And it did turn out to be interesting, but in different ways than I expected. First there was my host family, Gill, Didier, and their daughter Benedicte. Benedicte had long, straight hair, a penchant for bows, and Garfield posters all over her room (which became mine for six weeks). This was in stark contrast to my punk rock hair, penchant for spikes, and Joy Division and Dead Kennedy’s posters. Benedicte left for the US just a couple of days into my stay, so I never really got to know her well.

Outside of Benedicte’s room, the rest of the apartment was completely different, and much more to my taste. Gill and Didier were into Siouxsie and the Banshees, and the Cramps, and lots of other bands that I really liked. The walls were covered with framed, autographed concert posters. Didier was a collector of many things. First and foremost was Serge Gainsbourg records and memorabilia. When Gainsbourg died a few years after my stay in Belgium, a French magazine interviewed Didier. We could walk into any record store from Antwerp to Paris and they would know Didier by name. He also collected toy robots, fetish pornography, and celebrity autographs.

Didier was a fabulous cook and had a tremendous influence on me in that regard. The food in Brussels was always fabulous, but we ate at home almost every night. As far as I could tell, Didier rivaled the best chefs in the city.

Gill was the worker bee. While Didier provided sustenance, Gill was busy running the company. She wasn’t the official boss, but she was his lieutenant, and a very effective one. I was amazed at how she would dress for work (like one of my high school friends, all black, ripped fishnets, and lots of leather). I liked her instantly.

I relaxed a couple of days after arriving, then went to work in the warehouse. The warehouse was amazing. It was six floors, each maybe a 1000 to 1500 square feet, with a freight elevator. Every floor but one was crammed with shelves, so it was very easy to get lost, and very difficult to even know what floor you were on. The production floor was different. It had work tables and shrink wrap machines and a few other gadgets. This is where I spent most of my time. Of the seven or so people I worked with on a daily basis, only two were Belgian. The rest were either Polish or Italian. They all spoke French in varying degrees, so French was the lingua franca. No one spoke English. From 9:00 am until 4:30 pm every day I was in totally foreign environment.

I did fairly well. I learned the words for everything in the warehouse very quickly, and got a great prepositional workout. In that kind of environment you’re always putting stickers on something, or putting things in a box, or looking for the tape dispenser which is on the shelf above the extra rolls of shrink wrap. It’s a spatially dependent situation, so I learned a lot of the vocabulary that goes along with finding things in places, being in places, and putting things in places. Not the kind of French that gets you a date, although it could get you slapped.

At home with Gill and Didier we spoke mostly English. In retrospect I wish we hadn’t, but at the time it was a nice break. My brain would always be buzzing when I got home from work. I would sit down and watch Batman in English with Dutch subtitles. That always made me feel better. We would have a quiet dinner, watch some tv, or read a bit, and go to bed. I kept a journal at the time and wrote in it every night before going to sleep. I think if I hadn’t had these outposts of peace, and daily retreats into the English speaking world I would have gone insane.

It was challenging in many ways to be in a place so different. I had grown up in a suburb, and although I spent a lot of time in the city, it was mostly during the day. I had never lived in such an urban environment. My bedroom was on the third floor overlooking a narrow street. We were in a moderately rough neighborhood, so I often heard shouting and scuffles at night. Everyone had car alarms, so nobody paid any attention when one was going off. As a consequence they would often blare all night. This was intimidating at first, but I grew to appreciate the grittiness of it. Being able to sleep through all the noise made me feel urban.

Bathing was tricky and irritating. I have since discovered that it’s like that almost everywhere outside the US. The tiny little “hot on demand” water heater that never really gets the water hot and always seems like it’s going to explode when you light it, the shower nozzle on the end of a long hose laying in the bottom of a tub with no curtain around it, the lack of heat, and the electrical outlets looming, just waiting for you to accidentally spray them. I quickly understood why Belgian’s don’t bath as often as Americans: it’s dangerous and uncomfortable. Every time I got into that tub I was shaking from the cold water and the fear of being incinerated or electrocuted.

The city smelled very different from anything I had ever encountered. There were layers to the smell. There was diesel, and chocolate, and bread, and sewage, all mixed up together. Some days it smelled wonderful, other days it made me gag. I managed to develop a hacking cough while I was there. I think the Belgian cigarettes had something to do with that. I was amazed at the liberal attitude towards smoking. Didier and I went to the bank one day. I had a cigarette in my hand, so I stopped at the door. He turned and looked at me, puzzled. I gestured towards the cigarette and said I would wait outside. Didier pointed at the other people in the bank, many of whom were smoking, and told me it was no problem. I went in, just for the experience of smoking in a bank. I was lucky that neither Gill nor Didier smoked. I would have asphyxiated.

All of these little things added up to a pretty big cultural difference. I feel very lucky that I was able to have the experience, and at the same time I’m sad that I never did it again. Expatriation is a valuable experience. I learned a lot about myself and my country, my cultural biases, and my tolerances.