Happy Hungarian Holiday: The End

(* Note: if you've not read any of the Happy Hungarian Holiday tale, it begins at "The Beginning", 3 posts down.)

A Budapest Easter

At 4 am on Easter morning a battle took place between alarm clocks and the subconscious mind. Against the odds, the alarm clocks prevailed, and off they went to a dawn service in Hungarian. Lovely, contemplative and inspiring; followed by delicious ham, boiled eggs, sweet breads and jam.

After church, the dog demanded a walk, and was very wise in his insistence, for the early morning mood in the park was quite divine: blossoms everywhere, fresh morning air, gorgeous views…

*

Having achieved all this before 8:30 am, they concluded it was time for a nap. Kendrah set her alarm to draw her back from a faraway place in time to meet her brother-in-law’s family (normally of Saskatchewan, but currently visiting a son in Austria).

Pleased to have serendipitously rendezvoused in this delightful spot on the globe, Kendrah and her almost relatives proceeded to have a most excellent time together enjoying ‘the best of Budapest’. Without her Hungarian hostess, who was otherwise occupied, Kendrah took on the role of tour guide for the afternoon, armed with a city map and a few tidbits of information.



After a long afternoon of much walking in the sunshine, photo-taking, site-seeing, and some more ice-cream (of course), they were re-joined by Kendrah’s other friend and her Hungarian hostess, who, overflowing with interesting historical facts garnished with personal family stories took the weary walkers to a fantastic traditional Hungarian restaurant. Here they had an impressive Easter dinner accompanied with fine red wine. Their plates were heaped with so much beef stew and veal cutlet and potatoes and dumplings and gnocchi - that one plate might easily have fed three people. And the price was even more shocking – under €5 per plate!

*

Night had fallen as they filled their bellies to full (and then some), and it was decided that an expedition ought to be made to see the city and its impressively-lit buildings by night. And so they were led, on foot, throughout the city (forgetting, perhaps, that most of the party had walked the entirety of that afternoon, and some hiked through the park and up the mountain that morning). Legs were weary, but spirits were high, as they walked and paused to admire the parliament, the castle, impressive bridges, a very stylish Art Deco hotel, the basilica, and finally, at the end of a walk that no one realized was quite so far, a beautiful square and memorial. All voted to take a tram home, and the happy travellers had a special Hungarian chocolate bar, filled with sweet cottage cheese, before bidding one another good night and heading to their respective places of sleep.

*

The next morning, on her way out the door to meet up with her relatives before proceeding to the airport, Kendrah had a striking encounter with Hungarian hospitality. Countering Kendrah's belief that she was prepared to depart, Kendrah's hostess suddenly interjects with: “oh, but I want to send some Easter food from my grandmother’s house with you for your family”.

“Oh, but it’s really not necessary,” Kendrah protested, “they have breakfast included at the hotel and they will have eaten. You needn’t worry.”

“No, no,” said the hostess, “they must have some.”

“But they’re not even coming to your house, you really needn’t send food for them” Kendrah argued.

“You’re not getting out of this,” said her hostess resolutely.

“Oh…I see, it’s obligatory Hungarian hospitality,” Kendrah thought, and promptly gave up on her protests. They proceeded to go to grandma’s house where they ransacked the poor lady’s fridge, and packed a rather enormous meal of smoked ham, boiled eggs, bread, radishes, peppers, and special pastry with nuts.

“You do realize I have to carry all this on the tram along with my luggage?” said Kendrah. Her hostess was not concerned.

And so, off Kendrah went, laden with pretty baskets lined with Easter napkins and lettuce and filled with the feast. Sure enough, the family had already eaten their fill, but they agreed to go see some sites that were yet on their list and then go to the park with their packed feast for a final lunch. So off to the grand Basilica they went, where they saw the hand of a man 1000-years dead. The things people cherish… It was small, shrivelled and grey. It was the hand of the first king of Hungary. It was weird.

