belgianwaffle

Family

Status Update


Posted in: Family, Ireland, Work

Pros

We have our health.

As of last Wednesday we are no longer commuting hours to the city centre from the delightful but distant suburb where my parents-in-law kindly had us stay for 6 weeks (that would be four weeks longer than any of us thought it would be).  On the way in there is a level crossing and for many years it has featured in traffic reports as a Dublin landmark and I always thought it was a poor and unremarkable landmark.  That was before I realised that every commuter from South County Dublin spent an hour morning and evening crawling past it.  Also I spent a number of hours before a scrolling sign on a hotel telling me that bookings were now “been” taken for Christmas.  These things grate.  Especially if you have to listen to Charlie and Lola on endless repeat while chugging along.  Does anyone else thing that Lola needs something done about her adenoids?

The children all like school.  Our worries about the Princess going to school in Irish were completely unnecessary.  She is picking it up extraordinarily quickly.  It is quite amazing to watch.  Also, the structured, assigned seat, looking at the blackboard schooling we favour in Ireland seems to really suit her and she is happy. The boys have settled well into Montessori school and we love their teacher.  They also seem fond of her.

Cons

Our house is tiny.  We have far too much furniture and quite a lot of it is still in storage.  Despite 6 weeks and 20,000 euros worth of work, it looks worse than it did before we started. For this, I blame Eamon the electrician who left the place looking like Swiss cheese.
No internet (this comes from an internet cafe), no telephone.

I started work today.  I am not particularly enthusiastic about this job but it will pay some of the bills.  My reception this morning has not made me more enthusiastic.

My bicycle was stolen over the weekend.

A story of jelly shoes


Posted in: Family, Travel

Sunday, 17 August

Our afternoon flight was slightly delayed with 3 changes of gate.  The parents-in-law made themselves by far the most unpopular people on the plane by saving us seats together.  I vowed never to fly Ryanair again.  Again.  The flight was followed by a three hour drive from Trapani airport to our destination.  We arrived at midnight and the Princess, setting a pattern for the week, was up and bright and breezy.

Monday, August 18

After lunch I was severely taken to task by the Baron (the owner of our agriturismo) for turning up late for lunch: “this is not a hotel”.   The Baron also abused my half-Sicilian sister-in-law for wasting water by letting the children play in the shower near the swimming pool, saying accusingly: you should know how precious water is in Sicily signora.  Fortunately, his efforts to upset the guests were consistently undermined by his staff who were charming and our first point of contact.

Tuesday, August 19

We made the distressing discovery that the beaches in this part of the world are stony as we hobbled to the sea shore and into the water.  There was some complaining by the junior members of the party as they leapt from hot stone to sharp pebble.  Though, mercifully, the Sicilians were having a dreadful summer and the temperature never went above 30 degrees.  Daniel was delighted to see sunshine again and having spent the previous three weeks announcing every day that it was raining again was equally surprised to see that in Sicily every day was sunny again.

The boys were fascinated by Italian which they identified as not French and not English.  They had already been astounded to see the priest at mass and staff in the supermarket in Cork speaking English (they speak in English!) though sad to discover that their favourite lady from behind the fish counter had gone (where the nice lady? still in Brussels, one assumes) but now there was a whole new baffling linguistic regime.    On our drive from our hotel sorry, not hotel, to the coast, we passed a little ruined house and I overheard the boys talking (in French) about fixing it up with the help of Bob the Builder.  Daniel said seriously to Michael: “Bob, he talks in English, you know”.  Despite reservations about the linguistic regime, Daniel, in particular, was delighted to be back in kissing country: everyone from customs officers to carabinieri was happy to give him a kiss when requested and there was none of this hugging business which Irish children favour and which he regards with the greatest suspicion.

