belgianwaffle

Belgium

“The noise, my dear, and the people”


Posted in: Belgium

We live in a very noisy place.  Obviously, we didn’t think this when we moved in. Our street seemed a quiet backwater.  It’s not.  It’s a short cut for every car in Belgium.  We are on a corner near a junction.  Junctions are exciting places in Belgium. They take their right-of-way rules very seriously.  As Mr. Waffle puts it, “being Belgian means you never have to look left”. This, inevitably, leads to a huge number of tips and near misses and our junction, which features a blind corner, is a great place to have them.  And then there is the lorry which comes and delivers oil to the building across the road at 6 in the morning.  Loudly.  And our bins are collected on Wednesday morning and (cruel) Saturday morning.

During the Summer, somewhere near us, there is a disco venue for the young people.  When they emerge drunken, dehydrated and deafened, they need a place to meet.  They select the doorstep of our building. It’s on a corner and it’s distinctive.  We are looking forward to hearing the following dialogue on Friday and Saturday nights from May onwards (all conducted at top volume, obviously, because they’ve just emerged from a loud, loud club):

Where’s the car again?

I dunno, did anyone see Vero?

I think I’ll just lie here on the road.

Wow, look at the stars.

Where’s Vero?

Will we see if we can walk on top of the cars?

Did I mention that we live in an old building and so, apparently, it’s not possible to fit double glazing.  All the better to hear the excitement outside…

Meanwhile our neighbours also contribute their mite.  The annoying German lady listens to the telly in her bedroom (directly above ours) at top volume. We are sick of German detective shows.  The other night, there was a big bang, as though the telly had been chucked on the floor) and the noise stopped. Maybe she is sick of German detective shows too. The Belgians on the ground floor play electric guitar from 10.00 pm on.  I feel that it may be either spouse but Mr. Waffle feels it must be him because only a man would still be trying to master Dire Straits numbers 20 years after they were originally released.  A compelling argument, I concede.  And this morning at 9.30, the woman downstairs began using her drill.  I suppose, to be fair, trapped between Dire Straits and screaming baby, she felt she had to make some kind of protest.

Also, for one week only, our street is being dug up to put in new lighting.  Excellent, a pneumatic drill.

Is it any wonder our baby doesn’t sleep at night?

Comments
Thierrry

(Homepage)

on 11 April 2004 at 03:27

Tu peux tenter de faire comprendre ? tes voisins qu’ils ne vivent pas seuls dans l’immeuble et que le tapage “diurne” est aussi prohib? que le “nocturne.
Nous avons une vieille m?m? sourde comme un pot au-dessus de chez nous et ce fut la guerre pendant plusieurs mois avec elle.
Maintenant, ?? va mieux et nous avons conclu un accord avec elle: quand sa t?l? va trop fort, nous lui t?l?phonons et laissons sonner quelques secondes pour qu’elle baisse le son.
Le syst?me fonctionne assez bien !
Bon courage !

Locotes

on 12 April 2004 at 02:18

So where was Vero??As for the noise…ouch. I don’t envy you. Being out in the country direction has it’s disadvantages (such as lacklustre public transport), but I always appreciate the total silence at night. Bliss. But I really shouldn’t be rubbing it in….sorry.
😉

belgianwaffle

on 12 April 2004 at 11:06

Vesper, don’t know about very interesting…you are kind.
Thierry, merci pour le conseil, may take courage in my hands and tackle neighbours downstairs, but German lady is just too scary. Impressed with your v. practical arrangement with your elderly neighbour.
Locotes, she was obviously straggling out of the nightclub waking up the people round the corner. Guess what though – Princess slept from midnight to 7 this morning. Am delighted.

Hairy


Posted in: Belgium, Mr. Waffle

You may have noticed that the Princess is bald.  Go on, have a look at the photos.  This comes from me.  I was bald for ages.  I was on the phone to my mother the other day and I asked her when I got hair and she said pensively “well, you certainly had hair by the time you were four”.  Not really as comforting as it might be.