After this, they made their way to the park, found an inviting spot on the grass with an excellent view of Budapest and shared a delicious Easter picnic, about which they were all now most grateful to Kendrah’s hostess and her stubborn insistence.

*

It was a beautiful finale to a beautiful weekend.

And they were all very happy to have holidayed in Hungary.

The End.


*(cheers to darryl zubot for *'d photos)

Happy Hungarian Holiday: The Middle

What Treasures Lie North of Budapest

The heroines of our story awoke to a Saturday morning they had already met earlier that day. The sun was shining and the weather was delightfully warm. They found themselves in a land of summertime in a small city north of Budapest. They were treated to a lovely Hungarian breakfast: breads, cold meats and cheeses; tomatoes, radishes and long yellow bell peppers; fruit and homemade jam.

A lovely morning was had, climbing 360 steps to the top of a beautiful Basilica where they could walk all around the dome seeing the town and countryside in all directions. Just a hop away, across the Danube river was Slovakia. Kendrah eagerly wanted to visit to add this country to her collection, but alas, time did not permit it. So she settled for a photo of herself with Slovakia in the background. After their walking and site-seeing, they joined the prevailing Hungarian warm-day culture and treated themselves to ice cream. Mmmmm…. So good, so cheap, so satisfying.

Outside the Basilica

360 steps later.
Slovakia...so close, but just a little too far to be legitimately
countable according to official country-counting regulations.

Excellent travel companions - lovely Latvian
on the left, hospitable Hungarian on the right

En-route to Budapest they visited another enchanting city, and spent the afternoon walking pretty cobbled-lanes, eating fried potato flatbread with cream, browsing shops, enjoying views, and promenading along the Danube.





At dusk, they caught a train to Budapest, and arrived in the city from underground to a stunning view of the impressive parliament building, beautifully lit up and reflecting on the shimmering river at night.

(exceptionally pretty photo by Darryl Zubot, with exceptionally superior camera)

And then it was time to rest their weary heads in the home of a friend. For it was to be an early morning the next day. Earlier in the day than they last went to sleep!

To be continued…

Happy Hungarian Holiday: The Beginning

Adventures with BMW

Kendrah opened her eyes to a new morning underneath a bright blue sky. It was spring at its finest. Blossoms in full colour, birds alive with song and an unprecedented warm temperature for the season so far. She stuffed some summery clothing into a bag (recalling that the weather was rumoured to be balmy in Hungary) and dashed off to work for the morning for a few last harried hours finishing off writing a proposal. At lunch time, she stepped out of the office door into the sunshine and down the street filled with a wonderful feeling of freedom and the joy of spring. The proposal was handed off, the weather was inspiring, it was a long weekend, and she was off on a road trip with 3 lovely ladies and the promise of a delightful time in Budapest on the other end.

The drive started out blissfully boring…nice weather, nice conversation, nice croissants, nice fresh green trees along the nice smooth highway. They were making good time, and felt sure they’d reach Budapest by midnight.

A warning light appeared on the dashboard. An ambiguous red exclamation mark….what could it be…oil? an overheated engine? a fuel problem? A few minutes down the highway a sudden shakiness and shimmy in the car made the meaning of the symbol apparent: it was a low tire pressure warning (in a hi-tech BMW car) proceeding a flat tire reality. Discouraged, the 4 ladies slowed and moved to the side of the road, scouring the highway signs for any indication of a service station. “There’s one!...but what’s that giant X across the sign?....oh…it’s closed down”. Feeling very flat at this point, they pulled off at this overpass in any case hoping for some remnant of the former service station to still be in order. No such luck. “But it’s fine. We can change a flat. No problemmo. I’ve done it several times, says Kendrah. You do have a spare right?” “…Well, I think so, says the driver. I seem to remember seeing one…though I’m not sure…maybe that was someone else’s car. I don’t drive this car often, you see.” So the ladies unpacked all their luggage and rooted about in the boot. Nothing there…under the car?...nothing there?...under the back seat?...nothing there? “Gee…there are only so many places you can hide a tire.” No user manual. “Hmmph. It appears there’s no spare tire,” they concluded.