That evening, the issue of how the publishing exec (Mr. Waffle’s sister and the Princess’s beloved godmother) was going to make her way from Palermo (to where she was flying on Friday night) to our agriturismo was raised.  She was arriving too late for the last trains and buses and is newish to driving and, really, you don’t want to put a newish driver on the road out from Palermo airport on a Friday night.  Feeling that this was the least I could do to oblige my parents-in-law, who didn’t fancy the drive and in whose house we have been residing practically forever, I happily volunteered to collect her.  Mr. Waffle voiced the hope that her new boyfriend who has been inspected and approved by the entire family (except for us – to my chagrin we were still in Belgium when he visited) might prove his mettle by turning up on the flight as a surprise and driving her up to us.  Let me remove any suspense now: alas, he did not.

Wednesday, August 20

Still no jelly shoes so we hobbled around the beach until we found the Sicilian relatives.  My sister-in-law’s sister (are you still with me?) is a stylist whose work frequently features in the organ of record (ooh the reflected glamour and glory).  Being kind as well as glamourous, she gamely trudged up and down the beach (she had the correct footware, well, obviously she did – she’s half Italian and a stylist) carrying our extensive kit from where we had left it to the family meeting point and we disported ourselves in the sea only stopping when three of our party were assailed by jellyfish.  Daniel was very stoic but Michael and I were whiny.  In my defence, I would say that a jellyfish sting on your bottom is particularly awkward.

That evening was stressful as we dined late (unlike the previous evening where we had a delightful early pizza and all the children ate, though the Princess did pat a cactus during the evening – why? - which restricted her movement somewhat) and Mr. Waffle failed to do my bidding on various matters.  As the designated Italian speaker I was sent into the take away to order.  I failed to understand them, they failed to understand me, the result was unhappy.  I returned to our table in precarious form and began to cry.  Family holidays can be a little tense, you know.  My mother-in-law patted my hand gently, Mr. Waffle looked anxious, my father-in-law (abandoning his hopes of sloping off from the children with his loving wife) went to stand by the door of the take away and harry the staff, my half Sicilian sister-in-law (who had just arrived) sorted out our order and said comfortingly that she too could have hissy fits (something I found very reassuring though it is not something I have witnessed with my own eyes which would be even better), Daniel said in tones of horror to anyone who would listen “My Mummy is crying“, I sniffed.  It was a low point and by the time I was alone with Mr. Waffle later, I had eaten and I was tired and even I had lost interest in my grievances.

Thursday, August 21

The children refused en masse to go to the beach so we took ourselves off to the swimming pool which was perishing – who would have thought that you could be so cold in Sicily in August?  We then went to look for jelly shoes which were in short supply in the local town but we got a couple of pairs, not quite the right size but half a loaf is better than no bread.  Mr. Waffle went to the internet cafe to wrestle with Ryanair.  To get access to the internet he had to sign several documents promising not to look at pornography or set up terrorist cells, hand over his passport (to be photocopied) and get printed details of his log on and password.  Sometimes, I think it is a miracle that the Italian economy manages to struggle on at all.  Doubtless Gunther Verheugen will sort it all out for them.  He might want to have a go at the Chemist as well where all purchases are scanned into the computer and painstakingly copied into a lined notebook by an elderly lady and her assistant which made for a long wait before I got my hands on swim nappies.

That evening the Princess and I drove into Cefalu which is absolutely beautiful.  She was immaculately behaved.  It was all very pleasant and full of jelly shoes in all manner of sizes.  On our return, the kind grandparents babysat while Mr. Waffle and I went out to wait for a pizza.  The elderly lady whizzing around the tables muttered something unintelligible and I eyed Mr. Waffle balefully and said that it was probably dialect because I didn’t understand it.  He, mindful of the previous evening’s disaster, said nervously, “um, I think she said ‘muss warten’, you know, in German”.  And warten we did for a good hour and a half.  On the plus side, we met everyone on the evening passegiata, sister-in-law, brother-in-law and nonno.

Friday, August 22

We had a very successful beach expedition with our jelly shoes, hurrah. 

