The Belgian Years

Boot Camp Survival Skills

2008-04-08T20:24:00.006+02:00

Dan and I were watching some sort of marine corps survival training course on TV the other day (hey, we are at the mercy of Belgacom, what can I say?), when it hit me -- my time in Belgium has been a two-year long boot camp on how to survive on public transportation!

At the risk of pissing in the proverbial wind, I swear I feel that there is nothing that I am not prepared for when it comes to PT. Drive your car into a tram? Got you covered. Have a very large old lady fall into your lap where you have to grope her breasts in order to push her off of you? Can teach that course. Man craps his pants in seat across from you? Passed it with flying colors. Stuck between a glass partition and a "hard spot"? Been there, felt that. Dyslexic cab drivers? Ckech. Crazy lady dropping trou? Roger that. Cabbies that offer post-ride massages? PT101. How to drive a bus driver into a homicidal rage? Magna cum laude, baby!

So, on Tuesday afternoon when the driver of Tram 25 stopped the tram in the middle of the road and got out with a long metal stick, I wasn't the least bit concerned. I figured he was probably just trying to figure out the best way to dislodge the body. No big deal for a PT survivalist like myself. A couple of minutes of poking and prodding, and the driver got back on the tram and we started on our merry way. But I, the hardened, seasoned public transport professional that I am, knew that there was much more to this ordeal. I could tell by the tiny hairs standing up on the back of my neck. (Rookies, lesson one in PT survival training -- learn to listen to those hairs. It could very well save your life one day, or at least become a bloggable event. You heard it here.)

The tram rambled on until it came to the next stop. Although I had never been in this area of Brussels, nor had I ever been on this particular tramline, I knew that the stop was "Buyl" because, like a good survivalist, I am always aware of my surroundings (and escape routes) while using PT. As the driver pulled into the stop, he made the announcement over the loudspeaker. I didn't need French or context clues to know what was going on. While others showed their irritation by rolling their eyes and grumbling, I just laughed. I was in an unfamiliar area, pressed for time. Of course we were being kicked off the tram.

So, as I stood on the side of the tram tracks waiting for god-knows-how-long for the next tram to arrive so I could join the masses in shoving my way onto what was sure to be an already packed tram, I couldn't help but pride myself in just how far I've come in PT survival. There was a time when I would have been the only person that didn't get off the tram, riding it back to wherever it was being sent for repair, with the driver sneaking peaks at me in his rearview mirror, wondering what was going on with the crazy chick?

Hoorah!

Here We Go Again

2008-03-30T21:33:00.003+02:00

This weekend we found an "invitation" in our mailbox. Looks like our presence is requested at our local police station. Maybe the staff had such a good time when we were down there 2 months ago that they just had to invite us back. We're fun that way.

Dan is convinced that they just lost a form or something while processing my residency card renewal and they want a do-over. I, on the other hand, don't share his optimism. Maybe it's because I've been down this road one and half times before. I'll let you know where I end up.

Them's Fighting Words

2008-03-28T18:40:00.007+01:00

On my way to the tram this morning (yes, I realize that this is entirely inconsistent with my swearing off of public transportation in yesterday's post, but, the reality is that my pro-bono job does not afford me the luxury of taking a cab to and from the office every day!), this rather large, clean-cut, and relatively nicely-dressed man approached me from the opposite direction and stopped directly in front of me. He then started talking to me in French.

A little irritated that he was blocking my forward progression, but still well within the realms of good global citizen, I threw out my best "Je suis desolee. Je ne parle pas Francais. Sorry." I then tried to sidestep him to the left. He grabbed my right arm and asked, "English?" Since my purse was on the other arm, I didn’t figure him for a robber. Great, that left me with rapist! Of course, internally, I'm freaking out, but, on the outside, I’m the picture of cool, calm and collected. I yanked my arm back and replied, “yes,” while still trying to get around him.

He then asked, in English, if I knew where Place de Kambi (sp?) was. I told him no, I had never heard of it. Again, I tried to skirt past him. Again, he blocked my path. He said that he really needed to find Place Kambi. I told him that if he could give me a restaurant or a hotel near the Place, maybe I could help him, but, otherwise, I really had no idea where Place de Kambi was.

He then asked me if I was from England. “No,” I said. At this point, I had managed to get past him, but, to my chagrin, he started walking backwards next to me. With a death-grip on my purse, I tried to put as much distance – both forwardly and laterally – from the man as possible. Right about then, I started thinking that maybe the guy was never looking for Place de Kambi and that, perhaps, he was just looking for a reason to approach me. I started to get a little weirded out.

Not to be deterred by my curt response and fancy side-stepping, he then asked me if I was an American. “Yes,” I said, “I’m from the States.” This is where what would have otherwise been just another uncomfortable encounter on a Brussels street for Cindy turned into a bloggable event. He started pointing at me and yelling, “You are the daughter of George W. Bush! You are the daughter of George W. Bush!” Needless to say, it caught people's attention.

Now, I’ve purposely tried to keep this blog non-political, as I’m sure that there are plenty who don’t share my views, nor would they care to read my rants (except, for maybe my Daddy and my Aunt Pat who most certainly share my rant-slant), but, c’mon, them’s fighting words! The way I figured it, W's approval rating in the States is hovering around 30%, give or take a few evangelicals. All things being equal, I think it is fair to say that public opinion of him in Europe is much, much, much, much lower. And this lunatic (the guy on the street, in case you are confused as to which one I'm referring) is accusing me of being related to him (the other lunatic, in case you are confused as to which one I'm referring)!

Granted, I was tempted to stop and defend my honor, but, if anything, I'm learning not to engage the crazies. So, I just kept walking. I did, however, do that little waving motion next to my head that the French do that looks like you are screwing in a light bulb (for the longest time I thought it was just nice people waving at me until someone clued me in that it was actually French hand signals for "that beyatch be crazy!") Apparently, this particular hand signal is gender-neutral. Good to know, good to know.

I Shit You Not

2008-03-27T18:20:00.002+01:00

I. Hate. Public. Transportation. There, I said it. How very politically incorrect of me, especially in the non-green sort of way. This morning, I vowed to never again take the metro in Brussels. Or, at the very least, never sit in one of the seats again.

I would like to take you all back to the blog posting, Mind the Crack, where I posted about the crazy lady that got off the metro in front of me and immediately dropped trou and used the bathroom. Looking back, I guess I should have given her props for at least waiting to until she got off the metro to do her business.

This morning, I picked up the 1B line in the direction of Stockell. Somewhere between Gare Central and Arts-Loi, the guy sitting across from me literally shit his pants. I'm not sure if it was voluntary or otherwise, but, he definitely experienced a bowel movement, whether you attribute it to irritable bowel syndrome, spastic colon, fecal incontinence, anal leakage, or whatever. Trust me, from where I was sitting, I was more concerned with the effect rather than the cause.

Needless to say, those of us in the immediate vicinity of the guy cleared out like cockroaches in a tenement housing when the lights go on. (Okay, so, technically, I've never actually seen cockroaches in tenement housing, or, for that matter, even been inside a tenement house, but, I've got cable and a vivid imagination.) Gagging, I made it to the back of the train, positioning myself as far away from Mr. Crappy Pants as possible. I kept staring at him, trying to find something that would have clued me in that this guy would evacuate his bowels on public transport. But, I had nothing. Not one single thing. From where I was standing, he looked absolutely normal, assuming, of course, you weren't looking at the brown stain on his jeans.

Latest Lessons Learned

2008-03-21T18:11:00.007+01:00

Top 10 Things We Learned While Dan Was Hospitalized:

10. Time spent in the hospital is a lot like dog years.

9. The curtain dividing a shared hospital room does nothing to drown out the sounds coming from the patient in the other bed, be it snores or those sounds that naturally follow the administration of an enema. If your roommate does need an enema, chances are it will be given 30 minutes before dinner is served, pretty much ensuring that the guy will go to the toilet (that would be the portable one placed just on the other side of the dividing curtain!) while you are eating dinner.

8. Smells travel through curtains.

7. Whoever put the deposit in for the remote control gets to call the shots as to what will be watched on the only television in the room.

6. The Dutch game show, Blokken, can be quite entertaining, even if you have no idea what is being said.

5. When it comes time to place your order for the next day's dinner, don't opt for the "bologna." It is made from horse meat.

4. Job was a sissy! Apparently, lack of privacy, lack of sleep and lack of food is all that is needed to create the "perfect storm" conditions for Dan to turn into the devil!

3. I have no idea what they make, but nurses are underpaid. Way, way, way underpaid. (Along those same lines, quality health care does not have to cost a fortune! There is something to be said for socialized medicine.)

2. Dan makes a horrible, horrible, horrible, horrible patient.

1. We are so incredibly blessed to have such loving and supportive people in our lives. Thanks so much for all of the calls, the emails, the texts, the cards, the flowers and the prayers over the past couple of weeks. We could have not have gotten through this without you guys!

Weather Wise

2008-03-21T15:26:00.003+01:00

Today is March 21st. It is the second day of spring, which I know for a fact to be true because of yesterday's Google doodle. Today, there was sun in Brussels. It was sandwiched between hail and snow. It is days like this that remind me just how far I have come since my rookie days in Brussels when I didn't know that you should never leave the house without a coat, gloves, umbrella and sunglasses.

The Bells on the Bus Go Brring Brring Brring

2008-02-23T12:54:00.014+01:00

For 10 days in February, I was holed up on the Spanish coastline, chasing some sun. I figured with a name like "Costa del Sol", it would be a good place to start. Not so much. According to the concierge at the hotel, it was some of the worst weather he had seen in a long, long, long time. He was flat-out amazed at the amount of wind and rain pummeling the coastline. I, on the other hand, wasn't surprised at all.

One stormy day, I decided to head to Malaga to check out Picasso's birthplace and museum. One would think, given all my (mis)adventures on public transportation, that I would take a cab. One would be wrong. I opted for the M110, the local bus marked "Benalmadena to Malaga". The way I saw it, I spoke passable Spanish, the bus stop was directly in front of my hotel, and the museum was the last stop on the route. All things considered, what could possibly go wrong? Well, let me break it down for you.

I hopped on the bus with a big smile and a twenty euro note and asked the bus driver, "Malaga Centro?" I've found that this is really the best approach to take when you have absolutely no idea where you are going - ask the guy driving. In this case, he replied, and this is a direct quote, "si, but it is only 1 euro 25. Do you have anything smaller?" Yep, this was going to be a piece of cake.

Generally when travelling on public transportation in a foreign country, I try to get the seat closest to the driver. In this case, I snagged an aisle seat, front row, right side of the bus. I considered it a win-win situation. Chances were pretty good that no one would want to crawl over me to get to the window seat; I could see the driver, and, more importantly, the driver could see me, which meant that the odds of him telling me which stop to get off were leaning heavily in my favor.

The bus driver was, by far, the happiest guy I have seen working in a public sector industry. Absolutely nothing phased this driver -- not the traffic, not the weather, not the old Brits (which, by the way, from what I can see, make up almost the entire population from Benalmadena to Torremolinos) who held the bus up while they were digging for their fare or bus passes, not the road construction, which was B-A-D bad. I even caught him humming a time or two.

Well, just as I had anticipated, when we reached the last stop at the Malaga bus station, the Happy Driver turned around and said, "this is you." Muchas gracias, senor! I hopped off the bus and immediately decided that it was not the day to see Malaga. The rain had picked up, the wind was raging and, quite frankly, I did not want to deal with the weather hassle, let alone sacrifice one of my new umbrellas.

So, decision made, I jumped on another bus, this one marked "Malaga to Benalmadena." As before, I approached the bus driver, this time with 1.25 on the ready, and asked for a "billette." Unlike before, I did not get a ticket. Instead, I got what would probably be best described as a Spanish verbal smackdown. Tapping deep into my Tex-Mex Tijuana Spanglish, I was able to discern that, apparently, when boarding a bus in Spain at the station, one needs to purchase a ticket at the booth and not on the bus. Good to know. But, I also learned that if one keeps pushing the buck 25 back at the driver, and the line starts to seriously back up, the driver will, eventually, take one's money. Pick your battles, people, that's all I'm saying.

As before, I took the seat on the first row, on the aisle, door-side of the bus. Even though there was no chance in hell that this particular driver was going to give me the heads-up on my get-off stop, old habits are hard to break. I settled in and watched as the bus started to fill up.

It was obvious that this driver did not enjoy anywhere near the job satisfaction as his colleague, nor did he share his same sunny disposition. He rarely acknowledged anyone, unless you consider "rapido" a greeting. He cut people off in traffic; he yelled at other drivers through his window; he cursed when he didn't make the traffic light. Basically, he was just an all-around nasty man.

As more and more people got on the bus, I got to feeling a little guilty about blocking the window seat. I decided that if an old person got on the bus carrying something heavy, I would slide over. That was my deal -- old and carrying something heavy.

I don't know who tipped the devil off to my internal bargain, but, sure enough, a couple of stops later, this old man got on the bus, literally dragging a huge green duffel bag. Curses! I slid over. Since the duffel bag would have blocked the aisle, the man wanted it on his lap. Being the good global citizen that I am (okay, to make myself feel better about hogging the seat), I leaned over and helped him put his bag on his lap. I also slid as far to the right as I possibly could, crossing my legs to give him even more room, which meant my knees were now smashed up against the side of the bus. Small price to pay to ease the guilt.

As the bus navigated through the various pothole-ridden roads and construction zones, a pattern emerged. The bell would ring, the driver would look in his big center mirror (with a very irritated look on his face), the bus would pull over at the next stop, and people would get off. It was Pavlovian beautiful.

We left the city center and entered the motorway, where the bus picked up cruising speed. Now, I don't know why there are bus stops on the Spanish motorway, but, there are -- lots of them. As before, the bell rang and the driver, looking irritated, pulled over at the next stop. But, unlike in the city center, this time, no one got off. The driver, looking even more irritated (which I didn't think was humanly possible), waited for a break in traffic and then merged back onto the motorway and started picking up speed.

We jostled down the road for a couple of more minutes and then, brring, brring. The driver once again pulled out of traffic and stopped at the next stop. Once again, no one got off. The driver glared at us from his center mirror and shouted something in Spanish, which I didn't catch, but, from the look on the faces of the people around me, it must have been a real gem.

Just as the bus was accelerating to merge left back into traffic, brring, brring, brring, brring, brring. At this point, the driver is not watching the road - at all. His eyes are fixed on the center mirror, trying to catch whoever it is pushing the button. The rest of us on the bus are looking around trying to do the same thing. Personally, I had my money on the young guy with the cammo jeans and the white jacket with the Ipod wires dangling from his ears. He just looked way too nonchalant, in a very cocky sort of way. If anyone was going to kick Cujo, it'd be him.

We had gone about a mile or two before the bell went off again. The driver pulled over. No one got off. At this point, the driver was well on his way to a ruptured aneurysm. Part of me admired anyone with the cajones to jack with this guy, but another part of me was mortified that he was going to make all of us pay - dearly. From where I was sitting, we were one gun shy of a CNN reported incident.

By now, it is getting pretty damn uncomfortable on the bus, largely because of the maniacal way the driver kept glaring at us from his rearview mirror. He had stopped cursing several stops ago, and, quite frankly, I found his steely silence even more disturbing. The old guy seated beside me started shifting in his seat, moving closer to me, in, what I presumed to be, an attempt to dodge the driver's direct line of sight. I, too, did not want to risk making eye contact with the driver, so I looked down at my lap. And, that's when I saw it. The little red thing. The little red thing that my knees touched every time I moved. The little red thing that goes brring, brring, brring!

I've only experienced paralyzing, mind-numbing fear a couple of times in my life and this was one of them. Fortunately, survival skills kicked in. I knew I had to get off the bus, immediately, but I couldn't exactly push the little red button now, could I? Instead, I jumped up and yelled "proxima por favor", "proxima."

The bus driver pulled over. I got out. I walked the last two miles to the hotel, in the pouring rain, without an umbrella, singing to myself, "the bells on the bus go brring, brring, brring," and thinking about winning the battle, but losing the war.

I Miss My Phone

2008-02-21T18:17:00.003+01:00

My brand-spanking new Treo 750 smartphone has gone the way of my wallet. (I'm really starting to take this personally!) Fortunately for me, the person who took it was kind enough to leave me my credit cards, my ATM card, and my driver's license, all of which I had been keeping in my phone case because I was without a wallet. (The credit cards were turned in to the reception at the hotel as being "found" in a corridor -- no word on how they got out of the phone case or where the phone was at!) Now, I am reduced to using an envelope from the Torrequebrada Hotel in Costa del Sol, Spain, with a big piece of tape on the back, as a wallet. Tres trendy!

I Miss My Wallet

2008-02-16T01:00:00.002+01:00

My wallet is gone. Not gone as in "lost" or "misplaced", gone as in "stolen."

I hope that whoever took it did not just abandon it in a trash can somewhere near the metro station. No, I sincerely hope that they are enjoying running their fingers over the well-worn leather, smooth and supple after years of use.

I hope they recognize that this wallet is not only a designer wallet, but it is "vintage", as it is over 15 years old and no longer available for purchase.

I hope that they are going through all the plastic cards, wondering what in the hell is a "pets perk" card.

I hope that they are looking at the pictures of my nephews and are commenting on how adorable they are.

I hope that they take the measly 80 some-odd euros that I had in it and buy themselves something special. Or, ever better, treat someone they love to lunch or a cocktail.

I hope that they go to Paris and get some use out of the Paris metro tickets stored behind my organ donor card.

I hope that no one ever takes this wallet away from them!

Mind the Crack

2008-02-15T19:35:00.002+01:00

If you've ever ridden the London tube (that's the metro or subway for all us non-Brits), you have probably seen the sign above the door that reads "Mind the Gap." Again, for the non-Brits, that translates, roughly, to "Watch Your Step."

Last week, Joni and Jason, some friends of ours from SoCal, along with their 10-month old daughter, came to visit us in Brussels via London. We made plans to meet some of my friends for lunch near Schuman, so I suggested we take the metro. Seriously, what kind of tour guide would I be without exposing my guests to the workings and smells of the underground? Besides, I wanted them to experience just how different Brussels' underground was compared to London's.

For reasons not important to this story, we got on the metro at the Gare du Midi, which meant that we had to change lines at Arts Loi and then we would have only two stops before our destination. All things considered, and by that, I mean, given that we were riding the subway and Jason was carrying his daughter in some sort of contraption on his back that protruded out a good foot and a half and he had yet to cold-cock someone while turning, we had a pretty smooth experience -- until Joni smelled smoke.

When we got on the new line at Arts Loi, Joni looked at me and asked, "Can you smoke in here?" I looked around and, sure enough, there was a woman, seated about 5 feet from where I was standing and, more importantly, seated directly next to the little sign indicating smoking is not allowed in the metro, thoroughly enjoying herself a cigarette.

The Smoking Lady saw me at about the same time I saw her. Rather good-naturedly, I wagged my finger at her in a "that's a no-no" sort of way, and BAM, cardinal rule violated. How many times have I said that you are never to engage the crazies? Well, let me tell you, finger-wagging at a crazy person is like a waving a red cape to a bull. I know this now. Do with it what you will.

Smoking lady started smiling in that raging psychotic nutjob sort of way, accentuated by tell-tale crazed serial killer eye rolls. And, it seemed, I had her undivided attention. She took a long pull on her cigarette and threw it down at her feet, still very much lit, in the poorly-ventilated train. Part of me knew, just knew, that nothing good was going to come of this. Call it want you want, mojo, intuition, experience, whatever, but I could just sense a bloggable event coming on.

As we approached the Schuman stop, I inched forward, gesturing for Joni and Jason to follow me, so that we would be ready to make a quick exit when the doors opened. Smoking Lady beat us to the punch. When the train stopped, Smoking Lady was in the middle of the train doorway, fidgeting with her skirt. I was trying to figure out the least intrusive way of reaching around her and pushing the little green button that would open the doors, when she hit the release button and solved my problems for me.

Since no one was waiting to board, I figured Smoking Lady would step off the train and head straight. My plan was to step off and make a quick right, hoping Joni and Jason would follow my lead.

Well, you know what they say about the plans of mice and men. Smoking Lady threw me a curve when she stepped straight off the train and then IMMEDIATELY hiked up her skirt and started using the bathroom! At this point, I am directly behind her, with one front on the metro and one foot on the platform, caught between the soon to be closing metro doors and her bare ass, trying not to stumble over her, or, worse, step into anything that came from her general direction.

Backing up was out of the question as I would have run into Joni, who would have run into Jason, who would rammed their baby into whoever was standing behind Jason. With the metro about to depart the station, I edged right and prayed that Joni and Jason would follow. If not, they were screwed, as they had never been in the metro before, did not have a cell phone on them, did not speak French or Flemish, and had no idea where we lived. Basically, your standard tourist nightmare if the guide decides to adopt a "you are on your own" mentality.

Miraculously, we all made it off the train without the baby getting caught between the closing doors and without tumbling over Smoking Lady. Once we were clear of the Smoking Lady, Joni looked at me, kind of dazed, and said, "You know, I always thought you were exaggerating in your blog about crazy things that happen to you over here, but not anymore."

Super Bowl XLII

2008-02-04T00:46:00.000+01:00

It's 12:57 am and I'm watching the SuperBowl on "sportschau live". It's a first for me and not just because it is nearly one o'clock in the morning and it is just the first quarter. The game is being broadcast in Dutch! At least, the bulk of the commentary is in Dutch. Apparently, there are no direct Dutch translations for "spygate", "kick return", "offense" and "bad boys of defense." But, all things being equal, it beats listening to a John Madden or Brent Musberger!

Note: Hixson (#87 for New York) is married to a Dutch woman. I'm watching her being interviewed, in Dutch, and wondering what cool commercials I'm missing!

Should I Be Alarmed?

2008-02-03T23:30:00.002+01:00

I'm no gym rat, but I have seen the inside of a gym a time or two. And, during a couple of these visits, I have even seen the occasional naked female body in the locker room. But, I have, never, ever seen a naked female body on the actual workout floor -- until today, when I saw two!

Up until minute 26 on the elliptical trainer, it was my basic run-of-the-mill workout in Brussels. As usual, I spent the first couple of minutes of the workout scoping out the apparel of my fellow gym mates. It never ceases to amaze me what women will wear to work out in. Now, please don't get me wrong, I'm not one of those women that show up to the gym in full makeup and matching workout clothes. Okay, that's a lie. Usually my workout clothes do match, but that's not the point. The point is, I have seen women come in straight off the Brussels' streets and start working out --- in their street clothes! I'm not exaggerating when I say that I've seen women run miles in sandals or flip-flops. But, I digress.

Twenty-six minutes into my workout, or, four minutes left in my workout if you are a "glass is half-full sort of person", I heard an alarm go off. (No, it was NOT the cardiac alarm on the treadmill!) It sounded exactly as if someone left through an emergency exit door. One would think, based on my previous experiences in Brussels, that I would immediately head for the exit -- clothes, coat, umbrella, and keys be damned. But, alas, if nothing else, I'm committed. I had 4 minutes to go and, short of flames shooting out of the ass of the woman wearing the leopard bra and matching thong with the white capris on the treadmill in front of me, I was going to go finish my workout! Besides, no one else seemed in the least bit concerned, including the employees. So, I just turned up my Ipod in an attempt to drown out the alarm and kept on going.

The alarm quit sounding somewhere during the middle of "Pour Some Sugar on Me." I finished my workout and headed downstairs to the weight room, pretty darn pleased with myself for not bailing on my workout. As I hit the bottom of the stairs, I looked to my left to see how crowded the weight machines were when I saw not one, but two, naked women standing in the middle of the weight room!

Under the circumstances, I tried not to stare, because, let's face it, gym etiquette dictates that you don't openly stare at other people's nakedness. Sneaking a peek is one thing; a blatant double-take quite the other. But, since they were naked in the middle of the weight room floor, I figured that bare boobs by the barbells pretty much trump just about any unspoken gym etiquette. So, yes, I did whip my head around and confirm that there were, in fact, two totally nude women hanging out in the weight room. Why? I had no idea. I just shook my head and chalked it up to the "expat experience", which is pretty much a catch-all category I've created for all things weird and bizarre that I encounter over here.

Perhaps I was hypersensitized to the situation, but, when I entered the locker room, I noticed that there were, in fact, a large number of women in various stages of undress -- most of them wearing towels and standing outside of the showers, which, by sheer coincidence, is where my locker was located. As I was trying to unlock the magnetic lock on my locker with my membership card, I couldn't help but notice a peculiar smell permeating the locker room. It is a smell that I'm sure anyone who has ever plugged a US blowdryer into a European socket would recognize.