And my hair grows very slowly.  I had my first haircut when I was 12 and it only just reached my shoulders.  This is true.  No really.  Even now, I only get my hair cut three times a year. This is partly because my hair grows slowly and partly because each visit to the hairdresser’s is fraught with trauma.  The following are my fears in order of priority:

My hair will look dreadful when I emerge blinking in the sunlight (almost always realised)

Someone will see me sitting in the window of the hairdressers wearing a stupid overall and with my wet hair pulled back from my face looking like death warmed up (funnily enough, never realised, not even when I was living in Cork and stepping out the door normally entailed running into a dozen of my mother’s closest friends).

I will have to chat to the hairdresser (almost always realised – not you might think, an enormous problem for a talker like me, but for reasons I cannot really explain, I always end up lying to them: when I was working, I felt that they wouldn’t be interested in my job (or worse, be too interested and want something explained or sorted) so I pretended to be between jobs and now that I’m unemployed, I feel that they might think that I’m the wife of a rich businessman living it high on the hog with no obligations so I sort of invent occupations for myself; I then spend the time in the chair in an advanced state of tension trying both to keep my story consistent and to see what the back of my head looks like).

How will I hand over my tip (I mean to give it to this person for whom I have gone to the trouble of fabricating a whole false existence and with whose wedding plans I am now very familiar seems insulting, like tipping a friend of a friend; however not to tip is, I know, an even greater insult so I hand over my tip at the cash desk and mutter “that’s for x who cut my hair” and feel nervously that I’m doing the wrong thing).

It will cost a small fortune (almost always realised except for the time I got my head shaved.  That only cost a fiver but the effect was not happy.  I remember going to the pub that night with my then boyfriend: I had no hair and a rotten cold so I looked marvellous – bald and snuffly.  I said “I look terrible”.  “No, no” he said reassuringly “you look really cool – with the hair and the sniff, you could be a drug dealer”.  Fantastic, that relationship was clearly doomed.  It was also sporting that haircut that I went out with three friends of mine who were sisters.  We bumped into a friend of their’s who said “finally, I get to meet your little brother”.  “Um, no actually I’m a GIRL, unrelated and finished school” I said bitterly).

So today, I went to get my hair cut.  I haven’t had it cut since December so, sadly, I realised it was time. I went to this place my friend F recommended.  She said that this place was good if you want to look like a bourgeois Belgian “you know, shortish, blondish”. In my heart of hearts, I really do want to look like a bourgeois Belgian so I took myself off to Olivier Dachkin on the Rue de Tongres which apparently is the original branch of the chain where the great Olivier himself snips from time to time.
When I arrived, this very nice male hairdresser came up and discussed what style I might go for, it was all going suspiciously well.  “And of course” said he “you will need highlights”. “Um no, I wasn’t really thinking of highlights” “But you must, it will look wonderful”.  He was kind of convincing, I was weak, I said ok and sat for half an hour with tin foil on my hair. The girl who did them said “it’s very original that you’ve gone for these wide streaks”. My heart sank, “original”, does that sound bourgeois Belgian to you?

Downstairs, I saw that my nice male hairdresser appeared to be working exclusively on little old ladies, I further noticed that unlike all the other hairdressers, he was not wearing a red shirt with Olivier Dachkin on it and he was bossing people around. Could it be that he was the great Olivier himself?  Well whoever he was he abandoned me and consigned me to a woman who gave me an alright haircut, I confess, but I wasn’t really in the mood to appreciate the quality of the cut because I was transfixed by the zebra stripes on my head. The man who may or may not be the great Olivier came over and ruffled my hair and said “isn’t it fabulous?” I smiled cravenly.

Tonight I asked Mr. Waffle what he thought. “Very nice” he said without hesitation.  “What makes you say that?” I asked. “Fear”. I see. Oh well, it’s all over until August, though I suspect that those highlights will grow out in a very exciting fashion.

