Boo

Becca Boo Beckity

2010-03-28T21:54:00.002+02:00

I've moved!

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Snow

2009-12-23T17:07:00.004+01:00

A woman and her son walk towards me. The mother comes first, stooped, watching her step on the slippery path. She places each foot on the icy snow, one after the other, steady, careful.
As I get closer I hear the son chattering away. Around eight years old, a constant stream of exclamations and observations. The mother is tired and answers with short, monotonous sounds. She is neither excited nor interested. She looks up briefly, at the path ahead, and I catch her sad gaze for a short moment. She lowers her head again and I pass, noticing her young face, despite its lines and her hunched shoulders.
The son is behind and as I approach, is patting something in his hand, speaking all the while, telling his mother about his day. His arm lifts just as I pass, and propels the snowball in its arc through the air.
I don't turn to see but hear the snowball thwack into the mother's coat.
She doesn't say a word.

Marty

2009-11-22T07:52:00.002+01:00

I'm not the superstitious type... ok I avoid walking under ladders but that's just sensible. In Brussels, we have a lot of ladders and laddery-type things that tend to pop up leaning on houses of people whose roof needs fixing, or who are moving out via an upstairs window (that's how it works here - with tall narrow houses and winding staircases it's the easiest way, believe me). These sometimes have big boxes, heavy tiles and/or slippery fingered exhausted men up them, so crossing the road is the only way of making sure you stay out of the danger zone.

Anyway, apart from ladders I may notice the odd magpie and search for its pair (one for sorrow, two for joy...) but I blame my father entirely for that one, passing on his stupid superstitions, and make sure to laugh at myself when I catch myself doing it.

I was in Bucharest recently, in a traffic jam on my way to the airport, thinking about babies. It seemed like everyone I knew was pregnant or had just given birth. One friend had just had a son, a family member had had a son and another was expecting, and three more friends were a month away from giving birth - one little boy, one little girl and one unknown.

We rounded a bend and crawled along the road, and there they were. Four magpies pecking away at something, in a huddle together. That's weird I thought I never see such big groups. I caught myself being grateful to them that they were a group and not just a single bird so following my tradition of laughing at myself I sent a text message to my pregnant friend who didn't already know the sex of her baby. You're having a boy by the way. The Romanian magpies told me.

He was born last night.

One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl, four for a boy

Ta-Dah! November!

2009-11-02T21:40:00.004+01:00

And just like that two months flash by.

Work has taken over with its trips and events: the kind of 'travelling' where you don't see a country, just the hotels and meeting rooms it has to offer. Weekends offer more of the substantial travelling with friends and family spread across Europe, but they go so fast they almost don't exist. I snap away, trying to capture the experience in a package of data that will then sit in my laptop, slowing it down with bulky memories.

We snatch the odd newlywed moment; he turns his wedding ring round and round as we talk; I sneak into the spare room and twirl in my veil while he watches on, giggling at his giddy wife.

This weekend we kicked our way though fallen autumn leaves, the park's fiery trees beaming brighter than the weak sun filtering through the clouds. We returned from the market laden with mangoes, kiwis and figs; cooked hearty Polish bean soup and made plans for the future. Our future to shape as we please. Our future to discover together.

That's the kind of travelling I like - the exploration of possibilities; discovering more than just another three star bedroom with BBC World and dodgy wifi.

Come back August; all is forgiven

2009-09-01T19:31:00.001+02:00

The switch from August to September was brutal in Brussels.

One day I was sauntering along, bare legs and yearnings for icecream, a summer breeze relieving the sun's glare; the next day a gale was whipping round my hunched shoulders and I wrapped my arms around my chest, hugged my bag to me and tried to ignore the drizzle making its steady way down the back of my neck.

On Monday the 31st the roads were clear, children were playing in the park and it felt wrong turning the key in my office door. On Tuesday the 1st though, there were crowds at the school gates of crying children clinging to their parents, who tried to disentangle themselves, brush down their suits and walk away. Cars were beeping, screeching around corners to be first to the office, back to work. It felt sadly inevitable when I turned that key, shook my umbrella and knuckled down to a full day in the office.

