Lilac Colored Glasses

It’s funny sometimes, the closer we get to the wedding, when CB and I realize we don’t necessarily know about each other.

I don’t mean little factoids, but rather moods or behaviors. I also can tell you that these discoveries are fairly one sided (with a few exceptions, of course, like the first time I ever saw CB really drunk, which wasn’t until earlier this month).

For example, let me first introduce you to two of my friends, Blingy and Strong Mama (formerly referred to as my Dutch and Romanian colleagues):

Blingy

Strong Mama

Blingy and Strong Mama are probably my first real real friends here in Belgium (there’s also La Capitana and Chica, who I’m sure will end up in another post at some point). By real friends I mean that I met them on my own, we got along wonderfully from day one and we hang out outside of work.
I know those are things that sound simple, but for me, it’s actually a big thing to make friends. I have many acquaintances, but only a few real friends. Up until recently I met most people either directly through CB or through his prodding me to socialize. My coworkers from the call center in Antwerp were all very nice people but I never felt motivated to ever spend time with them outside of work and my two coworkers from Brussels were a. primarily French speaking and b. not people I could really relate to whatsoever.

So anyway, the three of us went out on Thursday afternoon, just to hang out a bit before I’d be gone for almost 2 weeks and we had a blast, like we usually do. It’s not that we did much…mostly walked around Gent in search of an open restaurant with a terrace because Strong Mama is pregnant and craving meat and fresh air a lot of the time. We eventually found a nice Turkish place with an open kitchen and terrace and fake palms trees.

Afterwards we went on a long ambling walk in search of the best gelato in Gent. I know where to find this amazing ice cream (a little place called Nonno on the Korte Dagsteeg), but not a short way to get there from where we were. On the way, CB called and said he was finished working so I asked him to come meet us. We all sat with our ice cream and chatted before I finally said goodbye to my friends who headed back the train station and CB and I came home.

Once we got back, CB looked at me strangely and asked me if I’d had much to drink at the Turkish place.
Because he’s never seen me acting like I was with Blingy and Strong Mama with the exception of when I was under the influence. Because I was acting carefree and silly and giggly. Because I was with my friends.

And he’s never actually seen that before.

Muffins are not a Belgian thing.

Neither are brownies.
But we sell both of those things at the coffee kiosk (despite the fact that the company is British and brownies/muffins aren’t British things either), so occasionally I have to explain what a brownie or muffin is.
More often the muffin, since the brownie is slowly creeping onto the shelves in supermarkets.
And sometimes this is a dilemma because terminology here for baked goods is different than in the U.S.

For instance, in America, we have specific names for everything. There are the blanket terms “baked goods” and “pastries” but within those categories there are specifics like cupcakes and pies and brownies and muffins and scones. Or danish and blintzes and croissants and eclairs.

Descriptions here are often much more broad. Pretty much everything baked that isn’t “brood” (bread) or “taart” (cake) is grouped under the category of “koek” (everything else). This includes all pastries, crunchy cookies, wafer cookies, etc.
So, if I’m running to the bakery for pastries? I’m going to get “koffiekoeken.” If I’m describing a brownie then I say “het is een soort zachte chocolade koek” (it’s a sort of soft chocolate “koek”). If I’m looking for cookies I look for “koekjes.” So how exactly does one describe a muffin? It’s not flat or thin or crunchy or made of puff pastry. It’s obviously not bread and it doesn’t fit the Belgian definition of cake which is much softer and creamier than what Americans call cake.

Interestingly enough, Belgians distinguish their own cake (taart) from the spongier version, which they call “cake”. Keeping all of this in mind, can you see how, when someone comes up and asks me if the muffins are “cakeskes” (little cakes), my first instinct is to say no. Because they aren’t cakes, dammit, they’re muffins! Muffins have bits of stuff in them and they’re considered acceptable as breakfast food and they don’t have icing.

But they’re baked and spongy and don’t fit into the bread or taart categories…

So in the end, I give up.

“Ja,” I say, “da’s zo een cakeske.” (Yes, that’s a little cake)

I’m not talking about the weather, which was warmish for a whole day a week or so ago and has dipped back down to irritatingly, but not quite freezing cold.

No, I’m talking about something else entirely.

