I stood in front of the doors of Woudec in Alsemberg.
It had taken me fifteen minutes to walk there- five minutes more than usual due to the frequent slide of my feet on the icy sidewalks.
The doors opened up for me, and as my legs rushed in, ready to find refuge from the cold, I heard the common beep which signaled my arrival.
I raised my eyes from the ground as I walked forward and saw an elderly woman speaking with an employee of the store.
"So is it supposed to work this way?"
"Yes, that's right. Here, let me show you."
While thinking about how much I'd liked the employee's accent, I realized he was talking in English. They were talking in English.
I continued to the counter, waiting for the person in front of me to finish. In his hands was a Nikon DSLR, and he was saying something along the lines of "Mijn camera werkt niet goed."
At that moment, the other employee who had finished showing the woman how to use her cell phone walked up to the counter and smiled at me.
Returning the smile I said, "Bonjour, j'ai besoin de développer des photos."
He then led me over to the machine for the instant prints, and explained to me how to go through the process. We spoke in French, but at the same moment he was suggesting something to the man with the camera in Flemish.
Despite what most people think, I really like the sound of Flemish.
Something I've realized recently is that comprehension takes away from the beauty of a language. If you know the meaning of the words, you listen to understand them and forget about their natural beauty, natural rhythym. I used to be awed by the sound of French; I was so enraptured by the music of words although they had no meaning. But now the language is so common, so everyday that it's lost its essence of beauty. Though if I turn my comprehension off and just listen, I can hear it. This method pleases me momentarily, but then afterwards I always get the blank stares of "You really didn't understand what I just said?"
But I'm in this tiny store, only about as big as two bedrooms, yet three languages surround me: English in my head; French from my mouth, his mouth; and Flemish from theirs.
And at that moment I thought of how much I'm going to miss this, this diversity of language, when I return to the US.
Everything I read will be written in English.
Everything I hear will be in English.
Each word I say will be, in English.
I'm not sure how I'll be able to handle such monotony.
Or how I'll feel when each word I say is right, proper, unaccented.
I'll be able to speak freely, and I'll lose the smiles that are often developped in response to my words.
Is it really already the end of December?
belgië, zijn muziek.
-0℃❅☃
my host family:
our christmas tree:
the snow and his smile.
As I’m sitting down to write this, I’m experiencing the nervous feeling of time passing all too quickly.
This is my fifth month in Belgium. I’ve been here for four months in total, but this is the debut of my fifth month, which is uncomfortably close to the halfway point. I tend to wonder if I’m truly making the best of my time, especially since it’s being dispensed at the same rate as my money.
At this point, I find myself focusing on my studies more than anything since my exams commence the week after next, but at the same time I think that maybe I should be spending my time exploring the country rather than in my room memorizing its politics. Most other exchange students laugh at the idea of school and succeeding, but I actually feel like I’m capable and that I should try, especially since this year counts for me in the United States. Though, in the long run, will I regret spending my time gaining knowledge I will more than likely soon forget rather than wandering about the country, taking trains and introducing my taste buds to chocolate, beer, and waffles that they could never meet in America?
But I can’t say that I haven’t experienced the things I’ve wanted to. To me, it’s not necessarily visiting every city and tasting all the food which makes an exchange; it’s more so that which can happen every day. It’s what I’ll always remember although most other people probably won’t, like the first snow of the season, everyone with pink noses which barely peek over at least two cozy, knitted scarves; the constant sound of sniffling; fingers huddling in the shelter of mittens; and permanent smiles, white as the snow which caused them. It’s, later that day, being chased by the threat of a snowball clenched in my best friend’s hand, obstinacy eventually causing it to soar directly toward my already numbed cheek, leading to both of us tumbling through the snow in a war with no final victory but the teacher’s smile as we entered the next class powdered white with rosy cheeks.
It’s being told “Appy Tanksgiving” throughout the day, making it a little better that I was going to school for the first time on the last Thursday of November, and then teaching my host sister how to make pumpkin pie that evening. It’s hearing grace in Spanish, French, Hungarian, Chinese, and English as four American exchange students surrounded a table bearing stuffing, roast beef, mashed potatoes, and cranberry sauce they had prepared themselves, introducing the tradition of Thanksgiving to five different nationalities.
These are the things which make me happy, just the little things. If I'm feeling down, I think, "Jordann, you're an exchange student in Belgium, and you're here because you earned it," and I just feel better.
However, I have been dealing with more melancholy feelings than usual the past couple weeks. I've realized that I don't necessarily feel sad from being away from home on a regular basis, but I do when I realize that things are changing when I'm not there. It's as if in my head I have an image of this world, exactly the way it was before I left. I know that in time, I'll once again live there, which comforts me. But when I realize that my world's changing, I become overwhelmed. My world is becoming unfamiliar, and there's nothing I can do to change it. The image in my head no longer provides comforts, but fear instead.
I know that my best friends are changing; I know that my aunt and uncle are moving away. But what can I do about it? My mind is adamant to change, but it's going to happen whether she wants it or not.
So, Jordann, just be tough. Focus on now, not the past or the future.
Focus on the saying the words "littérature" and “amoureux”. Focus on the smile of the snowman you and your host sisters built in the backyard. Focus on finding your gym bag you forgot on the bus.
Just laugh, like always.
Smile to just smile.
je te promet.
What to write? I feel like I should express something new, something different about Belgium that I've yet to share, but my thoughts are blank. Maybe if I just write aimlessly, ideas will meet me along the way.