Tipping point


Posted in: Belgium

It seems to me that often when I start doing something everyone else is suddenly doing it too. I’m not sure whether this is due to product awareness (once I start doing it I notice it everywhere) or because I am a sort of middle of middle person (i.e. once I start doing it 51% of the population is doing it). Does everyone else feel like this too? If so, there may be money in Mr. Waffle’s suggestion of starting a website called “Isaiditfirst.com”. The theory is you can register your idea and when everyone is talking about it, you point to this website and say “Yes, now, you know all about it, but I was talking about this last November”. My problem is no one ever remembers me talking about it last November. Isaiditfirst.com remedies this problem. I’d like to register now that the latest Belgian ads saying “Un carrefour, ce n’est pas la jungle” are a pointless extravagance. As far as Belgians are concerned, that’s exactly what a crossroads is and stopping on orange will continue to be regarded by fellow drivers as a mortal sin. Apparently they are going to hang plastic monkeys from traffic lights at particularly dangerous junctions. Frankly, can you see this working?

All this talk about tipping point and such like is inspired by today’s Observer which I got to read due to the Princess’s unexpected nap. There is an article about Belle de Jour and blogging and stuff. Now, it seems to me that there are articles about blogging everywhere. Did I just skim over them before I started myself? The man in the Observer thinks that we’re all rampant ego maniacs. Surely some mistake. Furthermore, in the magazine bit, there’s a big feature on Carla Bruni. Now, Carla Bruni is massive in Belgium, so I suppose it’s not a big surprise that I have her album, but apparently she is just about to try cracking the UK market. Isaiditfirst.com. All you cool 20six music buffs will loath her, kind of a French Norah Jones gentle background music. Likely to be big though. Incredibly beautiful and surrounded by the kind of scandal adored by gossip mags.

Grand Bazar


Posted in: Belgium

I know that I haven’t posted anything in a while but every waking moment has been spent inspecting my infant daughter for chicken pox.  So far, so good, but this weekend is when she’s most likely to get sick so I’m obviously looking forward to that.

I did some mulling on Belgian supermarkets this week (look, I said it had been kind of slow).  I shop in the local GB.  The staff there are kind and sweet to my little daughter but in general act as though having customers in is ruining their day. They stack shelves and block up the aisles so that customers have to turn around and retrace their steps. They sullenly ignore your requests to get by.  They are singularly unhelpful when it comes to looking for missing products. For three weeks, there was no dental floss in our GB.  The Waffles were facing a floss crisis, our strategic reserves were running low.  When I asked when they would get floss in, the floor staff, oblivious to our potential crisis, said that they didn’t know and maybe there was a problem with production.  This is the inevitable response when something is missing. I’m just not convinced by this production problem.

Now, I know, the staff probably get paid almost nothing, but I presume that the same is true in Irish supermarkets, yet somehow, staff are more helpful, why is this?  And I bet the holidays here are better; I heard two assistants chatting and one said to the other “Can you believe that I only get 28 days holidays? Isn’t that terrible?”  “Dreadful” said her colleague.  Now not to be all American about this, but that sounds alright to me.  And I suppose that the atmosphere in GB staff relations generally is not outstanding.  When I googled GB and Belgium to give you the link above (yes, I know, the research and effort that goes into this blog is phenomenal), the first two matches were about industrial relations problems.  Still and all, on the whole they’re not a customer friendly bunch.

Then the way the supermarket is set up is kind of irritating. There is only one check-out wide enough to take a trolley with a baby seat and that is invariably closed, so you have to put your purchases through one check-out and scoot down to the one at the end to push the trolley through. Very trying.

Now, wasn’t that fascinating?

Comments
Thierrry

on 21 February 2004 at 15:44

Great post.
Did you know GB stands for “Grand Bazar”?
“Ceci explique cel?”!…
http://bruxelles-ma-ville.skynetblogs.be/

belgianwaffle

on 23 February 2004 at 14:44

PFT, I am disappointed to hear that Tesco in the UK is similar…I labour under the (obviously mistaken) illusion that the service industry in the UK is excellent.
Thierry, thks, no, I didn’t know that. Tout s’explique.

New Year’s Resolutions


Posted in: Belgium, Reading etc.

We are somewhat flattened after unpacking the 14 bags we needed to carry home the Princess’s Christmas gifts. Now, however, she “sleeps in her turret” as my mother in law would say and we rejoice. She’s exhausted from the strain of playing with a wide variety of exciting things. In particular, she enjoyed chewing on our luggage tags.

