IK (KINDA) SPREEK NEDERLANDS!

What is spoken where in the country of Belgium.

Taking into account the inexplicable interest I take in languages and their ways, it is rather funny that I haven't intimated anything related to my Flemish experience yet. But I am ill again, stuck on the sofa watching season 6 of Grey's Anatomy (thanks to my numerous illnesses I am able to advance rapidly on the series), and so I might as well say something about multilingual Belgium. Meredith and Derek will wait, even though he has just become chief of surgery. Said too much? Sorry, I'm really into medical drama.

As you might know, Belgium is divided into three parts: Brussels area, Wallonia and Flanders. Brussels is officially bilingual, and so, theoretically, everything can be done in both Flemish and French. Wallonia is officially French-speaking, while Flanders is monolingual in Flemish. Wait, it gets even better - some Eastern parts of Wallonia are officially German-speaking, while most inhabitants of bilingual Brussels are actually monolingual in French.

You'd think that it's actually amazing that a country exists where different cultural and language groups co-habit in a happy, tolerant way. This of course is not true and most people believe that, as soon as the Belgians figure out what to do with Brussels (a mainly French-speaking area located in Flanders), Belgium will split with no great sentiment. 

But that's clearly irrelevant to my learning Dutch. Or Flemish, really, the Belgian variation of Dutch, softer in pronunciation but only slightly different from the original.

Why would you waste your time learning Flemish?, people tend to ask, showing their support and understanding. True - to live happily in Belgium you only need French or, come to think of it, English will do perfectly well. But you know me, I will jump at every opportunity of learning a foreign language and I do think it only fair to make the effort of learning the tounge spoken by half of the country you live in. Call me crazy.

And so I signed up for a free Flemish course - yes, it is free, so much the language is promoted - and once a week spend over three hours (!) together with other foreigners in a classroom, enjoying the mildly interesting and incredibly slow course, where, notwithstanding, we do learn very practical things (no irony here, we really do). I have thus discovered that the sound [h] can be pronounced in several tongue-twisting (throat-twisting?) ways and that the vocab is really a mix of English and German, which, accidentally, brings my German back from oblivion. Plus it's absolutely adorable.

Also, on a purely contemplative plain, I don't really believe that one language can be "better" than others. More useful? This is highly subjective. I had never considered French useful until I moved to Gabon. Only then did I start to hate myself for choosing German in my secondary education (which, by the way, seemed much more "useful" at the time). 

Actually, I strongly believe that each language changes you, enriches you, gives you yet another perspective. I am digressing violently anyway, so let me take it one step further. Galician. A language spoken in just one corner of Spain. A language without a proper country, resented by many of its speakers, a language constantly on the verge of disappearing. Oh yes, I have learned not to judge a tongue by the "usefulness" criterion. It doesn't exist. In my own private universe, Galician proved to be the most useful language I have ever learned.

Back to Flemish, I only wish I could get more practice. In Brussels, however, unless you go to a bar near the Saint Catherine square, with French (and, funnily enough, Arabic) you are good to go. But I'm not giving up. At least I will be able to order a bier when I go to the kust. And some kaas to go with it.

So cross je vingers! Nederlands is here to stay. In the end, well, you never know. Might as well prove to be useful as hell.

The map comes from here.

FIRST THING TOMORROW

Seriously, I will!

Print out the pictures to decorate our bedroom.

Buy curtains.

Put some order in my documents folder.

Look for books on Amazon.

Write e-mails to friends.

Call the insurance company.

Upload new pictures onto my picasa.

Read Kafka's "Methamorphosis".

And you? What have you not done recently? 

Merriam-Webster defines the verb procrastinate in the following way:
transitive verb: to put off intentionally and habitually
intransitive verb: to put off intentionally the doing of something that should be done 

origin: Latin procrastinatus, past participle of procrastinare, from pro- forward + crastinus of tomorrow, from cras tomorrow
First Known Use: 1588

The first known use implies that people have been procrastinating consciously ever since 1588. Which, in a way, makes me feel a little less guilty but does not remedy the situation. And, as I publicly face the problem today, I must admit to you and myself that procrastination has recently become an issue in my life. Let's analyse the process.

1. A situation presents itself. Case in point: I must call the insurance company to find out how to claim insurance.

2. It is not a disagreeable situation. It does, however, require some action. The action does not have to be immediate.

3. I know that after doing what I must do (e.g. get the information on how to claim reimbursement for medical costs), I will feel happy and fullfilled.

4. Every night I decide for the very last time that I will do whatever I need to do the next day. The next day I look for ridiculous excuses not to do it (e.g. "I don't like speaking French on the phone") and I convince myself that they are a valid and crucial impediment to completing the previously set task.

5. Points 3 & 4 repeat until - completely disgusted with my pathetic self - I finally make the damn call just to realise that my phone manner in French is impeccable and that the dreaded conversation takes around 90 seconds.

I only do it with little things. I only do it with things that have no deadline. And recently I do it more and more. It's not writer's block that stopped me from blogging for three months. It's not a big amount of work either. Oh no - I have finally found a culprit of all the evil in my life and its name is Procrastination. 