Tomorrow's Thanksgiving
and my amount of indifference worries me. Naturally, I should be longing to be home with my family and friends, smiling and laughing at jokes I actually understand, staring at a table overwhelmed by plates bearing turkeys in pilgrim hats buried by prepared home recipes, or rather those of Martha Stewart and Paula Dean.
Naturally.
But I just don't register anything. I think the speed of time confuses nostalgia. I don't know what home is anymore. "Chez moi ici", "chez moi aux Etats-Unis". Chez moi.. chez qui?
Though, it's not that it really bothers me. En fait, it's actually a little comforting.
I've found "home" in myself. Home to me is now the feeling of familiarity and comfort, not necessarily walls and a roof.
I'm at home when my headphones plug my ears as their red wires tangle in my hair,
or when I'm wandering without a destination, my camera resting with curiosity around my neck.
I'm at home when my back rests against the bark of a lonely tree and I can sing to only him;
I can inhale the new air of spring, crisp air of fall, or brisk air of winter
and watch the sun or the clouds or the rain or the birds,
whoever decides to join me that day.
Home is an escape, which to me is simplicity.
I don't think anyone here really understands that, that I find happiness in the simplest things.
It doesn't bother me when I eat lunch with no one but my ipod and rooted best friend. It's relaxing to be in solitude de temps en temps.
It's great and all that you're truly concerned about my well-being, but I'm not going to cry in a corner because you have plans to eat with someone else. I'm not as fragile as you think, I promise.
À qui je parle?
Okay, I'm done expressing the sorrows of my pride,
which then brings me to another thought:
to be an exchange student, you need to let go of "you".
Well, at least at first. Initially, you need to talk and try to make friends, but not be frustrated that you lack personality. If you aim to express yourself and show your true character, you'll only feel unsatisfied by your inability.
I always find myself trying to be Jordann, but I can't. At first, I was so bothered by it, but over time, I realized that it's just the nature of a language barrier.
Ironically, the inability to express character builds it. I find myself feeling more content with who I am each day although others don't truly realize it.
I just constantly think, aimlessly yet deeply;
consequently consuming my time.
Par exemple, I've been writing this post for nearly two hours now because of my thoughts
who now think it's time to go.
leaf piles.
My legs have been wanting, more than anything, to snuggle their toes cosily into grass, feeling the crunch of forgotten, fallen leaves;
to spring into a mountain of red, yellow, and orange;
into the fire of autumn: the ceremonial bonfire which welcomes the snow.
My hair wants to intertwine with, lace her fingers with those of the fall;
become so tangled up in careless, child-like play.
My arms want to swim through the colorful, cackling pool the trees have made for them;
make snow-angels that smell of crisp earth, sunshine, and the gentle, constant breath of the season.
Though it's been raining,
raining for four days straight.
But today it stopped.
I looked outside to see that every tree was bare
and that my host dad had raked up all the leaves,
detaining them in big, black garbage bags.
They're sitting on the curb.
en fait.
I've recently realized how happy I am.
Truly, honestly
happy.
I miss, but I don't desire.
& gratitude overrules any
notalgic
or melancholy feeling.
And isn't that life?
the city of.
When I try to think back to the past four days, from Saturday to Tuesday, I can't seem to grasp reality. The speed of time and strength of laughter have teamed up to prohibit clarity of thought.
Therefore, thank goodness for my camera's memory, which never seems to falter, as well as a small notebook in which my pen decided to express her thoughts. Without the two, I would have woken up yesterday morning and simply smiled: the smile of a night's sleep overtaken by a perfect dream.
Nonetheless, what I do recall of Paris is that it met stereotypes and broke them as well. It truly is "The City of Love": I've never seen so much romance (hands always held and lips always kissed) in such a small radius (in reference to the radius in which we visited, by no means is Paris a small city). Also, Parisians do take pride in their fashion. I don't think I really saw anyone badly dressed apart from a few tourists. And, of course, cuisine is taken in a pretty serious manner as well.
However, I never really sensed the rude and stuck-up nature that people often think that Parisians have. Four teenage back-packers sat down in Café Angelina, a café with high ceilings and chandeliers, and they were treated like any other Parisian with his curly moustache and Dior chemise. Later, the four walked into Courrèges boutique, all too close to the Champs-Elysées, in search of Empreinte parfum. The tall black man behind the counter, wearing a sweater all too tight and probably all too expensive, smiled and displayed nothing but warmth and hospitality.
Never once did I receive a cold sneer or bitter words. But maybe they're saved for tourists who expect everyone to speak English and have no sense of courtesy.
Moreover, here's just a quick summary of my four days in Paris, which will be better illustrated by photos:
Who did I go with? Michelle, an exchange student from Colorade; Savannah, an exchange student from Massachusetts; and Jacob, an "exchange student" from Australia.
Where did we stay? Aloha Hostel, close the the Eiffel Tower. I recommend this hostel to anyone going to Paris.
What did I see/where did I go?
Day 1 (our night of arrival): The Eiffel Tower;
Day 2: Versaille, Musée d'Orsay, Latin Quarter, St. Sulpice;
Day 3: The Louvre, Pont Neuf, The Seine, Notre Dame, Champs-Elysées by night;
Day 4 (note: while carrying bags): Café Angelina, Courrèges, Champs-Elysées, The Seine and Pont Neuf for shopping, train home.
