Doing the Lingo. Badly.

When I first arrived in Belgium, I held a secret contempt for the foreigners who had lived here for so long and had not yet mastered the local language.

I was silently aghast at the fact that – after even 6 months of living here – some could still not even say hello, goodbye, please or thank you in Flemish. In secret, I thought that such as these were rude. Lazy. And pathetic.

And that’s a little bit of pot calling the kettle black, as I discovered recently.

You see, after living in Belgium for close on 4 years now, I’ve discovered a rather remarkable patheticness (a new English word) in my own self. I still cannot speak Flemish fluently.

Understand a Flemish conversation – that I can do. Order a beer – that I can do. Order another – that I can do, even more effectively than the aforementioned.

But try to speak in Flemish in sentences requiring more than 3 words… I struggle. Actually, more than struggle. I become completely unhinged.

Having a Flemish conversation with me is akin to holding the hand of someone learning to rollerblade for the first time. My words, dialect and diction are all over the place.

Yes, I feel as if I have fallen into that realm of patheticism (also a new English word) that is usually reserved for those who don’t know how to turn a computer on, fry an egg or make a cup of tea.

It’s not that I don’t try, you understand. I do try. But when I try speaking Flemish to a local, I experience what I now like to call ‘The Belgian Squint’.

Let me describe it to you: the head of the Squinter is almost always tilted to the left (yours, not theirs), their mouth is ever so slightly open, their left eyelid (again, your left, not theirs – keep up) is completely closed, whilst their remaining eye looks to you as if you have just farted. That is the Belgian Squint. A concomitant mix of shock, horror, disgust and pity.

The language that almost always follows a Belgian Squint is English. So polite, so friendly are the Belgians, that rather than have their language butchered, bastardised or belittled by a roller-blading linguist, they will switch to English to help you on your way.

At the office, we agree that meetings can be conducted in Flemish. But I prefer to respond in English – if only for the sake of time. If I were to respond in Flemish, trying to say “Yes, I would like some more stationery, thank you”, it would take as long as Gaddafi’s recent speech to the UN .

And so I am here. Stuck in my patheticness. But at least I can order beer. With the efficiency and prowess of a true local.