When, after about six tries, my locker would not open no matter which direction I swiped my card, I realized that no one was able to get in their lockers, hence all the (mostly) towel-clad women standing in the locker room, most of whom were staring at me trying to get into my locker. Apparently, there was a fire in the showers (yes, you read that right --- a F-I-R-E in the showers!) which short-circuited the system that controls access to the lockers.

I have to admit, the situation sparked several questions, including:

How do you start a fire in a shower?
How does a fire in a shower room wipe out a magnetic locking system in the adjacent area?
Why are there two naked women in the weight room?

Unfortunately, I have no answers for you. But, I now know where the emergency exits are in the gym and what the fire alarm sounds like!

Por Vous, Monsieur

2008-01-31T17:03:00.000+01:00

Given that Dan and I returned with a little over 100 pounds of luggage EACH, we arranged, through the car service Dan uses for work, for a van to pick us up at the airport. We found the driver under the "Relay" sign at the arrival hall with no problem. Having been in the States for so long, I automatically started chatting the driver up in English, totally forgetting that I was back in a country where the native tongue is French or Flemish. Our driver spoke French, so the conversation pretty much ended there.

As we were sitting in traffic (bienevue a Bruxelles), the driver's cell phone rang. The driver answered the phone and then he got a really, really funny look on his face. He turned around and looked at Dan and said, "Por vous, monsieur." Dan looked at me and said, "What?", as if I had some sort of divine understanding why someone would call a complete stranger on their cellphone in a foreign country and ask to speak to Dan. Given that no such insight was readily forthcoming, I simply said, "it's for you."

Dan takes the guy's bluetooth headphone set and answers the line. Turns out that the call really was for Dan. It seems that the car service was expecting someone else from Dan's office to arrive on the same flight as us and this guy never made it. The car service was just checking to see if Dan saw the guy on the flight.

Still, it is pretty surreal to be in the country for only 30 minutes and someone is tracking you down on a stranger's cell phone!

Back to Brussels

2008-01-31T16:08:00.000+01:00

After 3 lovely months in the Southern California sunshine, I have ventured back to Brussels. During my time in the States, I kept a running list of things I wanted to take back to Belgium. You know, those things that we can't find in Europe (electric blanket), those things we refuse to pay obscene prices for (sweaters and sweatshirts), and those things that I can't live without (spanxx and foot petals).

As Dan and I were having lunch in Atlanta, right before our flight took off, I was priding myself on my amazing packing job. I had managed to fit almost everything on my list (the Godiva and Creme de Cacao didn't make the weight cut in San Diego) into two pieces of luggage and two carry-ons. Seriously, I was just about to tell Dan how Eddie Bauer should hire me to teach classes on how to pack duffle bags as part of some sort of public service campaign, when I realized that there was one, tiny, weenie, itsy, bitsy thing that I forgot -- my residency card. You have NO idea how hard it is to tell Dan, after bragging about remembering crushed red pepper packets, that I had forgotten the one thing that allows me back into Belgium! For those interested, he didn't take it so well.

So, my return to Belgium went pretty much like my previous re-entries -- me standing in the passport control line, wondering if a pack of smokes and some big lady named Colette were going to figure predominately in my future. I was desperately trying to figure out the best approach to take with the customs guy (truth vs. lie, lie vs. truth) when he called me forward. Dan stepped forward with me, which turned out to be my saving grace.

Dan had his residency card out and ready for the inspection. [I would insert something here about Dan being a smug little bastard, but, under the circumstances, I think I'll just let it pass.] The customs guy sees Dan's residency card and says, "Oh, so you live here. What part of town?" When Dan told him where we lived, the customs guy was dumbfounded. His exact words, "But Americans don't live in that area." I took that as a euphenism for "WTF! You live WHERE? On purpose?" He quickly followed it up with, "Most Americans live in Waterloo, Tervuren or St. Gilles." To which Dan replied, "I know, but she (personally, I think he put way too much emphasis on the word "she" and we could have done without the accompanying eye roll) wanted to live in the city center." While I don't like to think of it as a "mercy" stamp, I'm pretty sure that is what I got!

Anyway, I'm back. I'm blogging. And, I'm waiting on FedEx!

Progress - One Stitch at a Time

2007-10-03T20:43:00.000+02:00

I'm very pleased to report that I am making progress in The Belgian Years. Case in point:

Earlier this summer, I took two identical pair of black pants to the tailor around the corner. Both were missing buttons. (I see this more as a sign that Calvin Klein got some bum thread rather than a reflection on my expanding waistline!) The seamstress did not speak much English and, while my French has improved, it is nowhere near the stage where I can toss out the French word for "button". Fortunately for me, I was able to revert to dive signals. Two fingers to the eyes followed by two fingers to the area with the missing button. She shook her head and said, "oui, Vendredi." Rather proud of myself, I left the shop.

On Vendredi, I returned to claim my newly altered pants. I looked at the first pair and the button looked great. I looked at the second pair and there was no button. Thinking that she just forgot the second pair, I handed the pants to her and asked "ou est the button?"

When I saw the expression on her face, I knew something was wrong, and, by wrong, I mean in that "terribly wrong" sort of way. It was the whole hand over the mouth and wide eyes that gave it away. Apparently, the seamstress had taken it upon herself to hem my second pair of pants three inches. (This would be the same pair of black trousers that had already been custom-tailored for me by the excellent alterations staff at Nordstroms.) Why three inches? I have no idea. Why hem them at all? Again, I've got nothing.

So, I handed her the "capris" back and asked that she "un-hem" them and replace the button. She said, "oui, lundi." On Lundi, everything was fine.

I told you all of that to tell you this: Yesterday, I took a pair of black pants to the same tailor for them to be hemmed 3 inches. Today, I picked them up. They were shortened by three inches and still had the button. P-R-O-G-R-E-S-S!

Deportation Mistakes, It's Not Just a Belgian Thing!

2007-10-02T20:02:00.000+02:00

Just goes to show you, clerical mistakes are not unique to this side of the pond! Here's a link from an article in the San Diego Union Tribune where a lady was detained for 10 days before her deportation order (issued because of clerical mistakes) was revoked. While I may have been deported, at least I wasn't traded for a pack of smokes in some detention center! Stay strong, sister ...

http://www.signonsandiego.com/news/metro/20071002-9999-1m2russian.html

Coming Up Short on Freaky Friday

2007-09-30T19:01:00.000+02:00

On Friday, I found myself with some free time so I decided to go to the salon to see if I could get my hair cut and colored. Of course, I had not made an appointment, so I was at the mercy of the stylist and the colorist to "squeeze" me in. Since old habits are hard to break, I've always tipped them both, even though it is not customary to do so over here. It certainly paid off, as I was able to get a hair cut at 11:15 and then a color appointment at 3:15. [See, this whole customer service thing can take off in Brussels -- we just need to encourage a tipping society!]

A little after 11, I walked back into to the salon to find an older lady in the middle of a complete nervous breakdown. I'm talking tears, shaking, near hyperventilation, should we call a doctor breakdown. From what I could decipher (damn that lack of French!), she was upset about a man, a child, or, perhaps a man acting like a child. It wasn't clear -- to me. Everyone else in the salon was on top of it. They kept talking to her in these really nice voices and offering her comforting looks. I, on the other hand, had more pressing things on my mind, such as the fact that she was having this breakdown in the very chair that I was scheduled to occupy in a few short minutes. Call me superstitious, but I really don't think it is a good idea to have the appointment following the crazy person. My stylist is amazing, but I could tell by the way she was holding her scissors that she had completely had it with the lady in the chair. Would a "squeeze in" after a "breakdown" be too much for the stylist to handle? How bad was my hair gonna pay for this psychotic episode?

After about half a magnum of champagne, the lady calmed down enough to move to another chair. I then sat down in the hot seat, wondering if it would be too rude to suggest that my stylist might want to take a nip or two from that champagne bottle as well. You know, a little something to calm the scissors.

Just as I was explaining to my stylist that I only wanted a trim, the lady started with her second psychotic breakdown. All eyes, ears and champagne glasses were turned towards her, except mine. Instead, I did the only thing I knew to make the woman feel more comfortable, I read (okay, looked at the pictures) in the French Vogue and acted as if everything was completely normal. My charade of denial was working just fine until I glanced up and realized that over four inches of my hair was missing! Somehow "trim" turned into "bob". So, thanks to the crazy lady and the man/child/manchild, I am now sporting a much shorter do. (And, yes, it is still beige!)

Love Those Cabs Taxi!

2007-09-20T21:07:00.000+02:00

Before I get to the "old posts" from the summer when the blog turned Flemish, I thought I'd start right off the bat with today's little taxicab adventure.

I hailed a cab at the taxi stand in front of the Marriott. Usually I have a huge complex when it comes to telling the driver where I want to go, because, undoubtedly, I am mispronouncing the French name of the street. No, make that slaughtering the French name! Not today, no sirree. Today, I confidently told the driver the address where I wanted to go. I say, "confidently", because I was going to Avenue Franklin Roosevelt. American-easy.

We hit lots of traffic in the Sablon, something to do with a bus that was parked in the middle of the street while the driver was outside of his bus talking to a busdriver who was parked on the other side of the street. By the time we cleared party central, I knew I was going to be late for my 2:00 appointment, especially since the cab driver insisted on stopping at EVERY crosswalk, regardless of whether there was a light or even a person waiting to cross!

As we turned onto Ave Franklin Roosevelt, the cab driver verifies (again) the street number. In French, I told him 84 ("quatre-vingts quatre" to all you that have not had 30 hours studying the French alphabet and numbers!). Quatre-vingts quatre, he asks? Oui, huit -- quatre, I reply as he is pulling up in front of number 48. No, I say, huit quatre, non quatre huit.

The cab driver starts arguing with me and pointing to the building number, which, was only slightly less larger than the name on the building -- ULB. (ULB is one of the universities here in Brussels.) No matter how much I insisted that we were at 48, not 84, he just kept pointing at the building number and saying (louder and louder) "huit quatre". Irritated, late and approaching my breaking point, I mustered all remaining calm I had left in me and said, "Yes, there's a huit and there's a quatre, but it's NOT huit quatre!"

If nothing else, the cab driver was persistent. He just kept on pointing to that huge-ass 48 on the side of the building. At this point, I was pretty much yelling, "huit quatre, huit quatre", because, you have to admit, it is so much easier than yelling "quatre-vingts quatre, quatre-vingts quatre"! He just kept agreeing with me and pointing to the street number.

Finally, he pulled out a pad of paper and pen and asked me to write down the number. Now, the intelligent side of me realized that if his dyslexic ass couldn't decipher the number 48 when it was posted in pretty-much life-sized letters on the side of the building, then there was a better than average chance that me writing it on his little post-it note was not going to make the 48 an 84. I hate to be cruel, but, let's face it, if you suffer from dyslexia, I don't think a career that requires you to spot numbers and read street signs is the wisest career move. I could be wrong.

So, I took his pen and his pad of paper and I wrote "84" and then under that, I wrote "48" and pointed to the building. The driver pulls away from the curb and starts to make a U-turn, all the while saying "oui, huit-quatre." Yep, just another normal day in the life of The Belgian Years!

Sorry About the MIA

2007-09-18T18:41:00.000+02:00

In case any of you have noticed, I have been missing in action in the blogosphere! Rest assured, my absence has nothing to do with a lack of bizarre experiences that have come my way over the past couple of months (stay tuned for posts about the "ice emergency" and the "trip to the tailor gone bad"). Rather, in a pathetic reflection on my linguistic abilities, for the past couple of months, my blog has been speaking Flemish -- another language which I have not yet mastered!

Thanks to V-grrl (www.v-grrrl.com) for giving me the heads-up on how to FINALLY get my blog back to English!

Cinco De Mayo - Revisited

2007-05-17T19:50:00.000+02:00

Dan and I find it hard to believe, but we have actually been in Brussels long enough to celebrate a "2nd Annual" something or another. In this case, it was one of our favorite holidays, Cinco de Mayo, and, as fate would have it, I actually have a blog post from a year ago that I can use to benchmark our progress! (See May 2006 archives.) http://newtobrussels.blogspot.com/2006_05_01_archive.html

Last year, when I invited guests to the Cinco de Mayo party, they asked when it was. This year, we had about 25 people attend and not once did I have to tell someone beforehand that the Cinco de Mayo party would be held on the 5th of May.

Last year, my Scottish friend, Sue, asked what she could bring to the party and I suggested a pinata, as I had been unable to locate one in Brussels, even after calling the Mexican Embassy. She searched (in vain) in various liquor stores for pinata liquor. I'm happy to report that Sue's knowledge of the Mexican culture has improved dramatically over the past year, as well as her appreciation (but, apparently, not her tolerance!) of tequila . This year, she spotted a pinata in a store in Aberdeen, Scotland, which, of course, meant that I had to fly to Scotland to check out the pinata selection. So, as further evidence that my world is flat, I purchased a donkey pinata in Scotland for my Mexican celebration in Belgium. (Lupe, don't think for a second that this pinata is going to go the way of the Mermaid one!)

Last year, I was muy feliz to find a store in Brussels that sold sombreros. This year, two guests arrived wearing sombreros! Now that's progress - Ole!

Last year, I could not find sweet and sour mix for margaritas. Over this past year, I've discovered the Grare Food Store outside of Antwerp, which carries sweet and sour mix, an absolute necessary ingredient for Cindyritas. This place has been nothing short of a God-send, so I'm very reluctant to say anything negative about it, but, since "reluctant" does not mean "unwilling," here it goes: Why would the store that markets itself as the place to buy American and Mexican food products in Belgium be closed the week before one of the biggest Mexican/American holidays? What mental genius prepared that vacation schedule? [In the event the store was closed from May 1-1o for a family emergency or something along those lines, please see my previous comment about "God-send" and "reluctant"!]

Vaya con Dios!

While I Was Away ...

2007-05-15T22:04:00.000+02:00

Well, if you are still reading, thanks. I've been a little distracted lately. Here's April in a nutshell:

Spent my birthday weekend in Scotland with some girlfriends. Spotted a highland cow, saw a couple of castles, shopped on Union Street, sipped some scotch at the Glenfiddich brewery, shared some laughs over sheepshagging stories, slept better in 2 nights than I have in 2 years;
Drove to Paris to meet a girlfriend who was flying in from the States. It took me less time to drive from Brussels to the CDG Hilton than it took her to clear customs and find the airport hotel!;
Flew to Geneva to meet up with a girlfriend from the US for a spa weekend. She got detained and strip-searched at the German/Swiss border (Now there's a starting blog entry if I've ever seen one!), so she was very much in need of a little rest and relaxation; and,
Took the train to Paris to spend a weekend shopping with the friend that kept doing laps around CDG Airport in the hotel shuttle bus two weeks earlier. She's much more directional in Galleries Lafayette.

Good times, Good times.

Antwerp

2007-04-06T11:20:00.000+02:00

Dan and I decided, on the spur of the moment, to take the train to Antwerp for the day. Just a little travel tip for those of you who may be contemplating doing the same: Go ahead and spend the additional 3 euros per ticket to upgrade to first class. Wish Dan and I would have!! Here's some of the photos of the town that made us smile:

Let There Be Light

2007-03-18T20:48:00.000+01:00

I'm not much of a photographer, but I took this photo of the door leading into the Church of Assumption in Bled, Slovenia. While I don't normally take pictures of doors, I'm glad I did. Maybe I am getting inspired by all the great photographs over at http://womanwandering.blogspot.com/.

Bled, Slovenia

2007-03-17T14:09:00.000+01:00

View from our Hotel Room at Sunset

View of Slovenia's Only Island from Bled Castle

View of Bled Castle from Church of Assumption

Top of the Mountain in Vogel

Postojna Cave in Postojna, Slovenia

Piran, Slovenia

Dan and I just spent a week in Bled, Slovenia. We absolutely fell in love with this country! We skiied, hiked, spelunked (Ok, so we went on a tour of a cave. I think it still qualifies as spelunking!) and spent quality time in the spa. I even bottled my own wine!

We stayed at this marvelous hotel on Lake Bled, with a view overlooking Bled Castle and the Church of Assumption, which sits on Slovenia's only island. The best way I can desribe the place is it that has the beauty of Lake Tahoe, the quaintness of a Swizz village, the charm of the Romanian countryside, and a fairy tale setting!

We would highly recommend the Grand Hotel Toplice. Service was amazing, although, we did feel like we were in a scene from the Shining on the first day that we arrived. There are only 80-some odd rooms in the entire hotel and, when we checked in, it was as if there were 79 unoccupied! There was no one else at the hotel! Kinda spooky.

The side trip to Postojna Caves is a must for anyone going to Slovenia. The cave system was discovered in 1818 and it dates back about 3 million years! The formations (either stalagtites or stalagmites) grow just a fraction of an inch in 100 years! For more info, check out http://www.postojnska-jama.si/.

We also did a day trip to Piran to check out the Adriatic Coast. It is a lovely little seaside town with some great seafood restaurants.

Good times, Good times!

All in the Family

2007-03-07T13:23:00.000+01:00

My little sister, Susie, and her husband, Chuck, just left after spending two whirlwind weeks with us (I should say, "me" as Dan was gone all but the last 2 days of their visit. Coincidence?). We were able to pack in Brussels, Brugge, Paris, Rome and Amsterdam. They were blessed with decent weather, short lines AND a costume on the Mannekin Pis. Good times, Good times!

Seeing Green

2007-03-07T13:07:00.000+01:00

After almost 2 years in the works, I am the proud holder of a Belgian residency permit! Now, I can stroll confidently toward passport control with the knowledge that I will not be turned away at the border. It's the little things that make me happy.

The timing of the card could not have been better, as my temporary card expired today, March 7th, the same day that Dan and I leave for Slovenia. I could just see me being denied entry back into Belgian, with Dan turning back and laughing at me. Fortunately, we won't be crossing that bridge.

Now, let's see how long it will take to get a Belgian drivers license!

The Tightest Spot Yet

2007-02-18T17:10:00.000+01:00

Disclaimer: For those of you easily skeezed out, this is not the post to read. If it wasn't for Dan's insistence, I would not have posted it. He thinks it is one of the funniest things to happen to me to date in Belgium, which makes me question not only his sense of humor, but whether he truly cares about me at all! Don't say I didn't warn you ... it's disgusting!

I have a love/hate relationship with public transportation. From a save-the-environment, reduce CO2 emissions sort of way, I love that I rely on public transportation. As someone that rides public transportation, I hate it, and not in the "I hate it because I'm a princess" sort of way, but more the, "I hate it because truly freaky things happen to me while on it" sort of way. Trust me, there is a difference.

To get to my French class, I have to take the metro to the Parc stop and then transfer to either tram 93 or 94 to Vleurgat, which means that I spend at least 20 minutes on the tram --- that's a whole lot of opportunity for something weird to happen.

The other day, I jumped on the tram at the Parc. Every seat was taken, but there was plenty of standing room. I grabbed a spot directly behind the driver's booth, next to the little orange box where you validate your tickets. I was facing the rest of the tram (my back to the driver), at the start of the aisle. There was a guy to my right, inside the little cubby space between the first seat and the driver's booth. The door to the tram was on my left.

We got to the Palais stop (the very next stop) and about 10 people shoved their way on -- pushing me into the little cubby space with the guy. I was still facing the rest of the people in the tram, but now I was tightly jammed into the cubby space, with a plexi-glass partition in front of me separating me from the first seated passenger, the tram window on my right, and the guy now directly behind me, also facing the rest of the tram.

As the tram jostled and shook, we alternated between me backing into him and him pushing me into the plexi-glass divider in front of me. Every time I was shoved into him, I turned my head (which was the only thing on my body I could move in the confined space) and apologized to the window. I could see from the reflection in the window, that he was staring out the window and not even looking at me, much less paying attention to my apologies.

As the train jerked its way toward the Arts Museum, I kept feeling something poking me in the butt. I thought it was the guy's hands, but when the tram lurched and he put both his hands on the plexi-glass divider in front of me to brace himself (one hand on either side of me), I realized that I had horribly miscalculated as to what it was poking me in the rear! I desperately tried to move sideways, closer to the door, to get away from this "uncomfortable" situation, but there was simply no room. Every time I tried to move sideways into the aisle, I got shoved back by a sea of people.

When we reached the stop by the Arts Museum, even though the tram was well beyond maximum capacity, it did not stop this one little lady from pushing her way on. Surprisingly, the people that were standing in the doorway and at the front of the aisle (where I had been standing before being shoved into the cubby hole) started parting so that she could get by. I was shocked as I have never seen anyone that polite on the tram, much less a group of them.

It wasn't until the lady had worked her way to within a couple of people from me that I could tell why she was getting so much deference -- the woman stank to high-heaven! Seriously, something crawled into this woman and died and was now trying to work its way back out. And, of course, the lady was headed straight towards me! She wedged herself between me and the orange box, facing the driver's booth.

I'm not sure if it was Ms. Stinky or Mr. Happy, but the longer and the rougher the tram ride got, the more skeezed out I became. Finally, I had totally mentally grossed myself out to the point where I had to vomit. The only problem was that there was no room for me to throw up! In front of me was a glass partition, to the right of me was a glass window, there was not enough room for me to turn and throw up on Mr. Happy, and if I turned and threw up on Ms. Stinky, then I was sure to hit my entire left side, along with my computer bag hanging at my feet.

So, I ended up throwing up in my mouth, which I then had to swallow, which started another vicious cycle of gagging/swallowing. Finally, I caught my breath enough to scream that I had to get off the tram!

Yes, riding public transportation is a real uplifting experience.

©2007 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.

An Even Tighter Spot

2007-02-18T14:16:00.000+01:00

You know that famous quote about those that don't learn from history are doomed to repeat it? Well, I'm doomed.

Like the total and complete idiot I am, I ventured out the other day in the only pair of tights I owned (having thrown the bright blue ones in the trash), not knowing that a little pair of black tights could lead to the second most humiliating day in my entire life. (Don't ask me to share the most humiliating day with you!)

I set out the other day in a black suit, hot pink shirt, black heels and black tights. Determined not to fall victim, again, to the poor lighting in my room, prior to leaving the house I asked my friend, Rach, who was staying with us, to please make sure that all my blacks matched -- right down to the tights. She said that they did.

Not that I don't trust Rach (but I don't -- she would so totally throw me to the wolves), I went to every room in the house and checked my colors. Yep, everything matched. As I was leaving, I commented to Rach how weird it was to wear non-control top pantyhose after all these years. It was as if I wasn't wearing anything at all.

I took off walking to the metro, wearing my long black full-length coat, which stops just below my knees, and carrying a large black purse on one arm and a computer bag on the other. Since my coat is a little bulky, the shoulder straps on my bag and computer bag kept slipping, so even though the straps were over my shoulders, I had to hold onto the bags with my hands so they wouldn't slide off.

As I was walking down the street, double-checking the windows along the way to make sure that my blacks were, in fact, all black in the light of day, I noticed that my tights kept slipping at the waistband. Since my hands were holding my bags, and my coat is pretty thick, it was hard to get a good yank on the waistband of the tights to pull them up. But, God knows, I tried. For quite possibly the first time in my life, I took comfort in the size of my hips. Deep down, I knew that there was no way that those tights were going to clear my hips. My comfort was misplaced.

By the time I got to the second corner, about to turn onto Rue Antoine Dansaert, which as irony would have it, is the fashion center of Brussels, I could tell by the winter chill on my bare ass that my tights had cleared my hips. I took comfort in the fact that I was wearing a knee-length skirt and a long coat.

Since I was stopped at a crosswalk with an abnormally large crowd of people, and my tights had slipped low enough that there was no discreet way to pull them up without giving away their location to all those standing around me, I had to come up with Plan B. I decided that I would cross the street and walk the short block to McDonald's and then pop into the bathroom and take care of the tights issue. I figured that if I took really long waddle strides, then, at least, I could keep my tights above my knees where they would still be hidden by my coat.

So, I took off across the street, walking slightly sideways and taking as long strides as the tights allowed. To my credit, the plan worked until I reached the front of the Marriott. I didn't have to look down to see how far my tights had progressed during the short walk up the block. I just had to watch the changing expressions on the Marriott Doorman's face as I approached. It was as if he was looking at a train wreck. Horrified, yet unable to avert his gaze.

In what can only be described as cruel, yet perfect, timing, the very moment that I was right-smack in front of the Doorman, my tights fell to just above my ankles! At least the Doorman had the decency to turn his head in embarrassment for me. The same cannot be said for the taxi driver and the impeccably dressed couple walking toward the Marriott entrance. (For the record, I don't care how talented a designer Calvin Klein is, tights around your ankles will completely destroy the look.)

