, as if it were a ritual greeting they performed every time they saw the instructor. Too busy trying not to burst out laughing, I don't notice that the instructor is already frowning in my direction, to make me join in the fitness ritual. I have no choice, and I start bending my knees in the same ridiculous way. When the half-god, half-fitness instructor has seen enough, we move on to the actual class. It's schematic, rather boring but I must admit it's an honest effort. I have been in pain for two days.

The problem is that the instructor didn't really do anything during the class. He just shouted a lot, played with his mobile and made fun of us (probably his way of motivating girls). He didn't show one single move, and the other ladies were so well trained that they knew exactly what came next. Not to mention the looks of utter admiration they directed towards the lazy instructor...

All in all, I have found my gym. The pro&con list says I have no other option for now. Staring at the dog is an obvious pro, of course. And the fact that I felt I'd worked out. If only I could solve the mystery of the instructor's popularity, though... Oh well, I'll keep you posted.

The picture comes from here.

LIFE IN BRUSSELS TASTES GOOD

Today I could tell you about our life in the minute room, with a coat rack for wardrobe and a bunk bed which inexplicably keeps throwing itself against my head, making me consider walking around the house in a helmet (I'd buy a girly one, with flowers, of course, although I don't think it'd make me look any less ridiculous). But no, I'll leave all the juicy furniture details for later. Instead, I'll tell you a much more interesting story, one entitled: All the Belgian food you can eat in two weeks. Story sponsored by Marché du Midi and Waffle Van. Here goes.

Belgium is a very small country. It's mostly grey, often rainy, and - don't be fooled by teenagers wearing sandals! - rather cold. So please don't blame me when I say, and I'm sure many misinformed people will agree, that I didn't expect much from Belgian gastronomy either. Big mistake. Let me explain why.

B is for Beer and BB is for Belgian Beer
I had never been fond of beer. Here, however, I have discovered a whole new social phenomenon called Belgian Beer Drinking. There are bars with over two hundred beer sorts, all brewed in the small grey rainy country of Belgium. Impressive? Yes. There are all kinds of beers, some of them don't even taste like beers, and the process is very similar to wine tasting. The smell is important, and the cheese, and the taste, and the glass. Because each beer has its own glass, yes sir. Consequently, let me inform you that the Spanish wine era is over. Bring on the beer!

W is for Waffle and S is for Speculoos
There are two types of Belgian waffles: the Brussels waffle, which is similar to a Polish one, and the Liege waffle, which is the tastiest little thing on earth. And the great thing about waffles is that you can put anything you want on them, even Speculoos, which is a special cinnamon cookie, or any product made from such. We have settled for the Speculoos paste, which is better than - hold on to your chair - Nutella. I am officially on a waffle + Speculoos diet, so if you have any tips on where to buy nice size 56 clothes, let me know.

MdM is for Marché du Midi
It takes place on Sundays, at the Midi station in Brussels. And it's the closest thing to an African market I have seen so far. Italian, Greek, Spanish and, above all, Moroccan vendors greet you in their own languages. You can buy everything here, and it's cheap, and tasty. This morning we've gone a bit crazy while shopping for food. But can you blame us? Dried tomatoes, olives of all kinds, cheese, fresh vegetables, Moroccan pastries... Yum! And then, in the middle of the market, a stand with Moroccan pancakes, made on the spot, with cheese and honey, or veggies, plus hot sweet green tea with fresh mint, all consumed out in the open, a picnic bonus if you will.

M is also for Moroccan tea
Yes, the tea. We've been having Moroccan tea for ever, for Jandro is a big fan of this special drink. I came to love it as much as he does, and I had an amazing time trying it in a real Moroccan tea room in Brussels (a place frequented by Morrocan men exclusively, by the way; one of a kind culural experience). Oh, have I mentioned Morrocan pastries?

F is for Fries
And everything you can deep fry, too. There are bars dedicated exlusively to the noble task of deep frying. Fries, meat, onions, spring rolls, your sauce of choice, and off you go, with your take-away neatly wrapped in paper, off you go towards your home, and, in the case of some, cholesterol trouble and a protruding belly. But still, yum. I can't help myself.

And last but not least, the letter P
The letter P is very close to my heart, as it stands for Polish shops. I am amazed at the amount of these in Brussels, actually. I have bought cottage cheese, bread, ham and lots of other typically Polish products, just like in Poland, with the additional bonus of service in Polish and in the presence of other Polish customers. Now I have no excuse, all ingredients for Polish dishes are available within a five-minute walk from chez moi. Time to start cooking.

