Leaving Brussels

As mentioned in an earlier post, the countdown has officially begun: I leave Brussels and move back to Washington, DC in only eight days. Like many of you, I've been here before. I've reached the end of numerous long-term stays overseas, and have fought through the hassles of packing, unpacking, and reorganizing a life somewhere else so often I practially have it down to an art. So I know that this is normally the time when I start to get a little sad - sometimes even a little distraught - about having to leave my current home, even if I'm excited about the new one that awaits. But this time feels different. There's no sadness here, and certainly no distress. This time, I'm ready to move on.

I don't mean to say I don't enjoy living in Brussels, or that this hasn't been as amazing of an experience as any other time I've lived abroad. I do enjoy Brussels, and how could six months in the Capital of Europe be anything but an awesome experience? Between the mouth-watering local specialties (chocolate, French fries, beer), the weekend trips to nearby cities (London, Amsterdam, Paris), meeting new people (including a fellow Minnesotan!), and simply living life in my adorable neighborhood (the cheese shop down the block is pure heaven), I couldn't have asked for a better trip. So what's with the ambivalence towards it all coming to an end?

Maybe it has something to do with my attachment to this city. I enjoy Brussels, but I don't love it like I love Paris. If I never lived in Brussels again it wouldn't bother me in the least, whereas I'm constantly thinking of ways to get back to my beloved City of Light. It could also be that I don't see such an enormous difference between living in Brussels and living in DC. When it was time to leave Cannes, France for St. Joseph, Minnesota, I knew I'd be in for a shock. But going from one government city with crappy weather to another government city with crappy weather? Piece of cake. Or maybe it's precisely because I've been here before. Maybe after you have so many moves under your belt you become immune to their more drastic emotional effects. Yes, there are plenty of things I'll miss about my life in Brussels, and I'm sure the day I fly to DC will be more than a little bittersweet, but history has taught me that life will go on. And that my next international adventure is probably just around the corner.

Move Blues

Moving overseas sucks. There, I said it. I know, I know, that is definitely not the impression you get from reading any one of the many blogs or articles that espouse the virtues of life lived abroad. The way we all talk you’d think it was nothing but rainbows and butterflies from sun-up to sundown over here. Moving overseas gives you enriching cultural discoveries, a chance at fulfilling self-discovery, and excitement and adventure at every turn! What a load of crap. Sometimes, it just plain sucks, with a large part of the suckiness coming from the frustration of trying to accomplish seemingly simple tasks in a culture/societal structure/system/language you’re unfamiliar with.

Take buying public transportation tickets in Belgium, for example. Unless you have a Belgian bank card, the only way to get tickets out of the machines or from the drivers is with coins. First of all, a system that only accepts Belgian cards in a city that is home to people from all EU and NATO countries is utterly ridiculous. But secondly, if you don’t know right away that you have to hoard your change like Uncle Scrooge just to get around this place, you will at some point find yourself stranded.

Like the woman on the bus the other morning who was trying to get to the airport. She only had a 50 euro bill. As she stood pleading with the bus driver in broken English, almost in tears, with no one helping her, all of my own frustrations from the past month rose to the surface. I approached the driver who proceeded to rant at me about her needing correct change. In an annoyed, but calm, tone I replied, “Je l’ai,” “I have it,” plopped down four euros in coins, gave the bus driver my best evil eye, gave the girl a look that I think said “It sucks, but we’ll live,” and turned around to the stares of an entire busload of groggy morning commuters. It was a small victory, and it felt good.

My own frustrations about moving to Belgium have largely centered on trying to get Internet access. One month in and I still don’t have it at home, despite giving constant effort to the pursuit. It’s a long story, but all you need to know is that trying to get Internet in Brussels has resulted in paying for a year when I only need six months, a modem lost in the mail, a land line that no longer works, and phone calls in vain (and in French, Dutch AND English) to the local company’s technical team.

Ok, so obviously I was a bit harsh at the beginning; moving overseas doesn’t actually suck. I love it, others love it, and I wouldn’t give up the experience for anything in the world, especially not Internet access. Moving overseas does give you enriching cultural discoveries, a chance at fulfilling self-discovery, and excitement and adventure at every turn, but sometimes the whole runaround that inevitably accompanies such a move just makes you want to crawl under the covers and never come back out. Sometimes, you just want things to be easy again. Moving overseas is not all rainbows and butterflies, and it doesn’t always have a four euro solution.

À Bientôt

You know how you can get nostalgic about something before it’s even over? You start to miss your seven-day vacation on day five, you reminisce about your college days weeks before graduation, and you think about all the good times you shared in the final days before a predictable break-up. That’s where I’m at with my life in DC. With the move to Brussels less than a week away, and even though I’m well aware that I’ll be back before I know it, I’m starting to wax poetic about what a beautiful city the nation’s capitol really is, how much I’m going to miss my favorite neighborhood spots… and remind me again why am I leaving this life I’ve built to traipse halfway around the world, over-stuffed suitcase in hand?

In addition to getting all “remember when?” and “those were the days…” about DC, I’m also in full-on getting-things-done mode. Packing boxes, cleaning out closets and changing my status with everyone from the U.S. Postal Service (yes, mom will be getting my mail) to my local gym (can I put my membership on hold for six months?) doesn’t leave much time for blogging. In fact, this will be the last stateside entry of Parisian Spring for 2009. See you in a week – in Brussels!

Moving to Brussels, One Task at a Time

It's crunch time. Exactly three weeks from today I will touch down in Brussels, Belgium and begin a 5 1/2 month overseas stint. It's the fourth time I've left the U.S. to spend multiple months living in Europe, so you'd think I'd be really good at executing trans-Atlantic moves. You'd think. But instead of feeling like I'm making progress on the ever-growing pre-trip to-do list, I feel like I'm swimming upstream. The list isn't getting shorter, it's getting longer, and time is quickly running out.

Moving your entire life to a foreign country is no easy task. There are boxes and suitcases to pack, financial matters to rearrange, purchases to make and friends and family to see one last-for-now time. You might have to find new housing, renew your passport, buy international health insurance, or prepare for a new job. My current to-do list includes such daunting tasks as "research/buy a new laptop," "clean apartment from top to bottom," and "rent storage unit; fill with worldly possessions." I have managed to find a nice couple from Seattle to sublet my place, which I admit was a satisfying cross-off, but the anxiety level of too much to do and too little time is still threatening to put an end to my sanity, once and for all.

Why doesn't moving overseas seem to get any easier the more I do it? Denial, perhaps? I do always tell myself I have a ton of time to get things done, but it's never true. The preparations are enormous, and distractions of regular, daily life don't just stop because you tell the universe you have an overseas adventure on your hands. The result is that I'm taken by surprise each and every time the big day starts to creep up on the calendar. My only consolation is that on the first three times I moved to Euorpe, despite everything I had to do last minute, I never once missed the plane because of unfinished business. And with the prospect of living la vie en Belgique, I'm not about to ruin my perfect record.

Fast Travel in Vegas

A lot of travelers would say that when it comes to visiting far away places the longer the stay the better. Some of us like like taking our time to become familiar with our surroundings and to learn about the local culture, customs and maybe even the language. We want to feel like we actually live there. I agree wholeheartedly with this assertion. In my opinion, slow travel , while not always possible, is highly desirable. This approach has worked for me in France, and I'm giddy about my upcoming chance to employ it in Belgium. But while taking your time in a new city or country is often a good idea, there's at least one location on Earth where this travel wisdom doesn't hold true: Las Vegas, Nevada. As anyone who has been there for a family vacation, a girls' weekend/guys' getaway, or a romantic trip for two can tell you, when it comes to Vegas, less is generally more.


The best way to describe Las Vegas is as a 24-hour Disney World for adults. There is no shortage of fun to be had: Great restaurants, exciting casino floors, dazzling shows, and swank dance clubs all conspire to ensure you have a non-stop, thrilling visit. Unfortunately, along with the fun comes all manner of human vice. Sex, drugs, gambling, gluttony, alcohol...you name it and Vegas has got it to the extreme. Even if you don't partake heavily in any of them, you can't help but feel their influence on you. There are all-you-can-eat buffets, people losing their money and them some at the tables, and advertisements for girls!girls!girls littering the streets. In my experience, Vegas has a shelf life of approximately 48 hours.

Don't get me wrong, I love Vegas. Last weekend was my third trip to Sin City and I've had a fabulous, exceeds expectations time on each and every occasion. Nevertheless, you get to a point where enough is enough. I think I reached that point last weekend when the front page of my Sunday paper featured a shooting at a strip club and the results of the UFC 100 match rather than President Obama's latest initiative or the state of the global economy. It was time to leave Vegas World and find my way back to reality, but I'll definitely be back again someday. Not so I can have a deeply rich and life-changing cultural experience, or anything. Just so I can enjoy my 48 hours of fun.

Travel and Ten Years

Yes, I did it. While on vacation in Minnesota last week I attended my 10 year high school reunion. After leaving campus in 1999, I said I would never go back, and yet, there I was, surrounded by familiar faces from my childhood. A combination of rampant curiosity and a "why not?" attitude drove me to do it, and I'm happy to say I don't have any regrets. Between seeing old friends and reliving old memories, I actually enjoyed myself.

One of the biggest surprises of the night came in the form of a time capsule. I had no recollection of this project, but apparently all the '99 grads received envelopes that we filled with whatever we thought we'd like to see in our late twenties. Mine contained a variety of fun little treasures: high school photos, a movie ticket stub, a semi-love note from an ex. But the best thing of all was the message I wrote to myself about the next stage in my life. In addition to talking about my excitement over starting college and getting out of high school, I wrote that I wanted to marry someone "whose job allows us to travel the world." Sheesh. Kids say the darnedest things. Ten years later I'm pretty pleased I got to do the traveling thing, and especially pleased I did it all by myself.

We like to think we change so much after high school. We think we'll go to the reunion and show everyone what different people we've become. Wait until they see me now! But you know what? Standing in that room filled with former classmates, I felt like we hadn't changed one little bit. At least not in any fundamental way. The shy kid was still shy, the super involved kid was still super involved, the crazies were still crazy, the ones you enjoyed talking to you still enjoy talking to, and the ones you avoided (and who avoided you in return), well, time doesn't make any of you change your minds. As for me, I thought the reunion would reinforce my belief that I've become a completely different person from the one in I see in my high school photos, but that didn't happen at all. Turns out, I'm still the girl who wants to travel the world.

Friends in Foreign Places

Last week, a colleague asked me if I had any overseas contacts that could help her with a specific work project. She told me what she was looking for, and I told her I had the perfect person for the job. The exchange got me thinking about one of my favorite benefits of traveling: international networking. Spend enough time overseas and you start to develop a list of foreign friends, colleagues, acquaintances and exes that turn your social circle into a veritable United Nations. Even when you eventually (maybe) return home, there will still be a few people you'll stay in contact with forever. Your worldview will never be the same.

Having friends and contacts all over the world is fun for so many reasons. When you travel, you've got people to visit. When they travel, they visit you. When a big news story breaks in their country, you've got someone to give you the real scoop. They teach you about their culture and their language. When the ones you don't talk to on a regular basis send you an email out of the blue it brightens your day. The world seems smaller when far off countries become that place your friend lives rather than some abstract idea. You get to say things like, "Oh yes, well my friend from Guyana will be in town next week..." It's fun because your world is never limited to where you actually are at any given moment in time. International connections expand your horizons.

Of course, you don't have to travel to globally grow your social circle. The Internet allows us to make connections without ever meeting in person. Writing Parisian Spring has put me in touch with other bloggers and people who read my blog all over the world. For those I've actually spent face-to-face time with, the Internet helps us keep in touch and reconnect in the future. And as I saw last week, it can also help you make connections between your connections. But my favorite was to build an international network is still by traveling. It's just plain fun.

Tourist Invasion

Why is it that some travelers find it so difficult to make even the slightest attempt at blending in? It seems like it should be an easy enough proposition: You take a look around to see what others are doing and you try to do likewise. But after days of feeling inexplicably overwhelmed by spring breakers and cherry blossom viewers, a colleague offered an explanation for my sense of invasion. "They don't blend in at all, do they?" she said, "They don't even try. Tourists in DC are just so obvious." I thought she might be on to something there.

From dressing head-to-toe in American flag clothing, to letting their kids treat the subway handrails like monkey bars on a playground, I started to think that tourists in DC have far from mastered the art of respectful travel. They try to shove their paper metro tickets in turnstiles that are microchip card only. They move in non self-aware crowds, taking up all the space on our generous sidewalks and squeezing out the average resident. Sometimes I wonder if they realize that there are people in this city who are trying to conduct their daily lives. We're trying to go to work, to class, to the store, and home. Is it too much to ask that you take 30 seconds to notice that Washingtonians don't stand on the left side of the escalator and therefore you shouldn't either? How difficult is this? We've even put signs up in the trains calling such non-right side standers "Escalefters," in an apparently vain attempt to inform outsiders of our local social norms. It might sound unbelievable, but I notice the American tourists in this American city way more that I ever did in Paris. What gives?

For many, Washington, DC is a logical choice for a vacation. There are loads of free things to see and do, it's an incredibly family-friendly city, and it's the nation's capital giving it a natural draw. I fully support anyone who decides to pay us a visit (especially my dearly missed friends and family!). However, I can't help but be reminded of how doing like the Romans do has always increased my enjoyment of any given trip. Am I way out of line in thinking DC tourists should attempt the same? Maybe I'm expecting too much, or being too critical. After all, there are plenty of DC visitors who don't turn themselves into spectacles. Maybe I need to give the ones who do the benefit of the doubt. Maybe I need to get over it. Maybe, just maybe, I'm the one who needs a vacation.

Tomorrow is Another Day

No matter how much you plan, no matter your best intentions, if you travel, someday, somewhere, something is bound to go wrong. You'll miss a flight, or get lost in a new city, or lose something of value, or get sick; the possibilities are endless. Merde happens. Like most travelers, I have a regular encyclopedia of experiences that were none too pleasant at the time. Is it just me, or do mishaps seems amplified in stressfulness when they happen while traveling? To ease the pain, there's something that everyone tells themselves while living through an unplanned travel detour: this will be really funny tomorrow.

Though difficult to believe at the time, I've found this statement to be largely, incredibly true. The stories my friends and I tell over, and over, and over again - the ones that get bigger and better and funnier each time we tell them - are the stories of events that totally sucked at the time. With the luxury of distance, disasters are the best on-the-road stories a traveler could hope for. The time my friends and I booked an early morning train from Cannes to Strasbourg, all separately missed our alarms, frenetically scrambled to get to the station with seconds to spare, had to leave one person behind at the station because she forgot her passport (which we needed to be able to use our eurorail passes), and spent the long ride north comforting yours truly who was so distraught she spent almost the entire first leg of the ride in the shaky, disgusting train bathroom getting sick, has turned into one of our favorite laugh-generating "remember when?" stories.

Why do travel disasters make for the best post-travel stories? Is it because everyone loves a tragedy, or at least one that eventually turns out ok? No one was every seriously hurt during my travel mishaps. We all survived, and if anything, came out stronger on the other end. Maybe it's because these events are sort of a badge of honor. Later, you can say, "yeah, I was practically hugging that toilette on the train, and I lived to tell the tale!" Or, "yeah, I stayed in a really bad hostel, it was awesome!" Of course, you weren't laughing at the time. You were freaking out, overly stressed, frustrated, or angry, or scared...and telling yourself it would be funny tomorrow.

An Ode to My Backpack

Remember that day back in the summer of 2001 when I picked you out of a wall of backpacks at REI? I do. It was a big purchase for a 20-year old college student, but one that would pay immeasurable returns. You were red and black with a multitude of pockets and straps and hooks fit to hold everything I would need to see the world. I was apprehensive and excited about being a young traveler about to set off on her own. Our first stop was France, and for five years after that we never slowed down.

Our travels took us to edgy Barcelona, rainy London, and large portions of Ireland, Scotland, Italy and France. We saw Roman ruins, Gothic cathedrals and rolling countrysides, all the while surviving an endless stream of bad hostels, long, uphill walks (I'll admit, I didn't really like you much during those), and sleepless overnight trains. You were smaller than most traveling backpacks, and therefore taught me to live minimally. I was always thankful that you were thin enough to fit through public transportation turnstiles and never hit innocent passengers while walking down the aisles of trains. I used you as a pillow, a foot rest, and as a hiding place for my emergency stash of snacks. You even posed with me in my all-time favorite travel photo; the one that, for me, defines an entire period of my life. Sitting on that ledge in Florence, looking out at the Italian countryside, life had never felt so exhilarating.


A good backpack like yourself can be a traveler's best friend. It's our constant companion, it carries all we own in the world, it serves multiple purposes, and it's always there when we need it. Needless to say, I'll forever regret storing you in the 4-plex's basement instead of my locked, second-floor unit. Maybe then you wouldn't have been stolen by the intruder who entered the building to take a bike, some electronics, and a beloved backpack. He or she even tore off your Air France identity tag, which had proudly survived years of comings and goings. I'm sorry. You were the perfect travel partner for an apprehensive and excited young traveler setting off on her own. I wish you could see me now.

Wake-Up Call

I was in desperate need of a talking down. For the past couple of weeks, I had been heading down the slippery slope to Paris idealization with no end in sight. Everything about the French capital became "the best" in my mind: the best lifestyle, the best social life, the best atmosphere. It could have been brought on by any number of happenings, from the recent spate of coworkers with plans for trans-Atlantic getaways, to recent conversations with Parisian friends, to a general feeling of late-February malaise. Whatever the cause, my discontent cried out for something - anything! - that could banish it from consciousness. That something happened on Wednesday.

Actually, it was a someone that brought me back to reality. While attending a conference, I met a woman who works as a translator and previously spent two years living in Paris. When she found out that I, too, had a French connection, she immediately struck up a conversation about our experiences abroad. Being in the depths of my Paris-as-perfection phase, I began spontaneously gushing about how not being there was becoming unbearable. Unable to imagine anything else but undying love for my beloved faraway city, I naturally expected her to respond with an affirmative. Instead, I heard a lot of "yeah buts." As in, "Yeah, but life is a lot harder in Paris than it is in the U.S.," "yeah, but salaries are so much lower over there," "yeah, but everyone in Paris always seems so stressed and gloomy." With the utterance of those and other gently delivered reality checks, the spell was instantly broken. Her fair and balanced approach to Paris - it's beautiful and fabulous, but has its cons just like everywhere else - lifted the fog that had made itself a little too comfortable in my memory.

This is a fault of mine that I just can't seem to shake. I idealize many of the people, places, and things that no longer play a major role in my life, and let the longing for a lost better life eat away at me. Call it The Grass is Always Greener Syndrome. I did it in Paris too, except at that time it was Minneapolis and Washington, DC being imagined into perfectness, blizzards and pollution forgotten. Am I the only one who suffers from this ailment? I have to think there are a few other travelers out there who turn their past destinations into far more agreeable places in their minds than they ever were in person. But I don't want to think what was is better than what is, which is why my new down-to-earth friend's unbiased view was so appreciated. I don't want an idealized view of Paris. I prefer to love it for the wonderfully flawed city it truly is.

Travels Well With Others

One of the best things about living in the DC area is that you're never at a loss for things to do when guests come to visit. Museums, monuments, vibrant neighborhoods, restaurants whose menus span the globe and nearby cities like Baltimore and Philadelphia mean the only problem you'll have is not enough time. Virginia vineyards are particularly fun to show off, so when a dear friend and her husband came to town for the weekend I jumped at the chance to partake in a mini winery tour. Joined by two other DC-based friends (including one pregnant woman, nature's glorious way of providing the rest of us with a designated driver), we piled into a very cramped Honda Civic and headed for greener pastures, just beyond The Beltway.

The morning started out with a light snowfall followed by steady rain, but by noon had thankfully given way to sunny skies. With Chrysalis Vineyards, Barrel Oak Winery and Piedmont Vineyards and Winery all on the itinerary, there simply wasn't time for a weather disaster. We sipped on such specialties as peach and chocolate wine, only stopping to picnic with a newly bought Chardonnay. Unfortunately, unlike most of the tastings I've done at wineries in France, sipping in Virginia will cost you: anywhere from $3 to $6 for a multi-glass flite is standard, but some will waive the fee if you buy a bottle. Fortunately, the scenery of Virginia vineyards is magnificent, complete with rolling hills, winding gravel roads and patios offering majestic, sprawling views. I picked up a bottle of my favorite white at Chrysalis, and was delighted to hear that their new creamery should start selling cheeses by early summer. As if I needed another reason to return.

While the reds, whites, and sparklings all hit the spot, it was the company that truly made my day. Sure, I've done a fair amount of solo travel, loved it, and would recommend it to anyone who's looking to discover not only the sights, but a bit of themselves as well. It's just that you get a bit extra when you travel with friends. Between the belly laughs, photo-ops and inside jokes, you'll never want the trip to end. When it does end, you have shared memories that can be discussed, dissected and glorified for years. The whole wine tour gang is coming over to chez moi tonight for dinner, and I'm guessing we'll do exactly that.

Gone But Not Forgotten

Do you ever think about the things you leave behind when you travel? Yesterday, for no apparent reason other than needing something to ponder while waiting for the metro, I started adding up the things I've abandoned in various corners of the globe. When it was all said and done, I had a list that constituted enough personal effects to build an entirely new life. The Shedding of the Things happens for any number of reasons while traveling: the clothes you wear over and over again finally wear out, heavy items become just too much work to lug around, certain climate or country specific belongings don't serve a purpose in your next destination. Extended stays especially give you an opportunity to accumulate a lot more than you brought. At some point you just have to say goodbye.

Sadly, books are usually one of the first things to go. They're just too heavy to drag around once they've been read. Luckily, you can almost always find them a good home; used bookstores, hostel libraries and roommates who love to read are happy to take a load off your back. Anything with an electric plug is also easily left behind. I gave up a hair dryer and hair straightener to an apartment in Paris because their French plugs and voltage requirements are not compatible with what we use in the U.S. I also left a bath towel, a couple pairs of shoes, clothing, and an assortment of soaps and makeup products. My most infamous parting occurred on an overnight train from Rome to Nice. It was December, 2001, and I had just spent the last four months studying abroad. Heading to Nice for the flight back to Minnesota I found myself neither willing nor able to keep on carrying my worn out possessions. I simply couldn't bear to look at them any longer, so I rapidly started shedding anything I could get my hands on in my overstuffed backpack. To this day I wonder what someone must have thought when they discovered a navy blue hooded university sweatshirt, a pair of beat up flip-flops and a handful of other daily necessities left for dead on the top bunk.

Of course, travelers don't just leave clothes and books and beauty products behind. As two phone calls from Paris reminded me yesterday, we also leave a piece of ourselves. While my friends and I shared news and talked about the people and places we know, I started to think that in some small way I still have a life in France. Part of me is still in Paris - still in all the places I've lived - existing in the relationships I maintain, and in the memories and thoughts of others. In return, I've kept a part of them with me as well. It was a reassuring thought, knowing that I still have ties to the city I love so much. For a moment, I could almost imagine I had never left.

Revolutionize This

It's a rough time to be a cubicle dweller. Seems like everywhere I turn there's some new blog post telling us to step away from the desk, break out of the office, become our own boss or take our work mobile. For the most part, I couldn't agree more. Too many people spend their lives stuck in a dead end job while what they really want to be doing slips further and further away. Want to shake up your life? I'm all for it! Heck, after doing it myself three times to chase my constant dream of living in France, I could even give you some tips along the way. But I sometimes get the feeling that supporters of such life-changing moves are insinuating that those of us who work in an office must be miserable, and that the 9-5 routine must be a one way trip to job un-satisfaction. Sometimes I feel as though those who reject the office outright have - dare I say it? - missed the point.

Here's the deal: I've taken myself out of my comfort zone, moved across the country and the globe more than once, and I'll probably continue to crave that kind of change (and make it happen!) for the rest of my life. But I've also had the desk jobs, and you know what? Sometimes those jobs are the dream. It all depends on the kind of job you're talking about. I spent years working for a French organization, where I had a desk, a 9-5 schedule and a boss. And it was one of the best experiences of my life. My current job is the same way. I'm doing exactly what I want to be doing every single day, all within the confines of a cubicle. I don't feel trapped, I feel energized.

Maybe I'm reading something into these calls to life revolution that simply isn't there, but I feel like they're prone to focusing on details rather than the real heart of the matter. It's not the location that matters (although, I'm pretty happy my cube has a sweet view and isn't tucked away in the corner), it's the activity. The important thing is doing what you love to do. What's more, there are plenty of people who would honestly not like to work in the mobile, unstructured setting so many espouse. Nothing wrong with that. I'm not necessarily one of those people, but I get where they're coming from. So I'll take my cubicle, my health plan, my 40 hours a week, my butting heads with The Man, and my totally awesome job description, and I'll love every minute of it. Until I decide it's time for the next big shake-up, that is. I give it about a year.