In hindsight, I should have put my bags down, grabbed my tights from my ankles and pulled them as high as I could -- bare ass and Doorman be damned -- and continued on as if nothing had ever happened. But, you know what they say about hindsight being 20/20. Instead, I waddle-ran the rest of the way to the side door of McDonald's. I then waddle-ran through the restaurant, staring straight ahead so as not to catch anyone's eyes, and then waddle stepped down the flight of stairs into the bathroom -- all with my tights firmly around my ankles.

A smart person would have just taken the tights off and immediately thrown them away. Rather than think myself stupid, I prefer to think that the sheer humiliation caused my brain to misfire and forced me into yet another ill-conceived plan. Since I had just run through the restaurant with my drawers around my ankles, there was no way I was going to back upstairs and ask for a stapler or a rubber band or a clip of some sort. So, I rummaged through both bags and all my pockets looking for anything that I could use to MacGyver the tights up. No such luck.

Enter Plan C. In a sheer act of genius, I decided to pull really hard on the waistband of the tights, stretching it far enough so that I could get enough of it to tie a knot into the waistband. Voila! I had solved my problem with the tights. Now, I just had that little problem of walking back through Mickey D's.

As it turned out, there were some massive freaking flaws in Plan C. You might say that the plan came a little unraveled on my walk to the metro. I don't know what kind of material tights are made of, but I do know that, whatever it is, it doesn't like to stay knotted. And, to make matters worse, when stretched really hard, oh like say when trying to tie it into a knot, the material loses whatever "holding" property, if any, it may have had.

I had barely made it out of McDonald's when the knot gave way. Rather than have a repeat of the incident that just played out in front of the Marriott, I put my hand in my coat pocket, quickly grabbed at the waistband of the tights before it slipped past the waistline of my skirt, and held it in my fist. I walked all the way to the metro with my hands clenched in a fist inside my coat holding up my tights. When I got to where I was going, I took some black alligator clips, folded my tights over my waistband and clipped them in place.

When I got home, I resorted to Plan D, which was to throw the tights away!

© 2007 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.

In a Tight Spot

2007-02-14T20:17:00.000+01:00

Living in Houston, Texas and then Southern California, I never really got the whole "tights" concept. Yeah, they're cute on a two-year old little girl, but add thirty-five years and I don't see the attraction, or use, behind them. Besides, they are too thick and don't look good with most of the heels I own.

But, now that I live in Belgium, I've completely changed my tune on tights. You might say that I see tights in a whole new light. And, for that matter, I now get why European women wear not only thick tights, but jeans under their dresses --- It's called cold weather!

Before I left San Diego, I bought a pair of navy tights and a pair of black ones, thinking that I might, one day, have the opportunity to wear them in Brussels. That day came a couple of weeks ago, when I was invited to attend a European Union Parliament House Subcommittee Meeting on Human Rights, followed by a cocktail reception sponsored by the Canadian Embassy. To say that I was looking forward to the event is a gross understatement. I was beyond excited.

For the special occasion, I pulled out my dark navy suit, a black, navy and cream striped silk blouse, and my "oh-my-God-where-did-you-get-those" navy heels. Since it was a balmy 28 degrees, it was a perfect day to break in the new tights. I grabbed my long black coat, scarf and gloves and headed out the door, feeling tres European and absolutely giddy about the day ahead.

While on the metro, 2 stops from my destination, I looked down to admire my shoes when I noticed, for the first time, that my navy tights were not, in fact, navy. (I always knew that the lighting is bad in our bedroom, but, until that very moment, I couldn't appreciate how bad it really is.) My tights were not "admiral" blue as falsely advertised on the package, but more "asphyxiation" blue. Ever seen a cartoon where the guy starts choking and turns bright blue? That was the color of my tights -- surrounded by a sea of dark navy.

Freaking out, I did what most women would do under the situation. I started evaluating my options. Since wearing my full-length coat all day long was out of the question, and I did not have time to take the tram home and change, nor did I have time to pop in and buy some new ones even if the stores were open (which they weren't), I reverted to the standard fall-back -- I started looking around the subway train to see if anyone was dressed worse.

Ok, I thought to myself, at least I'm not wearing gold lame' knee-hi boots like the lady sitting directly across from me. Of course, any comfort I received from this thought was short-lived when I realized that I had just compared my "professional" outfit with one of a professional hooker's. So, I continued to recon the train. When we hit the Schuman stop, I relaxed a little when a lady got on wearing a bright lime-green full-length puff coat. At least I'm not wearing that! But wait, she can always take the coat off. Merde!

At this point, I am at my metro stop, cursing whatever color-blind marketing hot-shot thought up the label "admiral", cursing why tights would even be sold in San Diego, cursing my bright blue legs (yeah, I know, a real slimming color!), cursing all the 7-Eleven stores on every street corner back home with their sorry-ass supply of off-brand pantyhose that I would have killed for at that very moment in Brussels, cursing Dan for listening to me for once and buying cheap lighting fixtures because "why spend a fortune on light fixtures that we are just going to have to sell or leave here?", and cursing the weather, because it was too cold for me just to take the bright blueies off and go commando. That's a whole lot of cursing for a girl brought up in a God-fearing southern household!

Faced with no other options, I slipped into deep denial mode. By the time I had reached the office where I was meeting my host and escort, I had thoroughly convinced myself that the lower half of my body was invisible. I went about the day acting as if everyone was not staring at my tights wondering what the hell I must have been thinking when I put that outfit together.

So, it's a bittersweet memory for the Belgian Years. Yes, I had an experience of a lifetime and had the opportunity to attend a Subcommittee Meeting and even meet several members of Parliament, as well as the delegation from Quebec, but I did so in choke-me bright blue tights.

Copyright 2007 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.

Repitez, si vous plait

2007-01-25T17:08:00.000+01:00

Resolved to learn at least one of the two official languages spoken here in Brussels, I enrolled in French classes. Tuesday was my first day. We spent three hours learning the French alphabet. For those of you inclined to do the math, this equates to roughly 7 minutes per letter.

Frankly, I believe I could have mastered the letters, b, c, d, f, g, j, k, l, m, n, p, s, t, v and z, in well under the time allotted, but I thought it best not to rock the boat, it being my first day and all. It didn't take long for me, and the other students in the class, to recognize my problem spots --the letters "e" and "u".

According to my professor, who, by the way, is fluent in French, English, Italian, Spanish, Greek and ancient Latin (as opposed to current Latin, I wanted to ask her?) , the letter "e" sounds like the "oo" in "moo," whereas the letter "u", sounds like the "ou" in "you." Perhaps it's the bastardization of my language skills as a result of spending 26 years in Texas, followed by another 10 in southern California, and then a very traumatic year of communicating in sentence fragments, pointing and sign language here in Brussels, but I just can't hear the difference between the two sounds. Yoo try it.

Anyone care to guess what my homework was? You guessed it -- review the alphabet!

I'm Baaacckkk!

2007-01-25T16:50:00.000+01:00

In case anyone is still reading, I'm back in Brussels! If you are wondering what's new in the three months since I've been away, here's the list to date:

Smoking is no longer permitted inside McDonald's. My attention was drawn to the new "no-smoking" sign hanging on the wall by the two dogs fighting under it, No the irony does not escape me;
Our cable goes out every time I use the phone;
It's 35 degrees F and everyone is talking about how unseasonably warm it is - including me!;
The little tavern on the corner has completely remodeled and changed its name to the Fleur de Jasmine;
Soldes, Soldes, Soldes!

(If you are still reading, thanks!)

It's Not Just a Game

2006-11-17T16:53:00.000+01:00

Today is Game Day, which, for most of you, means absolutely nothing. I can't really do anything about that, other than to say, I hope you enjoy your day, wherever in the world you may be.

But, there are a few of you out there --- those that have thrown countless footballs into hands that you have watch grow over the years from those of a small child's to those of a young man, those of you that have walls lined with photos that mark the passing of the years by the size of the helmet, those of you that have held your breath every time you see a jersey slow to get up, those of you that have dried - and cried - tears of joy and tears of disappointment, those of you that see your children, in the faces of their children -- for you, tonight is about so much more than football.

For you, it's a lifetime of love and sacrifice, wearing a blue jersey and taking the field for what may be the very last time. It's about years of hard work, determination, tough love and never-ending support. It's about the coming of age, the end of an era, and new beginnings. For those of you that know more than the rest of us that, whatever the outcome, tonight is not "just a game", I say, I hope you enjoy the memories, wherever in the world he may end up.

Copyright 2006 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.

Watch Out for That Scooter

2006-11-15T04:22:00.000+01:00

I've mentioned several times throughout this blog that my family has a tendency to run on the crazy side, especially those related to my mother. (Yes, I realize that this places me firmly within the crazy camp.) Just this very night, I watched my mother put syrup on pancakes -- while they were still cooking in the skillet! When she realized what she had done, she said, "well, isn't this one of the craziest things I have ever done?" To which, I truthfully replied, "no, mother, it doesn't even come close."

My mother used to tell this story about how one of her relatives had his driver's license revoked, so he used his riding lawn mower to go to the store. The family finally had to take the mower away from him. If you are somehow thinking that this is not a sign of craziness, but merely a man being creative with his transportation issues, let me stop you right there. First, I challenge any of you to deny that, if you saw a man driving a lawn mower down a major thoroughfare, your first reaction wouldn't be, "look at that crazy idiot." Second, perhaps you should know that this man had his license revoked because he couldn't see to drive. Third, the family took the mower away from him, not because he was a near-blind man driving a piece of slow-moving farm equipment in rush hour traffic, but because he kept getting tickets from the police! C-R-A-Z-Y.

Up until last week, I had harbored high hopes that the crazy gene was isolated on one side of my family tree. I now know that this is not the case. Due to health problems, my daddy is unable to walk long distances, so he recently got one of those electric scooters. Since he has lost most of his peripheral vision, mother does not let him drive the car. My parents live in a neighborhood with nicely paved streets. See where I am going with this?

The other night, me, Daddy, Paula, Connie and Logan went to Sear's for a pre-Thanksgiving "after-Thanksgiving" sale. Paula and Connie took off to the Electronics Department to shop for Christmas gifts, leaving me, Logan, and Daddy to fend for ourselves, or, should I say, me and Logan to dodge Daddy.

At only 14, Logan has a very well-developed sense of humor, and, over the past couple of months, he has finely honed his reflexes. We can thank Daddy -- and his scooter -- for that last one. As Logan says, "move or be run over." Those without catlike reflexes, or, those in Daddy's peripheral field of vision, have learned this the hard way.

As Logan and I were looking at jewelry for his mother, I heard Logan say, "Oh my God, he's stuck!" I looked across the jewelry counter and saw Daddy, about 25 feet away, frantically working the controls on his scooter. He had tried to go down an aisle between a sweater display and a table holding about 100 boxes of watches, stacked in the shape of a Christmas tree. Either the aisle was too narrow or Daddy clipped the corner, because one of the rear wheels of his scooter had gotten caught on the corner of the sweater table. Daddy's dilemma was this: If he moved forward, he hit the watches. If he moved in reverse, he hit the sweaters.

While rocking back and forth can sometimes free a car tire that is stuck in the mud, I really wouldn't recommend it for scooters that are hung up in holiday displays. Logan and I stared in amazed horror as we saw the table with the watch display start to shake. Daddy, of course, was completely oblivious to the impending disaster, as he was preoccupied with catching sweaters that were falling off the table.

Had I been just another Sears shopper, I probably would have sat back and watched the drama unfold. But, as the daughter of the crazy man ramming holiday displays, I felt compelled to do something to mitigate the carnage. Since I was a good 25 feet away, my options were severely limited. When Logan, his voice full of concern, looked up at me and asked, "what do we do?", it was without the slightest bit of hesitation, that I replied, "if that watch display falls, we run!"

Amazingly, the watches came through the ordeal relatively unscathed. The sweater display -- and family members -- weren't so lucky! When I got Daddy safely home and back into his recliner, I asked him how it was that he got stuck at Sears. His response, "are you talking about when I couldn't get but halfway in the elevator and the doors kept shutting on me?" No Daddy, I must have missed that one ....

Copyright 2006 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.

Oh Crappy Day

2006-11-14T04:46:00.000+01:00

If your day starts out with you being dragged through dog shit and vomit, then, theoretically, it can only get better from there. But, all things being equal, the potential for improvement in the day does not really make up for the actuality of being bathed in bodily fluids, dog or otherwise. At least, that's how I see it. Unfortunately, this realization came to me while I was standing in a scalding hot shower, scrubbing off shit (the dog's) and vomit (mine).

I've known since Oscar Gonzales threw up in Mrs. Clary's second grade classroom that I am a sympathetic vomiter. If I hear someone vomiting, see it, or smell it, I am right there with them. Today, I learned that I have a new vomit trigger -- dog crap.

In a gigantic act of stupidity on my part, I offered to take my parents' dog, Boots, for a walk. For the visual, Boots is a chocolate lab that weighs about 80 pounds and, to put it politely, he could use about 2 years of extensive shouting, I mean, whispering from Cesar Millan. Since Boots is not exactly the poster dog for obedience school, I attached his leash to a choke collar.

Boots and I set out for a walk around my parents' subdivision. Before leaving the house, I grabbed a couple of plastic bags, not because I had any intention of scooping up dog poop, mind you, but because I wanted it to appear that way to any members of the Homeowner's Association that we might encounter along the way.

When we reached the street corner the fartherest from my parents' house, Boots decided he needed to use the bathroom. I gave him a little privacy, and as much slack as possible on the leash, and he did his business. A whole lot of business.

Since there were other people a couple of blocks from us who could potentially finger me as the non-pooper scooper, I bent down and acted like I was picking up the dog crap. I turned my head away from it, just as the guy in the Verizon truck decided to pull alongside us and compliment me on the dog. Boots took off in the direction of the Verizon truck, pulling me along with him. Unfortunately, I was still in a squatting position from my fake poop pick-up, so I had limited balance and even less leverage to pull backwards on the leash. Even more unfortunate, I had put the choke collar on backwards, rendering it totally ineffective.

I will spare you all the details, but the sequencing went pretty much like this: dog takes off; dog (and karma) drags Cindy through the poop she faked picking up; Cindy starts puking; dog keeps going; Cindy dragged through her own vomit; Verizon man takes off like a bat out of hell; Cindy walks 1/2 a mile home gagging uncontrollably and stinking of dog shit and vomit.

Copyright 2006 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.

Friday Night Lights

2006-11-10T19:10:00.000+01:00

I was talking to my neighbor Dave the other day and he asked me if I had seen the new television series, Friday Night Lights, about a film crew that follows a Texas high school through football season. (The series is based on the movie of the same name.) I told Dave that I didn't need to see the movie or watch the TV show - I had lived it. I think Dave thought I was joking. Clearly, Dave has not spent much time in Texas during football season. Scratch that. Clearly, Dave has not spent any time in Texas -- at all!

I flew back to Texas on Thursday so I could watch my "nephew's" last regular season high school football game. A little over an hour after landing, I was standing in a locker room, with my parents and about 15 mothers, decorating the lockers of the football players. Thirty minutes after that, I was in a circle, holding hands with the other decorators, while some lady prayed for the Lord's protection of the team during the Game. As I was leaving the locker room, I heard one mother shout, "Ok, everyone sitting in the Spirit Section -- don't forget your cowbells." Yes, I was firmly back in the great state of Texas.

Friday morning, or, Game Day, as it is known in these parts, I woke up to find my mother baking brownies for the team, something she has done every week during football season for the past two years. In my mother's mind, there is a direct relationship between her baked goods and the team's near perfect record. The team has lost only one game in 2 years -- and that was during the state playoffs last year. There has been some talk that the season-ending defeat, which, literally, came in the last second of the ballgame, was somehow tied to a new cookie recipe that my mother tried out. 2005 will always be remembered in our home as the year we didn't go to State because of mother's cookies. She threw out the recipe and, for good measure, the pan too!

While mother was busy baking up another win, Daddy and I went to get the BBQ for the tailgate party. We arrived at the stadium a couple of hours before the game started, to find the tailgate party in full swing. There was enough BBQ, chili, and taco soup to feed a small army, which is good, because that's exactly how many that showed up.

I really don't know how to describe the phenomenon that is Texas high school football to someone that has never experienced it. In fact, I don't know if it can be done. The movie, Friday Night Lights, came pretty close, but anyone from Texas could spot the film's biggest blunder -- no bonfire. There simply has to be a bonfire before the Big Game. No bonfire. No Big Game. No Texas high school football. (In Texas, every football game is known as "the Game." During regular season, the stress is on the word "game." If you are playing the town rivals, you put the stress on the word "the." If you are in the state playoffs, then both words are stressed. If you make it to the state championship, then it becomes, "the Big Game.")

I'm sure some people would say that high schools don't need instant replay. Some people may think that a theater equipped with Dolby-surround sound is a bit much for simply reviewing game films. Some people may think that watching a football game while sitting on metal bleachers, holding umbrellas, in one of the worse lightning storms of the season, is crazy. But, chances are, these people won't be from Texas.

Texas high school football is hearing someone in the stands talking about whuppin' the coach's ass -- and it is the grandmother of one of the players. Texas high school football is three-year old girls dressed as exact replicas of the cheerleaders, complete with face tattoos and pompoms. Texas high school football is twirlers, dancers and flag teams, and t-shirts that read, "I'm a proud band parent." Texas high school football is men who work all day, come to the game, and then drive all night so that they can be at the deer lease in time to hunt the next morning. Texas high school football is referees that don't call it both ways and fans (read: mothers) yelling that the option play that the other side is running is killing us, and that the offensive coordinator should have covered it in the game films.

Texas high school football is also the "Spirit Section." This is a sacred section of the bleachers reserved for those who don't mind standing up the entire game and who possess some sort of noise-making mechanism, whether it be cowbell, a coke bottle filled with rocks, a giant hand clapper, a loud mouth, etc.. Please don't confuse this with the "Student Section." Similar, yet, very, very different.

I'm not sure who runs the Spirit Section for my high school, but clearly there are certain requirements to gain entry. First, it would appear that you have to wear the school colors, preferably in a t-shirt with the picture of one of the players on it, or, in a pinch, a jersey with his number. I did see a couple of people with "I'm the grandmother of (insert jersey number here)", "I'm a cousin of (insert jersey number here)", "My son is (insert jersey number here)" or some variation thereof. It's amazing how much kin you can pack into a section of bleachers.

Second, there's a type of protocol that exists in the Spirit Section. If you don't follow it, you will be asked to leave and/or, in extreme circumstances, be banned from sitting in the section. For instance, you absolutely have to sit in the same spot. If you leave your seat, for any reason, you must return to the exact seating position as before or risk throwing off the team's good karma. Last night, one lady was not allowed re-entry to the Section after she left at half-time to talk to her husband, who, apparently, must not be that fond of cowbells. It's a tough crowd, I tell you.

I, for one, did not sit in the Spirit Section. I didn't want to sit by some crazy lady with a megaphone who makes up her own cheers. It's okay, my mother understood. At halftime, I went to check on my mother, whom I see only 2-3 times a year since I started splitting my time between San Diego and Europe. The score was 22-0 -- we had the nothing. Mother told me that I was going to have to go back to California. She was convinced that my mere presence at the game was "bad ju-ju" and, therefore, I was the reason why we were losing. Incredibly, she was serious. Apparently, not only had I been banned from the Spirit Section, I was dangerously close to being run out of town on a rail -- BY MY OWN MOTHER! I was also running the risk of going down in history as being the reason why the team (potentially) didn't go to state in 2006. Texas. High School. Football.

I guess one of the best ways to sum up Texas high school football is to tell you about Grandpa Kaiser. Grandpa Kaiser is 89 years old. The last football game that one of his grandchildren played in was 20 years ago. Grandpa Kaiser was hospitalized all week long, but, at 3:00 pm on Friday afternoon, he started calling for his doctor. When he couldn't get in touch with his doctor, he called the Personnel Department at the Hospital to have them hunt him down. You see, Grandpa Kaiser had to be released before 5:00 pm so that he could make it to the Game. Folks, that's Texas high school football!

Last night, Grandpa Kaiser and I, along with about 300 other soaking-wet, die-hard fans, saw one of the best football games ever played. Ever. Barbers Hill came back from a 22-0 deficit to tie the game with less than a minute to go on the clock. They ended up winning the game during sudden death overtime, after an hour delay for lightning (I bet you thought I was kidding about this earlier!). It was, quite simply, Texas High School Football at its best.

http://baytownsun.com/story.lasso?ewcd=4ff2730b96f34203
Barbers Hill 28 Galena Park 22

Copyright 2006 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.

One Year Down!

2006-11-07T18:35:00.000+01:00

Yesterday marked my one year anniversary of moving to Brussels, Belgium. It was also close to marking six months since I got kicked out of Belgium. If you do the math (which I have), since moving to Belgium, I have actually spent more time outside of the country than inside it! I really think I'm beginning to get the hang of this expat thing.

Boos Bash 2006

2006-10-20T05:22:00.000+02:00

In addition to fleeing the Belgian winters, one of the reasons I am back in San Diego is for the Boos Bash, the annual Halloween party that I throw with a couple of my girlfriends. This year we celebrated our 5th Bash, having grown from 15 people at our first bash (invited 4 days before the party) to almost 300. For those of you counting, this roughly equates to a 100:1 people to bathroom ratio.

Common sense dictates that open flames and a couple of hundred people in costumes, most of which are flammable, is not a good mix, but since we have only caught the furniture on fire once, I'd say the odds are in my favor.

Our biggest obstacle of the evening is not crowd control, 70 year-old plumbing, or ready access to fire extinguishers, but with the "noise sensitivities" of one of our neighbors on the adjacent street. While Dan and I have been truly blessed by the Best-Neighbors-Ever God, apparently his favor skips a house in the 3200 block of the street behind us. Our distant neighbors, whose names I don't want to mention call the police on us every year. While the rest of the neighborhood is either at the party or has signed off on a noise permit application in our favor, this particular couple has the Neighborhood Noise Complaint Department on speed dial.

I'm not entirely sure what it is the "Cramps" have against us, especially since the only contact we have with them over the course of an entire year is to invite them to our party. Since they always decline this offer, as well as our follow-up offer to buy them dinner and put them up in a hotel room for the evening, I'm certain that whatever they have against us, it must be serious. I have tried to kill them with kindness, but I think I've only made them stronger.

Unfortunately for the "Cramps", this year's bash was a total throw-down! Our theme was "Party Like a Rock Star at Boos Bash 2006." Generally, we don't have themed Halloween Parties, as that would just be redundant, but this year was special. Luke "not-the -one-you-are-thinking-about-but-just-as-hot" Wilson and Kurtney Noonan of Rock Star Energy donated 9 CASES of ZeroCarb energy drink for the party. As if alcohol is not potent enough, try mixing it with an energy drink that has twice the caffeine of other energy drinks on the market! It makes for good times and great pictures!

Also, a special thank you to Act One Entertainment, who has been providing the music that puts the Cramps over the edge every year ( http://www.actoneentertainment.net/) and to Mike Robak who designed this year's logo and made custom shot glasses for the prizes.

Speaking of pictures, if you want to check them out, go to http://boosbash2006.shutterfly.com/.
Copyright 2006 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.

The Skies Are Friendly!

2006-10-18T19:32:00.000+02:00

Flying back from Vegas on America West, I looked up during the drink service and realized that I knew the flight attendant! She had worked with a friend of mine at REI in San Diego, but had moved three years ago. I have not seen her since she was the Thundercat at Boos Bash 2003. Small world, huh?

What Happens in Vegas ...

2006-10-17T19:35:00.000+02:00

I just got back from a 4-day Bachelorette Party in Las Vegas. Although there were plenty of blog-worthy events that took place over the weekend, anyone who has ever been to Vegas knows the cardinal rule: What happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas!

That being said, I simply cannot pass up the opportunity to tell the best Vegas story I have ever heard. (Technically, since it happened to a stranger, I think I am ok on the rule.)

While the bachelorette and I were waiting on some friends to arrive from San Diego, we ran into a group of girls who were also waiting on friends to fly in. We struck up a conversation with this group and learned that they were in town for an annulment.

One of the girls, who I'll call Leigh, had made her first trip to Vegas five weeks earlier. On the very first night of her very first trip to Vegas, Leigh got arrested, tattooed, and married - to a man she met two hours earlier at the Palms!

Leigh and her friends were now back in Vegas, searching for the wedding chapel where Leigh tied the knot, so that she could find out her husband's name and address! She needed his signature for the annulment and she had no idea how to contact him. (She also wanted to return the $800 wedding ring that he had bought for her.)

Good times, Good times!

Copyright 2006 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.

