Why I like Belgium: reason #63

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.

The Death Walk

I’ve done it. Passed the point of no return. Mentioned it publicly. And made several bets.

For in a momentary lapse of common sense, I’ve signed up to participate and agonise in the infamous Dodentocht, a 100 kilometre Walk of Death through some towny bits of Belgium.

Now, 100 kilometres would not be a problem if it were a leisurely walk over a period of time. Say a few days or so. Even months.

But no such loophole.

The challenge is to complete the task in under 24 hours. Hyena’s and vultures are set upon the carcasses of those who do not make it back in the allotted time.

Strange what passes for fun in these here parts.

No, but seriously. The whole shebang seems to be arranged with such a social spirit and has a revered history to it. "Walking for a better world" the slogan says.

And nearly 10,000 walkers and countless nurses, masseuses and blister poppers all gather to celebrate the two appendages we call our legs and the apparent masochistic abuse of them.

In my preliminary excitement I’ve made a few bets with several friends who have offered unending support. “Idiot”, “Are you mad?” and “You’ll never make it” comfort and encourage me on.

But, the goal is clear. To make it though. Silliness aside, it’s also for a good cause. And it’s nice to do something so steeped (if even, not at all) in Belgian tradition, goodwill and loving.

The thought of being able to do something based on sheer willpower alone; without the very slightest interference of training, preparation or knowledge, drives me to succeed.

That and the promise of two cases of Duvel if-slash-when I make it.

As if to add insult to expected injury, the walk doesn’t particularly aim for anywhere. It’s a circular route, and you end up where you started.

Again, strange what passes for fun in these here parts.

Anyhow, along with some work colleagues, and much bravado, we’ll be setting off at 21h00 on Friday 10th August, and hoping to still complete before Saturday night 11th August.

I’d do a bit of live blogging from the event, but am channelling all my energy – even that which my fingers would use for typing - into me pins. Expect some photo’s, though.

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One year on

Saturday, 24th March marks my first year in Belgium (more or less).

So, I thought of having a celebration of sorts; a bit of a soiree (with singing, if desired) at my flat on the same day.

It will start around 16h00 and continue until the wine has run out. It's pretty much a come-as-you-are, pop-around-if-you-feel-like-it affair. Chilled. Like the wine.

If you fancy popping over, give me a call on +32 494 144 781 and I'll give you all the details.