Let’s be real for a second here.

I know that I often discuss employment and my masters degree, but let’s really look at why I am where I am today.

I moved to Belgium for one reason: Cabana Boy.

This post is for him.

CB,

One thing that there is an abundance of in our relationship is the words “I love you.”  I hope that never ever changes. Before I met you I held my feelings in and felt like effusive “I love you’s” were wasted.  I had been hurt too many times and I had been lonely for so long that any sort of excess emotion, in my opinion, was uncalled for. And then suddenly, at some point in our relationship, I desperately began to hop that you loved me because I was pretty sure that I was falling in love with you.

I could barely stand hanging up the line when we would skype as you fell asleep at night.  Saying good night to the empty air felt like a slap in the face because what I wanted and needed was a kiss on the cheek. I remember the first time we said “I love you” and how those were the only words that seemed to come out of my mouth when I opened my lips to speak.  I could barely form a sentence without telling you and reminding myself that I was so in love with you.

What we have is so improbable on so many levels.  The distance, the cultures, the language, the personal differences…I could go on and on about all of the reasons that we shouldn’t work.

But we do.

We work so beautifully that I’m in awe. I’m amazed sometimes by you and your capacity for patience and understanding; your devotion and the overwhelming and all encompassing love you show me every day.

I’m not an easy woman to be with.  I know that well enough.  I can be spoiled, stubborn, moody and emotional. I have eyes that can kill a person…you’re not the first person to tell me how awful my eyes are when I’m angry.  I’m intense in a way that very few men have been able or willing to deal with but you take it all in stride and in the end you do what you always have done: you make me the best version of myself.

I was searching and searching for that person that I used to be, the one who got lost somewhere on my journey through life.  But in the end, you brought that person back to me.

You make me whole.  You are a compassionate, intelligent, patient, strong man and I love you more than any spoken language can say.  Every struggle, every tear, every trial that I’ve faced this past year has been for you and you have been and always will be worth every second of it.

I just thought you might want to know, because I’ve been quite overdue in telling you.

Ik zie je graag.  Je zal altijd mijn prins zijn.

Have I ever told you all about the moment I knew I was ready to have children? And no, I’m not talking about the day I met the I.C. Pixie; that was when I knew I was ready to be a mother.  And yes, in my opinion there is a difference between being ready to have children and being ready to be a mother.

But anyway, in case I never mentioned it, I knew I was ready to have children about four years ago after nap time in the daycare when I was still working in the 2 year old room.  There was a little girl in the class that year who had asthma and one day towards the end of naptime she woke up coughing so hard and loud that the head teacher asked me to take her to the room across the hall so she didn’t wake the other kids up.  I obliged, no problem, and once we were across the hall the cough got so bad that the little girl started gagging.
Well, the teachers from the room across the hall were a bit neurotic about the cleanliness of their classroom, especially if the damage was wrought by one of our kids, so I went out of my way to try to keep things as orderly and clean as possible.  Therefore, when the little girl coughed so hard that she threw up, I didn’t even think twice before cupping my hands in front of her and catching it.

Yes, I caught vomit in my bare hands.
Vomit from a child.
Vomit from a child that was not mine.

And that’s when I knew I was ready to have children.

Anyway, I guess my point here is that, at least for me, realizations regarding important times in my life are often brought on by strange things.

This morning I finally got my electronic Belgian ID card. Three hundred and sixty six days after I moved to Belgium and now it’s as close to permanent as it can get without actually having citizenship.

I’ve lived in Belgium for an entire year.  In that time I’ve learned enough Dutch to understand most conversations without needing translation*, I can speak well enough to function day to day barring the need for fluent, conversational interaction, I’ve taken two masters level psychology classes (hopefully I’ll pass them), I’ve gained a kitten, some new family and the most important thing of all, a fiancee.
There have been so many festivities lately that nothing special or significant marked my first year in Belgium and I’m absolutely okay with that**. Today felt no different than any other day when I caught the bus from immigrant hell (which is quite lovely on Saturdays now, thanks to appointments) back to the city center, got a coffee, walked around and took what was probably my final stroll through the Kerstmarkt for the year.
It felt like any other day as I got off the #3 bus and began walking down our street.  On my way I saw Felix*** a neighborhood cat that looks almost exactly like Rex only smaller and without the little mustache.  The first few times I saw Felix I actually freaked, thinking Rex had gotten out until I noticed the cat’s nose was pink, not black.  Anyway, Felix rendezvoused with Fat Cat, a tabby and white tom that I see occasionally as well and the two ran across the playground of the elementary school on our street.  At the last minute I decided to go to the bakkery for some croissants and I glimpsed Ghost Cat running crossing the other end of the alley that brings you out right next to the local baker.