ślub

2009-08-31T22:03:00.004+02:00

It's not that I don't want to; I can't. I won't find the words that do it justice. I couldn't possibly describe the flood of emotions at seeing so many of the important people in my life turning round towards me, looking, smiling as I entered the church. I wouldn't know how to put down in words the church service's touches, the bursting flowers arranged by Marek's Uncle Marek, the pews heaving with smart suits and grinning hats. I couldn't adequately represent those moments in another way: the vows we'd forgotten to practice coming out smoother than expected, the wonderous music surrounding us throughout, the tears and laughs around us as we left the church, down the steps and into the throng of well-wishers. I just wouldn't be able to recreate those magical moments. So I won't.

five sixes

2009-08-29T21:57:00.003+02:00

Marek's 30th was an afternoon off work, floury handprints and broken eggshells on the counter. A busy preparation for a special cake, brightly coloured sugar hearts and big cheery candles.

Marek's 30th was opening the door to a beaming boy, er man, amazed by the pile of pretty packages, thrilled once the paper had been ripped off and contents spilled onto the table. Warm smiles and tight hugs.

Marek's 30th was the short walk to the market, hand in hand, wedding bands clinking. An armful of sunflowers for the vase that had stood empty since it was taken off the wedding table. Oh, the wedding tables.

The wedding was an indescribable rush of emotion that both disappeared in a moment and left behind a long stretch of happy memories and warm feelings: Amazement that so many made the long trip; gratitude for the sweet wishes and generous compliments; bursting love for my new husband and extended group of family and friends.

But then, two weeks later, Marek's 30th was the fizz of leftover wedding champagne and newly baked carrot cake. The carrot cupcakes at the wedding disappeared long before we got to them, but we had the whole birthday cake to ourselves.

Marek's 30th was a restaurant meal, grinning photos taken by a friendly pair at the neighbouring table. A couple married for 50 years. The wife who clapped her hands with delight and wiped tears from her eyes as we told her how long we'd been married and wished us success and happiness and love.

Marek's 30th was a rained off film showing in the park. A grateful turn of the key, tumbling into the flat, sinking into the sofa for a quiet night in. Happy 30th, happy life.

Les Belges

2009-05-30T15:39:00.002+02:00

This is just excellent.

It immediately conjures up images of serious looking joggers, heading for the little tents that are dotted around the park, and then emerging with numbers pinned to their t-shirts and a cornet of frites in one hand. Genius.

public speaking, ah the joy

2009-05-08T13:07:00.002+02:00

I've done another toastmaster's speech, and got another best speaker award. This is what I intended to say, although I went off script somewhere along the way and came up with a completely different ending somehow. Ah well, my knees didn't knock this time, and I even found myself almost, but only almost, enjoying it. Weird.

European Elections 2009: Why WE should be promoting them

Living in Brussels, the administrative centre of the European Union, I suspect a lot of you know that the European elections are taking place in June. They are the only transnational elections in the world, they take place every five years, and this year is the first in which citizens of all 27 current EU member countries will vote over a few days for people to represent them at the European level.

Turnout for the European elections is notoriously low - less than 45% in the 2004 elections, and people suspect that this year's turnout will be even lower, thanks to the current crises and peoples' discouragement and mistrust of politicians.

I would like to explain why I think we all have a role to play in promoting the elections and making sure that those in our home countries, who do not have the benefit of seeing Brussels and experiencing the work of the European institutions right here every day, get out and vote in June.

The first reason I would like to explore in favour of voting in the elections is that it is your opportunity to influence not only what happens in your country, but in your region of the world. It is about seeing the bigger picture, finding solutions that benefit not only those in your street, your town, your country, but Europe as a whole. The EP is the only directly elected institution in the European Union. It is your opportunity to shape the way Europe develops in the next five years.

The second reason some might decide it is important to vote, is to ensure that they are not highjacked by Euro-sceptics, who are trying to destroy what has been built up over the past fifty years. In England this weekend I saw this poster. It is clearly against the European elections, and comes from a party intending to use the EU system in a negative and destructive manner. There is no information about the positive effects felt in the UK as a result of being part of this European Union. No complex argumentation about what the benefits might be, just a focus on the perceived costs. Populists and Eurosceptics are forecast to take a bigger proportion of the vote than ever before. If you are unhappy about this, then this is your chance to ensure they are not given more power than they deserve.

The third reason might be that it is not only your democratic right, a right that people all over the world have fought for, but your responsibility to take an active part in shaping Europe. The parliamentarians have a role to play in shaping European law, which affects national legislation in many areas so has a direct impact on European citizens' daily lives. It also monitors the work of the other European institutions - the Council and the Commission. It is our chance to ensure the right people are making sure the right decisions are taken.

Other reasons might be that you want to boost the number of female MEPs, you don't like the current MEP representing you, you think tax payers' money should be spent more carefully... You might want the EU to show more leadership on climate change, to play a more responsible role in the world, to fight against discrimination and injustice... Each individual will have a different reason that makes it meaningful for them to vote.