Just then, along came some potentially heroic gentlemen to rescue 4 lovely ladies in distress. They step out of their vehicle and in a strong German dialect, ask the girls about the direness of their situation. Gentleman #1 is over 6 feet tall, with a shiny bald head, deep-set eyes on a stern-looking face, and an impressive bushy black moustache with long handlebars. He’s wearing cowboy boots with jeans fastened tightly with a large-buckled belt, with a bulging pot belly protruding over it. Gentleman #2 has tanned leathery skin, 6 earrings in one ear, and long wavy black hair. He’s wearing a Harley Davidson shirt and black cowboy boots. Behind them is their vehicle. No…it’s not an impressive motorcycle painted in blue flames…or a big truck with a large muffler….it’s a smart car. A smart car covered in bright yellow and purple advertising for some kind of printing shop. They were surprised that the ladies didn’t have a spare tire in their car, but when the ladies in turn asked if they had one in theirs: “No room for it.” The ladies were surprised it had room for their legs and pot bellies.

The gentlemen escorted the damsels to the nearest service station, driving slowly on their super-thick BMW tires, which they now understood were designed this way to avoid requiring spare tires. There they were not able to get the service they needed, but were able to call the BMW highway assistance.

Unfortunately, it was 8pm on Good Friday. People were not very interested in doing mechanics. Eventually, BMW came through, and promised a technician.

Time passed…


Eventually, a truck with a flat-bed arrived, and carried them to the BMW service centre, which, thanks to them being in the heart of Germany, happened to be in the next town. But alas, the technician must have been out for dinner, or playing the organ at a Good Friday mass, or helping his grandmother paint Easter eggs, or any number of things, except being present & ready to fix the tire.

More time passed…

The ladies decided to go for dinner instead of standing in the cold & dark waiting.

More time passed…

The technician called. He was ready. The girls returned to the BMW service station, handed over their keys, and expected the tire to be replaced lickety split.

No such luck. Apparently modern BMW tires are so hi-tech they take at least an hour of adjustments and tweaking and calibration on some hi-tech machines. At long last, the vehicle was driven out, and as it pulled out into the parking area, something…no, two things, went ‘ping’…and then ‘ping’ on the pavement. Hmmm… “oh, it’s no problem says the technician”…you don’t need those”.

And off went the 4 ladies into the night, determined to yet reach their destination.

At 6 in the morning, they reached a city in northern Budapest where the driver of the car is from. Her parents generously vacated their bed early that morning to make space for the highway-weary travellers. Big pillows, soft duvets….home sweet home (who cares whose home sweet home it is as long as you can lay your head on a good pillow!)

They shut their eyes to the sun rising and their ears dismissed the birds singing excitedly about the new morning in the tree outside the window. They would pretend it was yet night for a few more hours before waking for the next day which was already going on without them...blissfully unaware of what adventures the day before them might hold.

To be continued...

Spring is an Excellent Thing

Raindrops on daffodils and chocolate on waffles,
Green buds on trees help me when I feel awful,
Bicycle tires that are filled up with air,
To the wonder of spring, there's not much can compare!

Baguettes, fine cheese and good drinks on a terrace,
Dreaming about taking a weekend in Paris,
Swans swim on lakes and small birds in trees sing,
'Tis that magical time of the year that's called Spring!

Yes...there are certain times in life when one just can’t help but burst into one’s own heartfelt rendition of the Sound of Music….because the hills/daffodils/forests/rivers really are “alive with the sound of music” and my heart really does want to sing. :)

(For those of you who don’t know what I’m talking about - I do pity you deeply – promptly get yourself a copy of the incomparable musical classic: the Sound of Music, and then get yourself out to a forest or lake or some little piece of God’s earthly wonders.)