Flying the Friendly Skies

2006-10-09T21:27:00.000+02:00

I admit it. I’m not a good flyer. You’d think I would be better at it, given how much I fly. But, nope, not me. I’m that toddler that you have to bring an entire box of Cheerios for, or the ten year-old that has to have the latest Gameboy game or DVD to keep him occupied. I’m good for about 2-3 hours and then I start to lose it. Unfortunately for Dan, or whoever is sitting next to me, it’s a 9.5 hour flight to Atlanta – followed by another 4+ hour flight to San Diego. To put that into perspective, we’ve moved way beyond the Cheerios and have gone straight to the Benadryl.

To add insult to injury, airplanes now have those GPS screens that allow you to track – in real-time – the course of the flight. Some call it technology. I see it more as a torture device. I’m basically okay from Brussels to Greenland, but it’s all downhill from there. By the time we hit Goose Bay, I’d sell my soul, much less state secrets.

In this day of heightened security, I’ve found that my bad mood starts to kick in way before we have reached cruising altitude. I would say, oh, at about check-in. Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for increased security measures. I don’t mind the bag searches, the long lines, the secondary screenings, and the shoe-checks for explosives. I’m sure it all serves a very valid purpose, if only to keep people employed. I am, however, a little concerned if our response to terror threats comes down to Ziploc baggies. But, hey, that’s just me.

Last Thursday morning, I left the apartment at 7:00 am for a 10:40 flight to San Diego. Dan dropped me off at the airport at 7:23, leaving me with what I thought would be plenty of time to check-in, hit the duty-free shops, and go through the various security checkpoints. Silly Cindy!

I was already a little edgy, having not slept a wink the night before, and having had only one Diet Coke for the morning. After waiting in a 15 minute line, I reached the Delta check-in counter in a reasonably good mood, considering that I had to answer not only the routine security questions (who packed your luggage? have your belongings been in your possession at all times? have you received anything from a stranger? etc.), but also some new ones, which I’m sure must serve some purpose in the matter of national security, although, personally, I don’t see when I bought my ipod, when and where I purchased my cell phone, and who gave me my laptop is that far removed from the plastic baggie response to terrorism, especially since all of these items will be x-rayed and inspected – more than once.

My personal favorite was this exchange:

Lady to Cindy: How did you arrive at the airport?
Cindy to Lady: By private car.
Lady to Cindy: Where is it now?
Cindy to Lady: I have no idea, but I’m guessing somewhere on the Ring or possibly the 201.
Lady to Cindy: Oh, so you’re husband dropped you off.
Cindy (in her head) to Lady: No, I’ve managed to clone myself and Twindy is now stuck somewhere in Brussels’ traffic. (Clearly, a Bill Engvall “here’s your sign” moment.)
Cindy to Lady: Yes, I was dropped off.
Lady to Cindy: Where is your husband going now?
Cindy to Lady: To work.
Lady to Cindy: Did he tell you that?
Cindy to Lady: Yes.
Lady to Cindy: Is he driving the car?
Cindy to Lady: Yes, I would presume so. (“Here’s your sign …)
Lady to Cindy: Ok you can pass.

At the check-in counter, I handed the lady my passport and my itinerary and then placed my baggage on the conveyor belt. She punched in some numbers, looked at her screen and asked me for my paper ticket. “I don’t have a paper ticket,” I told her. “Yes you do”, she replied. “No, I don’t.” “Yes, you do. It was exchanged.” I was prepared to give the lady the benefit of the doubt. How could she possibly know that she was dancing on my last non-caffeinated nerve? I took a deep breath, exhaled and smiled. “No, ma’am, I only have an e-ticket.”

Completely un-phased, the lady said to me, with absolute and total conviction, “Well, you have lost it. You will have to pay 100 euros to replace it.” I took another deep calming breath. With only the slightest hint of irritation in my voice, I said, “I can’t lose something that I have never had. Is it possible that you are mistaken about the exchange?” Apparently, I had now found her last nerve.

She picked up the Delta phone and called the Delta god who confirmed that my ticket had been exchanged. Unfortunately for me, the Delta god’s omnipotence was limited that day, as he could not (or would not) answer how, by whom, or even when the ticket was exchanged. I went from one person telling me, rather matter-of-factly, that I had lost my ticket, to four people telling me: the initial agent, the guy on the phone, the supervisor that had walked over, and the agent from the neighboring computer terminal who had absolutely no business in the exchange yet felt compelled to lean over and tell me that, yes, my ticket had, in fact, been exchanged.

Trying to avoid another Galleria Inno incident (See December 2005 archives, Good Global Citizen to Nasty American), I asked the initial agent what exactly she would have me to do. She told me that I would have to go over to the ticketing counter and discuss it with an agent over there. Having clearly won, she apologized for the inconvenience and told me that I would have to take my bags with me to the ticket counter. Not a problem. I asked her to please back up the conveyor belt so that I could reach them. Problem.

According to the agent, the conveyor system only goes forward – not in reverse. Her solution was for me to crawl under the counter and up the conveyor belt to retrieve my bags. And here I was thinking that it would be so much easier if she just leaned her fat ass (ok, she really didn’t have a fat ass, it just makes me feel better to refer to her this way) over and push them back down the conveyor belt towards me. Since my fat ass was definitely not crawling under the counter and up the belt, I just gave her my best you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me look. She felt the need to tell me, again, that I had to take my bags with me to the ticket counter, all the while apologizing for any “inconvenience.”

When I opened my mouth to tell her exactly what I thought about her "apology", there must have been some sort of divine intervention, and not the Delta kind, because what came out was, “can you please push my bags to me?” Clearly irritated, the agent made a big production over leaning over -- several inches -- and pushing my bags towards me. I thanked her, apologized to her for any inconvenience she may have experienced while during her job, and went off to wait in the ticket counter line.

At the ticket line, I stood in the shorter of the two lines. When it was my turn, I approached the counter and told the lady that there was some confusion as to whether my ticket had been exchanged. The male agent manning the other ticket window leaned over and said something to the lady in Flemish. Other than what I have learned from reading the subtitles on Charmed, I don’t know any Flemish, but somehow I knew that the man was telling her that I had lost my ticket. (I now knew who the Delta god was that the first agent was talking to on the phone!) I’m not sure if she was atheistic or agnostic, but, God love her, she basically ignored the guy.

The Angel at the ticket counter tracked the problem back to my initial flight into Brussels in the first of August. All of a sudden, everything made sense to me. (See August 2006 archives, Don’t Horse Around With Airport Security). Let’s see, I believe she was referring to the day that my flight was delayed (3 times), cancelled, rebooked, delayed again, rerouted, delayed again, the system manually overridden in Atlanta just so that I could board the plane, followed by a surreal experience in the Manchester airport, after which I finally arrived in Brussels without any luggage. Is it possible during one of the single-worst travel days of my life that someone at Delta, perhaps the lady that manually overrode the system for instance, may have entered something into the computer incorrectly? Apparently not.

After signing a form stating that I had lost my ticket, the agent then printed me out a new one and sent me back to the check-in line. After assuring the very same security lady that interrogated me earlier that I had not accepted anything from a stranger nor had I left my luggage unattended from the time that I left the Delta check-in counter and walked over to the Delta ticket counter (all of which she witnessed), I waited in line, again, to check-in.

Over two hours after arriving at the airport, I finally made it to the gate. Seventeen hours later, I made it back into San Diego, just in time to see one of the most spectacular sunsets I have seen in a long time. Ah, the friendly skies!

Copyright 2006 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.

My Big Fat Greek Weekend

2006-10-03T16:38:00.000+02:00

Ancient Agora

View of Acropolis from Temple of Zeus

Fallen Column at Temple of Zeus

Erechthion

Two days after the lady at the spa nearly cut my big toe off (you know it is a bad spa day when you leave the salon in bandages soaked in blood) and after I accidentally left my passport at the US Embassy, I left to meet Dan in Athens, Greece for a long weekend.

Top Things I Loved About Athens:

The weather. (Just like San Diego)
The history. (It makes Rome look modern.)
The gorgeous views. (Like the ones from Lycavittos Hill.)
The food. (Svoulaki, moussaki, baklava, ...)
The wines. (Especially the Peloponnesian ones)
The people. (Although one Greek told us that she thought that the Greeks were extremely rude compared to the Americans. What is surprising is that she was using New Yorkers as her standard of reference!)
The metro. (Greece has, hands down, the nicest, cleanest and prettiest metro system I have ever been on. The stations are little museums in and of themselves.)
Anyone driving on the sidewalk will have their car confiscated!

Things I Could Have Done Without in Athens:

All the cigarette smoke! (At one restaurant, there were 16 people eating. Dan and I were the only ones not smoking. I swear Athens must be a walking research project for lung disease.)
The pollution. (See above reference to lung disease.)
The urban sprawl.
The tacky American tourists. (At dinner one night, we heard a group of tourists from North Carolina tell the waiter that the bartender needed "to learn how to make drinks the American way." Dan and I were mortified! We overtipped just so that he wouldn't think that all Americans were that way.)

You Americans -- You All Sound The Same!

2006-09-27T10:03:00.000+02:00

Last night, armed with the latest edition of In Style magazine, I went to the little restaurant on the plaza for some spaghetti bolognese. I ran into two of my neighbors, Dominick and Yannick, who were sharing a bottle of wine on the patio. As good neighbors do, Dominick and Yannick invited me to join them while I ate dinner. As good neighbors do, I accepted.

As we were discussing the political elections in Brussels, what's new in the neighborhood, and Dominick's upcoming move to the apartment across the street from me, Dominick's phone rang. Although Dominick's conversation was in French, I could pick out a few words here and there, namely "Cindy."

I had no idea who he was talking to, but I assumed it was a fellow member of the Neighborhood Action Committee. When Dominick handed his phone to Yannick and asked him to interpret (Yannick speaks flawless English), I was beginning to think that perhaps my assumption was wrong. To the best of my knowledge, I am the only member of the NAC who does not speak French.

Yannick took the phone and asked Dominick who it was on the other line. Dominick responded in French, again using my name. Yannick started talking to the person on the line in French, but quickly switched to English. Just as Yannick asked, "Who is this?", the phone went dead. Dominick had run out of credits.

Dominick and Yannick then had a conversation, in French, during which I heard my name being bounced around a couple of more times. Although not normally this rude, curiosity got the better of me and I asked, "who was that?". Dominick responded, in English, "your husband." "My who?", I asked. "Dan, your husband, " Dominick replied.

Setting aside for a moment the fact that I am not married, I was having a few problems coming to terms with Dan calling Dominick. First, how did he get Dominick's cell number? I don't even know Dominick's last name, let alone any contact information. Second, why would Dan be calling Dominick, who doesn't speak any English? Third, why would Dan think I would be with Dominick and/or that Dominick would know where I was at? Fourth, why didn't Dominick hand me the phone instead of Yannick? And, the list goes on.

Thinking that I somehow misunderstood Dominick, I asked Yannick, "who was that?" Yannick's reply, "I don't know because the phone went dead before the guy could tell me his name, but Dominick says it was your husband, Dan." I guess my French is better than I thought, because this is exactly what I took away from my conversation with Dominick.

Yannick then used his cell phone to call the guy back, as his number had popped up on Dominick's caller ID. Yannick talked to the guy for a few seconds and then handed the phone to Dominick. Dominick struggled through some English phrases and then hung up. The whole time Dominick was talking on the phone, Yannick was laughing. Hard.

Thoroughly confused, I asked Yannick what was going on. Apparently, Dominick answered the phone and was telling the guy on the other end, who spoke some French, that he was having dinner with his (meaning the guy on the phone's) wife. The guy on the phone kept asking Dominick who he was referring to and Dominick kept responding, "your wife, Cindy."

Since the guy on the phone was not getting it, Dominick wanted Yannick to translate it into English for him. The only problem was, the guy on the phone was not Dan! It was a wrong number, but, since the guy sounded American, and Dominick only knows two Americans (me and Dan), Dominick just assumed that it was Dan on the phone.

Copyright 2006 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.

A Personal Worst

2006-09-27T09:27:00.000+02:00

On Monday, I drove to Aachen, Germany to shop at the Wal-Mart. (I cringe every time I read that statement! I'm pretty sure you are a red-neck if you drive through three countries to get to a Wal-Mart.)

It took me 1 hour and 20 minutes to get to Aachen. Once in Aachen, it took me 3 hours and 12 minutes to find the Wal-Mart -- and that's with a GPS, a map, and stopping multiple times to ask for directions. (The address I had was not the correct one. I don't care what the Wal-Mart website tells you, don't search for Elsastrasse 139!)

It seems that people in Aachen either don't know where the Wal-Mart is, or, they enjoy screwing around with Americans and sending them all over the city. I am now intimately familiar with the Ring that goes around Aachen, as I have traveled every square kilometer of it -- numerous times. I believe some would call it "driving in circles."

To add insult to injury, there are Wal-Mart billboards everywhere in town. I'm not asking for arrows, but it would have been nice if one of these huge-ass advertisements would have had the address posted on it. Where's the love, Sam?

I finally stumbled upon the Wal-Mart. As my luck would have it, the one thing that I was looking for, Wal-Mart did not have.

Wasted trip? Not really, because I scored some Reese's peanut butter cups!

Copyright 2006 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.

The Return of the Nasty American

2006-09-25T21:17:00.000+02:00

Even though I have been cursed at (in more than one language), forced to use the men's toilet, reduced to tears over 4 cents in a department store, tram-wrecked, evacuated by threat of bomb, laughed at, stalked, rained/sleeted/hailed/snowed on, propositioned by more than one dirty old man, deprived of Mexican food, insulted, forced to engage in road rage, beaten by an old lady with a cane, terrorized by the very spawn of Satan, concussed, and, oh yeah, deported, I have tried to maintain the attitude of a good global citizen. Some days, I'm better at it than others. Yesterday, wasn't one of them. (For the first appearance of the nasty American, see December 2005 archives, "From Good Global Citizen to Nasty American in 1 Hour and 52 Minutes.")

For those of you who have never had the pleasure of searching for an ATM machine in Brussels, it's not like in the States where the things are on every corner, in every convenience store, Indian reservation and fast-food joint. Even living in the city center, the closest ATM to my house (which, by the way, is not on my bank network) is 7 blocks away. Fortunately, the machines that I have found do not charge a service fee for non-customers of the bank, which is a good thing, because Dan, who has never said a word about how much money I spend on shoes, has a tendency to go stark-raving mad over a $1.50 service charge for ATM fees.

I was in front of the ATM machine at the KBC bank on Rue Antoine Dansaert (the one where the scaffolding is finally being removed after all these months), and this blonde-haired guy wearing a green army jacket and carrying a black backpack steps in front of me and walks right up to the ATM machine. As I was in a fairly good mood, I decided to let it slide.

The guy, who I will call Rudy, had his ATM card in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. Rudy was much more interested in putting the cigarette into his mouth than he was in putting his ATM card into the machine. Since I had no idea what kind of transaction he was contemplating, I gave him the benefit of the doubt that he may need nicotine courage to get through the ordeal, and I waited patiently as he took a long pull on the cigarette.

Several puffs later, I was no closer to getting my turn at the ATM. Thinking that he may have somehow failed to see me when he cut directly in front of me, I coughed, politely, to let him know that I was, in fact, still waiting patiently for the machine. He turned, shot me an annoyed look, and held up one finger, which I interpreted to mean that he was only going to be a minute longer. Wrong. I guess it is French for "Not only am I'm going to finish smoking this cigarette, I'm going to light another one and I will get around to using the ATM when I'm good and ready, and there's not a damn thing you can do about it."

As he fumbled for his lighter and a pack of Marlboro Reds, I fought to contain the rage that was building up in me. I tried to reason with myself. I wasn't in a hurry. I could use the time going over the list of things I wanted to get done that day. I could start naming all the things I was thankful for.

By the time he got his second, cigarette lit, I was calm again. How stupid would it be to lose it over an ATM machine? Besides, I was the one that did not want to walk all the way to the ING bank to use the multiple machines at that location. Serves my lazy-ass right!

Rudy finally put his card into the machine. This particular machine is insanely slow, so I was expecting a little bit of a wait while his transaction cleared. While I was waiting, this cute little girl in a blue and white dress with a pixie haircut starts walking toward the bank machine. Oh good, I thought, someone I can wait in line with and share looks of annoyance and exchange rolls of our eyes as we wait for Rudy to get his act together.

Pixie girl had a few problems, not the least of which is that she did not know how to form a proper single-file line. She did not take her place behind me, as would be normal under the circumstances. Nor, did she stand on either side of me, which would have been equally appropriate in proper line formation. No, Princess, positioned herself in FRONT of me, and slightly to the side. To anyone approaching the machine, from her position, it would be logical to conclude that Princess was next in line to use the machine and that I, the one that has been waiting through multiple cigarettes, would be second.

I was momentarily distracted from Princess when I saw Rudy take his ATM card out of the machine. Thinking he was finished, I took a step forward -- merely for Princess's benefit. I wanted her to know that I had been waiting for the machine, that I was next to use the machine, and that I had no intention of allowing anyone to cut in front of me (again) to get to the machine. Princess stepped forward too. At this point, I'm good and irritated. Princess is clearly working in concert with Rudy to put me over the edge.

Speaking of Rudy, I'm was beginning to think that chances were he would die of lung cancer before I got to use the ATM. He pulled his ATM card out, only to replace it with another one. He also took this opportunity to light his third cigarette. Frustrated and out of patience, I asked, "Will you be much longer?" Rudy, as his name suggests, ignored me.

I looked at Princess Pixie and said, matter-of-factly, "I'm next." She, too, basically ignored me. I took a step closer to the machine. PP did the same. Oh, so she wants to play, huh? I hoped Princess brought her A-game, because she was going to need it! Good global citizen had officially taken a backseat to pissed-off, smoked-out, competitive Nasty American!

I took a huge step forward and sideways, basically, blocking Princess Pixie from the machine. I felt like Shaq posting up under the basket. Screw the discreet distance. We are now standing way inside Rudy's personal space. Not only could I see his fingers (assuming they ever got around to entering a PIN), I could read the screen. The bank was not accepting Rudy's card.

Rudy, working on his third cigarette and third card, is starting to get distracted by all the action that is going on directly behind him. Concerned that this may push him to a fourth cigarette, I say to Rudy, "It's ok. She's trying to cut. How much longer?" Rudy looks at PP, PP rolls her eyes, and they both ignore me.

By this time, the two men taking down the scaffolding are just standing there, waiting to see what happens. Rudy finally finds a card that the machine will accept, and he is waiting for his receipt. I take this opportunity to turn my head and stare down Princess Pixie, while raising my arms at my sides ever so slightly, so as to further impede any forward progress on the part of PP. She looked at me with this bored aloofness, that, quite frankly, I found more annoying than her proximity and rudeness, simply because it made her look even cuter! I committed myself right then and there that there was no way in hell that she was going to get to the machine before me, even if it meant a catfight, which I'm sure is what the construction crew was hoping for!

As Rudy was leaving, probably to buy another pack of cigarettes to get him through the next 30 minutes, I stepped up to the machine and shoved my card into it. I turned to shoot PP a victory glance, but she was gone! Turns out, she didn't even need to use the machine, she was just waiting on Rudy.

Copyright 2006 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.

The Campaign Trail

2006-09-24T12:27:00.000+02:00

I spent Saturday walking through my neighborhood putting campaign flyers into people's mailboxes in support of my neighbor, Phillip Close, who is running for a position in the City government. Phillip is candidate number 5 on the Socialist Party list. http://www.villedebruxelles.ps.be/ and http://www.villedebruxelles.ps.be/FR/index.cfm

According to Wikipedia, "at the start of 2006, 14 of the 26 representatives of the Parti Socialiste, the largest party in the Brussels regional parliament, are Muslim immigrants (ten of Moroccan origin, two Turkish, one Tunisian and one from the West-African state of Guinea)." I'm betting that they are also the only party in Brussels with a blonde-haired, green-eyed, non-French speaking American campaigning for them in a hugely immigrant neighborhood. Not sure if that hurt or helps Phillip. I know that it definitely confuses the neighbors!

If you are eligible to vote, be sure to vote on October 8th!

By Popular Demand -- Recipe for Deviled Eggs!

2006-09-23T10:17:00.000+02:00

I apologize for not putting the recipe for oeuf de diable on my last post. What was I thinking? So, for those of you who asked, here it is. Be sure to give me props when we start a new culinary sensation in Brussels. (Maybe my new favorite restaurant in Brussels, Le Manufacture, will catch on to these little gems!)

Boil eggs
Cut eggs in half
Take yolks out and mashed them with a fork
Add mayonnaise, a little mustard, sweet pickle relish (Good freaking luck finding this in Brussels!), salt and pepper
Spoon yolk mixture into the little holes on the egg halves
sprinkle with paprika
Voila -- oeuf de diable!

For more recipes and better instructions, check out http://www.deviledeggs.com

Copyright 2006 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.

The Egg of the Devil

2006-09-21T16:59:00.000+02:00

Adding to my list of "Things You Probably Would Not See in the US," last Sunday, Brussels - which I remind you is a capital city - was completely car free! It was part of some Car-Free Sunday celebration that has been going on for years, and, I have to tell you, I loved it! While the whole concept is a little insane (Can you imagine downtown Houston closing the inside of the Loop to cars for an entire day?), it certainly made for an incredible day.

Our little community, like many others in the Commune, capitalized on the occasion and held a "barbecue entre voisins" at the Plaza. Had I attended the last Neighborhood Action Committee (NAC) meeting, I, presumably, would have been more prepared, since the NAC organized the whole event. I say "presumably" because my French is still poor and it does not appear to me that anyone else in the 'hood has been practicing their Spench. (See, A Pictured Says A Thousand Words - In Any Language, November 2005 archives.)

Nevertheless, I found out about the BBQ when I ran into Dominick, the non-mayor of the Ville and the president of the NAC, (See, Do They Call You Burger for Short?, May 2006 archives) on the Thursday before the big day. I could tell from Dominick's expressions and hand gestures that something was going to happen in the Plaza. What, I did not know. Dominick must have picked up on my confusion because when we returned from Amsterdam on Saturday afternoon, we had a flyer in our mailbox describing the upcoming festivities. When I say, "describing," I mean it was in French and Flemish.

Since it was already pretty late on Saturday, and the BBQ was the next day, just to be sure, I took the flyer to the supermarche downstairs in hopes of catching the manager, Emir, before closing time so that he could translate it for me. Specifically, I wanted to know whether we were supposed to bring our own food, bring food to share, if food was being provided, etc.. Emir had left for the day, so I spoke to this other guy, whose name kinda sounds like Christopher but starts with an M (I've found that it if I say it really fast and let my voice drop near the end, the guy does not keep correcting me on the pronunciation.)

Now, mind you, Mistopher's English is only slightly better than my French. He told me that there was going to be a BBQ on Sunday. Got that. I asked him if I was supposed to bring food. I received a blank stare from Mistopher. I started forking imaginary food into my mouth from the imaginary plate I was holding in my left hand. Ah, yes, Mistopher says, you will be able to eat the food. (It's episodes like this that probably keep me in the running for the village idiot!)

After some pretty imaginative hand gesturing and a complete slaughtering of the French language, I was able to get across to Mistopher that I wanted to know what I was to bring to the BBQ. Mistopher's response: Some people bring old things in their house they don't want. Merci, Mistopher.

I decided that it would be best to bring one of each -- an appetizer, a main dish, a side dish and a dessert. Since, to my knowledge, there is no such thing as a 24-hour grocery store in Brussels, I had to raid my American food product stash. Talk about taking one for the team.

Sunday morning, I got up early and started making my menu: deviled eggs, Italian chicken (chicken breasts marinated in Italian dressing and Lipton onion soup mix baked in the oven with bell pepper strips, Roma tomatoes and mushrooms), Kraft macaroni and cheese, and a chocolate cake with sugar sprinkles. By 11:00, I was ready for the BBQ.

Dan, on the other hand, had just come off a couple of really tough weeks and would have preferred nothing more than to sit in the recliner and read the paper. That was not going to happen. As I had to remind him - more than once - I'm on the committee! I was already freaking out because I was not there to help set up.

We got to the Plaza a little after 11:00 to find exactly one other person there -- Dominick. Dominick, who is one of the nicest guys I've met to date in Brussels, speaks very little English. Although we attempted to talk, I would hardly describe what we were doing as conversing. It was more like labored sign language accentuated with a few horribly mispronounced words and a lot of shoulder shrugging and head-shaking.

More than once, Dan shot me that "what-have-you-gotten-me-into" look. I ignored it. Ten minutes later, another French-only speaking committee member, Oliver, showed up. When I had reached the point where I was going through my French pocket dictionary reading out phrases, such as "ou est la pharmacie" and "ca pleut comme vache qui pisse", Dan had had enough. He bailed, promising to return after he "took care of a few things." I shot him that "don't-you-dare-leave-me" look. He ignored it and I could have sworn I heard him mumble something about me being on the committee.