Final note: Don't worry. Apart from shopping for food and the inevitable consumption, we are really spending a lot of time looking for jobs. In the end... we need to make money to pay for all the amazing Belgian goodies!

OUR FIRST WEEK IN CLICHES

There is no "I" in team. We're a team now, Jandro and me, Team A, if you will, and we're doing our best to work together on shaping our new life in Belgium. One week and two days. This is how long we've been here. And yet, it feels like it's been at least a couple of months. Looking for jobs, looking for a room, looking for words in foreign languages, looking desperately at each other, looking into the opportunities, and, finally, looking up to those who managed to get installed in this strange country... We're tired but satisfied, at least for the time being. Let me now introduce you to the beginnings of our life in Belgium.

A friend in need is a friend indeed
Cliche, yes, but how very true! For now, we have been abusing the hospitality of several amazing people. To begin with, we are based in Puurs, a small Flemish town. We are staying with D&D, who not only picked us up from the airport and gave us a comfy room, but have also been showing us the secrets of the Flanders life, including abundant portions of delicious food and field trips to other parts of the country. At the end of this week, they will have been enjoying (clearly) our company for a fortnight, for which we are very grateful.

But this is not all. During our four-day long visit to Brussels last week, we stayed with E, a friend from our African times, who offered priceless advice of a Bruxelloise, showed us around, cooked tasty soups and provided Moroccan treats. Again, we're touched.

There's no place like home
As happy as we are here with our friends, we cannot live with them forever (not if we want them to stay our friends, anyway). The squatting must end as soon as possible. And thus, on our second day in Belgium, we started searching for a room. Yes, a room, not a flat, you've read correctly. A flat is a commitment for at least a year, and we don't even know if we'll stay here this long. And so we have opted for a room, as the most economical solution. There are plenty of rooms available, too. However... nobody wants to rent them out to couples, and if they do, they demand an additional fee of 100 - 150 euros. Consequently, I have an impression that our first week in Belgium consisted entirely of walking, interspersed with bouts of exasperation. After seeing very expensive/very dirty/very smelly rooms in very posh/very dangerous/very distant neighbourhoods, we were excited to find a place for 350 euros, which is very far from perfect/very small/very basic, but which should do for now. Phew. We will start moving in tomorrow. Our first Ikea trip as a couple!

Nothing ventured, nothing gained
I'm a bit apprehensive. Even though we've managed to realise goal number one ("find a reasonably cheap yet habitable place to live"), goal number two ("find a reasonably well-paid yet not detestable job") is still very far from reality. I have sent out 25 applications (and counting), and Jandro probably twice as many. We are still waiting but... someone must start to bring home the bacon! I'm hopeful, though. Nobody said it would be a piece of cake. And I do believe we have a bright future ahead of us. In any case, we're already here. And you can't put the toothpaste back in the tube, can you?

PS. How many cliches have you found in this text?

WELCOME TO MY NOUVELLE VIE

La Nouvelle Vie is French for new life. La Nouvelle Vie is exactly what expects me in Brussels. Yet again, I pack my suitcases, say goodbye to my loved ones and board a plane which will take me to the unknown. I have done it twice in the past and landed in two very different places, Galicia and Gabon, which, interestingly, had two important things in common: a handsome Galician man and the fact that I have come to love them. I have come to love the man, too, of course, but that's a whole other story.

This time, it feels slightly different, though. When I first came to Galicia I was a student, and I had my university to guide me through the process of adaptation. In Gabon, I was offered a comfortable home and a job. Belgium, however, is a new challenge: as of yet, nothing structures my life over there; quite the contrary, actually. The flat, the job, the everything will have to come along the way.

What do I know about my new country? Well, it's the very heart of EU, completely unable to form a government. It is bicultural and bilingual in an adorable, antagonistic sort of way. But it's not all bad, keep in mind the absolutely delicious waffles, chocolates and beer. It rains a lot. Oh, and the capital is called Brussels. Am I ready to go or what?

On a more formal note, I am not sure if blogging about Belgium (wow, I love the alliteration!) makes much sense. I mean, the whole point of my becoming a blogger was to catalogue the African adventure (another alliteration, well done, Kasia!). This is why Paradise News was created, and it served the purpose of recording my favourite moments. Will Belgium be worth the same effort? I decided to find out. Stay tuned.

In short, welcome to my Nouvelle Vie. I hope none of us will be disappointed with how it turns out!