Look at the candidates, read the parties' manifestos, find out the date of the elections in the country where you are registered to vote. The European Parliament website has loads of resources and has been set up to help make it easier for you to take part in this election. Check it out and make your choice. Then tell your friends.

Whatever your reason for finding the European Union important - and I hope you all have at least one - I hope I have managed to convince you of the necessity to get out there and vote, and to convince all your friends, relatives and colleagues to do the same.

identity cards

2009-05-05T19:35:00.000+02:00

I turned the corner and spotted door number 8. The door I'd been directed to, to pick up my shiny new electronic Belgian carte de sejour. There was a ticket machine so I took one. 724. I looked up at the screen. 728. Oh Belgium.

A lady was standing with her young child and I pointed at the door. 'Vous allez ici aussi Madame?' I asked. She looked at me, blankly, and a man I hadn't noticed sitting behind me cut in 'it's chaos in there.' he said. 'they're all in foul moods.' I sighed and a newly arrived older woman went up to the ticket machine and took a useless ticket.

'I don't know whether we shouldn't just go in' she said to me. 'This lady was here first' I said, pointing at the lady with her baby daughter. The seated man nodded. 'Go in!' the new arrival advised the mother. The screen flicked to the next number - 729. 'Go ahead' we said to the mother and child. She looked at us wide-eyed and pushed open the door. When she didn't come out immediately we took it as a good sign.

A woman walked down the corridor and towards the door purposefully. It was clear she was an employee and as the number system was helping nobody, I decide to tell her about it. 'Pardon Madame...' I started as she opened the door. 'There's a little wait' she announced, loudly, and shut the door firmly. I turned around, mouth open, to the older lady who had sat next to the man. 'They're a miserable lot these people' she said 'don't even try.' 'What a shame' I said. 'You work with people every day and you can't even be pleasant. It would make the day pass more more agreeably.'

The screen buzzed and the next number was shown. I indicated for the man to go, but he waved me away 'no, I'm a complicated case. They'll come for me. You go ahead.'

I opened the door to find the mother and child sat in front of a desk, and three employees standing across the desk from her, looking at the screen with concerned expressions. One looked up as I entered, and asked me to wait. I stod awkwardly by the door, wth no option but to eavesdrop on their conversation.

'She's got a Belgian passport.' one said
'But she speaks no French?' another asked
'No French, English, Spanish, Portuguese or German' the third explained. I couldn't help but be impressed. Usually the workers in administration buildings speak French and Dutch and look at you with scorn if you try any other language.

The first employee turned to the mother, sat quietly and patiently as they fussed around her. 'Tu veux quoi?' she asked loudly, flapping the passport in her face. I contained the urge to explain that if someone doesn't speak a language, it is generally not a question of upping the volume and being obnoxious before she understands.

'Well I don't know what she wants' the shouter said, 'let's move her and wait for Claire to come back from lunch. She might be able to speak to her.' She turned again to the lady. 'Viens avec moi.' The lady looked up at her, still not understanding. 'Toi!' the lady shouted, pointing at her 'viens!'

It never ceases to amaze me how officials turn to the familiar form of you 'tu' to try and show someone their place, even if they don't understand. Something in my face must have shown my contempt for the way she was treating the lady, because the employee looked at me briefly, turned back to the woman and pulled her up gently by her arm. 'Venez madame. Il faut attendre ici.'

The second employee went back to her seat and waved me over. The third employee buzzed the number screen and the older woman who'd joined us in the corridor came in and took a seat where the incomprehending mother had sat.

I handed over my papers, and as the employee was looking for my card, I heard the conversation at the desk next to me.

'What's your first language Madame?' the shouty employee asked the older woman.
I could almost hear her bristle. 'French!'
'Yes, but your native language. You see we can't understand this lady. Maybe you could speak to her.'
'Well where's she from? Africa's four times the size of Euope you know.'

My papers were put down on the table in front and the emplyee dealing with me joined in the conversation next to us 'Ghana, she's from Ghana.'

'Huh, well, I'm from Ethiopia. A long way from Ghana. They speak English, didn't you try with English?'

The employees confirmed that they had tried with English, and listed again the other languages she did not speak. 'She only speaks her dialect. How she got a Belgian passport I don't know...' the first employee said.

I was handed my card, told to keep my PIN safe and that was that. As I let the room, the lady from Ethiopia was trying to talk to the lady from Ghana. She was just looking at her, not understanding a word, her daughter hanging on her arm.

