Oh, how time flies when you're having fun. Been a while since I updated. The reasons for that being, limited access to the net because of limited funds and because there's a security guard at the wife's school who is an asshole and likes to kick me out after hours so I can't use it so he can watch soccer matches uninterrupted. Belgians.
Unfortunately, the once mighty American dollar does not go far here, and so even after some money sent from relatives in the Fatherland, we remain broke. The type of broke where you involuntarily turn into a vegetarian and become weak and feebleminded like vegetarians do, and the type of poor where the idea of Ramen noodles sounds like a gourmet meal. I'm going to say something here that will probably disgust or anger those who read it but, I miss Ramen noodles and you asshole kids in the states who gripe about it don't know what you're missing. They're like 1 Euro over here. That's about $1.45 a pack in the US. Considering we made a Euro stretch a week that's some high shelf shit right there.
So when it comes to food it has been pretty basic but I shouldn't complain. Belgium seems to have 3 basic stores: Lidl (cheapish) Delhaize (middleish and mysteriously has a Food Lion brand logo) and Carrefour (middle to high). The last two take credit cards - so there's some actual useful information for someone traveling. I usually walk down the road to Lidl and grab some stuff, although if you have any bottles of beer laying around some times you can take them to Delhaize and get some change back. 40 cents will get you far these days, kiddo.
Anyway, to honor my Irish heritage plenty of potatoes are being eaten, to honor my French heritage, plenty of crepes (or pan-crepes as my wife likes to call the ones I make) are consumed and the Soy sauce I can't explain but I will say that it was one of the better food investments I've made in poor times and I believe there should be a bottle in every house or traveler's pack. It managed to make the rice and noodles a little less boring. Minced garlic, fried onions (put ketchup on 'em and pretend they're onion rings without batter, kids! It's log, it's log, it rolls down hills it...)
Living in Brussels isn't so bad other than it being expensive. I mostly stay home and do the Charlie-Work for my wife. (Speaking of, I've been trying to keep up on my Always Sunny In Philadelphia this season. Thank god for the resilient Pirate Bay cause even if I had TV it doesn't air over here.)
To reach our immaculate apartment you must first climb about 100 stairs (moving in sucked) and once you're there you find a nice studio apartment about the size of your parent's two car garage. We also have no door on our bathroom so when we have to shit we close the door to the bedroom. I hear cars honking and sirens blaring constantly from my windows (which are along the slanted ceiling) and at night there's music playing in the streets below. Oh, and there are drug dealers too. I happen to live in the African district of Brussels and let me tell you, those Africans love their marijuana and heroin. Or at least, the white kids that venture into the area to buy the stuff sure love it. The drug dealers seem to prefer new clothes which I must say isn't a bad idea because if I'm going to buy scag I'd much rather buy it from a well dressed man standing outside of Chicken Spot, rather than some jerk in a dark alley that smells like poop. The cops keep a healthy presence in the way that they would on the TV show The Wire, meaning, they ARE present, if not only to meet a quota so the politicians don't piss their pants. I learned this the hard way after getting my camera and some money stolen. I'll leave that story for another day because it involved ample doses of extreme stupidity on my part.
African food is pretty good, though. 5 euros a plate or so, chicken, steak... beans rice, whatever. They have pimento that will light your ass hairs on fire for a week. I believe that's an exact quote from the Michelin Guide...
I hate European milk though. I could write a whole post on that but suffice it to say, it comes in a box and is warm and it doesn't taste like milk should. I know the cost of having fresh milk in a cooler in a shop and having to throw some of the product out is looked at as waste, but France and Belgium: your milk tastes like shit and I hate it.
Instead of washing things down with milk of course I much prefer beer. Brussels is great for beer but I am poor and if there's one way to stop someone such as myself from drinking nightly, as I would, it is to be poor. If you'd prefer to be a Wino, though, Lidl has a nice Cabernet Sauvignon for only 1.68!
I've managed to make the woman happy by drinking less and losing some weight due to the hippy diet, but god damn it am I bored. I hear you say, But Drew, you're abroad! Living the life! My response is: There's a reason money is such a popular thing and it's because without it you can't do anything and that includes even when living in the magical fairyland that is "abroad" or "Europe". Walking around and seeing the sights is great until you see a pub you'd like to visit, or you see a group of giddy Japanese businessmen running around giggling like school girls with waffles and ice cream and frites they've purchased from a nearby goodycart. I hope your fries and waffles were burnt and your ice cream melted, salarymen. I mean, it's fun and all, but just like anywhere it loses it's brilliance when you're not in a great mood and -- probably to many who have been here for years -- when you see it all the time. I haven't grown tired of it, obviously, it's just hard to cherish some times.
Work-wise, I'm trying to get some customers for conversational American English classes but that ain't panning out so great yet. I did get one guy who was interested. we planned to meet on a Wednesday night but we got lost and couldn't find each other in the downpour of rain that was unleashed upon us. We tried to meet up at Hector Chicken, some fast food chicken place, but it didn't work out and so we said we'd try again another day. He apologized and sounded a little sad, like he had desperately wanted to find out what Quentin Tarantino movies were really about, but lost the chance. All he was left to do was stand and ponder the wonders of the world, soaking wet, in front of Hector Chicken. I left sadder though, because while explaining American pop culture references to a curious Flemish man sounded fun and all, I really wanted to get paid. Bring home the bacon as it were, to the woman. Alas the only bacon I could bring home was myself and I cannot be eaten. YET...
Until next time, Bonjour.
Until next time, Bonjour.