And that’s when I realized that I knew and identified the local street cats as well as, if not better than, most of our neighbors.  And while that definitely reveals the extent of my non-social nature, it also made me feel like I was going home.

Not the house, not back to CB. No, I was going home. Where things are not perfect but they’re familiar; where I’ve cried oceans but laughed more than I ever have in my adult life; where things are often difficult but when it’s all said and done the reward is worth more than gold.

People always ask if we plan on staying here or moving to America and we really don’t know how to answer.  For now, living in Belgium is what makes the most sense.  In a few years that might change but we just can’t be sure. But what I became sure of today was that for as long as we are living in Belgium, from now on I’ll finally be able to call it home.

* This is in ideal conditions, mind you. If excessive dialect or speed or both are being used, or if I can’t see the person then I struggle a lot more.
** I’m not sure that I’m okay with the fact that my last name has yet to be on many of the Christmas cards sent to us, or worse, my name is cramped into the margin of the envelope because the person addressing it obviously forgot I existed. Although an upshot is that I’ll feel better taking CB’s last  name (a practice which isn’t done in much of Europe) because it’s not like most of his acquaintances and family have bothered to learn mine (obviously his parents and sister know it though).
*** All cat names are figments of my overactive imagination. I have no idea if the owners even bother to name their cats, I just gave you the names I call them in my head.

1. Abbey park in Leuven (Benedictine order, not where CB stayed)
2. More of the park. It must be beautiful in the spring.
3. One of the doors.  I like the staircase mostly.
4. The drive leading up to the abbey.  You can see the “leeuwpoort” (lion gate) at the end of the trees.
5. Presumably the abbey cat.  I call him Fatty McLeuven. He swayed when he walked and had almost no teeth.
6. A huge church in Leuven’s center
7. Streetpost toppers in Gent centrum.  More impressive than the actual tree (more on that later in this list).
8. The stage in the Kerstmarkt. Lots of live music and choirs in the evenings.
9. The Kerstmarkt is set up on Sint Baafsplein, so you can see Sint Baaf’s cathedral in the background.
10. A coffee bar in the Kerstmarkt (there was also a hot chocolate hut and 3 or 4 huts serving glühwein and other heated liquors)
11. Selling handmade wooden toys, decorations, jewelry, etc.
12. Selling mistletoe (they don’t do the kissing thing though, they use it as decoration)
13. Christmassy decorations and tid bits
14. Kerstmarkt stage lit up at night
15. Kerstmarkt lit up at night
16. Another hut selling Christmassy items (there were others selling pancakes and quiche and waffles and candles and aromatherapy and jewelry and hats and mittens and tons of other things but I ran out of room on the memory card)
17. Gent’s Christmas tree.  Apparently they want to use LED lights to avoid energy pollution.  I totally applaud this for the lights over the shopping street and other yearly lights used to decorate.  But as you can see it makes for a lame ass Christmas tree.  The lights in Lokeren are beautiful and they’re LED so it can be done…the Gent people just missed the workshop on it I guess.
18. Lastly, and most importantly…I call this picture “How to Buy my Love.” Cause that’s what Holly did.  After reading this post she went and sent me Oreos.  They did not last the day. And I am now eternally indebted to her.

Guess what came in the mail this morning?

If you guessed my pin numbers for my electronic card activation you would be correct.

And what was it, you might ask, that kept me from hunting down the mailman and showing him how an American goes postal before stomping down the streets of Gent howling like Godzilla and ending my destructive rampage by firebombing immigrant hell, laughing maniacally whilst singing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas?”

Well, I also got my Puzzle Pirates mousepad and playing cards that I won in a writing contest a few months back and a delivery slip from the post telling me that I have a package waiting for me (most likely Oreos if my sources are correct).

And my heart grew two sizes today, hence the city of Gent was spared the carnage and rage of this scorned American.

Who would’ve thought.

It figures.