I looked down at my card, and tried to imagine it. In a foreign land, trying to do a task you can't explain, people shouting at you in a language you can't make sense of. I wondered who she was, and how she came to be in Belgium with its grey skies and rude officials.

In Bruges

2009-04-04T18:21:00.005+02:00

Last weekend we went to Bruges with some visitors, and it was as quaint and beautiful as I remembered, despite the Belgian rain and a hopeless Polish football match, watched in an Irish pub with excellent cider.

As we're in the countdown to Easter, all the chocolate shops were full of eggs and chicks and bunnies. We came to one and took pictures of this:

and this:

and then, then we spotted this:

How, erm, Eastery.

Anyway, then we came home and watch 'In Bruges' with lots of 'we went there!' and 'remember that bit?' in between the hilarious dialogue. Fun times.

No sister of mine

2009-04-02T18:57:00.001+02:00

So, back to this nun...

We took our seats, nearer the front than usual, and waited expectantly as the group settled down and the nun walked briskly to the front of the room. She put down her pile of folders and extracted a paper, which she laid down in front of her.

Looking back every so often at her notes, she proceeded to summarise the last meeting (which, if you remember, we missed) and lay the foundations for this one.

'A marriage provides the right context to bring a child into. Some of you though, may not feel quite ready for a child, or wish to maximise your time together before having children [snort from me] and in this case, there are certain precautions you can take that makes it unlikely you will have children.'

She drew out a transparent sheet, covered in graphs, and, apologising for the lack of equipment, held it up against a backdrop of white paper. I recognised the hormone path of a woman's monthly cycle, and tried to stifle a groan. After all, I'd known it was coming.

The next half hour was devoted to explaining the different hormones, their roles, why their levels change throughout the month, why the tempertaure of a woman changes throughout this cycle and so on.

'Didn't you do all this when you were 11?' I whispered to Marek 'Are you kidding?' he replied. 'We had no sex eduation at all.' I tried to control my 'WHAT?' and he shot me a warning look. 'We didn't do this when we were 11' he replied. As I looked around the room, at the faces of the other couples - there were looks of concentration, giggly embarassment and interest. I was the only one who was bored.

Next, the nun told us how us wives could measure our hormone levels, by taking our temperature every day. She explained when you should measure it and what to do if your husband wakes you at 5am to go mushrooming (her example, not mine) and you miss your 7am temperature measurement appointment (you add 0.2 of a degree per hour, which is a clearly flawed method if you take your temperature 10 hours late for example. I stopped myself mentioning this to Marek).

Of course she could not pretend this was the ONLY form of contraception (sorry, family planning, I mean family planning. Contraception is a naughty word.)

We covered condoms, which are highly ineffective according to her, and do little to stop the transmission of sexual diseases, including HIV. I could hardly contain myself, especially after what the Pope had come out with the same month 'That's NOT true' I hissed at Marek. 'What she's saying is just NOT true.' He patted my arm and whispered back 'just contain yourself for another half an hour and you can tell me why what she's saying is rubbish afterwards. OK?'

We covered the pill, which gives you cancer, she said. Again, I leaned over towards Marek 'Remind me to tell you all about the difference between breast cancer and cancer of the uterus, and why the risk of one is increased and the risk of the other is decreased by the pill.' He nodded, resigned. She then said the levels of hormones in rivers had resulted in funny mutations of fish, and that this was the fault of the pill. Marek looked at me. 'Ok, that bit's true' I admitted.

Then she got to the coil, which is clearly just another form of abortion, since it stops an embyo implanting, and that embryo is already A NEW LIFE. 'Oh don't get started on that' I thought. 'I won't make it.'

After a few more lenthy explanations of why we should avoid modern forms of family planning at all costs and stick to the only one the church condones, she turned to us with a big smile. 'So that's that' she said brightly, having just misinformed a group of 50 (minus two or three) about several reliable and literally life-saving methods of family planning. 'Well done, good job' I thought bitterly.

She finished by using her figures to SHOW how tempertaure tracking was the most effective birth control method. I almost laughed out loud. Afterwards she told us all that we should not be scared of having children. That it is a wonderful opportunity we should embrace. That children are small and harmless and are after all the point of marriage. I got out as quick as I could, before I could point at her habit and splutter 'and YOU would know!'

Marriage according to the Catholic church.

