The intro – I’m going for warm and humourous here.
Mrs. Waffle is a harassed mother of three small children [one two year old and five month old twins] who is based in Belgium and has been writing a blog for a number of years. Allegations that she got this gig by attending an ante natal course with the lifestyle editor [and his wife and Mr. Waffle, she hastens to add] are not entirely unfounded. Though I am sure that you would agree with her that having a baby is going to extreme lengths to get an appearance on the website of a magazine, however illustrious, especially when
one realises that she could just have emailed and asked.
The text (something Belgian related as requested):
Fitting In
I have spent more time in Belgium than many of my fellow ex-pats. My parents, for their own obscure and possibly nefarious reason, took us to Heverlee for a weekÂ’’s camping every summer for many years. My father took us to see the Plan Incliné (a wonder of Belgian engineering – and what little girl wouldnÂ’’t like to see a large lock? Oh, stop sniggering). I shopped with my mother in city2 when it was a sparkling new shopping centre. I worked here from 1993-1995, 1998-2000 and returned here in 2003. Belgium is the country where all my children are born. Mind you, they are not little Belgians; it takes a lot more than just being born here to be a Belgian. I think however, the high point of my integration into Belgian society occurred last week.
I was wandering around trying to manoeuvre my double buggy into the shops at Porte de Namur. I was hindered, not just by the dimensions of the buggy but by the fact that it appeared to set off security alarms in the shops; truly I am blessed. I was perhaps a little crabby with the pleasant man in a scarf who approached me with an outstretched hand. ““Hello,”” he said. ““Whatever it is, IÂ’m not buying it”,” I thought crossly. ““Remember me? I’Â’m the waiter from the Rose Blanche“”. And then, I did remember him, he looked a bit different in his civvies, but he had made the Rose Blanche our regular stopping point in the Grand Place.
Like all foreigners, we used to go to the Roy d’Espagne but despite the presence of high chairs, the place is horribly child hostile (if you are childless, you might like to make a mental note of its suitability for you). The waiters hate you, your buggy and your offspring and make no effort to hide it. The Rose Blanche is an altogether more sophisticated and less draughty establishment boasting no high chairs and a large open fire. You might, therefore, be forgiven for thinking that children would not be particularly welcome, but you would be wrong. The staff there are lovely. This particular waiter once gave the Princess seven pieces of chocolate (you know, the piece of chocolate that is your statutory right with every cup of tea served in Belgium) which she promptly stuffed into her mouth before her horrified mother could relieve her of them – but his intentions were undoubtedly good and earned him a disgusting chocolatey smile from herself.
Anyway when this waiter finished cooing over the boys and saying he hoped to see them soon in the café, he took himself off leaving me feeling all warm and fuzzy towards the Belgians. Yes, they love me, of course I fit in, they’d be lost without meÂ….
Comments
poggle
on 10 March 2006 at 09:29
And was madam running up the curtains after all that chocolate? My nephew used to go doolally after much less than that.
beachhutman
on 12 March 2006 at 00:20
Never mind the CURTAINS.
But the danger – for sure – is that they’ll grow up believing chips need mayo.
{WHAT? There are other Belgian traditions? Nah}
belgianwaffle
on 12 March 2006 at 21:11
Thank you Bobble. Pog, yes. BHM, at a birthday party at McDos this am (too hideous to speak about) chips were served with mayo and ketchup. Felt you should know.