See, I haven’t been blogging much about work (okay, I haven’t been blogging much about anything), but that’s sort of a good thing. It means no drama, no problems, no nothing. The worst thing I could say about it is that my knees have really started to constantly hurt from standing for hours, but that’s partially my fault for forgetting to take a five minute break to sit every couple hours or so. There are some interesting things that occur, like last week when we ran out of milk at 5:30 in the evening. All we could serve for the rest of the night was black coffee, milkshakes (made from a milkshake mix, not milk), and tea (but not the chai steamer, cause that’s made with milk). Talk about impotence…a coffee place with no milk.

And there have been a few encounters with shitty customers, although in all honesty I can only think of two right away and they were both yesterday. One guy was pissy cause his cappuccino was taking too long and he was yelling at me to hurry up and tried to grab his drink while I was putting a lid on it, so I tossed the lid at him and he slammed it down and stormed away. Hey, if you decide to get into a huge line during rush hour and ask for a drink that requires the barista to foam the milk (takes 5 minutes tops if there’s no spare foam around, which there will never be during rush hour), well, you’re fucking stupid. So don’t do it if you’re in a hurry. There was also a woman who ordered a coffee and a croissant (3€) and put a single euro down on the counter, insisting she’d already paid me the other two. Which was complete bullshit. The order was still on my register and no receipt had printed cause she hadn’t paid me yet. Although it is more interesting to argue with someone in Dutch as opposed to the mind numbing repetition of “milk or sugar? cocoa or cinnamon?”. I won that one though. The woman haughtily said she’d check her money to prove she’d paid (cause, like, I would have had a clue what she started out with in her wallet in the first place?) and afterwards she shut her face and gave me two more euros. Cause that’s what she owed me and her wallet must’ve proved it to her.

There have been two encounters that I know of where kids have made fun of me for speaking english (both times I was replying in English to coworkers who only speak english or prefer to speak english). The first time didn’t bother me much cause they were teenage girls and understood enough that I could be passive aggressive enough to embarass the one and my Dutch coworker told off the group of them. The second time was some bratty ten year old who never made eye contact and spoke in a fake voice and was, in general, an asshole. He was incredibly amused when I asked my Turkish colleague for a strawberry milkshake and basically stood there mocking me to his friend while I contemplated simply handing his money back and telling him to get his milkshake somewhere that met his language standards. That one bothered me more, though I really can’t say why, it just did.

Cause for me it’s still a really big accomplishment that I can speak a second language. Plus I can stumble through enough French to take a French speaking person’s order, and I’m picking up a bit in Spanish as well. In Belgium it’s no big deal to be multi-lingual, but for me it is and it’s hurtful to be mocked, even if it is by an insignificant little pest.

So anyway, through all of this, there are my coworkers*, all of whom I get along with and most of whom I really have fun with. And the hours are a little weird, but I don’t mind it so much, especially because I’m able to request the days I prefer to have off as long as I ask a few weeks ahead of time, so there is tons of flexibility. And I received my first full month’s pay yesterday and I’m definitely making about 300€ more a month than I was at the crèche.

But yesterday (yes, a lot happened yesterday customer interaction-wise) I received what I consider to be one of the best compliments I’ve gotten since I moved here. There was a man in his late sixties or maybe seventies who had ordered a cappuccino and was waiting patiently for his drink (which earned him major brownie points from me before h e even opened his mouth). I was trying to explain something to my Romanian colleague in English but ended up switching over to Dutch to finish the conversation and afterwards the customer said to me (in Dutch, of course), “You speak with perfect American English accent and a perfect Flemish accent. Where are you from?”
And I grinned and told him I was American and he said, “Your Flemish accent is perfect!”
And I thanked him and after he got his drink and walked away I did a little happy dance. It was one of the warmest little rays of sunshine I’ve ever had in Belgium.

*You will never read about my Belgian colleagues cause I have none. Apparently immigrants make the best coffee.

I was just downstairs, casually spreading some shrimp in dill sauce on a cracker when it occurred to me that my eating habits and preferences have definitely changed over the past two years. Some of it definitely has to do with availability, but some of it is definitely exposure to new things and taste combinations. Here are some comparisons I came up with off the top of my head.

What I snack on?
Then: Kettle Chips and Helluva Good French Onion Dip
Now: Shrimp in dill sauce and wheat crackers (usually KrispRolls)

What I miss the most: Triscuits with sharp cheddar cheese and spicy mustard

Soups in my pantry?
Then: Campbell’s Hearty Steak and Potato, Campbell’s Chicken and Wild Rice
Now: Campbell’s Leek Bisque with Scallops, Knorr’s Broccoli with Boursin

What I miss most: New England Clam Chowder

Late night munchies?
Then: Sheetz MTO or nachos grande
Now: Kebap or fries

What I miss the most: Sheetz, I do so miss Sheetz. SHEEEEETZ!!!!!