2009-03-31T21:33:00.000+02:00

On my mission to become a good Catholic Polish wife (Hmm. Take out the Polish and Catholic parts then and we'll try again... ok) On my mission to become a good wife, I tried Really Hard during our marriage lessons. Marriage lessons are lessons kindly provided by the church to prepare you for married life. They are given by a series of priests and nuns. Priests and nuns clearly being the best people to teach others about married life. Sorry, I'll try to limit those kinds of comments. Ahem.

Before each session (there were ten. TEN!), I reminded myself why we were there and tried to put myself in an open, receptive, uncritical frame of mind. This does not come easily. I was expecting to strongly disagree with some of the statements throughout the course, and was also expecting some good fodder for the debating part of my brain. I was prepared not to be happy, but hoping to be challenged.

At the beginning, we had an older priest, the kind who repeats himself (good if Polish is not your first language and you feel a little sleepy on a Wednesday evening) and sticks to the Pope's every word (not so good if you are me).

Typical statement from old priest: 'When a young man comes to me and asks what he needs to do before he can get married, I ususally tell him... [pause for effect]... find a GIRL! [stop for laughter... which never comes... ok, continue, adopting serious face] Because there are some people nowadays who are suggesting ridiculous things about boys and boys and girls and girls [show audience appalled face].' Deep sigh from me.

He repeated himself through a few sessions and covered thrilling information like the cases in which it is acceptable for a Catholic to marry a Muslim (I looked around the fifty faces in the room. Nope, all Polish Catholics, bar me and a Spaniard, also not Muslim I suspect); the legal papers you need for a church wedding and why (again) marriage is for one man and one woman (another sigh).

The second priest was younger and jollier, with an impressive round belly. He actually got a bit deeper into the juicier parts of love, faith and marriage. All of which he took great joy in telling us we know nothing about.

Typical statements from round priest: 'You may think you love each other but you don't...marriage is all about the triangle between a husband, a wife and God...sex is not the be all and end all, after all I can tell you where to go to find sex. There are plenty of willing girls walking about by Place Stephanie.' Oh yes he did.

The last couple of sessions were covered by a nun. We missed the first, as we arrived 7 minutes late and found ourselves locked out. The second time though, I was rather glad we only made one. I think I would have been thrown out if made to sit through another...

Typical statement from nun: 'So you see, monitoring your temperature every day to follow your hormone path is THE MOST RELIABLE form of family planning... contraceptive pills give you cancer... condoms do not protect you from HIV.' GRRRRRRRR.

At the moment I cannot think of that last experience without a little knot of anger forming, so I'll keep that story for another day. Suffice it to say I learned far more in biology aged 11, and have never had false 'facts' presented to me in such a frustrating and self-righteous way.

God save my soul.

Blah-zay

2009-03-08T18:20:00.003+01:00

Four out of five days last week I was in an airport. Actually two airports each time, and a plane. This is wrong. And bad.

It is bad for the environment.
It is bad for my health.
And most worryingly, it is turning me into a pompous snob, blase and dismissive of exciting, new places because I know all I'll see is an airport, a train or bus, a meeting room and then the same all over again, in reverse order.

I used to love travelling. Actually, I still do, but for pleasure, when I have time to read about and really experience the place, taking millions of pictures and properly exploring. Travelling for work is rubbish.

Three of the four flights were delayed; I went to Stockholm for the first time and saw absolutely nothing of the city; and I've been in Vienna so many times over the last year that it doesn't feel like abroad anymore.

In 2008 I went to 8 countries. That doesn't sound too unmanageable but I went to Austria 6 times for work, and the UK the same number, not to mention the ten trips to Poland - the sad necessity of a long-distance relationship.

I know I am a privileged person and that these opportunities may not last forever, so I should cherish them. But when you spend hour after hour in some lifeless departure hall, trying not to spend your hard-earned cash on overpriced souvenirs just for something to do, it doesn't feel like much of a privilege.

Father Christmas

2009-03-01T08:43:00.001+01:00

When I was out and about, going to the post office in my lunch break, or buying some fruit from the corner shop by my work, I often used to see him. A sturdy old man, long white beard and friendly manner, he used to stop and talk to dog-walking ladies, the endless lines of construction men working on the roads, the young mothers pushing their babies. Usually with a smile on his face, I noticed him too because he walked around with the kind of fat bellied ease that implied he owned it all, this was his home. He talked to the people who strayed into his territory and tolerated them, humoured them even, by offering them a kind word here and there. He watched them all as if he was somehow responsible, and wandered his lands with the air of someone with all the time in the world. Someone who had as little fear of dying as Father Christmas.