Hard to say whether she recognised the flat. She looked around with interest, but I think that she misses her court at home. She’s in for a nasty shock tomorrow when Mr. Waffle returns to work and it’s just the two of us. We won’t be able to go out either because pouring rain is forecast.

Belgium is perishing. Our flat is also a mite chilly and despite the fact that our radiators have been on full blast since our return, I am sitting writing this with my feet on a hot water bottle. All stand alone heaters have been moved to the Princess’s room to ensure that it is toasty.

Faithful readers (both of you) will see that I have added a new category – photos. This is for my father-in-law and my mother (yes, this publicising thing is getting out of hand), both of whom seemed reluctant to wade through my text to get to the photos. Ingrates!

My new year’s resolutions are as follows:

1. Get a job.

2. Start a bookclub.

So far I have made no progress with either. When is it that you can abandon your new year’s resolutions?

Happy new year.

Comments

Angie

on 06 January 2004 at 23:15

Will you accept faraways into your book club?

What if aforementioned faraway takes over six months to read an 800 page book?
And PS: Our 8-month-old does not sleep through the night. I keep telling myself that she wakes up so often because she loves us more than the average baby loves his/her parents, and she simply must scream about her love in hope that we’ll want to spend a bit of late night time with her…

Parking


Posted in: Belgium

We’re off to Ireland for our holidays today. Yippee. However, despite the fact that Ireland is a digital hub access to broadband is strictly limited and am not sure I will be writing entries on a dial up line – so there may be no new entries until January 6. I am sure that you are all holding your breath etc.

In other news, we have a car parking space. Oh rejoice, no more driving around for hours looking for a space. Last night Mr. Waffle arrived home tired and dishevelled having spent half an hour looking for parking and having walked 20 minutes from where the car was eventually parked. On the minus side, I may lose my fab car parking skills. I can now park in almost any space. This morning I parked in an entrance, stuck on my hazard warning lights and went off to chat to our insurance broker for 20 minutes. I am becoming a real Belgian (illegal parking is a national sport). On my return, alas, there was a large lorry parked beside my car and the driver was tooting his horn in considerable irritation. My winning smile and baby Waffle’s cheery wave seemed to infuriate rather than calm down so we sped off before he could physically attack us.

All this reminds me of a number of Belgian parking stories.

Story 1 – The glam potter was out shopping and returned to find her car boxed in. As she had only 1 hour to go home, pack and take her train to the UK she was tense. She cursed, she hooted her horn but no joy. She paced. She noticed a slip of paper on the ground saying that the owner of the offending vehicle was in the restaurant opposite. She stormed in and identified the owner who was sitting calmly having lunch with friends. Glam potter felt that she would not be able to express her irritation properly in French so she said to the woman “Do you speak English?” Woman confirmed that she did and GP roared at her “You stupid cow”. Driver got to her feet to move car and turned out to be 8 months pregnant. Poor GP, most embarrassing.

Story 2 – When I was about 7 months pregnant I met a friend for lunch, let us call her the french horn player. When she arrived at the restaurant I asked her whether she had found parking difficult. “No” she said “I parked on the roundabout”. Yes, indeed the roundabout at Place Stephanie is often used by reckless Belgians as a parking spot. We emerged from lunch only to find that the car had been towed. Extraordinary. I went with FHP to the police station and the police were most sympathetic. I have to say that my experience of the Belgian police had not led me to expect this.

FHP – My car was towed and it wasn’t in anyone’s way.

Policeman – That’s terrible, where was it.

FHP – On the roundabout at Place Stephanie

Policeman – Oh I know where you mean, of course, you weren’t in anyone’s way, what a pain for you, but I suppose it is technically illegal.

Waffle (sotto voce) – To park on a roundabout, yes, I would have thought so.

FHP – I wonder is there any way I can get away with not paying the fine.

Policeman – Hmm (looks at me appraisingly), I see your friend is pregnant, if you hadn’t parked there, she would have had to walk a long way…

Me – But I got there under my own steam, I took the tram…

Policeman (ignoring this unworthy intervention) – Yes, she would have had to walk a long way, get a cert from your friend’s gynaecologist and I think we can get you off.

Honestly.

Anyway enough Belgian parking stories. Hope you have a very happy Christmas.