And just what, you might ask, has inspired this outburst of spring-time joy? Well…having lived in Sudan for the past 2 ½ years where the only seasons are “really hot and really dry” and “really hot and really wet”, it’s been 3 years since I’ve actually experienced a proper spring. And having since survived a very very cold portion of winter in Canada with temperatures lingering unreasonably long near -40C, and then enduring the remainder of winter Western-European-style, with lots of shades of grey and puddles and discarded crippled umbrellas, I’m now very excited to wake up to sunshine pouring in my window, and feel the warmth of the sun on my face once again in the late afternoon. Add to that the magic of little green shoots popping out of the earth and lifting up happy yellow faces to the sky…the joyful beauty of spring birdsong...or a vague tint of unadulterated green dusting the tips of trees, and becoming stronger and greener each day until delicate new leaves emerge and start digesting sunshine and exhaling oxygen...

I’m amazed. Continually.

My View on the World from my Living Room

This...


...is one of the many reasons I'm filled with gratitude for my new home. This was the stunning sunset view from my balcony one evening this week. And in moments like that I'm aware, yet again of how very lucky a child I am...to have eyes to see, to have incredible exposure to brilliant sights, to have found a not only safe, but beautiful and inspiring home, to have a heavenly artist who likes to make unique sky-spanning masterpieces every morning and every evening for those who remember to look up now and then....

Sigh...life is, indeed, (mostly) good. Sure there's rubbish and evil a-plenty. My heart is aching for the mess in Sudan right now...among other tragedies. BUT, there is a surprising amount of goodness all around us. And moments of frivolous joy - like looking out on a sunset like this.

In other news of being pleasantly surprised by goodness, my new housemate, who I happened upon through a random connection, and met for all of 15 minutes before we decided to live together, happens to have a startling number of lifestyle and value similarities to me. And on top of that, she bakes fresh bread on weekends, and makes steaming porridge with raisins in the morning with enough for me too, and delicious Hungarian mushroom stews on spiced rice... I'm spoiled. The former tenant is letting us keep most of his furniture, dishes, and a beautiful selection of hand-me-down plants, including a gorgeous orange tree and an orchid! So we've moved into an already lovely home, and feel very much blessed to be at home, unhomeless, 'homeful', at rest... for a good while.

Last night we hosted a housewarming and invited the sum of each of our acquaintances. Frankly, I hadn't thought we knew enough people to have a housewarming party, but it turns out, she's more of a social butterfly than I am..and I must be relatively friendly too as I knew nearly half of the people. We had a full house of good people engaged in animated conversation, sipping fine beverages and snacking on fresh-baked goodies (my housemate again), olives, Hungarian sausage, and other tasty delicacies. It was delightful, and very affirming to have a lovely home filled with lovely people.

And I'm excited about this opportunity to be a full-fledged city-dweller in the heart of Europe. A new life experience in the global living spectrum for me. I happen to have found a flat in one of the hippest neighbourhoods in Brussels. Within 50 steps of my front door, I can go for a coffee and a croissant, get fresh bread or fancy pastries at the bakery, pick up food at the supermarket, buy stylin' shoes and clothing, eat hand-made ice cream, catch the tram, or... visit a variety of odd little shops (Brussels has a plethora of odd highly specialized shops. For example, if you need a button...you could probably find a "button shop".)

Here's the view straight down from my balcony on the happenin' street below (which, I admit doesn't look all that happening in this photo. You'll have to take my word for it - or the next photo is a little more convincing):



And it looks very charming in black and white (there's the tram in the middle):


But I'm not entirely sure that deep within I'm really cut out to be a city girl. I do love walking and cycling everywhere, and the access to cultural events and social activities. But I need to touch dirt and make things grow and commune with plants and animals every now and then. And thus, I'm inspired to use my ample balcony space to start a potted garden. I have big dreams...herbs, lettuces, tomatoes and flowers for sure, and I've read you can even grow beans, carrots and potatoes in pots. So we'll see how successful my mini-farm will be. While the thought of having some balcony chickens did cross my mind (I miss my Juba chickies - 2 of whom, I'm happy to report have made it through chickhood!), I think I'll not go quite that for. But I am seriously considering starting a vermiculture farm. Ok, yes, that's just a very fancy word for a box full of worms that eat your garbage. But, really, how cool is that? - worms that live happily, uncomplaining and unsmelling in a small space and transform your waste food products into organic fertilizer for your balcony veggie pots? Well...I think it's cool. And thus, I intend to meld my city and country beings into one Kendrah.