Morning pick me up?
Then: Grande non-fat caramel macchiato
Now: Koffie verkeerd (a.k.a a simple latte)

What I miss the most: The choice to have skim milk or a larger size

Favorite restaurant?
Then: Toss up between Red Lobster, Shogun and Don Pablos
Now: Alaturka (Turkish cuisine, probably best Turkish pizzas in Gent), Kastart (really awesome pasta place)

What I miss most: Affordable seafood and real Tex Mex food

Tipsy time?
Then: Margaritas, SoCo and cranberry with a twist of lime, Yuengling or Guinness
Now: Pinot des Charentes, Kir Royal, Rodenbach, Tripel Karmeliet

What I miss most: Frangelico

And don’t get me wrong, this is totally not my day to day diet, just some noticeably different tastes I’ve developed since moving here.

Once upon a time, in a land called Yerp, there two little boys named Frankie and Willy (actually, for this particular story, I guess I should call them Wouter and Jean-Pierre, but I’m the author and I’m American, so just go along with me, okay?).

Frankie and Willy were twin brothers, but they couldn’t be more different. Frankie was hard working and industrious. He worked long hours in the fields, took care of the crops and studied hard during lesson time. Willy was laid back and preferred traipsing about the wilderness, fishing and trapping muskrats to bring home for supper. He didn’t care too much for lessons, finding it much easier to laze about until the truancy officer eventually insisted he study a bit.

Frankie’s favorite color was gray, Willy’s was green.
Frankie’s favorite snack was pastry, Willy’s was sausage.
Frankie spoke a language spoken by few, Willy spoke a language spoken by many.
Frankie earned money by doing the daily chores, Willy nicked the money from Frankie’s piggy bank.

And the two were always fighting.

Frankie insisted that Willy should work harder around the homestead. He stomped his feet and told Willy that his language was important too, and that each brother should speak each other’s language.

Willy smirked and refused. Why should he work harder when he knew Frankie would just continue to do all the hard work himself? Why should he bother earning his own money when he knew Frankie would just continue to fill the piggy bank. And who wanted to speak Frankie’s language anyway? It was silly and little and hardly anyone else used it anyway.

The twins fought and fought, nearly coming to blows until their father, Russel (or Ruxelles, if this fairy tale isn’t already transparent enough), stepped in and negotiated a truce.
See, Russel was the head of a large pottery company called West Urn Yerp  and ever since he had been given his position, he had been under a lot of pressure from his boss to show that he could hold his company together. And how can a man be trusted to hold an entire company together if he can’t even control things in his own back yard?

So Russel, who was in the middle of his own identity crisis and was struggling with drinking problems and sinking ever deeper into a life of crime, decided to patch up the relationship between his sons in the easiest way possible.
He raised each of their allowances and promised them that, no matter what, they’d be treated equally, as long as they held hands and pretended to get along.

Willy, who was never one to ignore the insistent knocking of opportunity, grabbed hold of Frankie’s hand as tight as he could and promised he’d try harder. He even learned a bit of Frankie’s language (Frankie had already mastered Willy’s language long before, since that was the only way Willy would bother speaking to him) although he rarely bothered to speak it, since he knew Frankie already understood him well enough.
Frankie grudgingly held onto Willy’s hand as well, knowing that without Russel, he’d have a much harder time finding enough chores to do to earn money for his piggy bank.

And so it went. Frankie continued to work hard to earn money and learn new things while Willy continued to wander around and pluck the coins from his brother’s piggy bank. If Frankie complained, Russel threatened to stop giving him chores to earn his allowance. If Willy demanded too much, Russel scolded him a bit before patting him roughly on the head and heading down to the bar to join some of his sleazier friends for a round of drinks.

And so it continues to this very day, far far away in the land of Yerp. Frankie and Willy are still forced to hold hands, despite their constant squabbling while Russel grins falsely and continues to hold onto the day to day management of West Urn Yerp, ignoring the troubles in his own back yard.

The tale doesn’t end here, of course, for there is always the matter of trying to clear the wild Turkeys out of Frankie’s garden, or the inexplicable flow of Morro Cans into Willy’s forrest.
But the hour grows late and those are tales for another time.