WANNA DEVENIR BELGE? NOT SO FAST!

Bureaucracy Eternal?

In my previous life, that is, up to nine months ago, I had frequently complained about such exotic institutions as CEDOC or Tresor. This was a long, long time ago (nine months have taken a toll) and I really did think nothing more complicated than Gabonese bureaucracy could stand in my way to a peaceful and happy life of an expat. After all, Belgium is the heart of Europe, home to hundreds of thousands of foreigners and if things don't work in the heart of Europe, where would they? No, seriously, where? Because if this is how the heart works, I reckon some arteries are seriously blocked.

In any case, enough of the mediocre medical metaphors, let's move on to the gist. For today I will introduce to the intricacies of the Belgian Bureacracy, the mother of all bureaucracies, the ultimate challenge for an immigrant. Here goes.

Fact 1: In order to make your stay in Belgium legal, you must register at your respective commune (district of Brussels). Each district has its own office, closely modelled after Kafka's Trial, where you can enjoy the pleasures of queuing for hours and hours on end.

Fact 2: After a visit in the above mentioned establishment, a policeman must come by your house, unnannouced, in order to check if you actually live where you boldly claim to live. If the policeman is satisfied with the visit and states that you are not trying to trick the city of Brussels into believing that you live in one place but actually live somewhere else for an obscure reason only known to yourself, you will be issued a paper, which after three months will entitle you to kindly ask for a resident's ID card, please. Yes, the famous carte de sejour is back in the game!

Fact 3: In order to be able to ask for the said ID card, you need: a) a job; b) insurance; c) a lot of patience.

Fact 4: If you ever decide to change flats in Brussels... well, don't. The whole procedure will only start again, featuring a different commune and policemen who never come by and yet are happy to report you don't live under the given address.

I have now been trying to officially change addresses for two months. The first way round, back in October, the policeman didn't manage to get hold of me (I go to work and stuff, instead of just staying at home for a month) and so the commune cancelled my registration. When I went there, furious, I found out from a nice lady that a) I had been issued a wrong number, she could not help me and so I had to wait in a different queue for another hour and b) the whole procedure had to be re-started. I have tried calling the police but was only informed that "if the policeman doesn't find me at home it means I don't live there". What can one say to such twisted Belgian logic?

To some up, I am waiting for the police again. Then I only have to be summoned to the commune a  couple of times and this should be it. About a year after my arrival in Belgium, I will officially be registered. I will also become a proud owner of a valid electronic ID card. Life can't get much better than this!

Only will you believe me when I say that this is actually more complicated than Gabon? 

IL FAIT BEAU IN OOSTENDE!

- What is it? Why are there so many people on the train?
- Mais, madame, il fait beau! It's warm and sunny!

Il fait beau!

This simple explanation did not occur to us, however, when we boarded the train to Oostende, in the north of Belgium, and had to fight for seats with dozens of middle-aged men in white socks and sandals. Yes, il fait beau, and this unusal, unexpected gift from nature forced even the laziest Belgians out of their comfy flats, pushing them towards one of Brussels' three train stations, when they got on our tain, took our seats and put their crying children within close vicinity of our peace-craving ears. Oh, and it gets better: during the trip, which, due to traveaux, took half an hour longer than planned, we got to participate in such activities as folding and unfolding of a pram, picking a baby off the floor or looking for a lost ball on the floor. But no complaints - as opposed to a large number of our fellow travellers, we were actually seated. 

The idea was to get to Oostende and embark on a picturesque 12-kilometre long hike along the beach towards the beautiful village of De Haan or, in other - English - words, The Chicken. For reasons such as moving, work, sickness and buying furniture, we hadn't been out for what seemed like forever. Our hopes and expectations were high enough but, according to the abundant wisdoms of the internet, The Chicken would prove satisfactory. Well, things did not exactly go as planned.

Error 1: Kasia is the guide

Who was I kidding? I can't even read a map, so why did I convince everyone involved (i.e. Jandro and, amazingly, myself) that I could actually memorise one? Result 1: we walked the wrong way for about 20 minutes, after which we turned back and walked towards our starting point. Result 2: Jandro nodding wisely and giving me the amused "I so new this would happen!" look.

Error 2: Internet knows it all

The views at the beginning of our hike

Well, actually, I didn't really double check the information I stumbled upon on the internet. Result 1: what seemed a promising hike, turned out to be the industrial zone of Oostende for the first 5 kilometres or so. Yes, then it got beautiful, but I don't suggest you follow in our tracks. Result 2: after an hour we managed to find the coast-tram stop and, after an exasperating wait, we boarded one. If we had known that our hike would include exciting views of warehouses, we would've taken the tram right at the train station.

Error 3: No bathing suits

This, at least, is not exactly my fault. Nobody could've expected the North Sea to be warm enough for us to bathe at the beginning of October. And yet it was. Result 1: my very first time as a nudist. Result 2: an intersting study on human body. Yes, I looked! But I will say no more.