One hour and forty-five minutes later, which roughly equates to the entire sections of "survival phrases", "transportation", "hotel help" and "weather talk" in my French dictionary, people started showing up, including Dan for the second time. But, to my amazement, no one was eating any of my deviled eggs, even though I was the only person that had thought to bring an appetizer to the BBQ.

Intent on introducing this side of the Atlantic to perhaps one of the greatest Southern appetizers of all time, I went around the Plaza offering up my plate. Now, normally, I would serve deviled eggs on a chilled glass dish with little cut-outs for the eggs, but, since I left that back in San Diego, I opted for a Chinet paper plate with a lace paper doilie. Martha would have been proud.

Apparently, my attempt to compensate for the lack of proper egg serving platter caused a bit of confusion with the locals as to what type of food I was offering. People would ask, "dessert?" or say, "apres?", which is French for "after." I would respond, "no, oeuf de diable." No matter how hard I tried, I could not get anyone to even taste one. Completely baffled, I ate one in front of some people, and had Dan do the same, to prove that they were, in fact, edible.

It wasn't until I happened upon a table with an English-speaking Dutch family that I realized why no one was eating my eggs. In addition to not knowing what they were, most people were not interested in trying something that I was referring to as the "egg of the devil." Once the Dutch family tried them -- and loved them --- the eggs of the devil flew off the plate.

Copyright 2006 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.

Amsterdam -- It Really Is Disneyland for Adults

2006-09-20T11:14:00.000+02:00

I remember a line from a movie where it said that Amsterdam is Disneyland for adults. Having been there numerous times, I have to say that there is some truth to this. But, the absolute best thing I have found to date in Amsterdam is La Margarita Restaurant. Finally, a restaurant on this side of the Atlantic that got Mexican food right!

I had the chilaquiles and they were awesome (not as good as Lucy's but, then again, whose are?). Dan had fajitas and Maureen had a chimichanga. We all loved our meals!

From the Dam, head south (away from the Central Train Station) on Rokin. Follow the street for a couple of blocks until you see the first street that runs in front of the canal. Take a left on this street (Langebrugsteeg). The restaurant is on your right, at #6.

Muy rico!

http://www.mexican.nl/e-welkom.htm

I Dreama of Roma

2006-09-19T11:02:00.000+02:00

Victor Emmanuel Monument

Roman Ruins

Altar at St. Peter's

Once I had straightened out my second immigration crisis, I celebrated my status as a temporary legal resident of Belgium by (drumroll, please) leaving the country! My friend Maureen, who flew in from San Diego, and I went to Rome to see a couple of tourist sights and to pick up some Italian boys -- Versace, Armani, Salvatore Ferragamo, and Dolce & Gabbana to name a few.

On the way to the Vatican, these two little Italian ladies approached me -- with a map. I knew right then and there, that if native Italians were picking the only blonde in a 5 mile square radius to ask for directions, they were either seriously and hopelessly lost, or, I was about to get rolled! Given my experience with little old ladies, I was betting on the latter.

Although they did not speak English, they were able to point to the map, point to the street sign, and then ask "something, something, St. Maria?" Knowing the irony had not escaped Maureen, I shot her the, "are-they-for-real?" look over their heads. Apparently, they were.

While I am no Rand McNally, I like to think that I am fairly directional. It's a skill that has developed sheerly out of necessity from traveling with Dan. Unlike Dan, I can at least figure out when the map is upside down! (That would be a reference to the recent Romania trip when I was driving in Sighisoara and he, as the map reader, was yelling that we needed to be "over there". Yeah, "over there" is a great navigational aid. I'm sure Galileo and Columbus used it all the time! I kept driving the direction that he was pointing, knowing that there was no way that he was right, as we were driving away from town and not into it. When I finally had enough of his "GPS", I pulled the car over so that he could drive me to where "over there" was. Once behind the wheel, his GPS signal did not come in nearly as strong. He grabbed the map and pointed, with conviction, to where "over there" was and asked me to help him get there. When I started out by turning the map right-side up, I think we both knew who had one that little battle!)

So, I took their single sheet of black and white paper that, in a pinch, I guess could resemble some sort of a map, and tried to figure out where "something, something St. Maria's" was. To get my bearings, I looked around the little piazza (that would be a square) that we were standing in to find some sort of a name that I could then search for on the map. There was a street sign in front of me, so I was able to orientate myself using that and the piazza.

I had to laugh when I realized that the church that they were looking for was the very same church that we were standing in front of and, after which, the piazza was named! Maureen and I likened it to two Americans standing directly in front of the Statue of Liberty and asking the least American-looking and the only non-English speaking person in the vicinity where the Statue of Liberty was. It was that comical.

I won't bore you with all the touristy things (see links below), but, if you are interested in shopping, here's a couple of discount shops where you can find Italian designers at a fraction of the cost than in the US:

Although we did the obligatory Via Condotti, Via Corso, and Via del Babuino, we also hit Il Discount Dell Alta Moda (Via di Gesu' e Maria 16). It's really close to the Spanish Steps (take the Baboon street past Chanel and take a left a couple of streets before you hit the Plaza del Popolo). It carries Prada, Gucci, Armani, Laura Biagiotti, Krizia, Moschino, Dolce & Gabbana, and Etro, to name a few, at a DISCOUNT. The catch is to take 50% off the marked ticket prices, and, in some cases, even more. Here's a link I found- after the fact: http://www.made-in-italy.com/shopping/stores/stores.htm.

We also went to Discount System (Via Viminale 35). The selection was not a large as that of Alta Moda, but the prices were comparable. This shop was a little harder to find, but it is off Nazionale, in the Theater District, not terribly far from the Repubblica station.

Our best find, non-clothes or handbag related, was the paper store, Il Papiro, located at Via de Pantheon 50. This is one of the oldest printing houses in Italy and is known for its hand-crafted marbled stationery. If you are at the Pantheon, looking into the square, go north (I think) up the street to the right of the square -- keeping McDonald's on your left. It's about a block up on the right, before the next plaza. http://www.madeinfirenze.it/papiro_e.html.

For a great wine bar (enoteca), try Capranica Enoteca e Taverna at Piazza Capranica, 104 http://www.enotecacapranica.it/english/info.html.

Touristy Links:

St. Peter's http://www.stpetersbasilica.org/
The Vatican and the Sistine Chapel http://www.vatican.va/phome_en.htm
Victor Emmanuel Monument http://www.planetware.com/rome/national-monument-to-victor-emmanuel-ii-i-la-rmn.htm
The Forum (aka the Colosseum) http://www.italyguides.it/us/roma/rome_italy_travel.htm

Copyright 2006 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.

Visa - It's (Not) Everywhere You Want to Be

2006-09-18T08:53:00.000+02:00

I'm not a big fan of the Belgian police station. Every time I go there (ok, the two times I've been summoned), things do not go as planned. Last Friday, my relocation expert/French translator went with me. Things did not go as planned.

Turns out, the visit was part of the standard background check for my residency permit. The police needed to know where I was living, with whom, whether I was working, etc., etc. Not a problem or, so I thought. I supplied them with the information and handed over my passport with a new-found confidence that can only come from a change in immigrant status.

Apparently, upon close inspection of my Visa -- something I never did -- it states that it permits a single entry. What this means is, I had already violated the Visa twice in less than a month since it had been issued. And, more importantly, was about to violate it again in 2 days.

I left the police station to call the Consulate General in Los Angeles for some guidance. She told me that I was not to leave Belgium until I received my residency card, as I did not have permission to re-enter the country. "Officially", I could not travel. When I told her that I had tickets to go to Rome in two days, she told me, in no uncertain terms, that the "official" position was that I could not travel.

She went on to say that, if I was hell-bent on going to Rome (I'm paraphrasing a little here), I should go to the Commune the next day and inform them of this intention, as well as the fact that I had already violated my visa on two prior occasions. Now, I realize that immigration is not exactly my strong point, but, I really couldn't think of a faster way to start a second deportation proceeding than turning myself in for visa violations. Been there. Done that. Not interested in doing it again.

Unsure of what to do, I started asking advice from experts, human resources, neighbors, etc. What I learned is that there is an "official" way of doing things in Belgium and, then there is the way everyone else does things. Many people told me to ignore the single-entry requirement and to go to Rome because no one ever checks these things. To support their position, they used my own two (undetected) violations. Of course, these are the same people that said Americans don't get deported, and we all know that's not true!

After struggling all night with the devil on my left shoulder and the angel on my right, I called my relocation expert/translator and asked her to meet me at the Commune at noon on Friday so that I could narc myself out. I knew from experience that, at the very least, I would have 5 days to get out of the country. This left me with plenty of time to go to Rome with my friend from San Diego and still get kicked out of the country - again.

To be completely honest, on my way to the Commune, I was entertaining some pretty negative thoughts about Belgium. Granted, the present fiasco was my own creating, but, nevertheless, I had sworn that if I ever got kicked out of a country -- again -- I would have a great story to go with it!

At the Commune, I let my relocation expert/translator do the talking. Since my French is still limited to menu items and directions, I'm not completely sure what went down, nor do I want to know. All I know is that I went to the Commune expecting to get deported, but, in a surprise turn of events, I ended up with a temporary residency card!

It's taking me awhile, but I think I'm starting to get the hang of the Belgian way of doing things!

Same Song, Second Verse?

2006-09-06T11:12:00.000+02:00

I have been summoned to the police department and have been told to bring someone with me that speaks French. Good thing? Bad thing? We shall see ...

Copsa Mica, Romania

2006-09-04T08:03:00.000+02:00

As you drive from Sighisoara to Sibiu, you pass through Copsa Mica, known, unfortunately, as Europe's most polluted town. A carbon black plant, operating from 1936 to 1993, reportedly left a ton of soot per HOUR on the town, leaving everything black, including plants, people, laundry, and animals. White snow fell for the first time in sixty years in 1994, one year after the plant shut down.

The other source of pollution is a lead smelter plant, whose effects on the town, while less visible, have been much more costly, including lung disease, lead poisoning, impotence and the highest infant mortality rate in Europe. Because of the heavy contamination of the soil, health officials advise against eating livestock or vegetables and from drinking the water and milk.

The town has been declared an "environmental disaster area," although efforts are now being made to make a difference.

You can read more about it at http://www.fragilecologies.com/july22_05.html.

Sibiu, Romania

2006-09-04T07:29:00.000+02:00

We didn't spend much time in Sibiu, as the majority of the buildings in the old town were being restored in preparation of Sibiu being named a European Cultural Capital in 2007. If you are interested in more information, check out http://www.romaniatourism.com/sibiu.html.

Brasov, Romania

2006-09-03T22:07:00.000+02:00

The Black Chuch

Churches on the Main Square

We spent a night in Brasov, Transylvania's second largest city. According to local legend, when the Pied Piper led the children from Germany, they vanished underground and emerged in Brasov's main square. For the record, we didn't see that many kids in the square.

We stayed at the Aro Palace, in part because the guide book described it as "ludicrously mafioso." For the record, we didn't see anything even remotely mafioso, but the hotel was very nice.

The Old Town's most famous landmark is the Black Church, which took almost a century to complete. For the record, it wasn't all that black.

Sighisoara Bathroom Attendant

2006-09-03T21:45:00.000+02:00

Dan and I sat down at this cafe on the square in Sighisoara to watch the ProEtnica Festival. For whatever reason, this bathroom attendant took an instant dislike to me - and this is before I started watching her every move and taking photographs of her!

When I went to the bathroom, I looked for the customary table and small bowl of change, but did not see one. When I got ready to leave the bathroom, this lady was standing at the stall door, with her hand out. Not having any change, I gave her the smallest bill in my pocket, which was probably five times more than she was charging, but I was ok with it. Hopefully, she would remember me and give me one on credit if I needed to use the bathroom again before we left the cafe. That was my thinking, anyway.

During the 3 plus hours we spent at the cafe, there were many, many, many more people that used the facilities, but this lady charged exactly THREE people - me, and 2 little girls, ages about 8 and 10 (and they gave her change). I couldn't believe it. I could see why she might charge the kids -- young, naive, gullible, not to mention likely to play in the water, but why charge me and no other adult?

I begged Dan to go to the bathroom so that I could test my theory that she was singling me out. Dan, who didn't need to go to the bathroom, thought I was spending way too much time obsessing over what amounted to about 30 cents. I explained to him that it was the principle, not the money. Dan finally relented and went to the bathroom. Sure enough, he got to go for free.

Copyright 2006 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.

Short Break in Romanian Posts

2006-08-30T17:12:00.000+02:00

Due to a death in the family, Dan and I are back in the states. I will resume posting about our trip to Romania in about a week or so.

Sighisoara, Romania

2006-08-30T17:07:00.000+02:00

The Clock Tower

ProEtnica Dignitaries

The Shoemaker's Tower

Our 75 euro a night Hotel Room

View from our Attic Room

Sighisoara marked uncharted territory for us. We were headed there without any hotel reservations. Being the eternal optimist, I was certain that we would find accommodations. I mean, how crowded could a town without an airport be?

Dan, on the other hand, is a planner with a capital PLANNER. He likes reservations, confirmation numbers and directions, preferably the more detailed the better. (All things considered, it’s amazing that we have stayed together this long!)

The guide book (which I have many an issue with) listed several hotels, none of which had more than 3 stars (see my issue?). We decided we wanted to stay in the upper, more historic part of town, whose claim to fame is that it is the only occupied medieval Citadel in the world. Oh, it’s also the birthplace of Vlad Tepes, aka Dracula, which I think is probably more of a tourist draw. Either way, we paid the 10 lei (approximately $3.00 USD) to gain access to the upper part of town.

The first thing we saw when we topped the hill into town was a huge stage being set up with a banner advertising ProEtnic Festival 2006. Things were not looking good for the optimist. We were then turned away by three hotels. Things looking worse. Apparently, we had arrived on opening night of a huge, international festival that was scheduled to last 10 days and the place had been sold out for months. Things looking bad, very bad.

Dismayed that we would not be staying in the Citadel, we decided to look around since we had already paid the entrance fee and had a primo parking space. As we were walking around the town, we saw this quaint little hotel not listed in the guide book (see my issue?), located underneath the Shoemaker's Tower, one of the nine historic Towers still remaining from the Middle Ages.

For grins, we went in to see if, by any chance, one of their ten rooms was available for the night. The attendant replied, “yes, but it is 75 euro for only one night,” in a voice that suggested she didn’t think there was a chance in hell that anyone would pay that amount. In unison, Dan and I said, “we’ll take it.” I gathered from the look on the lady’s face that we had probably just made her month, if not year.

Surprisingly, the hotel was fairly modern – for something built in the 15th century. We had a small en suite bathroom. We had a portable fan. We had a TV. We had nothing else. I imagined that this must be what camping is like. Dan informed me that I could not call it camping, since we had running water and a toilet. So, we’ll call it a two-star and leave it at that.

The rooms were absolutely spotless, the décor rustic, and the proprietor very, very nice. In fact, other than the drunk tuba player that serenaded us into the wee hours of the night, we had a very pleasant stay in this hotel.

Dan and I had to laugh when we read the hotel's "regulations", copied below verbatim - including all punctuation. (I imagine this is what it must be like to listen to me speak French!)

The Regulation of “Home Epoch”

Dear guests, we, the family, if you want, hostess, we advised, to put at hand for you this architecturel jewel, but the family tradition ask imperative, to respect the coat of arms, from “HOME EPOCH” This emblem doesn’t allow, not even through ricochet, to make exceptions from the rule, to try, to driblate someone, so that, even and stealthily, we must recognize that only, after long hesitations we firm, to honour us with your presence dear guests, because “HOME EPOCH” suffer of fear diagnosis, the current usualy illness, whorn have all the neats Palaces to don’t be maim in them splendidment. Just so this is, in end, the quintessences, to get on well for don’t fall down, one or other in the other one trap. You don’t destroy, because will cost much, to much, but not even us to be loserd. What we beging you, don’t do it.

The furniture displacement (armchairs, chairs, table, bed).
Smokeing (on hall you have at hand chairs, tables and ash-trays).
The shoes cleaning with towels, bathroom carpet.
Staineing the carpet (with wine, blood, paints, etc.)
To stop up the WC of the tank with under-wears or absorbments.
To take care of walls and all is in the room.

Hey CNN - I'm Not a Freak!

2006-08-22T20:24:00.000+02:00

I interrupt my one-woman crusade to boost Romania’s tourist industry to clarify some misperceptions that some of you may now have of me following a recent CNN broadcast. (If you haven’t read my post, “Don’t Horse Around With Airport Security”, then none of this will make any sense.)

1) The Kama Sutra body lotion was purchased as part of a bachelorette gift and was not intended for personal consumption. (That’s my story and I’m slipping – I mean, sticking – to it.); and,

2) Liquid Smoke is used for marinades. To my knowledge, it has never been marketed as a sensual body lotion, but, I think CNN anchors Betty Nguyen and Tony Harris make a good point. Perhaps someone from Wright’s Hickory Seasoning should be exploring whether to expand its uses into this particular market. I can just imagine the marketing campaign: Slap some smoke on rumps or rump roasts -- We flavor it all!

Link to CNN transcript of August 12th broadcast:
http://transcripts.cnn.com/TRANSCRIPTS/0608/12/smn.04.html

Peles Castle - Sinaia, Romania

2006-08-22T16:47:00.000+02:00

Due to several roadblocks, and I do mean that literally, we arrived at Peles Castle ten minutes too late to tour the facility. Although we can't speak to the inside, the outside was gorgeous.

For more information on the castle, see http://www.brasovtravelguide.ro/bv-en/surroundings/peles.php.

When In Romania, Drive Like the Romanians!

2006-08-22T15:07:00.000+02:00

It wasn’t until two years after we met, that Dan and I got into our first major “I’m not speaking to you” fight. It involved a rental car, a Hawaiian island and me throwing the map out of the window. Fourteen years later, our relationship is still somewhat navigationally challenged, but, we have made gains. Given that we have not killed each other driving in Belgium (and they say that the threat is from the other drivers), we decided to spit in the wind and test the very limits of our relationship by spending three days driving around the Romanian countryside. A country, mind you, where all of the tourist guidebooks and websites refer to driving as a “challenge.”

Having driven over 800 kilometers (that’s about 500 miles for you Americans), I can say with absolute conviction that the word “challenge” does not even begin to describe the mind-numbing, life-changing, experience of driving in Romania. The fact that Hertz required us to purchase accident insurance should have been our first clue that we were embarking on what was sure to be a memorable journey, followed closely by the way the Hertz guy checked every square inch of the car, noting even the most miniscule scratch, ding and dent.

As we started out from the airport, with me driving, because, let’s face it, I’m the better driver, we really didn’t know what to expect. Our plan was to make it to Sinai to see Peles Castle before 5:00 pm. But, you know what they say, the best laid plans of mice and men ….

My first piece of unsolicited advice for driving in Romania is to roll with the potholes. While the major roadways are in fairly good condition, the country roads have holes in them that could rival the size of the Grand Canyon. Folks, you could lose a car in some of them!

Second, with the exception of Bucharest, the Romanian drivers are extremely courteous. They flash their lights to let you know that a police officer is up ahead (I love this. It reminds me of Texas.), they pull off to the shoulder, whenever possible, to let you pass (Again, Texas.) and they don’t drive with their horns. That being said, they are also the most courageous drivers I have ever seen! Apparently, the best way to pass a slow-moving vehicle is to do so in a blind curve. I can’t tell you how many times we rounded a curve to find a car headed straight at us. Brake, curse and shake your head. Brake, curse and shake your head.

Speaking of things in your lane of travel, in addition to the potholes and the oncoming traffic, we also had to dodge bears (yes, a BEAR), wagons, horses pulling wagons, cows being herded across the road, great mounds of dirt, as well as your run-of-the-mill pedestrians, dogs, turkeys, chickens and tractors. It was never a dull kilometer. The sights we saw out of the front windshield were so surreal, we had to start taking photos. C'mon, who would believe a bear?

Third, resist the urge to strangle your copilot with your bare hands if he utters, "pass with conviction" at you one more time. Little did Mr. I Haven't Driven Yet realize, the rented Ford Focus had about as much pick-up as a weed-eater.

Similarly, throwing a map out of the window when you are driving around the outskirts of a small Hawaiian island is one thing, doing so in Romania is quite the other. Resist the urge.

If neither of you speak Romanian, when navigating for the driver, do not, I repeat, do not pronounce the names of the streets in what you would think it sounds like in Romanian. Chances are, your jacked-up version of Romanian sounds absolutely nothing like the driver's jacked-up version of Romanian.

That being said, there is no better way to see Romania – the true Romania – without driving through it. It was absolutely spectacular. More pictures and posts to come!

©2006 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.
Photographs copyright 2006 by Cindy Lane and Dan Bradley. All rights reserved.

Ciao Bella!

2006-08-16T19:47:00.000+02:00

The one thing I absolutely love about Brussels is that I never know what is going to happen to me next, which, coincidentally, is also what terrifies me most.

Walking home from the hair salon, in a beige fog, I was yanked back to reality in front of the supermarche by someone grabbing my arm. Thoroughly convinced that I was about to be robbed, I tightened my grip on my purse and prepared to scream. The scream died in my throat when I looked down to see who was doing the grabbing.

It was this little old lady, whose head hit me at about my elbow. Harmless, one would think. Instead, the voice of experience had me saying to myself, sweet Jesus, not again. If you have been reading my blog, you know that I have had some "experiences" with old ladies in Brussels (see, Maam that Hurts and The Bathroom Attendant). Quite frankly, they terrify me.

She took my hand and started handing me her shopping bags. At first, I thought she was trying to give me her toilet paper and her bottle of bleach. I politely declined. She kept pushing the bags at me. Since she obviously wasn't giving me her groceries, I then thought that she may be looking for her keys and in need of a free hand. So, I just stood there holding her bags.

The lady kept saying something to me, to which I replied, "je ne se parle pas francais." My complete and utter lack of knowledge of the French language did nothing to dissuade this woman. She kept on talking, and, more importantly, refused to let go of my hand. I figured it was some sort of collateral on her part. I had her groceries, she had my hand.

The little old lady shuffled me to the curb. At that point, I felt so stupid. It was then that I realized that she wanted help stepping off the curb and into the street. I took my right arm, the one with the shopping bags, and cupped the lady's elbow to help her off the curb. The lady still had my left hand in hers. Once we had cleared the curb, I tried to hand back the bags of groceries. Instead of taking them from me, she pulled on my left hand.

This particular little old lady was quite attached to me and, by that, I mean she had a vise-grip on my hand. She was not letting me go anytime soon. She shuffled me across the street. I then tried in my very best Spench, "je habite over there", pointing to my apartment, which was now behind us and across the street. She started pounding her chest and saying, "Italiana, Italiana." I totally got it that she wanted me to speak Italian, but, unless she had a bottle of red wine in her bag, my Italian was not going to help the communication process.

Resigned to having been abducted, I took comfort in the fact that she couldn't be taking me that far. I knew that, eventually, she would get to where she was going and want her groceries back. So, I walked and she shuffled without a word passing between us. After about 10 minutes, I asked "ou?" She just pointed ahead. We kept on going.

We finally arrived at the door to an apartment complex, where she let go of my hand and grabbed her groceries. "Grazie mil," she said to me. I replied to her in the only Italian that I thought might be appropriate under the circumstances, "Ciao, Bella," which earned me a huge toothless laugh.

© 2006 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.

Color Me Monolingual

2006-08-16T16:09:00.000+02:00

While I was back in the States, I tried desperately to get an appointment with my colorist for some highlights. For the first time in five years (i.e., five holiday bonuses), she was unable to squeeze me in. Something about recovering from a cesarean and the need to bond with a newborn, blah, blah, blah. I guess we all have our own little crosses to bear and it looked like mine was going to be getting a full head of highlights in Brussels, a town not exactly defined by color.

Previously, I had stopped at the hair salon down the street from the apartment to see if they spoke English. Oui, I was told. Most people would have taken that as a sign that perhaps their English was somewhat limited. But, then again, most people looking for highlights don't go to salons where the proprietor sports bright pink hair. Signs, Cindy, signs!

Having scraped by on context clues, hand signals, animal sounds (see November 2005 archives, "Thanksgiving Turkey Saga"), and Spench for the past 10 months - less the time spent in the US for bad weather and the "deported months" - I was fairly confident that I could convey the color I wanted to the stylist. I was wrong. Really, really, really, wrong.

There I was, seated in a chair, all alone in the shop except for the colorist and her assistant, draped in a cape that stunk with the worst BO this side of the metro, when the following conversation ensued:

Me:
I would like some blonde highlights please. Not too blonde. You know, not platinum blonde. Just some soft blonde streaks around my face and perhaps a darker shade in the back. Can you do that?

Stylist:
Oui. Oui. Beige.

Me:
No, not "beige", bl-on-de.