One morning, on my way to work, I saw him emerge from a shop doorway. Except it was no shop, he was putting plant pots out and looking around at his new surroundings. Over the weeks, the shop windows were clothed in mismatched blue and white blinds, put up in a way that covered the large expanse of glass, but had no order or charm. The plant pots multiplied, and were joined by a small table and garden chair. Some mornings he'd be out, in an old dressing gown, watering his plants, or chatting with a neighbour. When the blinds were open, the front room, with its clutter of furniture and boxes was exposed, and sometimes he was sitting, just staring, not taking anything in, just being.

A few weeks ago, I was on my way to work mentally preparing for a meeting that day. I spotted the police car from a distance and felt a tightening in my throat. As I approached, I saw there was an unmarked van alongside the police car and a group of hefty men, gathering the old man's belongings. He was nowhere to be seen. 'This shouldn't take you too long' said the policewoman, leaning against her car and puffing on a cigarette. A man with a clipboard nodded at her and laughed 'yeah, there's not much stuff.'

I walked past, resisting the urge to ask what had happened to this man I had never even exchanged a word with. Never met. Observed from afar. The door was wide open, blinds pulled back to reveal the jumble within. Was he being evicted? The old man himself was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he'd been caught squatting in the unoccupied shop, furnished by friendly donations from dog-walking ladies. Or maybe he'd moved somewhere else - won the lottery and moved to a warm location by the sea, donating his old home and its belongings to a local charity... but then why the police car? Father Christmas couldn't just disappear, there had to be an explanation I'd not yet come to.

I walk past the shop every day on my way to work. It is still empty, devoid of clutter and boxes. The terrace at the front has no plant pots or garden furniture. I never see the old bearded, fat bellied man anywhere.

Brussels Mussels

2009-02-28T00:01:00.002+01:00

Moules frites has long been a favourite of mine, and one of the bonuses of living in Belgium is the regular supply of fresh mussels that you can order from almost every restaurant. Especially recommended are a few select venues in the old port of St Catherine and one or two of the dining places that can be found in the tourist trap of rue des bouchers. I always felt bad for my mum, another mussels fan who ate a bad one, one unforgettable summer in her twenties and spent the night throwing up on a darkened beach, the poison from the mussel twisting up her insides for twenty four hours of misery.

Through our childhood, when we were on family holidays, we would tuck into our glistening mounds of black shells, scooping out the bodies and slurping the white wine they were cooked in. Mum would have some other fish, hopefully glad that we were at least enjoying what she could not. A couple of times, after that initial violent reaction, she tried again to eat mussels, just a couple to begin with. Each ended in the same day-long suffering and in the end she decided it wasn't worth it. No more mussels.

Last weekend we went with friends to our regular mussels chomping ground. A good night was had by all, and we left stuffed and satisfied. When I woke up at 5am, stomach growling and queasiness making my head light, I didn't know what was happening straight away. I went into the bathroom and mentally went over the previous meal, the careful sorting through and rejecting the closed and broken-shelled mussels, the happy fullness I felt once my plate was clear, the blissful ignorance of the poison that was already working its way into my system. I was soon bent over the toilet bowl, last night's dinner being ejected from my body, the violence of the sickness actually making me black out at the worst point and crack my head against the bathroom wall.

Marek was standing over me as I came to, panic marking his face and uncertainty over what to do evident in his questioning. I reassured him and curled up by the radiator, waiting for the end to come.

After a couple more uncomfortable hours, my stomach had calmed down enough to sleep. When I woke, the sickness had subsided into a general background nausea and I gave in again to my sleepiness, vaguely considering the possibility of concussion and dismissing it as an abstract concern. By the evening I no longer felt the need to retch at every thought of food, and I began to come to terms with the fact that I was not going to die.

I thought of mum, and how we alway joked about her friends' comments that I was more like her than she was. I'm doing my bit to get there.

Edited to add: The night after I wrote this, on a plane to Vienna, I had a dream that I found a white hair, in among the regular brown ones, and that it stretched longer than any others. As I pulled on it, I saw the ones surrounding it were white too; that in fact I had a thick stripe of white hair, high on my head. I showed my mum, but as I showed her it became not a white stripe on my dark head, but a white stretch of spider's web, just above my jaw line. Mum pulled at it, and it came away to reveal an angry red boil, where I knew the web's spider had buried her eggs. I asked mum what I should do, resisted the urge to scratch at the boil, in case it made it worse, and waited for advice. Mum said nothing but brushed the boil away as if it was a loose hair. It fell off, leaving clean bare skin, and I felt the immense relief of knowing I would not absent-mindedly scratch my face and pull my hand away to find it covered with tens of tiny scrambling baby spiders. Analysts? I say the spider is the mussel, invading my body; the baby spiders are the potential impact of the poison and my mum features as herself, telling me to get a grip, and stop being silly and pretending its more disgusting than it really is.