No Chicken but so pretty!

Unfortunately, we have not managed to reach The Chicken. Instead, we took a very long walk along the beach and bathed naked and drank coke and beers and laughed a lot. We even managed to find seats on the train back home, and slept profoundly for about ten minutes, until a baby started crying, just to continue for the rest of the trip. All in all - big success!

A beach day in October... Who would have thought?

And one final piece of advice: if you ever want to hike around Oostende, take the coast-tram from the train station to the beach and then continue on foot to De Haan, Knokke or even Denmark - just make sure you steer clear of the warehouses. Really not worth the effort!


More pictures available here.

THE PERFECT PIE

Warsaw is full of pie...

My goodness, can you believe this weather?, the butcher said, handing over my chicken breast, his resigned voice giving the impression of someone who has been tricked by cruel life into living in Brussels, the one city in the world Summer Fairy has entirely forgotten. I know, it's unbelievable!, I nodded my head in understanding, thinking I myself was one of those people. Yes, it's been rainy and grey forever, and I have already given up hope that things would get any better before May 2012. Worse still, Jandro is away right now, going to the beach (yes, to the beach, my friends!) and generally enjoying the fiesta, while I have to put up with 13 to 17 degrees, and work. 

Now it is clear to you that anyone in my position would have resigned themselves to sobbing into the pillow. And yet I have more spirit than I myself imagined. Obviously, I am a fighter, a survivor... a warrior, if you will. I decided not to give in to the omnipresent Weltschmerz. I picked up my new Paul Auster book, an umbrella and some cash, and hopped on the bus which was supposed to take me to our newly-discovered paradise on earth: Tea for Two, also known as The Absolutely Best Pie in Brussels. They have a wide range of teas as well of course, but who cares about the tea when there is Pie. The Absolutely Best Pie in Brussels, mind you.

15h43. I get off the bus. I ignore the infernal drizzle (I'm not entirely sure there is drizzle in hell... but you know what I mean), skip happily towards the house of pie and... find out it's closed for the long weekend. My smile fades, the drizzle becomes annoying, and I utter an unbecoming word. I stop skipping and start thinking. I notice I'm much better at the former.

16h00. I arrive at Le Pain Cotidien, not far away from my original destination. Even though it's a chain, it has always looked cosy to me from the outside, and the pies are generally well-reputed. I walk in, the place seems awful, and so I decide to keep looking. My friend the drizzle envelops me in a welcoming cloud of dampness.

16h25. After wondering aimlessly around Ma Campagne, hoping for a Tea for Two twin to magically appear, I arrive at rue de Bailly. Surprised to see a place I recognise, I stand on the corner, trying to figure out which way is more pie-probable. I turn left, check out an ice-cream place for pies (none), and then walk right, towards Louise. I become hopeful upon noticing a big sign which says Le Chocolatier, but it turns out to be a chocolate shop. Drizzle drizzles and I continue my search.

16h40. I stumble upon another Pain Cotidien. This one looks much better, and, feeling desperate, I enter, pushed in by the rain, which is becoming stronger now. I'm not convinced but I sit down, take out my book and order a green tea and a cherry pie with crumble. The place seems all right but I get a chain feeling from it. The tea is fine but the pie is mediocre. I eat it anyway because it will cost me a lot of money. Disappointed, I leave soon after I finish the pie, even though the original plan was to spend a lazy afternoon, having tea and enjoying the goodies and the atmosphere of a nice tea house. No goodies and even less atmosphere push me back into the rain.

17h45. I get back home and hang out my clothes to dry. The only thing that can save me now is jasmin tea, chocolate biscuits and a good film. The steaming cup of tea is already waiting. Do excuse me, I really must go and watch Singing in the Rain to stop myself from getting a clinical depression.

And who says only pregnant women have cravings.

POLISH CUSTOMER SERVICE - A CASE STUDY

Oh glorious Poland!

Chapter 1: Introduction and background information

Nice Polish girl as I am, I've always seen my country as a warm, welcoming place, full of polite, helpful people. During my time abroad, this idea grew stronger and stronger, while This would never happen in Poland! became one of my favourite reactions to life's unpleasant twists and turns. Obnoxious waitress in a Gabonese café? Why, this would never happen in Poland! Very expensive public transport ticket? No, this would never happen in Poland! Policemen refusing to speak any other language but Flemish? Clearly, this would never happen in Poland. But still. You get the idea. Oh glorious Poland, the land of the brave, home to pierogi, where the sun always shines except from November to March!

What comes next? Life itself, my friends. Ready?

Chapter 2: The argument

Last week, we went to Warsaw on a short visit. On the plane, I was daydreaming of all the pleasant things I was going to experience: family, friends, food, the overwhelming company of my compatriots (what do you think of my propensity for producing alliterations? Alarming?). I was brought back to reality by a loud Galician Ha! and a poke between the ribs, inevitably coming from Jandro, who was frantically going through his Polish conversations book. I looked at him askance (whatever happened to people using the word askance  in their writing?) and he provided me with the following quote:

During your time in Poland, you might come across unfriendly or even unhelpful service. Do not get discouraged. This happens frequently in Poland, and is a remnant of the communism, when what we now understand as "customer service" was practically nonexistent.