Stylist:
Oui. I know it. Beige.

Me:
No, no. Not beige. Blonde. More like the color of this (me holding up one of the last remaining "blonde" highlights in my hair.) See, definitely not beige (as I am mentally running through a list of things in my head that are beige: shoes, purses, belts. Lots of beige things, but hair is not one of them!)

Stylist:
Yes. I understand. You want beige, like her (pointing to the assistant, who's hair is exactly what I didn't want - Vegas stripper white).

Me:
Uhmm, not exactly. I want something along the lines of this (again, me holding up my own hair). Is that possible?

Stylist:
Oui. (Something in French to assistant, after which, they both look at me like I'm crazy). Beige!

Me (outnumbered and defeated, but desperately in need of highlights):
Oui. Beige.

I spent two and 1/2 half gut-wrenching hours dissecting colors in my head and wondering exactly where "beige" was going to fall on the color wheel. When it was all said and done, my hair was ... beige!

Copyright 2006 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.

Flower Carpet

2006-08-15T19:39:00.000+02:00

On Saturday, Dan and I decided to capitalize on the few hours of sunshine that has befallen Belgium since I have arrived back (Where's that heat wave every one has been complaining about? It has done nothing but rained since I've returned!) and we hit the Grand Place to see the flower carpet (http://flowercarpet.be).

If you know me, you know that even artificial flowers die at our house. It's a talent I have. Dan, on the other, can nurse a crispy brown, shriveled-up, water-deprived sprig of a (insert any botanical species here) back to life. It's a sickness he has. As such, our plants are either half-dead or half-alive, depending on whose responsibility they have been entrusted. To see an entire "grand place" covered with petals from begonias was pretty amazing. It took a team of volunteer whatevers over one year to design and create the flower carpet.

If you missed it, make plans to see it in 2 years, because that's when it's coming back!

Silly Cindy

2006-08-13T11:10:00.000+02:00

Usually, if Dan and I want Italian food in Brussels, we hit Scampis, this great little family-run restaurant near St. Catherine's. But, last night, we decided to try something new, so we went to Rugantino's (184 Anspach). The food was incredible, the wine list fairly extensive AND we were seated in a non-smoking section. How unbelievable is that in Brussels?

After dinner, we stopped by the Celtica for a quick drink. It was packed, which is pretty typical for the Celtica. We nudged our way into a table where two other guys were sitting. Exit one guy pretty quickly. The other guy we ended up striking up a conversation with. He too is living in two countries, splitting his time between Belgium and Tunisia, where his wife teaches at the university. Ben's English was amazing, but I noticed that his accent was really pronounced when he said my name.

After talking to Ben for the better part of the night, he asked for our email addresses so we could keep in touch. I handed him my address and he started to laugh. I found that quite odd, especially since my email address is anything but humorous. Ben leaned in and said something to Dan. Dan started laughing. I found that quite irritating, especially since it meant that they must be laughing at my expense. I leaned over and asked, "what's so funny?" Turns out, Ben had been calling me the wrong name all night long. He thought my name was silly, as in with a capital "S"!

Don't Horse Around With Airport Security!

2006-08-10T22:44:00.000+02:00

Armed with my newly issued Belgian Visa, I made plans to return to Belgium via Houston, after spending a week with my family for my daddy's birthday. (My older sister flew in from Florida with my three nephews, but we were still one family member shy of a full tree, as my little sister broke her back riding a bicycle (yeah, she's coordinated) and was unable to make it in. Even without her, we were able to make the Griswalds look like the Cleavers, but that's the subject of another post at another time.) Here's how my return to Belgium unfolded:

My flight to Brussels was delayed in Houston three times. The three-hour delay threatened my international connection in Atlanta, so Delta put me on another flight, right before they cancelled my original one. As it turned out, I didn't need to worry about the tight connection. The new flight sat on the runway in Houston for over an hour, pretty much ensuring that there was no way I was going to make the connection to Brussels.

When I arrived in Atlanta, Delta had rerouted me through Manchester, England. When I tried to board the flight to Manchester, I was detained at the boarding gate because of a problem with my ticket. Apparently, Delta's computer would not recognize me as having cleared the boarding gate. At this point, I should have taken it as a sign and just stayed in Atlanta, but, no, I went back to the gate to have my ticket reissued. For some reason, the agents (yes, plural) were unable to figure out the problem. While everyone else sat on the plane complaining about the delay, I waited for "any available lead agent or supervisor" to make their way to gate E-15 in response to the page. Finally, a supervisor came and overrode the system, allowing me to board the flight.

When I arrived in Manchester, I deplaned and headed toward the "transfer" hall, where I was met by a vested airport employee, who escorted me through a back door, down some stairs, and into a holding room. He told me to wait for "Mike" and that Mike would take me to the other terminal. At this point, I should mention that there was not another soul in sight. I thought it a little strange that the airport was so quiet, but I was really too tired to give it much thought.

"Mike" turned out to be the bus driver. He arrived about five minutes later and drove me (no one else on the bus) around the airport to the other terminal. Once we arrived at the other terminal, Mike escorted me through a back passageway, using a magnetic key card to open various doors. After we went through a maze of hallways, Mike handed me off to "the man in yellow." During this whole time, I did not see one other passenger, nor did I enter the main terminal area.

The man in yellow asked me if I was going to Brussels and, if so, did I have a boarding ticket. When I told him that I did not have a boarding ticket because of a screw-up in Atlanta, he called someone from "upstairs" to come down and help me out. As I was waiting for help from above, I realized that I had been in the airport for at least 30 minutes and had not seen a single person other than airport employees since deboarding the plane. I remember thinking how odd this was. I also wondered what kind of flag must be on my passport to warrant all of the individual attention. I had never experienced anything like it.

Some lady from SN Brussels came down and issued me a paper ticket and showed me to the security checkpoint. I was the only person in line at the checkpoint. Like the seasoned traveler I am, I asked the security agent manning the scanning device if I needed to take my laptop out of my bag or take me shoes off. No, she says, you should be fine.

I walk through the machine without any beeps. Again, seasoned traveler. Just as I am about to pick up my laptop case and head off with my third private escort, I hear the security agent yell, "Wait!" She is not using the "wait, you forgot your luggage" tone of voice, but rather the "wait, we have a possible security breach" tone. Believe me, there is a difference.

Now, remember, I had been flying for the past eight hours so I had absolutely no idea of the security issues facing Manchester airport, but, when I saw the look on the agent's face, I knew I had a problem. She looks at me and asks, rather incredulously, "Is it possible that you have a horseshoe in your luggage?" "A horseshoe?", I asked, equally incredulous. "Yes, a horseshoe," she replies. And, then it hit me. It just so happened that I did have a horseshoe in my luggage, so, I replied, "yes." Let me tell you, nothing screams secondary inspection quite like a horseshoe!

I'm guessing by the number of supervisors that responded to the agent's "we have a situation" call, that the airport screening crew does not see many travelers with horseshoes. In fact, I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that perhaps I was the first. I underwent a security screening just shy of a deep cavity search. During the ordeal, I really had to resist the urge to point out the obvious -- that I could inflict more damage with my 2 and 1/2 inch spike sandals than I could with a decorative horseshoe souvenir (It's a Texas thing. Don't try to understand it.), but I did not think that it would expedite the inspection process.

Once the agents had satisfied themselves with the fact that the horseshoe was for decorative purposes, they "escorted" me to the upstairs level. It was then that I realized that things were not normal. People were everywhere and they were just plain miserable. I chalked it up to all of them being British and didn't give it a second thought. Besides, I had no time to really ponder the situation, as my flight was boarding and I was too busy wondering why I was being escorted to the gate. All it takes is one deportation to drive you to paranoia!

When I landed in Brussels and learned of all of the problems at Manchester airport, I just had to shake my head in disbelief. The horseshoe, which I had planned to give to my European neighbor, has now become my lucky charm. If it were not for the distraction it caused in security, I'm sure I would have been "relieved" of the liquid items pictured above, all of which were in my luggage: a bottle of sweet and sour mix, 2 bottles of cocktail sauce, 3 bottles of Bath and Body Works antibacterial soap, Kama Sutra body lotion (part of a bachelorette gift for a friend), a bottle of A1 steaksauce and a bottle of liquid smoke (another Texas thing -- it's used for marinades and BBQ)! Given the commotion the horseshoe caused, I can only imagine the frenzy that a bottle of "liquid smoke" would create!

© 2006 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.

I Have A Visa!!

2006-08-10T22:36:00.000+02:00

The country of Belgium has once again opened her arms (and borders) to me! It only took over a year and one deportation proceeding, so I guess that makes me one of the "lucky" ones, but I am no longer an illegal immigrant. I have a Visa! Next time I get kicked out of a foreign country, Belgium included, I can guarantee you it will be under different circumstances.

Thanks for all your support. Please stay tuned for more expat adventures!

The Freak in My Front Yard

2006-07-10T21:47:00.000+02:00

For those of you wondering where I have been, well, I'm still deported. The official word from the Consulate General is, "it's too early to know anything." It took a Herculean act of self-restraint not to reply to this, especially since I have been in the "process" of obtaining a Belgian visa for over one year. (If this tells you anything, the date on my first FBI criminal background report was June 25, 2005. As some of you may know, the Belgian authorities require a background report dated within six months of a visa application. Since my background reports expire before my visa is approved, I've been caught in a vicious cycle of fingerprinting, written requests and waiting -- to do it all over again!)

Nevertheless, Belgian bureaucracy has taken a back seat on my list of "Things That Make Me Want to Scream." The "Freak in my Front Yard" now holds the number one position on my list. How does a strange man nudge out a foreign country that has banished me from its borders? Well, funny you should ask.

Not long ago, I offered to give a friend of mine a lift to the airport and to let her park her car at my house while she was away. To save the hassle of switching out luggage, she was going to drive her car to the airport and I was going to drive it home and park it in my driveway. I met her at the end of my driveway and, as we were about to head out for the airport, my friend looked at me and asked, "Who's the strange man in your front yard?" I turned, and, sure enough, there was a man sitting under the tree in the front yard, and, yes, he was strange.

From a distance - and the key word here being "distance" - he appeared harmless. Curiosity got the better of me, so I found myself asking, "Excuse me, sir. Is there something I can help you with?" He responded with what I guess is a typical line to use if caught trespassing in someone's yard, "I'm looking for a Portuguese house with rocks in the front yard." I calmly replied with what I hoped was a plausible and persuasive lie, "Oh yeah. That house is two blocks down and about a mile to the west of here." Either he wasn't looking for a Portuguese house with rocks in it or he did not have faith in my directions, because, rather than picking himself up and heading in the right direction (the one away from my house), he just sat there. I tried again. "Sir, did you hear my directions?" I took from his incoherent babbling that, at the very least, there was nothing I could do to help this man and the conversation was over.

For the record, I am fundamentally opposed to judging a book by its cover. But, all things being equal, if you can do a dot-to-dot using needle marks, long greasy hair, no teeth, dirty clothing and soiled pants, then I think you get a pretty good picture of a man that you most certainly do not want hanging out in your front yard. Call it judging. Call it stereotyping. Call the cops.

By the time I had gotten back from the airport, two police cars were rolling up to my yard. I went across the street and hung out with my neighbor while the police did their thing, which consisted of putting on rubber gloves, taking the guy's pulse, checking for needle marks -- you know, the textbook "freak in the front yard" procedure. About ten minutes later, the Freak walked away. Walked. Away.

Here's a snippet of the ensuing conversation between me and the police:

Me: Thanks for getting here so fast. Who was that? What's his deal?
Police #1: Oh, that's just Ken Lewis. He's well-known to the police. His rap sheet goes back over 20 years. I'm not kidding. We have it in police car. How long has he been in your yard?
Me: Okay, you're not making me any feel better. I have no idea how long he has been here.
Police #2: He used to hang out in Ocean Beach. He then moved to the Old Town area. I guess he is now trying to move into this neighborhood.
Me: Still not making feel any better. Back to the rap sheet - what kind of offenses?
Police: Petty theft, public intoxication and meth.
Me: METH! What do I do if he comes back?
Police: Do NOT approach him. Just call us. But, don't worry, he probably won't be back.

By this time, some of my neighbors had made their way over to my front yard. The police started asking them the same questions - how long has he been here? have you seen him before? etc., etc.

Now, just so there is no confusion. We love our neighbors. We truly believe that we have been blessed by the Best-Neighbors-Ever God. That being said, I was somewhat surprised to hear their (as in more than ONE neighbor's) response to the police questioning. Specifically, it was the "well, we saw him but we just thought he was a friend of Dan and Cindy's" that threw me for a freaking loop. How's that for a neighborhood crime watch! As I pointed out to the police - and to the neighbors - Dan and I, as far as I know, do not have any friends in their mid-to-late thirties that crap their pants. Period. End of story.

With the "help" from the neighbors, the police were able to ascertain that Ken Lewis had been in the yard for almost an hour. Before that, he was riding a bike in circles in front of the house. The police confiscated his bike and told us we had nothing to worry about. He probably wouldn't come back, but, if he did, call them.

Not even thirty minutes later, I'm on the phone with the police dispatcher:

Me: Ken Lewis is in my front yard!
Dispatcher: Is he still wearing a red shirt and blue shorts?
Me: Yes.
Dispatcher: We will send someone right over.

Again, the police response time was impressive; unfortunately, it just wasn't quick enough to catch Ken Lewis, who had managed to "acquire" another bicycle. While the police cruisers searched the neighborhood, the neighbors and I kicked around theories: he's back for his bike, he's casing the place, he's stashed some drugs somewhere, one of our neighbors was his "meth hook-up" (yes, this was said in jest, although, if the police asked, I was totally going to throw them to the wolves in retaliation for the whole "friend of Dan and Cindy's" comment!), etc.

As it turned out, all of our theories were incorrect. According to the police officer, Mr. Lewis was utterly convinced that his ex-wife lived in one of our houses. I have no idea the circumstances under which Mr. Lewis split from his former (and hopefully red-headed) wife, but I can assure you that they were probably less than ideal and that meth and bail money figured predominately into the equation.

As proof positive that being in the US has not diminished the strength of my freak magnet, over the course of the next four and a half hours, Mr. Lewis returned six times. That's either a whole lot of hate, a whole lot of love, or a whole lot of magnetism!

Â© 2006 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.

Can You Please Pass the Spark Plugs?

2006-06-27T21:35:00.000+02:00

During a layover in Houston (home sweet home), I had the displeasure of sitting in a crowded gate area with a short guy from the Philadelphia area who had mistaken his cell phone for a megaphone. Unfortunately for all of us seated around him at Gate C-41, his conversations were just not that interesting.

We were subjected to the "I'm rich, I drive a new Lexus" conversation, as well as the "I'm important, I just got another medical board certification." By the time he reached the "We just finished the remodel on the house. God, was that expensive!" stage, pretty much everyone in the gate area was rolling their eyes.

But, no sooner than you can say, "I hope his battery dies," the conversation took a turn. Since I had my computer out - drafting a follow-up email to the Consulate - I tried to transcribe his side of the conversation as accurately as possible. (The bracketed comments were added later, as I'm not that fast of a typist):

"I don't care what you say, she's white trash. [White trash? You have my undivided attention.]

"You're crazy." [Hmmm, crazy white trash. This is getting better and better!]

"I certainly don't remember ever eating in the garage, but, yes, I agree, eating in a garage does make you white trash. (Pause) You are absolutely wrong. Our family never ate in the garage. (Long pause) "I certainly never ate in the garage. (Longer pause.) Well, I don't remember that." [I've heard of closet eaters, but garage eaters?]

Sorry, I missed the next part of the conversation. I was distracted by picturing the guy, sitting on a tool box, at a table made from plywood and sawhorses, using shop towels as napkins. I started cracking myself up when I got to thinking about the "carving tools".

"How old is she now?" [Wait, go back to the garage!]

"She graduated, right? She should get off her fat ass and get a job, that's what she should do." [Or, perhaps spend a little less time in the garage?]

"You're f#cking kidding me! How'd you find that out?" [What? Don't leave me hanging. Give me something. Anything!]

"Unbelievable. Just like her mother." [We are know who put the fun in dysfunctional in that family.]

"Well, she's your sister too! I think .... Wait. Gotta go, they're boarding."

Since Mr. Lexus-driving, board-certified, Garage Eater was in first class, I never found out what the niece (presumably) did that was just like her mother, but I wish her well!

© 2006 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.

Camp Cindy: The Joy of Fishing with Children

2006-06-23T15:22:00.000+02:00

I come from a fishing family. For as long as I can remember, we’ve fished --- with cane poles and with rods, from boats, off piers, under the spillway, around the pylons, in the ocean. Pretty much if you could drop a line in it, it was a “fishing hole.” Well, it just so happens, that my sister lives on a lake, aka, a huge fishing hole!

Continuing the family tradition, my nephews and I fished almost every day at Camp Cindy, sometimes even twice a day. It was definitely a learning experience for me. For instance, I’ve learned that there is nothing quite like the scream of a child catching his first fish. Or, the scream of a child being hooked by his brother. Or, the scream of a child that has fallen into the lake. Or, the scream of an aunt when she realizes that one of her nephews is eating the bait! (“But, I just wanted to taste it!”)

I also learned that fishing with children means that you will answer the same questions, over and over again: Can I touch it? (Yes) Will it bite? (No) What kind is it? (Big-mouth bass) Have you ever caught one of these? (Yes) Has Poppa? (Thousands of them) Has Mommy? (Yes) Has Mimi? (Yes) Has Aunt Susie? (Yes) Can we eat it? (No) Can I keep it in my room in a bucket? (Sure, I think that's a great idea, but you have to ask your mother) Is this the same fish that [insert brother's name] caught? (Maybe) Have you ever caught a whale? (No) Has Poppa? (No) And so on and so on.

The best part of fishing with the boys is that we have a new generation of fishing stories. Alex, the baby of the family at barely 7, can tell 'em like a pro. Here he is with one of the 10 (or 13, if you ask him) fish he caught.

Camp Cindy: Things I Never Thought I'd Hear Myself Say

2006-06-23T00:40:00.000+02:00

Below is a list of things I never thought I'd hear myself say, but have said at Camp Cindy:

1) Quit flicking boogers at your brother.
2) [While Fishing] Please quit eating the bait.
3) Keep your toes to yourselves.
4) Three kids' meals, please.
5) Thank you for the ball of floam you made for me. It's beautiful.
6) I'm not going to say it again. Please quit annoying your brother. [I said this so many times, that we reverted to code words. "Black" was short for stop doing whatever irritating thing you are doing to your brother.
7) Quit tattling. [Code word - yellow]
8) You've caught another seaweed fish. Someone get the net.
9) Let's go to Walmart and play the crane game (the game where you take the big electronic claw and try to grab a toy).
10) Stop throwing popcorn at your brothers. That's the last time I'm going to tell you. (And then I say it again about 5 times!)

Copyright 2006 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.

Camp Cindy!

2006-06-21T21:03:00.000+02:00

As many of you know, Dan and I do not have children, do not want children, and do not spend much time around children. It's by choice and, so far, it's been a good one. But, it's not like our lives are completely devoid of children. We do have 7 nephews, 2 pseudo-nephews and a goddaughter, all of whom we adore and spoil.

For the past two weeks, I have been hanging out in southern Florida with my younger nephews, Ryan (10), Colby (9) and Alex (7). Technically, I guess I am free daycare, but we prefer to call it "Camp Cindy."

Some things I've learned at Camp Cindy:

1) If decorating cupcakes with pop rocks, don't put sprinkles or jelly beans on top of the pop rocks. Who knew that icing activates the pop rocks and turns the cupcakes into erupting volcanoes? It's amazing how far sprinkles will travel when blown off the top of a cupcake.

2) Children cannot grasp the concept that puff-painted t-shirts are not flattering on camp counselors and should not be worn! Ever.

3) When wearing a puff-painted t-shirt in public, don't pick "Camp Day" to wear it to the science museum. As if puff-painted t-shirts are not conspicuous enough, imagine being one of four people -- and the only adult -- wearing one among a sea of "real camp" shirts. Nothing screams "welfare" quite like a hand-painted shirt among hundreds of professionally printed camp shirts with logos so attractive that they look like they could have come straight off the racks of Abercrombie. Where's that black bar? Oh yeah, there it is. It's across Aunt Cindy's eyes!

4) It takes a LOT longer to get out of the house with children! Children simply have a different concept of time than adults do.

A prime example of this would be last Tuesday afternoon, when we were scheduled to go on an amphibious bus tour -- a bus that turns into a boat www.divaduck.com. We were running late getting out of the house. It was my fault really. I had no idea that you have to itemize everything that has to be brushed. (Did you brush your hair? Yes. Did you brush your teeth? No. Go back and brush your teeth.) Repeat once for each child and before I knew it, seven minutes had flown by.

Similarly, I had no concept of how long it takes to gather gameboys, yugi-oh cards and to save a game on the Gamecube. (Cindy, can I take my gameboy to play in the car? Sure. Can you help me find it? Sure.) Five minutes later and we found the gameboy in the car. (Where is my Elemental Hero Tempest card? I don't know, where did you have it last? I don't know. That's ok, we can leave without it. NOOOO, I have to have Elemental Hero Tempest - it's the best card in the deck!) Much later, it was found behind the Armed Dragon Level Five card in the same deck. (C'mon we are late! The bus will leave without us. Please turn off the Gamecube and let's go. Ok, just let me finish this stage. I have to throw this big boulder through the ice so I can fish for a frog. No, let's go. Ok, I'm saving it ... hey Ryan, can you help me break the ice? Let's go! Now!!)

Once I got all three kids, complete with gameboys and cards, safely buckled up in the car and was well on my way to the tour bus stop, Alex shouts, "My shoes!!" By the shrill tone of his voice, I'm thinking that his shoes must have gotten caught in the back seat, or that he put them on the wrong feet, or that he had two different shoes on. Wrong. On all accounts. The child had FORGOTTEN his shoes! C'mon, how do you forget shoes? Curiosity got the best of me, so, I asked, "Alex, sweetheart, how did you forget your shoes?" "I don't know, I just did." Circle back to get shoes -- lose 10 more minutes.

Stay tuned for the next post, Camp Cindy - "Things I Never Thought I Would Say".

Copyright 2006 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.

The Deported’s Tips on Immigration: Lesson Four - Finding the Humor in the Absurd!

2006-06-20T22:51:00.000+02:00

I like to think that I am a fairly patient person. Usually, I'm pretty optimistic. But, truth be known, Belgian bureaucracy has almost broken me. Any day now, I expect to hit the cursing, finger-pointing, name-calling stage.

To recap, my tourist visa expired while my inscription for a visa was pending. The computer automatically generated a Ordre de Quitter la Territoire upon expiration of the tourist visa. The OQT was served without anyone checking to see if I had a pending inscription process. Efforts to revoke the OQT were hampered by the loss of my entire file. Another copy of the file was submitted in Brussels. The Belgian Consulate then informed me that service of the OQT automatically cancelled my pending application and that I would have to re-re-resubmit an application!

Apparently, I have been approaching this whole immigration thing from the wrong angle. I opted to follow the advice of a professional relocation expert, relied on the assurances from the Commune, sought advice from human resources, and jumped through all kinds of bureaucratic hoops (on 2 continents), yet, twelve months later, I still don’t have a visa.

Ali Guisse, on the other hand, quits eating and he gets in – without filing even ONE application. (Check out the story on http://www.expatica.com/, June 9th news article.) To this guy, part of me says, “more power to you. You clearly are much more motivated to live in Belgium than I am.” I’m not giving up food to live in a country where 2 degrees Celsius is considered a “nice day” in the winter. Period. End of story. (I have, however, boycotted Belgian chocolates, beer and waffles until I am allowed back into the country, but I don’t really consider this a hunger strike. I call it “diplomatic revenge.”) But, there’s this other side of me – the one that has submitted THREE applications – that is slightly irritated (understatement of the year) with the process.

Since I last posted, I have been obtaining additional “official” documents to forward to the Consulate General in Los Angeles for the re-re-resubmittal. The catch, of course, is that I found out that I needed these documents while on my way to Florida to spend time with my nephews. As luck would have it, one of the needed documents was in Texas, one in California and one in Brussels!

If anything, I’ve learned that it takes a village to get me back to Belgium. For the Texas document, I had the Belgian Embassy FedEx a friend of my little sister's, i.e. a complete stranger, the certified copy of my birth certificate so that she could take the certificate to the Secretary of State and have an apostil placed on it. She then FedExed it back to the Consulate. So, I owe Liz Garza a great big thanks for all of her help, and a great big bottle of tequila for not stealing my identity!