Cheers to one week in the new home I've been blessed with.

...And one more look at the view that inspires me to do a little dance on my balcony singing "chim chim'ney, chim chim'ney, chim chim charoo" from Mary Poppins.

The Six Week Analysis

Six weeks and beginning to loose count… I’ve been here a surprisingly substantial amount of time already. It’s hard to believe.

On the one hand, I’m feeling a little settled-in:

• I’m beginning to feel as if I know my way around, and don’t need to consult my handy “map book” nearly as often. (I even once left home without it, travelled across the city and made it back alive).

Cool sighting on one of my city explorations.

Beautiful sighting: impressive church and
new dafodills in the foreground
- both equally glorifying God I think.

• I’ve found a place to live: a beautiful apartment (inside the ugliest building on the street – but at least it looks out at all the more beautiful buildings!), with a massive balcony and a great view, in one of Brussels’ hippest neighbourhoods, a few steps from multitudinous eating, drinking and shopping options and a beautiful old church on a cobblestoned square.

The kind of building I fancied myself living in...
instead of my boring modern concrete block
(which isn't worth posting a photo of here).
I'd like a room with those tiny windows in the roof.

But the view from my future home redeems the place,
among other good features. Here's the nightime
view towards the church at the end of the street.
(More photos to come when I actually move there.)

• I’ve found a housemate to live with, a lovely Hungarian girl who was in a similar housing search predicament as I was, and seems likely to be compatible housemate material (she cooks and likes houseplants – what more can one ask for?).
• I’ve figured out grocery shopping at the supermarket for the greatest ease and similarity to North America, have visited a couple of the many “corner grocer” stores, which are great options when you need food at odd hours, and they have everything you could possibly want, plus an excellent selection of Arab, Asian or African food supplies, depending on the ethnic heritage of the merchant. And I’ve also discovered the delight of weekend street markets. Streets filled with jolly fruit & veggie sellers, the tempting nut and olive stall, the intimidating cheese stand, the cheap clothing heaps surrounded by aggressively searching mothers and the happy display of weekend flowers.

Beautiful produce at the Saturday market on the square.

A happy site at the market: it's the waffle van!
Yes, you know you live in Belgium when...

• I’ve connected with a very welcoming church community here, have made several friendly acquaintances, already joined in on an engaging book club discussion, ate pancakes together on shrove Tuesday and am planning to join a church weekend away outside of Brussels in late March.
• I’ve had a few friends come to visit from cities nearby already, and potential for family & friends from further afar to come visit, and am already making fun weekend travel plans.

Another cool sighting on city walk with visiting friends.
If I was to own a shoe store, and call it "Ken" (naturally),
and it had a garage door on it, I would definately want
these spray paint artists to paint funky people all over it.

• I kind of feel like I might know a bit what I’m doing at work now. I’m digging in to the two smaller projects that are my responsibility: one in support to an orphanage and small livelihood investment projects in rural Nepal, the other medical and material support to marginalized families and individuals in Romania, including single-parent families, the elderly, people with disabilities and the Roma community. I’ve been searching for some funding, calculating budgets, completing reports, helping to create promotional materials for fundraising, designing the modality for a new project to support graduating orphans through secondary education…. Another part of my job is delving into some bigger picture “organization development”: composing a statement regarding our approach to development, designing a website to more-easily share resources with our field programs, and researching some of the key themes we want to mainstream in all of our work, like gender issues, HIV/AIDS and climate change, and figuring out just how we do that…. And I’m also a bit of an “odd-jobs girl” again (one of my fortes in life perhaps). So I’m the “Health, Safety & Environment Officer” and am now making exit signs, mounting fire extinguishers and tidying cables that were conspiring to trip people…I do a few IT random tasks…and I do lots of English editing since it’s my first language and thus I speak it (or more importantly, write it) especially well.