- This would never hap... - but I was interrupted.
- We'll just have to wait and see, won't we? - my boyfriend definitely didn't see eye to eye with me when it came to marvels of Poland but I would prove him wrong.

Chapter 3: The case studies

ONE: The holiday didn't start very well. Jandro got sick almost immediately and so, instead of having a nice pierogi lunch, I trotted off to the nearby pharmacy. The pharmacist was a young girl, completely unsympathetic to my boyfriend's sufferings. She was impolite, impatient and wouldn't even respond to my thank you at the end of our transaction. For a brief moment, I thought Jandro might have had a point. But then again, an exception proves the rule. Or something.

TWO: We were on our way back to my parents house, trying to catch a bus. I approached a bus driver, who was sitting inside the vehicle parked at the bus stop, visibly waiting for his departure time. I was extremely polite and asked if he could please tell me please what time he was please leaving please. According to the schedule, he barked. I went away to check the schedule, while he turned on the engines. The bastard was going to leave at that very moment and we nearly missed the bus! Jandro 2 : Kasia 0. But I was still hopeful.

THREE: The final blow came where I least expected it - at the airport. I will allow myself to quote the whole conversation I had with the check-in lady upon our departure:

Jandro (making the effort of speaking Polish): Dzien dobry!

Lady: ...

(We proceed to weigh the suitcase.)

Lady: You must take out 400 gramms.

Me: Really?

Lady (sniggering): Really. If anybody breaks their back moving the suitacase, it will be your fault.

(My passport and Jandro's ID are lying on the counter.)

Me: Can I take the documents, please?

Lady (sarcastically): Have I checked in the gentleman?

Me: I don't know, have you?

Lady: I haven't. Not with your hands on the documents anyway.

(I start to feel desperate. What have I done wrong?)

Me: Thank you, goodbye.

Lady: ...

This counts as at least five points for Jandro. I lost miserably at the "Who has a more realistic vision of Polish customer service?" game.

Chapter 4: Final conclusions

You all know my analytical mind, so it will come to you as no surprise that this experience led me to several conclusions. One: Polish customer service is much worse than your European average. Two: Polish customer service is at times similar to your African average. Three: Kasia living abroad tends to idealise every single country she lived in (don't even get me started on the wonders of Gabon!).

Epilogue

While catching a bus from the Charleroi airport to Brussels, I observed the following scene: a foreigner wants to board the bus without a ticket. The bus driver explains that they must get a ticket first. The foreigner doesn't understand and tries to get on the bus. The driver laughs good-naturedly, explains again, shows the guy where the ticket office is and gently pushes him towards it saying Hurry up, we'll be leaving soon! And there is really only one thing I can say: This would never happen in Poland!

For more photos from Poland, click here.

FIRST DAYS, LAST DAYS AND ALL THE DAYS IN BETWEEN

Working in Brussels

Last night, as I arrived home slightly tipsy after a few drinks with my colleagues, I smiled and thought to myself: it's gone far better than expected, the job thing. I have to admit that, new and surprising as this realisation might seem, Brussels has actually treated me quite well job-wise. Now that things are finally falling into place, I will try to explain why.

I seriously started looking for a job in Brussels at the beginning of February. I wasn't sure what kind of job I wanted but I was positive that the kind of job I didn't want was teaching elementary school English. No more maîtresse. No more wheels on the bus, little ducks who went swimming one day, no more sit down jump up high high high. A new career please, and make it interesting. 

My assets, I figured, were: languages, working experience (even if not in the areas I was aiming at) and enough attitude to win my audience at the interview. My weaknesses: no work experience in the areas I was aiming at and not enough attitude to lie about the latter. With the fierce Brussels competition, I could only start my non-teaching life by doing two things: applying for internships and crossing my fingers. I did both, full time.

After what seemed like ages but was indeed less than two months, I got my first interview and then a second one, on the very same day. The first job I got, the second one - I didn't, but I felt relieved: all I needed was one job, after all. I took it, even though it was an unpaid (yes, by "unpaid" I mean "unpaid" as in "working for free") internship and decided to make the best of it. 

Today, on my last day, which came sooner than expected, I can tell you that it was a good choice. I learned a lot, met some lovely people, and had a very comfy and pleasant plunge into the job market in Brussels. I am now moving on to something which seems more intense, more stressful but slightly more challenging, too. However, I feel sad to leave behind the fantastic work environment (not to say "work in environment", hope some of you will get the pun!) I was lucky to become part of. 

Today is not about my future job. Today is about saying goodbye when you wish you didn't have to.

Today I can't stop thinking that the first day may have been tough, the last day is sad, but... all the days in between were great. Thank you.