It transpired that Mr. Waffle would be required at 7 that evening in the hill top village where the christening was to take place the next day.  Did you know that we were in Sicily for our new quarter Italian niece’s christening and that Mr. Waffle was godfather? Well, now you do.  And the priest needed to talk to him about his duties.  Unfortunately, this was at precisely the time that I needed to go to Palermo to pick up the publishing exec.  My father-in-law could drive Mr. Waffle to the hill top village and I could go to Palermo but that would leave grandma alone all evening with three young children which is very rough going.   Then my sister-in-law’s brother, new Uncle as he was known (try to keep up – my children were baffled, dazzled and delighted by the numbers of new uncles and cousins who kept emerging from the woodwork last week) volunteered for duty and we heaved a collective sigh of relief.  New Uncle was a big hit with the children being a single man, willing to play and also quite happy to kiss the boys when requested to do so (half Italian, you see).  When the Princess and I went to look at the chapel in the agriturismo that evening she was very anxious to pray for new Uncle though whether this was on his own merits or because he was bringing her beloved aunt from Palermo was unclear.

Saturday, August 23

The publishing exec had arrived and the Princess went to wake her at dawn.  She came back wearing a beautiful dress purchased by her loving aunt in exotic London.  After that we hardly saw the Princess as she stuck to her beloved and very tolerant aunt like a limpet.  We got dressed up and drove ourselves up the winding road to the hilltop town where the christening was to be.  About three quarters of the way there, Daniel got sick.  We stripped him naked and, on the way into town, stopped to buy him new clothes. He looked absolutely beautiful in his smart Italian clothes but 80 euros for trousers and a shirt is considerably more than I would normally pay.  Also, both he and I smelt of vomit all day.  We then screeched up to the top of the town where various cugini were gathered and sprinted to the church where we were more or less on time.  The publishing exec was godmother and the Princess was a little inclined to take this in bad part as the publishing exec was her godmother but she was won over by being allowed to hold her little cousin on her lap while cooing at her with her aunt.

After the christening we went for a big lunch.  We were a party of 30 of whom 14 were children.  It was fantastic.  One of the bigger cousins was a boy of 13 who took it upon himself to entertain the 11 children under 7.  Michael followed him around devotedly and when he couldn’t see him would come running up to me saying “where my big boy?”.  It was lovely to see them all playing together and to have Marco separate the combatants, as appropriate.  Michael disappeared at one point and after some searching was still missing.  Eventually Grandad located him at the side of the swimming pool which he had reached by opening an emergency exit and travelling through very rough terrain and over several obstacles in bare feet.  He was, he told us solemnly, washing his hands.  We nearly had heart failure.

Near drowning incidents apart, it was very nice to feel part of a large extended Italian family and my sister-in-law was, I think, delighted with the results of her efforts to bond her Irish and her Italian family. 

Sunday, August 24

Yesterday was our last day and the Princess awoke like a briar having spent the previous evening playing with her new Palermitana friend; Giorgia, a four year old fellow guest.  The pair of them spent the evening examining the tortoises in the grounds and the Princess didn’t get to bed until 11 and, even then, only because we were going to bed ourselves and locked the door to the apartment.    She was cheered by a trip to the beach where we met all the relatives until she was stung by a jellyfish which made her crabby.

After lunch we had to say goodbye to her aunt.  Alas.  Then the hideous return journey: a three hour drive; a hot, sweaty airport; a long queue for check in; a long queue for security (grandparents helping to keep younger members of the party in order, reassurance from new Uncle that half the queue was people saying goodbye, delight from the children on discovering that new Uncle lived in Ireland not Sicily); a run for seats together on the plane; arrival at 11 carrying (with the assistance of the grandparents) a howling, bellowing Daniel, a tired Princess and a miserable, damp Michael the many miles from terminal D to baggage reclaim; and then an alarming queue for taxis.  Finally back at 1.20 in the morning.  I am really never flying Ryanair again. No really.  Next year we’re going on holiday by ferry.  You will be pleased to hear that we brought the jelly shoes home.

Wisdom


Posted in: Family, Reading etc.

Me: Listen to this, there’s an interview with Deepak Chopra in the paper and he says: “In my life nothing goes wrong.  When things seem to not meet my expectations, I let go of how I think things should be.  It’s a matter of not having any attachment to any fixed outcome.”

Mother-in-law: I wonder has he ever lost his passport?