Hanging out with excellent colleague on the weekend

Eating my first mussels - a quintessential Belgian dining
experience. (Note that I'm normally a little uncomfortable
about eating small slimy, rubbery, or squishy sea creatures).

My face after consuming the first creature. I'll let you
decide if that's a look of "hmm...okay, not so
bad", or "eeekh, I'm not so sure about this".

• I’ve got a bicycle on loan and I love exploring the city on two wheels propelled by my lunch. It’s such a good feeling. I don’t miss the car-culture of Alberta one bit. The uphills feel great when you make it to the top and know your legs work just fine, and the downhills feel so exhilaratingly fantastic as you cruise down with nothing in the world against you but the gentle wind, and joy bursting out from your seams. It’s the perfect pace for getting somewhere, but noting the cozy-looking café, or admiring a particularly charming balcony on the way. Last weekend I visited the King’s forest. Good chap that King, to keep such a massive tract of green space within a highly developed European city.

My faithful 2-wheeled companion in the forest.
It'll be a lot prettier when the green times come.

Happy girl in the forest.

Reflecting upon trees reflecting upon water.

What do you think the sign at the bottom indicates?
I pondered it for a long time...a bow & arrow of some sort?
A ploughing implement? A T-bar ski-lift? Eventually,
I figured out it's a horse. It has no ears and a really
straight face. And no legs. So...no riding
deaf legless horses (obviously).

On the other hand…. (and yes, there is another hand), I’m feeling rather un-settled as of yet. In fact, I’ve decided that a good name for people like me might be EDPs (like an IDP). It stands for: Eternally Displaced Person. Okay, okay, so I’m not actually homeless, I have plenty of people who love me and will take me in in many parts of the world, I’ve never had to flee my home and I’ve never been persecuted. But…I do have a restlessness disorder, an addiction to change, a passion for living in an especially small world, a love for things new & different, and a lack of attachment to geography. And thus, I find myself on some occasions at the height of joy & wonder at the privilege of international adventure…and at other times, suffering from weary hobo-like feelings, wondering why on earth I keep wandering… So, why do I feel unsettled?

• I've been unable to move into my new apartment until March 1. In the meantime, I was living in the room above the office for 3 ½ weeks, and then I relocated to the apartment of my colleague who is away in Nepal. Both have been fine spots to rest one’s head, but I haven't bothered to unpack my bags knowing that they’re both temporary, and I just have this sudden longing to put my socks in a drawer.
• I don’t speak French. I’m a lousy Canadian. And I’m shy to even try. (That said, I’ve been having very good results lately with “Je suis désolé, je ne parle pas Français ”, at which point people happily start speaking in English to me.)
• I keep wondering why I’m here…if it’s just an “interim thing” for me to learn from this new job, and carry on with new wisdom to other places, if it’s going to be my new home and I’ll decide I want cobbled-streets and good cheese forever, if I might meet my soul mate and permanent travel buddy here, if it’s just another opportunity for an excellent experience to add to the overflowing adventure trunk?
• I miss Sudan. A lot. I miss my colleagues, I miss my neighbours, I miss my friends, I miss my lifestyle there. All lousy aspects have been forgotten (I have an excellent selective memory that way). I worry about the country, about the work I left behind, about my colleagues and their burdens. I miss the spontaneous and rich fun I had in my community there.
• I’m yearning for community. I had such an amazing sense of community in Sudan. Such an odd bunch of people thrown together in terribly odd circumstances, and what do you get? – beautiful community! And I have something of community in Canada too – an amazing family who has ridiculous fun together, a supportive church community, 2 grandmas’ ever-welcoming kitchens… I know community takes time to build, and I’ll probably find it here too. But I miss it.