Speech number 2

2009-02-11T22:23:00.002+01:00

Yes, I made myself do it again, and they rewarded me with another 'best speaker' award. If I do the third and don't get the award I think I might cry. Spoilt brat. This is how it went, more or less. I actually managed to unclench myself part of the way through, and deviated from the script somewhat, but I'm taking that as a good sign.

Ahem.

Good evening fellow toastmasters and very welcome guests.

Tonight I would like to talk you about something that is

- something I'd never experienced as recently as five years ago
- something I experienced rather a lot of over the three years while I lived in Warsaw
- and something that will greatly influence one particularly important day for me this year

I'm going to talk to you about Polish weddings.

Five years ago I had never set foot in Poland. Well actually, that's a bit of an exaggeration, I had stepped over the border from Germany once, but I knew little of the history of Gdansk, I had only vaguely heard of the beauty of Krakow and I didn't have a clue about the buzz of Warsaw.

As you may remember, I moved to Poland to work with asylum seekers and refugees through the European Voluntary Service. I worked with Poles and foreigners and spent my free time learning the language and exploring the culture. The best introduction to Polish culture came during the first few months with an invitation to a wedding.

In England weddings are generally held at grand places with no expense spared - a short ceremony to get the serious business out the way and then a loud party, with flowers and champagne followed by speeches and your Dad dancing round the dancefloor in an uncoordinated fashion.

This wedding was different. The differences started at the church. There were all the familiar trappings of a wedding - rings, misty eyed relatives, music... but then after the service all the guests lined up and presented the happy couple with bunches of flowers and their best wishes one by one. I had only been in Poland for a few months and as Polish for best wishes is 'wszystkiego najlepszego', I think I just smiled.

Then came the reception. For starters it was held in a fire station. OK, the party room of the fire station, but a fire station all the same. There were flowers, but mainly the ones presented by the guests, spread around the room. There were no champagne glasses and no speeches, but there was vodka - lots of vodka - and games, led by a traditional band with an accordian, a saxophone and several guitars.

As the newlyweds arrive at the wedding reception they are greeted by their parents and then there are a couple of traditional rituals before the party starts. The bride's mother shows the couple a plate with bread and salt on it and asks her daughter whether she wants the bread, the salt, or her new husband. She takes all three. Then they drink a shot of vodka and throw the glasses behind them to break on the floor for good luck. Finally, the groom carries his new bride into the building and the fun really begins.

The first thing I noticed as I came into the room were the tables. In England there is usually a three course meal and then the tables are cleared to make way for the dancing. In Poland the tables stay, and are groaning with food from the beginning of the party until the early morning. Waiters come and serve food at regular intervals and you are free to choose between the salads, cold meat and cakes set out on the table whenever it takes your fancy, in between dances and games.

Between the hot courses the band played and the people danced, but this was no shuffling of feet and clumsy hand clapping as you might see in England, here everyone was ballroom dancing as if it was the most natural thing in the world. I tried my best waltz, but mainly watched the others - old ladies twirling around in the strong arms of their steady old husbands; young kids with their arms shyly around one another; the newly married couple gliding round the dancefloor with large smiles plastered to their faces.

The games were also new to me in this setting, although some of them - like musical chairs - I'd played as a child. Do you know that one? A number of chairs are set out, one more than the number of people playing. The band plays and everyone dances around the chairs, then when they stop, everyone sits. There is always one person left without a seat, or on someone else's lap or slipped off onto the floor. Let me tell you, if you thought these games were fun when you were six, you should try them as an adult after a few shots of vodka. Great fun. In England the bride throws her bouquet and the girl who catches it will be the next to marry. In Poland it is a little more complex. The bride throws her veil out to the unmarried women and one of the unmarried men gets the bridegroom's tie. The new couple then has to dance and do a series of dares... it is very entertaining to watch although I am always quietly relieved when some other girl catches the veil.

The vodka was a challenge to be honest. The most important man at a Polish wedding is the one who goes round the tables replacing the empty vodka bottles with new ones. I was amazed at the speed with which this man had to do his job, and had to refuse a couple of times when a friendly hand tried to replenish my shot glass. Then I learned the trick to a successful Polish wedding. When everyone downs a shot, take a sip. You'll last much longer.