Culture Shock


Posted in: Belgium, Family, Ireland

Weather 

Due to a complete failure of imagination, I am always appalled by the Irish weather.  No one could have been more surprised than I was when on the morning after leaving sultry France, the Princess was running up and down the misty deck of the ferry, splashing through puddles in her sandles.

When we went to the beach the other day I was, however, prepared and the children were warmly wrapped up and had their rain coats on.  I realised that they will need to become hardier: all the Irish children were in t-shirts and shorts.  Mostly they had retired indoors by the time the torrential rain started.

Festivals

We went to the local horse show on Monday (not an exclusive event).  It was supported by a field of ancillary stalls and children’s entertainments.  In Belgium, it was always easy to tell our blonde milky white children from others on the boucy castle.  Here it is proving more challenging.  If only we had spent more time in Uccle than elsewhere we would have had more practice.

To our surprise and delight, there was a waffle stall.  The waffles cost 5 euros each.  And  they weren’t very nice.  We were outraged.  The standard rate for a reasonably acceptable waffle across all Belgian waffle vans is 1.50 (perhaps evidence of price fixing which the local competition authorities could investigate).  It is true what they say about the cost of living here.

Sporting Life

On Saturday morning the boys and their Grandfather watched Australia play New Zealand on the television.  They have not been exposed to rugby before. “They play a football, they all dirty!” exclaimed Daniel in surprise.  My brother came to visit later in the afternoon and, having seen the boys tripping about delightedly in my high heels was anxious to indoctrinate them with the basics of rugby.  I am not sure how much progress he made; when he left, Daniel was still trying to hit the ball with a tennis racquet.

Other Children

Escaping the rain on our return from the beach the children and I ended up in a cafe (Mr. Waffle was getting the car taxed – the glamour).  The Princess got chatting to a little girl.  They bonded and jumped in the small back garden.  The boys joined them.  They were very loud.  The punters got restive.  The little girl’s parents and I brought them in.  I decided to head out in the driving rain.  The little girl’s mother wondered could I get a lift from someone.  I explained that my husband was tied up with the Revenue (something I could have phrased differently, perhaps).  She offered us a lift.  I refused, grateful but polite.  10 minutes later we were drenched and only, alas, a little further along due to the indifference of small children to heavy rain and their deep interest in pausing to smell the flowers. The little girl’s father pulled up beside us in his Saab 9-3 (which, as his daughter had explained to us earlier was a clean car because they had taken Daddy’s instead of Mummy’s) and insisted that we all hop, dripping, on to his leather upholstery and dropped us to the door.  See, it is  true about Irish people being friendly; we have to be to survive the weather. 

We went to a barbecue on Sunday.  There was a little girl called Clodagh (very common Irish name, the gh is silent). “No,” said the Princess “there is no such name, it must be Claudia”.  Meanwhile the boys had agreed that the young man called Matthew must be Matteo and spoke firmly but kindly to the other 2 year olds in French (their experience of children in groups has been that French is the appropriate language, no longer).  Incidentally, my sister-in-law is a very talented painter and one of her nudes was hanging on the wall.  Daniel examined it critically and declared, “That lady has no nappy”. 

Nice neighbourhood as our American friends would say


Posted in: Belgium, Family, Ireland

On Friday morning, I said goodbye to an old friend who married another old friend.  They moved from London to a house a short walk from ours seven months ago.  Rejoice.  Now we’re leaving.  Alas.
On Friday night, I said goodbye to my friend down the road.  We met because we kept seeing each other pushing twin buggies : she has a five year old son and two year old twin girls.  She is Canadian though her mother is English.   I think her mother felt that it was fate that we should be friends so made a point of chatting to me every time she came to Brussels.  Her mother was right.

On Sunday, we said goodbye to our ex-upstairs neighbour who now lives in a very large and beautiful art nouveau house around the corner from the old friends in which he kindly let our children play chasing.  His own six month old was safely in Prague with her mother which makes the invitation to us all the more virtuous.  Imagine bringing children into your life when your own are not there.

