an american no longer in belgië

Hello, it's me . . . an american no longer in belgië.

After 7 months, I stopped long enough to reflect and feel a need to chronicle . . . something.

Our departure from Belgium.  Our return to the States.  That last Turkse kebap.  That first American glazed donut.

I want to remember and  . . .  I don't want to forget.

Being back in the States has given a whole new meaning to the words "joyful" and "wistful" and "adjustment" and a little "regret".

Seven years away is a long time and a lot of things have changed and I don't mean just my hair color.

Maybe things haven't changed.  Maybe I've changed.  Probably both. As Jim said, we left a little different and we came back a lot different.

I've definitely stooped to a whole new level of low in fashion.  I'm way too comfortable going straight from yard work to the home improvement center. Flip flops and all.  That would never have happened in Belgium. Dress to the nines or stay home.

I had gotten way too accustomed to using the blinkers while abroad.  I'm adjusting to keeping one hand free for all those things we Americans do in the car besides drive. Eating, drinking, and mostly texting. Blinkers - optional. Attentive driving also optional.

And those greetings.  How you doin' today?  Can I help you find anything?  Are you lookin' for somethin' in particular?  Welcome to this store you're in.  Did you find everything ok?  If I can help you, let me know.

Yes, you can help me by not talking to me!  I have a hard enough time remembering why I'm even here.

I had definitely forgotten about all that greeting that goes on because you will absolutely not hear that abroad and I think I prefer it.  The "not talking to me" part.

I long to walk right across the street to the grocery store full of good wine, a whole aisle of smelly cheese and fresh baked bread.

I must admit, it is nice to walk into my very own in-house laundry room fit with an American washer and dryer and not walking across the street toting my dirty clothes and bag of Euros.

I long to walk or bike downtown to the corner cafe' for a coffee or a glass of wine or a great beer.

But, I sometimes enjoy driving the car (no blinkers, of course) to one of 50 Mexican restaurants within a 5 mile radius and ordering a large frozen margarita.  Where "large" actually means as big as my head.

I long to go to a restaurant with no television, where we can linger and the waiter ignores you and doesn't ask for your drink order before you even sit down.  And who doesn't bring the check with our drinks.

So I begin a new chapter because I want to remember . . . and I don't want to forget.

   

Of course I took pictures.

Here's to hoping this transition gets better.