So…it’s good, it’s bad…and it’s all the rich mess in the middle. C’est la vie. And that’s a French phrase I can say with gusto, fully feeling the meaning.

10 Peculiar Things about Belgium

I’ve been collecting discoveries of random things I’ve found odd about living in Belgium.

Ok, now that I've added this photo, it's 11 random things. What can I say?
The photo speaks for itself: 2 giant orange bunnies in the middle of the street
(and that's me between them). So, here's my hypothesis: lent begins this week,
which is the build-up towards Easter. At Easter, as we all know it, magic
rabbits lay eggs. These 2 rabbits (orange, because they must be Flemmish,
and thus have Dutch connections - and because they're magical, obviously)
are clearly kissing because they're in love...and we all know what kissing
leads to...so a few weeks from now, I think there will be giant choclate
eggs around the city, and given that this is Belgium, naturally,
these will be delicious, exquisite Belgian Chocolate Eggs!

1. Smelly cheese – while I must condone the Europeans for their superior taste in cheese and prolific selection (no orange-dyed cheddar here), there are far too many smelly cheeses. Okay, so I’m no cheese connoisseur, I’m still slightly scarred from a long road trip through France when I was 9, involving one-too-many stops at cheese factories, and I’m sure it’s an acquired…umm…smell, but it can be downright offensive at times. I recently cleaned out the fridge of the apartment I’m house-sitting at, as the owner had been away for some weeks, and there were some rather odious voluntary science experiments taking place in his fridge. I had to carefully judge each specimen to determine if, A) this was a respectable piece of fine cheese, for the enjoyment of only those with the most exquisite of tastes, or B) a terribly rotten morsel formerly known as dairy, now more accurately belonging to the micro-bacterial or fungal categories of life, and sporting shockingly blue hair.

2. Raw meat – we often pick up sandwiches from the local butcher/sandwich shop at work. On my second day, I noticed one of the options was a roast beef sandwich and against my usual vegetarianesque leanings, I had an unusual hankering for just that. I was rather put-off, however, when my sandwich arrived and I discovered it consisted of one thin bright red piece of meat (with slightly brown edges) and no vegetable company. And apparently this was the “cooked” version of the sandwich. I did make it through, but I shudder to think how red and…juicy…the raw version might be. Oh, and never order something called “fillet americaine”. That’s raw ground beef. Why? I can see the Ethiopians getting away with it (just) with the addition of heaps and heaps of spices that cover it up…but…uggh. Yes, my vegetarian tendencies are revived!

3. A lack of nutty butter – peanut butter is not something Europeans eat very much. This is a shame. Africans generally know the folly of this error, and eat it by the spoonful. I love peanut butter. I could live relatively happily off of only peanut butter and a few decent bread choices. Peanut butter can be found in the “exotic foreign food” section of the supermarket in Brussels – in a very very small jar, with a rather large price figure. I happily discovered some in the helpful corner store, with Arabic-speaking owners, in a slightly larger jar for a slightly smaller price. And I had a great laugh when later I was eating my tasty toast and read the list of ingredients on the label: it mentioned peanuts, along with a few additives (unfortunately – not my first choice in pb), followed by the statement that it “may contain traces of nuts”! Good heavens…I should hope so. What’s next? – traces of milk in my yoghurt? Fish in my canned tuna??

4. UHT Milk – almost everyone drinks UHT milk here. For those of you lucky enough to be unacquainted with this beverage, it’s “Ultra-Heat Treated” milk, and is a rather unsatisfactory tasting presentation of real cow’s milk, which through some suspicious mystery of “ultra-heat treatment” is able to last practically forever without refrigeration. There has to be something wrong with that – taste aside! I have very unfriendly memories of it from my childhood in Pakistan. After much searching away from the vast un-refrigerated aisle of UHT milk products, I was finally able to find the spare few bottles of “fresh milk” in an elite refrigerated corner of the supermarket. That’s right, I like peanuts in my peanut butter AND real milk in my milk.