The cure, I think, are deadlines, and so I vow to set them for every little thing. For the curtains. For the photos. For the books. For the e-mails. And for Kafka. These deadlines I will observe. Procrastination will be defeated. 

Yes, deadlines will do just fine... And I will come up with a deadline for every item on the list. First thing tomorrow. Promise.

Image comes from here.

MY BIG FAT GALICIAN WEDDING

Kind of our approach...

So, excuses have been made, forgiveness has been asked for. All I have left to do now is to start writing again again. I am going to be rigorous and dilligent, and I will do my best to remain so for more than one afternoon.

To ease you into my life again again, I have prepared a light topic, which will bring a smile to your face and will make you want to hold hands with your loved ones, paint mugs and buy cute puppies. Yes, you have guessed right from the mysterious title: I am getting married. From July on - if the paperwork gods allow it - I will be ticking the box marked "Mrs." instead of "Ms.", and I will refer to Jandro as "hubbie" / "my dear husband" on every occasion. And do not let my ironic tone mislead you - this is at least as exciting as looking for crododiles in the African swamps (will my fiance dump me for this comparison?) and I am absolutely thrilled. Married. Me. Magnifique! 

Hey, but did you really believe it would be simple and pink? If you know me at all, you should know better. It is only thanks to my innate optimism that this post is not entitled "Why Galician-Polish weddings are the most complicated thing in the world". Think I'm exaggerating? Well then, read on:

Registry Office is out of office

For family reasons, we have decided to get married in Galicia. This means, we must establish contact with the registry office in Cangas, which is a small Galician town, where my boyfriend grew up and where most foreigners are from...well, Madrid. So when Jandro finally managed to get on the phone with an employee of the office - as it turned out, slightly less competent than we had expected, and much less competent than we had wished - he found out that we could not be married in Cangas, as neither of us lived there and if he felt strongly about it, he could come and speak to her in person. Oh, you can't come because you don't live in Cangas? Well then you can't get married here, anyway, silly.

After this fruitful exchange, the office stopped picking up their phone, probably in case we decided to call again. Better safe than sorry.

So do you even know your fiance?

Not at all discouraged by our first encounter with the registry office, we decided to visit the Spanish consulate here in Brussels. As it turns out, Spain is taking all precautions against foreigners marrying their citizens. Our excitement at the fact that we can indeed get married in Spain (ha ha, registry office girl, you lose!) was very quickly overshadowed by all the required paperwork in order to do so, including an interview - separate for each one of us - which is supposed to check if I'm after Jandro or maybe just Spanish nationality. I mean, with the unemployment rates and the fantastic economy and stuff, how could anyone not want to become Spanish these days? 

You gotta fight for your right to paaaarty!

Yes, well, and then there's the whole Party Issue. Small weddings don't exist in Galicia (the famous "if it's going to be cheap better not do it at all" principle) and the General Guidelines for Galician Weddings are:

• lots of food, including 7 types of seafood;
• lots of people, including the uncles and aunts of your uncles and aunts;
• lots of food and,
• last but not least, lots of food.

And so, we are not yet sure where we stand on the whole "wedding reception" thing. But, unless we start moving soon enough, life might solve the problem for us: Cangas and the surrounding villages have very few places where this kind of fiesta can be held, and something tells me we might not be the only people getting married in July.

What we know...

for sure is the following:

• we love each other and want to get married;
• we want to celebrate this fact with the people we love;
• we want to keep it as simple as possible;
• no wedding dress, a regular elegant dress will do;
• no first dance, no cutting the cake together;
• we want a very cool photo session;
• we're going to get married in Spain and organise a little gathering for my family in Poland;
• the paperwork is tremendous but... back to bullet one whenever we feel overwhelmed.

 In the end, it's not about how we do it or where we do it. It's about... all the terrible bureaucracy we have to deal with in order to do it! 

Nah, just kidding. It's about butterflies in my stomach, of course.

Image comes from here.

I WANT BACK

Welcome, yet again...

Hello? Is there anybody in there? 

Well, I've certainly not given up on you yet. Even though it might seem otherwise. I've been thinking about writing for a long time now, and for nearly three months nothing happened. Sentences would spring up to life in my head, nice round sentences they were, but they would get discarded, pushed into the dark matter of my brain - nothing seemed good enough. The less I wrote, the more I thought about writing, and I felt ashamed and guilty - procrastination in full swing.

And today I'm ill, I'm sitting on the sofa, under a nice warm blanket and I let myself get hipnotised by the marvels of Belgian TV. Naps and pills, snacks and teas, and suddenly I feel I'm ready to take the leap and start yet again. You don't give up a hobby just because you work full time. You don't give up on a good friend just because you're going through a murky period. I want back, I really do. The truth is, I like writing. I need the sense of continuity it gives me. Another country, another group of friends, another flat. But the possibility of writing it up is always there, together with a powerful urge to do so. And so, once again, new year, and La Nouvelle Vie, strike two. Stay with me.

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?