What I Am Here To Teach The Belgians

Sometimes all of us, I suppose, question how we got where we are I life. Sometimes we then wax philosophical and ask ourselves Why. Because everything has a purpose, doesn’t it? So why was this particular complaint-filled American born comedienne and vegetarian cat enthusiast sent to Waffleland? To sort these people out, that’s why.

Following are some areas where I would like to bestow some of my wisdom:

The popcorn thing



The first time I went to a Belgian Cinema, I was, at first, duly impressed. So much cleaner and fancier than the movie houses run by resentful British teenagers that I had grown accustomed to in the UK! There were cushioned couches in the lobby! The theaters themselves were clean and the seats were neatly numbered and comfortable to sit in! Then I went to order my popcorn…………There was no salted popcorn! Only sugared! I acquiesced and bought some, but it really ruined the whole cinematic experience for me. I don’t even remember what movie it was I saw that time, such was my rage. I made a point of complaining loudly several times on that and subsequent visits, until lo and behold they finally got some salted popcorn in. So now there was a choice. And I didn’t even care if the reason was that the confrontation-shy Belgians just wanted to shut up the loud American lady. I got results and that’s all that matters. Mission Accomplished.


The kiss thing



Belgians kiss whenever they greet each other. It is such a nightmare. It’s not that I’m unfriendly, it’s just that I don’t see why I should have to endure having traces of someone else’s spittle on my cheek in the name of friendship. And they are downright obsessive with this too. Very often at a party, everyone arriving will go around the room kissing everyone and then do the same when they leave.

BTW did you know that according to the Urban Dictionary a “Belgian Kiss” means a kiss where you accidentally pass along a bit of phlegm? (Perhaps so named because of being Flemmish?) Now I’m even more grossed out!

I have tried on many occasions to assert my non-kissing stance and simply nod, smile, and wave, but it just gets me labeled as a social pariah.
This whole ritual is a major reason why I prefer to spend my spare time shut up in the house with the curtains drawn hanging out with the cats. And more often than not, when I do join in, I get tripped up by the whole number thing; One kiss for someone you know well, three kisses for a casual acquaintance) that I am constantly committing social faux pas. Why just last weekend at a funeral I stood awkwardly next to a table of particularly judgmental mourners who were waiting for me t put out as I said to Wim, “How many do I do? One?! Three?”…It went on for far too long and they could hear everything I was saying, so it was all the more embarrassing when on Wim’s advice I opted to shake everyone’s hands. The mood at their table suddenly went very icy, even for a funeral, and once again I had to endure 3 hours of shame as The Girl Who Wouldn’t Put Out (which would be very ironic for anyone who knew me in college). Yeeeuch. I hate the whole business and I just want people to stop it. But what can I do to change the habits of an entire nation? I’m working on it…..


The cheddar cheese thing



In this nation so fond of food and so close to the Mecca of cheese, France, you’d think that you’d be able to get anything and everything you wanted in the cheese department. Not so, my friend. The one cheese that everyone else in the Western World takes for granted is completely overlooked: Cheddar.

Cheddar cheese is bar none the best cheese in the world, one of the few things that the English excel in. Don’t get me wrong: I love me some Brie and I’ll never say no to a good Gorgonzola, but when you’re making yourself a nice toasted sandwich, Edam just doesn’t do the trick. Cheddar cheese is one of those beautiful things in life that I have always taken for granted because it was simply always there. Until living in Belgium I never had any concept that such a land could exist where shopkeepers being asked where they’ve hidden the cheddar will cock their heads to one side and say, ”Wablieft??”

There is a big cheese shop around the corner from me where they’ve got lots of different cheeses and the audacity to claim that you can get anything you want there. Echt waar? Because they did actually have a big yellow chunk of something which they called “cheddar” once, and I bought some and that, I’m here to tell you, was NOT cheddar. It was bland and Gouda-esque and didn’t have anywhere near that wonderful cheddary taste. Hey I’ve been to THE Cheddar Gorge. Prayed there. I know what I’m talking about. But here’s something desperately sad: I was so cheddar starved that I actually kept buying the stuff just because it was called cheddar. I kept hoping they’d get an English (or Irish!) person in their cheese factory and get the recipe right for a change, but no such luck. Finally they discontinued the bogus cheddar altogether because “nobody liked it”. Of course not! It wasn’t real cheddar!

The lack of Mexican food



where are all the Mexicans? I’ve seen every other nationality of people here, but no Mexicans! ¿Donde estan los Mexicanos? I mean it! I am missing burritos and tacos and chimichangas ever since leaving California. The Mexican government needs to seriously look into invading Europe to bring these people some food with a little spice in it! And if not Mexico, then Taco Bell.



OK. I’ve said my piece. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a lot of work to do.
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