From San Diego, I needed an “official” document saying that there was no “official record” of Dan and I being married in San Diego. Frankly, I’m a little confused by this particular request, especially since a marriage certificate can be on file anyway in the US. (I guess the 10 years of tax records, from both the state and federal level, as well as certified copies of our mortgages, all of which show our marital status as “single,” just doesn’t cut it with Belgian authorities.) Nevertheless, my great friend Marti took care of this for me. Thanks Marti!

From Brussels, I needed Dan to sign yet another form. Remember how my file was lost in Brussels? Well, his file seems to be similarly afflicted, yet to a lesser degree. His file was missing a declaration he signed in October of last year. Since we all know the importance of forms to any bureaucracy, Dan and the relocation expert went to the Commune on last Friday to sign yet another copy of the form. In an abundance of caution, and at the suggestion of the relocation expert, Dan signed FOUR copies of the form and had each of them notarized. Dan faxed the form to the Consulate later that day.

Here is a direct quote from an email Dan received in response to the fax he sent the Consulate: “It occurs only too often that the City Administration supplies the incorrect document for this type of visa.” Yep, he had been given the wrong form!

The Consulate emailed us a “sample form.” On Monday, Dan returned to the City Administration with a copy of the “sample form” and was told that there was no such official form! The lady at the Administration suggested that he just fill in the sample form and have it notarized, which he did.

I spoke with the Consulate and she will be submitting the application on my behalf on this Friday. (For some reason, applications are only submitted on Fridays.) I have no idea how long it will take before a decision is reached. I still have my fingers crossed that I will be back by the Fourth of July, especially since I have a girlfriend who has been in Brussels for the past 2 weeks (non-refundable plane ticket purchased before I was deported) waiting for me to get back so we can see a little of Europe together!

© 2006 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.

The Deported's Tips on Immigration: Lesson Three - Finding the File

2006-06-05T20:36:00.000+02:00

Legal Warning: Please be advised that dealing with immigration issues may result in the overwhelming desire to bash your head, repeatedly, into the wall, into the desk, into the computer ...

It is now 14 days A.D. (after deportation) and I have quite the headache.

Until yesterday, I was operating under the delusion that my papiers would be straightened out and I would be back in Belgium by the end of June. (To get to this world, take a right at the unicorn and then hang a left at the leprechaun.) Reality crashed into my parallel immigration universe when I opened and read the latest "status" email from my relocation expert in Brussels. He was following up with the Ministry to find out the progress of my application. (Drumroll, please.)

"It seems that ... your file was still in the queue, waiting to be sorted, or lost !!!"

My file is now being re-copied and re-re-re-submitted in Brussels. (The odds on the LA file have just increased tenfold.) Hopefully, this time they will install some sort of GPS device on the file. I can hear it in my head: "Follow the hallway. Right turn ahead. Now, turn right. In 50 meters, take the second left and then diagonally left. If at all possible, make a legal u-turn. You have arrived at your destination."

The Deported's Tips on Immigration: Lesson Two - Finding and Visiting the Embassy

2006-06-01T21:48:00.000+02:00

Legal disclaimer: If you are seeking immigration advice, this is NOT the blog for you!

After being banished from Belgium, I called the office of the Belgian Consulate in Los Angeles, during a layover in Atlanta on my flight home, and left a message requesting someone to please return my call. I simply left my name and number, without going into any specifics. When I arrived in San Diego that evening, the ConsulateÂs office had already left a message on my home machine. Folks, thatÂs good customer service Â in any country!

Throughout the past week and a half, I have been in contact with the Belgian Consulate regarding "my situation." Mary at the Consulate's office suggested I find out what steps had been taken so far in Brussels and then to call back and speak directly with the Consul. Once I received the requested information from my relocation agent, I called the Consul, armed with dates, names, and copies of letters (in French, no less), to plead for my papiers. Apparently, my pleading is not that good.

The Consul suggested I resubmit my entire application packet to them in the hopes that they can assist in the process. So, on Wednesday, I woke up at the crack of dawn to catch the 6:15 train to Los Angeles. Since the Consulate's Office only handles visas from 9:00 to noon, I wanted to be first in line. I wasn't. I blame the cab driver.

It's not that I mistrust LA cabdrivers. I inherently mistrust any cabdriver that, when I give him the address of where I'm going, asks me where it is. Hello? Which one of us decided to drive a cab for a living? Call me a cynic, but he either sucks at his job, or he is testing me to see how many times he can drive around in circles, running the meter up, before dropping me off at my desired location. I wasn't about to fall for that old trick. When he "asked" if 6100 Wilshire was near Beverly Hills, I responded, confidently and sounding quite like the LA native, "no, it's at Fairfax and Wilshire" (a little piece of information I had gleaned from mapquest the night before!).

Miraculously, we were able to hit not one, not two, but THREE freeways during LA morning rush hour! When I finally suggested he get the heck off the Harbor Freeway, he took the next exit, putting us squarely in the middle of "Little Ethiopia." (A little piece of information I gleaned from all the signs reading, "Little Ethiopia.") After driving around another $4.60, he asked, "should I take Pico to San Vicente?" Apparently, he had taken my "Fairfax and Wilshire" and "how about we get off the Harbor freeway" comments to mean that I actually knew where I was going. Well, he was sadly mistaken. Thirty-two dollars and eight miles later, we found the Belgian Consulate -- at Fairfax and Wilshire, no less.

On the off chance that you, too, will one day be sitting in the office of a Consulate General of a foreign country trying to explain how you managed to get yourself kicked out of said country, I recommend you skip the commentary on how crappy the weather is in the country from which you have been banished. Unless you are Joe Sobel, keep your mouth shut. YouÂre bringing nothing to the table. ItÂs experience talking. Do with it what you will.

I re-submitted my application and now I am waiting to hear back from the Belgian Consulate. I'm taking odds on which application gets approved first -- the one submitted in Los Angeles, the one submitted in Brussels, or the second one submitted in Brussels after the first one was lost!

The Deported's Tips on Immigration - Lesson One: Finding and Completing the Visa Application

2006-05-30T23:10:00.000+02:00

By way of legal disclaimer, let me just say, up front, that people seeking visas should not take advice from someone who has been deported. Ever! You would think this would be a no-brainer, but considering that there is a warning on a baby stroller that reads, "Remove child before folding," I'm not taking anything for granted. Live and learn. Live and learn.

After copying my visa application packet for the fourteenth-gazillion time, it hit me that I know very little about the actual process for those seeking visas to enter the US. Like the good global citizen that I aspire to be, I tore myself away from the disaster I know as my own immigration crisis to check out the differences between the US visa application and the Belgian one. (The truth is I wasn’t so much interested in the differences, as I was which one was the easiest. Belgium wins - hands down!)

To find the Belgian visa application, go to www.diplobel.us and click on "traveling to Belgium" and walk through the drop-down menus. The whole process will take less than 10 minutes, even for those whose children are beside them, nicely folded in their strollers.

To find the US visa application, go to www.unitedstatesvisa.gov, click on "what is a visa", then click on "visa applications forms." Now, guess as to which of the 16 different forms you should complete. Alternatively, you can click on "nonimmigrant visas" or "immigrant visas", both sites which will redirect you to the website for the US Secretary of State. Or, you can click on "visa classifications and categories," and be redirected to the Immigration and Classification Services of the Department of Homeland Security's website. I can't provide a time estimate for the process, as I gave up after 25 minutes. I figured that I could just hire someone from one of the pop-up sites, now infecting my computer, advertising "live and work in the US legally" or "get your US visa today."

The Belgian visa application is 25 questions long, the hardest of which is number 15 - "border of first entry into the territory of the Schengen states" - because it required me to find out what exactly is a Schengen state. Once that problem was solved, the application was fairly straightforward.

Still unsure as to which US visa application should be completed for comparison purposes, I pulled up Form DS-156. It is 41 questions long, not including, of course, the subparts. Following are REAL (i.e., I swear I did not make these up!) questions copied from US Visa Application Form DS-156, to which the applicant is to check either Y or N:

Do you seek to enter the United States to engage in export control violations, subversive or terrorist activities, or any other unlawful purpose?
Are you a member or representative of a terrorist organization as currently designated by the U.S. Secretary of State?
Have you ever participated in persecutions directed by the Nazi government of Germany; or have you ever participated in genocide? (If you are smart enough to know the definition of "genocide", it pretty much stands to reason that you are smart enough to answer "no" to the question. Hell, even if you can't tell the difference between genocide and pesticide, you'd think context clues would kick in. Nazi = no! We call this question a "give-me" or a "freebie.")

My personal favorite is the "are you a member or representative of a terrorist organization as currently designated by the U.S. Secretary of State?" You may be surprised to learn that finding a list of designations on the US Secretary of State's website was almost as easy as finding the correct visa application to download.

Even with a fairly good command of the English language, some decent computer skills, and broadband access, I had trouble locating the "designations" on the Secretary of State's website. My search of the site for "terrorist designations," returned 500 hits, but no list per se.

Not one to give up easily, I returned to the US Secretary of State home page and clicked on "issues & press." Not seeing what I wanted, I clicked on "more" and finally found the heading "counterterrorism." After clicking on "counterterrorism", I went to "releases" and clicked on "terrorist designation list." I then clicked on the link for "foreign terrorist organizations list" and, voila, found the list. It was dated October 11, 2005. Does that make it current?

Seriously, if you are answering “yes” to any of the above questions, someone should be measuring the depth of your gene pool, not processing your application.

On that note, I'm off to offer up my daily sacrifices to the immigration gods!

An Ex-Expat's Secrets for Recovering From Deportation

2006-05-27T00:14:00.000+02:00

When people learn that I have been kicked out of a foreign country, the response varies from, "good! come home" (parents) to "this is not good, this is not good" (Belgian neighbors) to "oh my God, you're kidding, right?" (acquaintances/strangers) to "doesn't surprise me at all!" (friends).

Without fail, the follow-up response is something along the lines of "you certainly seem to be handling it well." Geez, people, what did you expect? Just because I went into a veterinarian's office and asked to be treated by a neurologist does not make me unstable. Stupid, yes. Unstable, no.

Perhaps it is because I am still in the early stages, but I refuse to let this get me down. I know I will beat the odds. I will defeat deportation. (I would add “will write best-selling book describing painful ordeal that makes Oprah cry”, but I’ve been told that I can’t write! See, “Speaking of Goals and Lofty Ambitions”, March 2005 archives.)

Fortunately, my friends and family have been a constant source of support throughout my battle. Any day now, I expect my friend Grace to design a “Fight for the Visa” ribbon; Elana to organize a three-day walk; Rach to donate money to research; Wags to stage a protest; and, Mojo and Joni to buy drink tickets at the fundraisers.

Although I may be “handling it well” now, this was not always the case. Here are some of the steps taken on my road to recovery:

MEDICAL ATTENTION: I sought emergency treatment at a facility (ok, spa) near my home. The initial diagnosis was critical, but after several treatments, there was slight improvement. I was released with instructions to drink plenty of liquids, undergo therapy, and follow-up with my counselor as soon as possible.

MEDICATION: Concerned that I may be suffering from dehydration after the fourteen hour flight home (I’m told that can happen), I immediately went to the local pharmacy (Miguel's) to have my prescription (ok, pitcher) filled. Plenty of liquids - check!

THERAPY: The next day, I woke up feeling a little out-of-sorts (ok, hung-over), so I decided to give therapy a try. After five grueling hours of retail therapy, I was beginning to feel a little less deported.

COUNSELING: Two days later, I took a turn for the worse. I called my counselor, Jason Brandler, and begged him to squeeze me in as soon as possible. I have been seeing him ever since he opened his downtown office (Crimson Chic), back when downtown was dangerous, not trendy. Detecting the desperation in my voice, and, like the true professional that he is, Jason agreed to work me in between appointments.

As a Brit who has lived, legally, in the US for the past 18 years, Jason has cut his way through the bureaucratic red-tape. After two hours in his chair, I felt, and looked, like a new person. As they say, change your hair, change your life.

DRUG TRIALS: After my counseling session with Jason, I attended group therapy. Seven of us got together and put the whole “laughter is the best medicine” to test. Initial trial results indicate that it is effective in treating the symptoms, but, unfortunately, it could not stop the progression of the underlying deportation.

ALTERNATIVE TREATMENTS: Between therapy sessions, I researched alternative treatments to deportation, including contacting the Belgian Consulate, the premier authority in the US on the condition. I have an appointment in Los Angeles next week to be evaluated by a specialist. Hopefully, I will be on the accelerated recovery program and be back in Brussels within a month.

Deportation is a serious condition. The road to recovery is not easy. The Belgian Journal of Immigration indicates that it could take months before you are feeling legal again. Sadly, in some cases, there is no cure. For those in high-risk categories, I urge you to check your application process regularly. Don't wait until it's too late. Early detection can save you from deportation.

©2006 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.

My Open Letter To Anonymous

2006-05-25T23:29:00.000+02:00

Dear Anonymous (You know which one you are),

Please close you eyes. Now, take a deep breath, hold it for three seconds, and slowly exhale. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. One more time - inhale, hold, exhale.

Now, slowly open your eyes.

Take your right foot and slowly slide in backwards about 3 inches. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Great. Now I want you to take your left foot and slowly slide it rearwards until it is even with your right foot. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Perfect. Keep taking steps backwards and breathing deeply. You're doing just fine.

Now, repeat after me: "Bureaucracy, by definition, is red tape."
Once more: "Bureaucracy, by definition, is red tape."

Better?

Thank you for taking the time to post comments to my blog site. I have to admit, while I find your position on Belgian bureaucracy to be, shall I say, novel, if not somewhat disturbing, I am not comfortable posting your comments publicly. I'm sure you understand why.

Perhaps now that you are safely back inside the window, you can take a moment to reflect on your position. Isn't it possible that the Man is not that interested in orchestrating a covert attack on individual sovereignty? Can you at least entertain the idea that governments are run by people and computers, both of which can make mistakes?

Take your time. Give it some reflection, and, if you want, feel free to resubmit any comments, preferably without the profanity.

In the meantime, keep the window firmly closed and inhale, hold, exhale. Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

Illegally yours,
Cindy Lane

© 2006 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.

A Day In The Life of the Dearly Deported

2006-05-24T23:42:00.000+02:00

It's now three days into the deportation and the shock is starting to wear off. Sitting comfortably in the San Diego sunshine, I don't feel nearly as numb, which is not surprising, given that it is a beautiful 72 degrees. (I refuse to apologize for the numerous "just-another-beautiful-day-in-paradise" references. Hey, if you kick me out of your country, then, at the very least, I can go "nan-a, nan-a, nan-a" when I see that it is a shitty 52 degrees and raining over there!)

I checked my voice mail, hoping for the news that an Ordre revoking the OQT has been handed down. Unfortunately, the only message I received was from my friend, Rod, posing as an INS officer, informing me that the US had kicked me out as well. (Anyone up on Mexico's immigration policy? Any tips on how to scale a 20 foot fence? I hear they have some great food down there ...)

I spent the morning walking with my neighbor and catching up on the latest news in the 'hood. Since the birth of her son five months ago, she has been incommunicado when it comes to my blog, so it came as a complete surprise to her to find out that she was associating with a known "deportee." She was freaked out with concern --- about being seen with me. You know how neighbors talk!

I then headed to the local library to check my email. (Fortunately, Dan found out that it has free wi-fi, so I don't have to traipse down to Starbuck's and contend with Stalker/Friend Joey.) I had an email from the relocation expert, providing me with a status. So far, things are progressing nicely, which means, no Ordre as of yet. Hopefully, we will know something more on Monday, after he speaks with someone at the Ministry. All freshly manicured fingers and toes are crossed -- and tanned (jabdip #2).

A highlight of the gorgeous afternoon (jabdip #3) was when the Security Guard busted me for having a bottle of water in the library. I pretended like I didn't understand what he was saying, a tactic that is not nearly as effective in the US as it is in Belgium. Maybe I was missing something in the delivery, because I had to put the water away.

The librarian shot me the dreaded raised eyebrows when I laughed out loud after comparing San Diego's ten day forecast to that of Brussels (jabdip #4). In case you are wondering, it will be sunny and 62 degrees for Saturday's afternoon baseball game (jabdip #5).

Having finished at the library, I made a swing by the Pacific Ocean, to see all the tourists and locals enjoying the unbelievably glorious weather (jabdip #6). Surf was not great, only 2-3 foot swells with the occasional larger sets, but, by my calculations, that is still 2-3 feet higher than what the surfers are riding in Brussels (jabdip #6)! Have I mentioned that the water temperature is 67 degrees (jabdip #7)?

For dinner tonight, we will be eating shrimp-stuffed jalapeno poppers and nachos at South Beach, as we watch the sun dip into the horizon on the Pacific Ocean (jabdip #8).

Stay tuned for tomorrow's post for an update on my conversations with the Office of the Belgian Consulate in Los Angeles!

Â© 2006 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.

Don't Cry For Me, Belgium

2006-05-23T19:05:00.000+02:00

After fifteen hours of flying, I landed safely in San Diego late last night, having been subjected to only one "random" secondary inspection search. Fortunately, deep cavities were not involved!

Upon arrival, Dan met me at the airport with a huge bouquet of flowers (Can you say, "guilty conscience"?) and we went straight to Miguel's Cocina, the Mexican restaurant down the road from us. I'm convinced that Dan and I played a huge part in financing last year's renovation and I think they should name a banquet room, or, at the very least, a table, after us. Nacho, the bartender, greeted us with a great big hello, followed by a pitcher of 'ritas. The pollo asada never tasted better. Oh, the comforts of home!

It's weird being back in a place where everyone speaks English. I caught myself, saying, "si vous plait," to the waitress, who looked thoroughly confused. I guess French is not commonly heard in Mexican restaurants in SoCal. It's a little strange coming back to your own home and having to remember where the light switches are, but, otherwise, the adjustment has been seamless.

I have to admit, it's hard to be bitter about being deported when you come home to a city nicknamed "America's Finest." The weather today is a beautiful 68 degrees, with no sign of rain in the forecast.

© 2006 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.

All Aboard the De-Porty Train?

2006-05-21T21:21:00.000+02:00

My, my, how time flies when you only have five days to get the hell outta Dodge.

Wednesday, the day I got the notice, was spent in a fog and a flurry of frantic phone calls.

Thursday and part of Friday saw more calls and emails, but less fog - more dark cloud. Having lunch with Veronica, my first American expat friend in Belgium, really brought home how surreal the situation was.

Saturday, having accepted that I am now part of a unpopular growing population in Belgium and, ironically, an even larger one in the US, I attended my own deportation party. (Thanks Sue, Sue, Graham, Chris, Adam, Doreen, Ron and the whole crew at the Highlander.)

Now it's Sunday and I don't want to go. At least, not this way. (For starters, I have an extreme aversion to deep cavity searches.) I walked down my street today, waving to Joseph at the bakery and Xinick at the tabac shop, something I've done since the day I arrived, and I wondered when I'd be back, and, more so, whether they'd miss me while I am gone. I thought about how much I have enjoyed becoming a part of this little community, in the center of the capital of the European Union, especially now that I am known as "Cindy," and not as "the American." (To Joseph, Abdela, Xinick, Emir, Moustafa, Jossein, Mareka, Sammin, Jannic, Francoise, Matt, David, Dominick, Patrick, Olivier, Jordan, FC, Benny, Patricia, Roger, Frederick and the Watchman -- thank you and I hope to see you soon!)

So, with one foot firmly planted in the US and one taking root in Belgium, I'm stepping on a plane tomorrow, realizing that Immigration is not an issue -- it's lives.

© 2006 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.

I'm a Loser And You Can Take That to the Banks!

2006-05-19T21:35:00.000+02:00

Ok, I just finished reading Martin Banks' article in the latest issue of The Bulletin (http://www.thebulletin.be/) detailing the problems of those sans papiers who are seeking asylum in various area churches. (Sans papiers would be those like me, without papers, except in much more dire straits.) I have to say, I'm more than a little upset.

His article highlights the plight of a guy who received an OQT, after living and working, illegally, in Belgium for 36 years. 36 years! Years, people, Y-E-A-R-S. If you consider that I spent 2 of the 3 months of my tourist visa outside of the Schengen states, at most, I have been (arguably) sans papiers for 6 weeks. And, during this whopping 6 weeks, my inscription has been in process! This guy flies under the radar for 36 years and I get nailed after a month and a half. There are people that live their entire lives without ever visiting a foreign country, and I have managed to get myself thrown out of one, and, apparently, in record time! I'm a loser, baby, so why don't you deport me ...

© 2006 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.

First World Refugee

2006-05-19T07:29:00.000+02:00

As an attorney, I appreciate and support equal application of the law. That being said, as someone that has 3 days to leave the country, I find myself caught between the letter of the law and the spirit of the law -- with the clock ticking.

I think I have the spirit of the law covered. I don't want asylum. I'm not looking for a work permit. I'm not on the public dole. I am blessed to have a country that will accept me back, and a home to return to. I have sufficient financial means that allow me not to work while I am a guest in Belgium. I have Belgian health insurance and we pay rent (which, incidentally, is grossly disproportionate to the rents the locals pay for apartments in the same area, simply because we are "expats"). I'm not protesting Belgian laws or demanding anything. I just want to live with Dan while he works and resides, legally, in this country. We have taken steps to obtain the appropriate authorization for me to do so, but somehow, something has fallen through the cracks. As unbelievable as the situation may be, I realize that I am one of the fortunate ones.

But, according to the letter of the law, or, the Ordre de Quitter le Territoire to be exact, I need to leave. And, leave I will. It's a shame, really, because, even though I have been cursed at (in more than one language), forced to use the men's toilet, reduced to tears over 4 cents in a department store, tram-wrecked, evacuated by threat of bomb, laughed at, stalked, rained/sleeted/hailed/snowed on, propositioned by more than one dirty old man, deprived of Mexican food, insulted, forced to engage in road rage, beaten by an old lady with a cane, terrorized by the very spawn of Satan, and concussed, I was beginning to adjust to life in Brussels.

While many have suggested that I stay and fight the issue, I really do have to draw the line at being a first world-refugee. It's bad enough that I'm being deported. I don't want to hit refugee status, or, God forbid, spend any time in a jail. It just looks bad on future Visa applications.

For me, it's not a political issue. It's merely a bump in the road. Hopefully, everything will be straightened out soon. I'll keep you posted. (Thanks for all the kinds support and the great emails, sent publicly and privately.)

© 2006 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.

The Skinny With the OQT

2006-05-18T21:26:00.000+02:00

Since moving here, I've wanted to become involved, in some way or another, with the Belgian legal system. In my wildest dreams, I would have never thought it would be in the way of my own personal immigration crises. I was actually thinking more along the lines of interning with a governmental agency or volunteering with a NGO, but, as they say in French, c'est la vie.

As it has been explained to me, when a tourist Visa expires, an Ordre de Quitter le Territoire (OQT) is automatically generated, without regard to any application for residency which may be in the works. Even though my application has been in the process for months, I'm told the OQT is valid, unless and until I receive an Order revoking it. Which means, absent a miracle, it looks like I'm headed back to the States a little sooner than expected!

Never a dull day in The Belgian Years ....

Â© 2006 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.

The Support Comes Rolling In -

2006-05-18T09:54:00.000+02:00

Call to Dan, who is in the States, to tell him about the Deportation Notice:

Dan: (Sleepily) Hey, is anything wrong? I got your message.
Cindy: No, I'm ok, but I'm beng deported.
Dan: (Pause) (Sigh) What did you do this time?

I should point out that Dan is now calling me "EuroLucy", because of the "I Love Lucy" turn that my life has taken!

Call to my parents:

Cindy: Daddy, I'm being deported.
Daddy: Deported! What do you mean deported?
Cindy: I mean "kicked out" of Belgium.
Daddy: Good. Have them kick you all the way back to Texas!

Comment from friend Rod:

"maybe your blog offended them."

I don't know, but that sounds a whole lot like "blaming the victim" to me!

Conversation with neighbor, who interpreted "Ordre de Quitter" for me:

Neighbor: This is not good. This is not good. But, don't worry too much.
Cindy: Am I going to jail?
Neighbor: Possibly, but this is only the first decision. You have to wait to see.
Cindy: That does not sound too comforting.
Neighbor: I thought you were an American.
Cindy: I am.
Neighbor: Usually, Americans don't get these. This is not good.

Email from friend Carson in response to my email that I may have to cancel upcoming trip to Rome where I was going to have dinner with him and his wife for their birthdays:

"only you ... what more can I possibly say?"

And Just When I Was Beginning To Enjoy Brussels ..

2006-05-17T14:55:00.000+02:00

Today, a police inspector informed me that I have 5 days to leave the country. Yes, you read that right. D-E-P-O-R-T-E-D. I was handed an "Ordre de Quitter le Territoire" and was told "you must leave Belgium." Since I don't speak or read French, I have no idea what is going on.