We were promptly back at our house at 11.30 to sell our car to a nice Indian family.  There two girls (6 and 6 months) were exquisitely behaved and at least two of my children ran into the room naked (it’s hot, I let them play with running water in the sink, lethal combination) before I hustled them out (Princess’s interesting excuse: you said that you didn’t want me running around half naked in front of the people who were going to buy the car so I took off all my clothes).

Down to the end of the road, to play in the paddling pool in a school friend’s back garden.  Screaming, excitement.  Buns too.

Upstairs to tea in current neighbours’ flat.  I feel mildly depressed every time I see their flat because it is so beautifully decorated and immaculately tidy but otherwise identical to ours.  Despite their perfect flat they are immensely child friendly and our children adore them.  How much do I love Italians, let me count the ways?  She is an academic and off for the Summer; she took the Princess for two hours this morning while I negotiated with the bank and went to get back our documents from the Indian family.  Turns out that they didn’t want our car after all (associated with too much nudity?).  Mild bitterness.  Would anybody like a peugeot 306sw, only 72,000 kms?  Just asking.

Tomorrow, we leave for France, where we are staying in a  nice chateau to break the journey (6 hours total journey time but we are puny).  On Wednesday evening we will sleep on the ferry and on Thursday morning we will find ourselves in Ireland where I fully expect it to be raining.

Lasts


Posted in: Belgium, Family, Work

We took the children for a last check-up with the paediatrician (we have become reverse ex-pats – who knows whether they will have paediatricians in our home country?).  As they kissed him goodbye (Belgium is the country of the social kiss, something I find bewildering but charming), I scanned the books on his shelf: lots of books on pediatrics in English and French and the Hachette Guide des Vins, 2006.

We took the car for a last trip to the garage to get rid of all the dents (as Mr. Waffle points out, we are careless with our toys).  4,500 euros later, the man in the garage and the Princess were exchanging polite kisses and we were leading out our gleaming car which we hope somebody may now buy.

Friday was my last day at work.  During the week I had a farewell dinner with my lovely boss who flew in specially to say goodbye, had drinks with my lovely colleagues and got some lovely presents.  Emptied my inbox (really lovely) and handed over my key.  If you think there are too many lovelies in this paragraph, you have never had my job.  Sigh.

On Friday night, Mr. Waffle and I went to a farewell dinner in our favourite restaurant in Brussels.  A place we used to go to long before it got its Michelin star when it bore the considerably less user friendly name of Mieux vaut boire ice qu’en face.

On Saturday we had a farewell party.  At the start of the evening Mr. Waffle made me a stiff gin and tonic and after that it all seemed to go swimmingly.  The next day, far less so.  That was my last gin.

All week we have been getting quotes from moving companies in excess of the value of our furniture.  Highest offer so far is 10,000 euros. I feel faint. Who would have thought that my inability to throw out books would cost us quite so much?  Would anybody like to buy a double bed?

Our cleaner came for the last time today.  She brought little presents for the children who adore her and they had something for her as well.  She has been so kind to them and they are so fond of her, that I felt quite tearful as did the Princess (though this may have been because she didn’t want to go on her sports course).  She was also an excellent cleaner and I am not sure whether the reduced cost lifestyle we will be enjoying in Dublin will permit us to replace her.  Alas.  She is on our Christmas card list.

Yesterday was the last time we will attend Belgian National Day celebrations.  Of course, the same may well be true for everyone else in Belgium.  The Prime Minister tried to resign in despair last week but the King wouldn’t let him.  The pair of them sat glumly in the rain yesterday watching the parade.  We, on the other hand, had a very pleasant time eating waffles and frites (not together, you understand) and meeting the police (horses! spinning cars!), the firemen (hoses! and firemen!), the civil defence (trampolines?), the army (tanks and our optician who used to be in the navy and gave us some new glasses cleaning solution for Daniel), farm animals (pigs, cows, and best of all a horse being shod who kept nibbling the farrier’s bottom) and suppliers to the royal court (Mercedes, Jules Destrooper, Delvaux, Godiva and lots of table ware).  As is the nature of these things, there were lots of balloons for the children and little Belgian flags to wave.  These latter included one (sponsored by a radio station but never mind) which covers my feelings for Belgium at the moment: