Excuse me, do you speak English??

Okay, so I’m a little disappointed with myself these days. Partially because I don’t speak any other language as fluently as I do English.  It’s become my “native” tongue apparently.   I mean whose native tongue is English???  Excluding of course Australians, Brits, Canadians, New Zealanders and Scottish folk because let’s face it, they all have cool accents that make the way they say things in English sound like a completely different language anyway.   I’m referring to “American” English.

It’s ironic because I wasn’t born in America. I was born in a small town in Puerto Rico where my first words were in Spanish.  I practically spoke fluent Spanish when I came out of my mother’s womb (the child prodigy that I was).   I mean not even a little bit of English –at all!   So what the hell happened??

We moved to America. That’s what happened.  We assimilated nicely however slowly I stopped speaking Spanish as often and picked up English as a first language.  My Spanish slowly made its way into the corner of my world collecting cobwebs.  As if it were the evil step sister who had been punished and forced to wear a dunce cap on a time out or something.  Permanently.

Now I barely understand the language. It’s shameful since my life now is here in Europa.  Europeans on average learn to speak 3 different languages by the time they’re out of secondary school.  I mean that’s pretty fucking impressive, if you ask me!   

I envy them. 

Belgians speak Dutch, French and German as well as English so actually right there is four.  It’s fascinating to know that they can merge themselves into another neighboring country like France or Germany with such ease because they speak the “native tongue”.   Must be nice.

I’ve slowly been (trying) to incorporate the Dutch language into my vocabulary since my girlfriend is a native Belgian and all of her family members, friends and even cat speak Dutch.  

So I must. 

If I have any future in this country I must give it a try.  Dutch is pretty difficult, but maybe my knowledge of the tiny bit of Spanish that I know is more of an advantage here?   Maybe, just maybe I should consider relearning my initial native language of Spanish to make myself more appealing.  Aha!  Maybe that could be my strength here.   At the very least if I ever get into trouble or run into people I don’t like, I can always turn on the "español mágica" and no one will understand. 

It may not be such a bad thing after all.      

So you Gotta have Friends..

Never underestimate the power of a friend. I appreciate my friends a lot more these days since I moved across the ocean to start a life with my girlfriend.  Not only is she my partner in life, but she has become one of my best friends. However, I still miss and crave the ridiculously silly inside jokes as well as the fun and quirky personalities I left back in New York. 

So I’ve made it a mission here to find “a” friend.  One is fine, I’m not greedy (okay maybe two wouldn’t hurt). Someone to grab a pint of beer with (lord knows there's plenty of beer to be had here in La Belgique), maybe go shopping together and playfully mock the stuff on display  as if we were too cool for it all or even people watch and laugh at the complete and downright foolishness people call "style" these days (my personal fave). Possibly even lend a comforting ear or better yet give some love or sex advice here and there.  That’s not too much to ask for is it? 

Growing up I always had acquaintances. Lots of them.  In high school I was the girl that was friendly with everyone.  No labels.  Not a rock chick or a hippie or J.A.P (Jewish American Princess). Nope. I didn’t associate myself with any clique in particular.  It’s funny, but the word “clique” will always remind me of the movie Clueless where Alicia Silverstone’s character Cher comically observes and critiques the groups in the school cafeteria (in that stereotypical 90’s movie approach).  I was the girl that was friends with them all.   

As you get older your friendship circle gets smaller.  Friends move out of town, get married, have children, travel the globe, or just simply fall out of your life.  I’m happy to say that I’ve narrowed down my friend list to a solid group.  They’re all scattered across the Unites States, but I have faith that I’ll meet some “new” friends and add them to my European friend list.  If not, there’s always Skype.  In the mean time, I'll continue to enjoy and embrace the people that I've been truly fortunate enough to meet in this beautiful, yet strange and crazy world. 

“It’s as easy as riding a bike” --So they say..

So I recently moved to Belgium, land of the bikes, trams, scooters, mopeds, skateboards, trucks, planes, trains and automobiles.  Literally, all at the same time.  Piccadilly Circus has NOTHING on Belgium! I have practically lived my entire adult life in New York City, so you would think I would be accustomed to the traffic and loud noises that automatically comes with a large metropolis.   Yes and No. 

First of all let’s just say that I needed to learn how to walk first before even thinking about riding a bike.   Yes, that’s right. Walk.  Crossing the street in the center of Gent was quite an ordeal.  You have the trams simultaneously whizzing by in both directions, then the buses trying to maneuver in between the lanes on the same track and then there are the cyclists speeding by as if it was the practice course for the Tour de France. And lastly of course are the cars. You should know that Europeans like to drive fast.   

Once I mastered walking in Belgium, I turned to the next best thing. Riding a bike! You’re not European unless you’re riding a bike complete with a mini bell, front and back head lights and of course a basket or bike satchel of sorts. Seriously though, everyone here does it so why can’t I? 

I hop on the bike (more like climb) and realize that my feet barely touch the ground.  Is that the way it’s supposed to be?  Have bikes gotten higher or have I just shrunk?  I always remember my feet flat on the ground.  Of course I do, because the last time I was on one I was about 3 feet shorter, wore little pony tails and had training wheels on my bike (I may have been 7) .

So here I am teaching myself to ride a bike again. I rode around a few times, but I still managed to fall on my ass riding at the coast this past weekend.  Actually it happened moments after I took a cheerful picture on my bike before crossing a 4 lane highway.  The first photo was for the cool factor and the second, well just proves that it’s not always "as easy  as riding a bike".  

Love for the High

There is nothing in this world that compares to the high a girl gets when she spots the perfect pair of shoes. The perfect bag. The perfect dress. The perfect leather jacket.  Well, you get the picture. 

As I walked through a flea market on a quaint cobble stone street in Gent Belgium (where I currently live with my lovely girlfriend) I spotted these little delicate pieces of art within the first 5 minutes.  I remember the moment my beautiful snakeskin sling-back flats and I laid eyes on each other.  It was kismet.  It was destiny. It was Love.  

 I rushed over to the fold out table where they sat in the sun’s rays as if intentionally calling for notice.   I slowly caressed them in my hands.  I eagerly unclasped the strap and started shaking when I realized they were my size!  As I slowly slid my foot into them, toes pointed like a ballerina, I could feel the cold leather glide across my feet.  They fit like a glove. Better than a glove. They were meant to be.  

The rest of the afternoon I couldn’t stop gushing over how inexpensive, yet delightfully chic my new little friends were. My girlfriend just looked at me with amusement, but I couldn’t control myself from almost skipping down the street.  Like a child in a candy shop.  I mean 3 Euros for a pretty pair of foot candy. Wowy!  Wow! Wow! Wow!

I raved about the shoes that made me so incredibly happy. I kept emphasizing what a great find they were and friends of ours would just look at me like I was a crazy person.  “Why is this American girl so damn happy over a pair of cheap, flea market shoes?”   

The answer is quite simple. It's about the Love for the High. It's the high that the little things in life give you.  It's the high you get over a pair of Italian snakeskin flats from a cheap flea market.  It's the high you get riding your bike on a warm sunny day. It's the high you get when you're lying on the grass and watching the sunset with your honey. It's that high that gives you the butterflies, that makes you giddy with appreciation, that makes you excited to live and that makes you more aware of a better quality and a deeper sense of happiness in life.