5. Minute Rice – the only rice available in the supermarket comes in wee tiny bags inside wee tiny boxes with various claims on the packaging regarding how many minutes it can be prepared in. I grew up with big sacks of rice, that one cooks by putting one part rice to two parts water into a pot and boiling it. It’s really not that complicated. And it really doesn’t take that long. 20 mins to be precise (unless it’s brown). Why on earth this needs to be “simplified” into wee tiny plastic bags that you put (bag and all!) into boiling water, I do not know. And really…any time you combine plastic, high heat and food together….yech.

6. Food Stamps – In addition to one’s monthly salary (which is heavily taxed), one gets “food stamps” (which are not taxed). Ok, to be correct they’re called “meal vouchers” or “restaurant tickets” or something. But basically, it’s a little coupon with a certain euro value that can only be used in an establishment that sells food or drinks (supermarket, grocer, restaurant). I now buy all my meals with my stamps.

7. Numberless doors – apartment doors do not have numbers on them. The outsides of houses do, so you can easily navigate your way to the right building, but once you’re inside and climbing the staircase, you must know the particular floor you’re going to or the particular door in order to find it. This is fine if you know the place, but being new here, I’ve been going to a number of homes to which I’ve naturally never been, and people often forget to mention which floor or which door. If I think to ask in advance, or when I ring the buzzer at the door, this is no problem, but many times, I’ve forgotten until I’m already in the stairway. At this point, I’ve discovered 4 potential solutions: 1) walk up the staircase until you find a door that hopefully your host has thought to leave ajar in anticipation of your arrival; 2) walk up while listening intently at each door in hopes of hearing familiar and friendly voices within; 3) guess at the door you think most resembles the person you wish to see (using clues like door mats, welcome signs and door knob styles), and when incorrect, politely greet their neighbours; and 4) go back outside to the front door, buzz again and admit your ignorance.

8. Shoes indoors – while I know this is true in many other parts of the world, it’s the first time I’ve lived long-term in a country where wearing your shoes inside people’s homes is the norm, and it grates against my moral core! One MUST take ones shoes off when entering another’s home! My mother taught me this and taught me it well. Unless their floor happens to be dirt, or they have an inner courtyard or something…it’s simply wrong to bring your dirty shoes from the outside world into someone’s home and tramp on their floors and carpets. BUT…people here do it all the time. I have to stop myself from undoing my shoelaces in the doorway because people give me strange looks and say “oh, no, no, you needn’t take off your shoes” as if I were undressing or asking to take a bath in their home. But, but…!

9. Sirens & helicopters – there are a lot of sirens around here. I don’t know if that equates to lots of crime and accidents, or lots of anxious police and emergency responders. Occasionally, helicopters will be hovering overhead. I’m told this is a good time to head home and stay within secure doors. Apparently there are 2 or 3 prisons in the area, and there are surprisingly frequent jail-breaks. The helicopters are searching… Nice. Lovely new neighbourhood this is indeed! That said, the office door was left open by accident one night this week. It was found not only unlocked, but ajar in the morning, but the set security alarm had not gone off and nothing was missing, so evidently no one walked in our open door.

10. Artistic mapping – the roads here provide a ridiculous presentation of all types of angles: obtuse, acute, quick, meandering…and ever so rarely, a good old right angle. I do miss Alberta for its predictable, if uncreative grid. I’m rarely able to go the same way twice here, and find that surprisingly, the way back often takes me half the time the way there took, as I inadvertently took a few more correct turns, cutting my “exploration time” in half. One day, feeling very certain of my way, I was suddenly surprised to notice that I had arrived at a place that looked exactly like a place I had just been 15 minutes before. And lo and behold, it was, indeed, the very same place. Funny. So Belgium does irony too, if not as much as Sudan.