I made a couple of frantic calls to the relocation expert handling my residency permit application and he is looking into the matter. Hopefully, it's a misplaced file or some other bureaucratic snafu. (I'd hate to think the Mayor holds a grudge!) I'll keep you posted!

In the meantime, I think I'll just go hang out at that church in St. Gilles with all the asylum seekers ...

Â© 2006 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.

Tim Easton in Haarlem, NL

2006-05-15T10:35:00.000+02:00

Took a little road trip on Sunday to see Tim Easton perform at the Roots of Heaven concert at Patronaat in Haarlem, NL. What a show he put on! My friend, who has never heard him before, described his voice as "raw", "haunting" and "sexier than shite." But, you be the judge. Check him out on www.timeaston.com. I picked up his newly released CD, Ammunition, and can't say enough about the third track, "Next to You."

The Zinneke Parade

2006-05-15T09:12:00.000+02:00

In addition to beer, chocolates and waffles, we are going to have to add "parades" to the list of things Brussels does better than the rest!

The Zinneke Parade, held in the city centre on May 13th, was truly a multi-cultural and creative experience. I would describe it as Carnavale meets Halloween meets the Funny Art Car Parade. (For more information on the origins and history of the parade, see www.zinneke.org. They have also posted some incredible pictures! The ones above were taken by me and they simply don't do justice to the costumes and floats, nor do they capture the spirit of the event. But, I can post them without worrying about copyright issues!!!)

As it was explained to me, "zinneke" is a word from the Brussels dialect for a small mixed breed dog. Back in the day when the river ran through the City, these stray dogs roamed the canals and were loved and adopted by the city dwellers. The word "zinneke" has now come to symbolize a person from Brussels -- someone that is a mixture of the different regions of Belgium and different cultures from the city -- who speaks the Brussels patois, a mix of Dutch and French.

It's estimated that there were over 300, 000 spectators watching this year's parade, whose theme was "Brussels Imagines the Future." Thousands of participants spent months preparing costumes, floats and skits. A definite good time! Put this on your "to-do" list in 2008.

Long live the Zinneke!!

© 2006 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.

Do They Call You Burger for Short?*

2006-05-14T22:16:00.000+02:00

Back in December of last year, I met my neighbor, Dominick, at a neighborhood action committee meeting. At the time, and unbeknownst to Dominick, I was told by some of the attendees that Dominick was the "mayor" of our ville. It wasn't until several weeks later, when I was introducing Dan to Dominick, that I learned that Dominick was not, in fact, the town mayor. In the words of Dominick, "it was a ha-ha. A joke." Oh, I get it.

At the Zinneke parade this past weekend (more on that later), I ran into Dominick and two other gentlemen, one of whom I was told was another neighbor of mine, and the other was the Mayor of Brussels. Well, there was no way I was going to fall for that one again! You know, fool me once.

As I was breaking it to the group that their little joke was not going to work this time because I know a "ha-ha" when I see one (Yeah right, he's the Mayor, so I guess that makes me the former First Lady of the US. Ha-Ha.), I couldn't help but notice how quiet they had become. Some might even say, uncomfortably quiet. But, at least it wasn't an awkward quiet. I know this for certain, because that came about 15 seconds later, when the "Mayor" handed me his business card. Now, that was an awkward moment.

Take it from me. There are times -- oh let's say, like after you insult a local dignitary of a country in which you are merely a guest -- when saying, "I'm sorry," seems soooo very inadequate. Some things are better learned than lived, and issuing a diplomatic apology falls firmly into the latter!

Fortunately for me, Burgomeister Thielemans was very understanding and quick to forgive. I had the pleasure of sitting next to him for most of the parade (hate the game, not the players) and I have to say, what impressed me most about him, other than his willingness to overlook my diplomatic faux pas, was how down-to-earth he was. He wasn't the cheesy politician, shaking hands and kissing babies. If it wasn't for all the people stopping to talk to him (and there were loads of them!), or asking to take a picture with him, you could easily mistake him for a regular guy simply watching a parade on a beautiful day in his hometown.

Throughout the day, I watched him enjoy not only the parade, but watching people enjoy the parade. His sincerity appeared genuine, whether he was putting up with stupid questions from an American (that would be me), acknowledging police officers that stopped to salute him, laughing with the various artists and performers, or blowing bubbles with a little boy wearing a clown nose. From where I was sitting, it was clear that he was very proud of his City, and not in the "I hold a public office" sort of pride, but more in the "This is where I come from" sort of pride.

* The answer to this question is a big fat no. Apparently, the correct way to address the Mayor is "sir" or "Burgomeister."

© 2006 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.

Where or Where Has My Little Blog Gone?

2006-05-12T08:54:00.000+02:00

I've gotten emails from several people saying that they went to my blog address and it was GONE! Since I didn't delete it (hopefully), I can only blame it on Blogger, the FREE hosting service.

In true CSI fashion, I did a little forensic blogalysis and learned that my blog was unavailable about the same time that MC Hammer's blog became really active. Coincidence? I think not.

It is my belief that Blogger could not hold the traffic generated by my blog and that of Hammer's, so they 86'ed me in favor of a middle-aged rapper with way too many baggy pants (which will be back in style soon, mark my words). Yes, Hammer can hurt ya! It's my story and I'm sticking to it.

I'll start posting again next week. The weather is too nice to spend it sitting in front of a computer -- and there haven't been too many times that I can say that!

(http://mchammer.blogspot.com).

Cinco Tips for Celebrating Cinco De Mayo in Brussels

2006-05-07T10:14:00.000+02:00

The overwhelming majority of folks over here have no idea what Cinco de Mayo is. Either that, or the French region of Brussels is not big on celebrating the day when a small group of horribly outnumbered Mexicans, armed mostly with machetes, defeated Napoleon's army. I guess it is sort of like celebrating the Fourth of July in London. (By the way, it can be done, but I would recommend against celebrating it with a table of Aussies, because the Hard Rock Cafe doesn't care how long you've waited in line to get in. They will ask you to leave.)

Here's cinco tips for throwing a Cinco de Mayo fiesta in Brussels:

When inviting a non-US guest, or non-Spanish speaking guest, don't be surprised when they ask you what day the party is. Turns out that there are a lot of people who don't know that Cinco de Mayo is celebrated on the 5th of May.
When your Scottish friend asks you what she can bring, don't tell her a pinata. If you do, at the very least, let her know what a pinata is, so that way she doesn't spend a whole lot of time looking for pinata-flavored liquor! (Sorry, Sue, but it's just too good of a story not to mention!)
According to the Mexican Embassy in Brussels, there are only 1,000 Mexicans living in all of Belgium. Roughly translated, this means it is stupid to ask the lady at the Embassy, "Can you tell me where Brussels' Hispanic community is because I want to buy some tamales and a pinata?"
Sombreros are sold at the Picard store on Rue de Lombard and you can buy Corona at the Carrefours by NATO.
It's impossible to find sweet and sour mix for margaritas!

Vaya con Dios!

Roadtrip - Cologne, Germany

2006-05-03T20:53:00.000+02:00

Inspired by some of the recent comments to my blog, Dan and I decided to take advantage of Brussels' proximity to so many great European cities. We drove to Cologne, Germany on Sunday. Here's some of the highlights of the trip:

We hit our first pedestrian. Fortunately, it was the hotel concierge doing the driving! (Thank God, because I would have never lived that one down.) Dan had gone into the hotel to ask the concierge where to park and Dan swore the concierge told him something about the "pedestrian plaza" and the "grand place". After several return trips, the concierge finally gave up on the direction-giving and offered to drive our car himself. Sure enough, we drove through the pedestrian plaza on the Grand Place in front of the cathedral. Miraculously, hit only one person. The pedestrian was ok; the car suffered its first scratch.
We learned that the lo-jack security system in our car works like a charm. The valet forgot to disengage it and the car ended up dying on him, blocking all egress and ingress to the garage. For the record, the alarm is quite deafening, especially in an undeground concrete parking garage.
Probably one of the most frightening things to hear a GPS system say is: "There is a driver headed in the wrong direction on your route of travel. Be alert."
I've finally found my place in the world and it's in the left lane of the German autobahn. The great thing about having a car where the speed is measured only in kilometers is that Dan cannot compute, on the fly, how fast I am driving!
Mexican food in Germany is slightly better than in Budapest, but still way better than it is in Brussels.

My First Belgian Hospital Experience -- Chapter Six: The Bill

2006-05-01T21:15:00.000+02:00

A CAT scan, 2 xrays and an emergency room visit = €27.31.
Hello, socialized medicine!

My First Belgian Hospital Experience - Chapter Cinq: The Call

2006-04-28T10:20:00.001+02:00

Having been duly scanned and xrayed, I was directed back to the waiting room to sweat out the results, or, more appropriately, whatever lurked in the waiting room chairs. As I was walking back to the waiting room, I passed on an excellent opportunity to kick Lil' Lucifer, as he was standing on a chair, no parental figures in sight, when I rounded a corner by the xray department. The fact that I didn't, made me feel good about myself. Maybe I can be redeemed.

I settled into my chair, laying bets with myself as to how long the wait would actually take. Since I all of my prior hospital waiting experience has been in the US, I figured 4 hours would be a fair guess, even factoring in the time difference. A little over an hour later, the ER doc came to tell me that the scans were normal, but the head of neurology wanted to keep me overnight for "surveillance." I figured she meant "observation," but, then again, the receptionist may have narc'ed me out after all. Regardless, I had no intention of being surveilled or observed.

I called Dan to break the bad news. It went something like this:

Cindy: "Honey, I'm fine but they want to keep me overnight to make sure I don't throw up again."
Dan: "All of this could have been prevented! The first thing I'm doing when I get home is throw away those f-ing high heels. (Long pause, presumably when he realizes that he said that out loud and that he has yet to ask about me.) Are ou okay? Do you need me to come down there?"
Cindy: "I'm positive I don't need you to come down. (Short pause to let the irritation in my voice fully sink in.) I forgive you for yelling when I call to tell you that I am being admitted to the hospital. (Long pause to allow guilt to kick in.) Don't you dare touch my heels! (Click.)

(I bet ya'll can guess what the topic of our first counseling session will be!)

I went back to the doctor and told her that I really, really, really didn't want to stay overnight to be observed. When I promised her that I would not be alone and that I would return to the ER immediately if I threw up again, she agreed to call the neurologist and see if he would release me. I guess Belgium doesn't have a problem with hospitals milking health insurance --oh, wait, they wouldn't take my health insurance! -- since, the doctor released me.

Stay tuned for Chapter Six: The Bill.

© 2006 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.

My First Belgian Hospital Experience - Chatpter Quatre: Mama, She's Crazy

2006-04-28T10:14:00.000+02:00

The doctor performed the standard neurological exam and sent me for a CAT scan. (I do feel compelled to point out that, in my opinion, it is categorically unfair for a doctor to give someone who has taken a blow to the head a hard time about not coming to the hospital sooner. There's a reason why we don't let the concussed operate heavy machinery!)

After the scan, I was escorted to a different waiting room, where I sat down next to one of the craziest people I've encountered to date in Belgium. (Mind you, I'm not judging. I can't, considering that, only a few short hours before, I went into a veterinarian’s office and asked to see a neurologist. I'm quite certain the lady with the little brown dog thought I was off my rocker.)

Anyway, back to Sybil. She was in her mid-twenties and probably suffering from several diseases (all of which can be found defined somewhere in the DSM-IV), not the least of which has "paranoia" attached somewhere in the diagnosis. Every 10-15 seconds, she would look all around her, like she was checking to see if someone was following her, and then open her lady-bug purse and frantically push buttons on her cell phone.

At first, I thought she was trying to make conversation with me, but then I realized she was talking to herself. She would whisper something, and then answer herself in a different voice. I'm talking seriously freaky. It would have been worth the price of admission to understand the conversation she was having with herselves. Even a concussed, non-French speaking, layperson like me could see that Sybil needed a thorazine/haldol cocktail with a lithium chaser. And maybe a pretty new white jacket to boot.

When I took out my telephone and took a picture of the old man strolling through the halls carrying his catheter bag, I thought it was going to push Syb right over the edge. (Note for future reference: when dealing with those suffering from paranoid delusions, it is not a good idea to bring out a camera phone that makes a simulated shutter sound.)

Two attendants came and took Sybil away. Hopefully, to a much happier place. I, on the other hand, was off to x-rays.

Stay tuned for Chapter Cinq: The Call.

© 2006 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.

My First Belgian Hospital Experience - Chapter Trois: Oh, Please! Not That Room!

2006-04-28T10:12:00.000+02:00

Turns out, Damian was the least of my problems. (I knew things were not going to go my way in the sympathy department when I looked down at the feet of the nurse taking my vitals and saw that she was wearing those Dr. Scholl's comfort clogs.)

Once she finished with my vitals, the nurse told me to wait for the doctor in one of the chairs lining the wall in front of the exam rooms. I took the chair on the end, which left me with a partial view of Exam Room 3. I say "partial", because all I could see was half of the room and one incredibly gnarled foot. What I couldn't see in Room 3 was made up for in sound and smell.

I'm very much a sympathetic vomiter. If I see someone get sick, if I smell vomit, or, if I hear someone vomiting, I'm right there with them. Come to think of it, I don't do well with other people's body fluids at all. Given that I was queasy to begin with, sitting outside of Room 3 was not a good move, since whatever was connected to the foot in Room 3 had lost control of all his bodily functions. Between the retching and the stench, I thought I just might die.

A doctor came and told me that she would see me as soon as an Exam Room was free. A janitor was then dispatched to Exam Room 3. He arrived with this industrial-sized blue trash can on a cleaning cart. He walked into Room 3, turned around, walked out, picked up a phone, and the next thing I know, another janitor with an industrial-sized trash can cart arrived - STAT. I could see the janitors, who, by the way, are grossly underpaid in my book, mopping and sweeping the room, making faces and holding their breaths. It was BAD.

During the clean-up process, someone came for the patient in Room 3. As they wheeled him past me, I got my first glimpse of the owner of the foot. I swear on everything dear and holy, the man looked like someone straight out of Tales from the Crypt. His skin was pulled tight over his face, his jaw was open and locked, his teeth, or what were left of them, were black. His arms were bandaged and crossed on his chest, a la open-coffin style. Forget knocking on death's door, this guy had a VIP card to get him to the head of the line. As they wheeled him past me, I threw up a little prayer for his soul. (Ok, that's a lie, but I was concerned about his well-being - much later, like, when I got home and started telling Dan about my day.)

Once the janitors were finished, the male one looked at me and said something in French. I knew what he said, but I ignored him, shaking my head as if I didn't understand. He repeated it, slower. I ignored him again. He tried it in Flemish. Again, I ignored him. He started gesturing with his hands, which I ignored as well. He then said to me, in English, what I had been ignoring in French, Flemish and sign language. For some reason, Mr. Clean didn't get it. He could have used 15 different languages and smoke signals, it would not have mattered. There was no way in hell I was going into Room 3!

So as I am walking toward Room 3, I'm thinking about how grossly overpaid - and pushy - hospital janitors are in Belgium. Just as I was about to step into Room 3, and start the whole vicious cleaning cycle anew, I heard my name being called from out in the hall. It was the doctor, calling for me to come to Exam Room 1.

Stay tuned for Chapter Quatre: Mama, She's Crazy

© 2006 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.

My First Belgian Hospital Experience - Chapter Deux: The Waiting Room

2006-04-28T10:11:00.000+02:00

Having finally found the entrance to the emergency room, I signed in at the intake desk. The clerk, who spoke excellent English (thank you, Jesus), asked for my residency card and my passport. Producing the passport was no problem, as I had the good sense to throw it in my purse before I left the apartment (what head injury?). Providing a residency card proved a bit more challenging, since, technically, I don't have one. Yes, that's right. I'm an illegal alien. (Six months later and my paperwork is still being processed!)

Fortunately, the clerk was content with only my passport, or, maybe she just had better things to do than to narc me out to immigration. As a consolation, I offered her my Belgian insurance card. Granted, it's not a lifetime supply of rice-a-roni or turtle wax, but it would show that I am not a drain on the Belgian public welfare system. She was not interested in it in the least, which, frankly, surprised me. Can you imagine, in your wildest, absinthe-induced dreams, a hospital in the US telling you, "no, we don't need your medical insurance information."?

After the clerk entered me into the system, she told me to go wait in the room around the corner. As I was trudging toward the waiting room, I had a brief glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, the blow to my head somehow dislodged the "freak magnet". It was not to be the case.

The waiting room was small and rectangular-shaped, with chairs lining the two side walls and the rear wall, like a giant "U". There was a young girl seated in the first chair to my right, along the side wall. She was holding her hand, as if in dire pain. Since she probably spoke excellent English, I chose not to sit by her. I was not the least bit interested in how she hurt her arm, and she looked like the kind of person who would have no problem explaining to a complete stranger, i.e. me, the story of her life in great detail.

The chairs on the side wall, across from Injured Arm, were filled with Rachel, Monica and Phoebe. You know the type - trauma drama queens. Only one was sick (probably complications from a severe eating disorder), but all three had to come to the hospital. Enough said.

On the same side wall as Injured Arm, but at the end of the row, was The Family. The Father was seated in a hospital-provided wheelchair, although for what reason I do not know, since he clearly had no problems ambulating to the vending machine and to the outside entrance to smoke; The Mother was in one of the chairs, sitting next to twenty-something-year-old Daughter, both of whom looked bored out of their minds. Damian, the four-year-old devil-child, and I do mean that as the possessed spawn of Satan, was terrorizing the waiting room.

He had that shrill scream that grates on absolutely everyone's nerves, except, apparently, family members. He was climbing on chairs, under chairs, through chair arms. At one point, he took his jacket off and started swinging it over his head, barely missing R-M-P. He then found an empty wheelchair, which, up until then, had been parked safely in a corner, and started ramming it into things, including Injured Arm!

When he was not using the waiting room floor as his own personal slip-n-slide, he was eating Smarties (similar to M&M's, but not as tasty), off the floor. The FLOOR of a waiting room in the EMERGENCY department of a HOSPITAL! It was then that I realized that The Family was probably being seen for hearing problems, psychiatric counseling, IV antibiotics, or a combination of the three. (I came to this conclusion because sterilization is generally not treated on an emergency basis, although, if I were in the Belgian health system, I would seriously reconsider this option, having seen the carnage left by Damian).

As Damian made his way towards me, I realized that I had made a huge tactical error in my seating choice -- I had backed myself into a corner. Damn head injury! I quickly assessed my weapons - umbrella, purse and cowboy boots. Under normal circumstances, an impressive lot. When staring down the very face of evil pushing a wheelchair at you at break-neck speed, not so much. I'm not sure whether "diminished capacity" would be a defense to an assault on a child charge in Belgium, but I was willing to give it a go. I opted for the boots. It worked! Wheelchair's forward progress stopped. Damian pissed.

Before the little devil could back up and prepare for round two, the nurse called my name. I stood up, gave him my best, Mommie Dearest/Devil, I Command You to Come Out, stare. He returned it with his best "you've only made me stronger" smile.

Stay tuned for Chapter Trois: Oh God, Not That One!

Â© 2006 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.

My First Belgian Hospital Experience - Chapter One: Ou Est L'Hopital?

2006-04-27T19:33:00.000+02:00

I left the apartment Thursday morning on a mission to find a neurosurgeon. Three clinics, a pharmacy and two doctor's offices later, I was willing to settle for anyone open. (For non-Belgianers, or, ignorant expats like me, a red cross = clinic, a green cross = pharmacy, and a blue cross = a potentially very embarrassing situation if you walk in and ask to see a doctor without carrying something on a leash or in a cage! Oh well, live and learn, that's my new motto.)

After a couple of miles walking, some of which was in circles, I finally found a large hospital complex on Rue Alexiens, not far from the Mannequin Pis. I walked inside and went immediately to the reception area. The mademoiselle behind the counter spoke no English, but she pointed me toward her colleague, who was on the phone. I patiently waited for monsieur to finish his conversation, and then, in my best Spench, asked if it was possible to see a neurologist without an appointment. He told me "trois etage" a "gauche". I took this to mean go to the third floor and take a left. I went to the trois etage and took a left, only to find the "urology" and "gynecology" departments.

I returned to the reception area and, again, found monsieur on the phone. Since the massive headache and incredible nausea were cutting into my patience, I asked mademoiselle, "ou est neurology?" while pointing to my head. She held up 5 fingers, which I stupidly took to be the fifth floor. Once on the fifth floor, I realized that there was no "ology" department even closely resembling what I was looking for, so I took the elevator to the sixth floor, resigned to searching the entire hospital, floor-by-floor, to find the neurology department.

As luck would have it, when the elevator doors opened on the sixth floor, voila, I had found the neurology/psychiatry department. Between my broken French, the receptionist's broken English, and the willingness of a patient in the waiting room to translate (and I do use that term lightly), I learned that the neurology department was closed on Thursdays. They directed me to the emergency department of their sister hospital – “very close”.

Off I went, address in hand: 322 Rue Haute. Finding Rue Haute was not my problem. Finding the hospital on Rue Haute was a different story. (And, for the record, “very close” is a relative term. For someone with a staggering headache and an urge to vomit every 15 seconds, “very close” means “right around the freaking corner” and not “up the hill, through the major intersection, take a right on the side street, cross a plaza, and then walk the entire length of a very long street.”)

For starters, I was at 62 Rue Haute, which meant I had a whole lot of walking to get to 322. When I got to the 300 block, I did not see anything that resembled a hospital. It looked like a large residential area. Where's one of those red-snakey sign things when you need them?

I finally found this billboard on a chain-linked fence (I'll get a photo posted for your viewing pleasure), which told me to follow the orange feet to the green arrows to get to the "Urgencias" department.

Stay tuned for Chapter Deux: The Waiting Room. (This is where it gets interesting!)

© 2006 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.

My First Belgian Hospital Experience -- The Prologue

2006-04-27T18:20:00.000+02:00

To make a short story very long, last Saturday night I slipped and fell in a restaurant (where's a good lawyer when you need her?) and, four days later, was still vomiting. Since it doesn't take a brain surgeon to know that purging without bingeing is probably not a good thing, on Wednesday morning, I saw a local general physician. She diagnosed me as "concussed", told me to go to the hospital if I vomited again, and sent me on my way with a stern warning not to wear three inch heels. Wednesday night brought more quality time with the toilet, so first thing this morning, I set off to find a hospital.

(Here's a little tip for all you expatters: Find out where the nearest hospital is before you suffer a traumatic brain injury!)

© 2006 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.

Travel Advisory

2006-04-24T19:48:00.000+02:00

For those traveling to Amsterdam, please be advised that:

"Get the F#CK off the bike path!" in Flemish sounds nothing like "Get the F#CK off the bike path!" in English.
It is not recommended that you WALK in the bike path.
What you may think is a commotion behind you, may very well be a biker yelling at you in Flemish to "Get the F#CK off the bike path!"
There are some bikers that have no problem hitting walkers that don't get the f#ck off the bike path.

My World Is Flat - But I Don't Have Easter Grass

2006-04-11T15:56:00.000+02:00

I'm a Texan, in Belgium, by way of California, because I met a man from Ohio, on an island off the coast of Mexico, who works for a Swedish company. Our Canadian neighbor, who works for a Brazilian company, moved here from Croatia. We live in a building owned by a French guy, but maintained by Polish workers, in a predominantly Muslim and Afrikaans section of town. Our favorite neighborhood Italian restaurant, owned and operated by a Persian couple, is located around the corner from the Galician Cultural Center, where I have been Scottish dancing.

A Pakistani man manages the supermarket that we live above. I shop at the Chinese grocery store for American food products and buy wines from Turkey, Israel and South America from a Belgian store that is across the street from a Lebanese restaurant. Our clothes are dry-cleaned by an Arabic family in a shop not far from our favorite Irish pub. At the end of our street is a restaurant owned by a man from Tunisia who employs a Moroccan cook. Our kitchen curtains were made by a lady from Kosovo and we have an English GPS system in our German car.

By all accounts, my world is pretty flat. Which is why I'm completely blown away that in such a diverse and ethnic city, I couldn't find Easter grass OR Easter dye!! (The closest I got is pictured above -- three little vials of food coloring. That turquoise felt thing was the only semblance of a basket to be found in the greater Brussels area.) Since Easter is not Easter without colored eggs, a special thank you to Karen Camp for bringing a Paas Easter Egg dye set all the way from the USA so that we could have colored eggs in our grassless Easter bags!

(Yes, I ripped off the title of this post from award-winning author and NY Times columnist, Thomas Freidman. I seriously doubt that he reads my blog, which I guess is fair since I haven't read his new book, so I think I'm in the clear!)

© 2006 by Cindy Lane. All rights reserved.