I know I’ve mentioned immigrant hell a few times since I’ve moved to Belgium; the dogpiles for tickets at 7:00 am, the senseless trips back and forth between 2 different buildings to renew one set of papers, the laws that seem to change without notice every few months so that the information you spend a month gathering is not what you actually need when you go back to turn it in, the endless need for passport photos, the inevitable B.O. that occurs in a rooms crammed full of people that often have no use for deodorant in their native lands.

Ah…immigrant hell.

Exactly where I did NOT want to be this morning (or ever, to be honest) at 7:10. Although I have to admit, it’s better than showing up at 7:30 like I did last time and waiting for four hours.  This time I only waited three.* And I got to see a fun argument between some pissed off Moroccan guy that tried to cut ahead of the 60 or so people who’d been standing for the long haul and got called out on it by some equally (and more rightfully) pissed African woman who had come in before him but who had gotten in line like she was supposed to.

Fortunately they have two authority type figures that stand next to the ticket machine now to regulate the crowd, so the angry Moroccan was chastised by a surly Belgian woman before he stormed out in a huff, yelling about how his rights were being violated (cause apparently his rights are much more important than everyone else’s).

So anyway, I got number 26 this time (yes, even though I got there 50 minutes before the office opened, I was still 26th in line) and I sat down, read a novel, and diligently double checked that all my paperwork was in order for my new working papers.  Since my status changed earlier this month it means I have to get new working papers because I’m no longer restricted in how many hours I can legally work by a student status.  To get the papers I have to take the filled out application to immigrant hell, then take the signed forms to the VDAB (Flanders office of employment) and have them submitted, wait a few weeks to receive a letter in the mail and then take the letter and 2 passport photos back to immigrant hell for my work permit.

I have yet to receive my permanent (well, good for 5 years) electronic residence card, but I do have a temporary card, so I brought that with me along with the properly filled out papers and waited.  Once my number came up I took everything to the counter and the woman took a look at it.

“You don’t have your electronic card yet?” she asked me.

“No, but they said it should take 2 weeks so I hope I’ll have it this week…I had a student card but they took it from me when my status changed.”

“Yes, well, we’re waiting on your national number and we’ll need to activate your electronic card first to get that number.”

“So you can’t use the national number from my student card?”

“No, I’m sorry, you’ll have a new number when your electronic card comes.  But when it does you can call the number and make an appointment for Saturday so that you don’t have to wait as long.” (you’d be amazed how much nicer I’m treated in immigration hell when the person helping me sees I’m American - before I immigrated I probably would have complained that that sort of favoritism is biased and unfair but at this point I’m taking any bone they throw at me)

Conclusion? I can’t get new working papers yet and most likely, due to the holidays, I won’t be receiving my permanent card until after New Years. Even if I do, chances are I won’t be able to schedule an appointment to have it activated until after New Years. And I woke up at 6:00 am and waited for three hours to find this out.

The bright(ish) side of it is that this one isn’t my fault.  I absolutely didn’t procrastinate in getting my status changed, rather, I started the process as soon as Gent would allow me to. The other bright(er) side is that I can actually schedule an appointment for the activation and working papers so I don’t have to deal with the lines and waiting and other various joys that lurk in the shadows of immigrant hell.

*the whole ticket-taking process has changed at least 3 times since I moved to Gent.  First it was first come, first serve and the machine only started giving out tickets around 7:50.  This resulted in the dogpiling I’ve mentioned a few times in this blog.  The main fault with that set up was that there was an assumption that forming a nice, well ordered queue was an inherent behavior rather than a learned one.  People didn’t stand in orderly lines, they trampled each other and milled around like a swarm of angry bees until they got a ticket.  Next they left the machine on so that you could go up and as soon as you got there you took a number.  That eliminated the multicultural mosh-pit but it created an issue where people would get there early and take the next 15 tickets for all of their various friends and neighbors who would show up later in the morning.  So the setup they seem to have settled on now is one where people line up and then around 7:50 two people come, unlock the machine, push the button and individually hand each person a ticket. So far it seems to be working, aside from the fact that you have to get there two hours before the office opens just to be within the first 20 people in line. Oh and the office opens at 8:00 but there’s only one person there until 8:30, then two more counters open and then around 9:00 the remaining two counters open.  So really, unless you’re in the first ten people, you’re guaranteed to wait for over an hour.