After that first wedding, I was happy to receive several more invitations. Some were in grander locations than the fire station, some were smaller groups or had louder bands, but all had the basic elements - people genuinely enjoying themselves and really celebrating with the newlyweds.

So when my Polish boyfriend proposed last June, not only did I know I wanted to marry him, but I had a pretty good idea about where we should take those vows. Forget all that stuff about weddings taking place at the bride's birthplace, I'd like a Polish wedding please.

Thank you.

tombe la neige

2009-01-05T18:16:00.005+01:00

'Get up! It's all white outside!'

I lifted my head from the pillow, eyes screwed up against the light, and made a sort of 'whuh?' noise.

'It's been snowing! It almost looks like Poland out there' Marek continued, his morning cheer cutting through the fog in my sleep filled mind.

I lay my head down again, and pulled the covers around me. This sounded suspiciously like one of Marek's little jokes and it was going to take more than that to make me leave my warm bed, especially so early. Marek's work starts an hour before mine, which means I generally wake up an hour before I need to. This hurts even more after two weeks of blissful holiday.

I pulled my dressing gown around me and yawned my way into the kitchen. Glancing out the window I saw that Marek had, in fact, not been joking. The gardens were covered in a thick satisfying layer of powdery white, and everything looked spectacularly clean and beautiful.

I poured tea into my mug and brought it into the bathroom where Marek was brushing his teeth.
'Looks nice huh?' His eyes glistened and I thought about Poland's guaranteed weeks of snow each year. I thought he'd miss it, but clearly Belgium is making an effort this time to do justice to the word winter.

On the walk to work my steps crunched and left indented prints. The sounds around me were muffled by the snow that continued to fall softly, and the hood I had pulled down low. I took a deep breath of icy air and decided that this felt like a new year, finally.

It was as if the snow had wiped the slate clean, and cleared the way for 2009 to really begin. A year that promises to be pretty significant in plenty of ways, but then isn't each year? I'm ready.

A bit of Christmas cheer

2008-12-07T21:47:00.005+01:00

We were in Germany this weekend to make the most of the Christmas markets, get some presents bought, and fully overindulge in mulled wine and bratwurst and reibekuchen and and and...

Yeah yeah yeah, you've heard this all before. But wait. One step ahead, old thing. Here's a new treat. Singing reindeer.

Behold.

Seriously.

toasty

2008-12-02T17:07:00.004+01:00

When I was in Poland, I discovered that writing was something I really enjoyed. I could go off in my own little world; exaggerate, play around with words, see what happened. When I got to Belgium I (re)discovered that public speaking was something I really. did. not. enjoy.

Despite the theatre courses, the singing performances, the drama classes, the choir concerts, all the times I had shamelessly shown off in public when I was young, something had changed. Standing up to make a speech showed me what 'fight or flight' really meant. I seriously considered fleeing rooms, hands flailing in the air, screaming 'no! don't make me!' on more than one occasion.

So, this really started pissing me off and I decided to get my act together. It was time to sort myself out. I joined toastmasters. I could pretend it was easy - I sauntered in each fortnight and took it all in my stride, but no. It was a challenge each and every time just to walk through the door. Still, gradually it got less terrifying and now, after a few months I don't feel sick just thinking about it... small steps my friend, small steps.

Last week I made my first speech. I didn't tremble too badly, the audience laughed in all the places they were supposed to, and the fools even voted me the evening's best speaker. The light at the end of the tunnel is shining bright.

So, here it is. Speech number one: The Icebreaker

Fellow toastmasters and very welcome guests,

I would like to talk to you this evening about a very simple question that does not always have a very simple answer. 'Where is home?' By telling you my answer to the question, I hope to share something of my life and myself.

For some, answering 'where is home?' gives the same answer as 'where were you born?' I was born in London, right here [there were props - this is when I placed a heart sticker on a map of Europe, on London]. I lived in a nice area, with pleasant neighbours and good friends. Some of my other London-born friends have never left and tell me London is the only place they would consider living. Nothing else lives up to the bustling excitement of London life. I might have continued living in London, except that when I was three, we moved to Paris, here [another heart sticker on map - home is where the heart is, gettit?].

Living in Paris meant a new place, new people and most importantly a new language. When I started in my ecole maternelle, the teacher had to explain my silent presence to the other children: 'This is Rebecca. She's not stupid, she's just English.' My little brother was born, I soon spoke fluent three-year old French, and then we went back. Back to London.

For ten years, London was home. I grew up, I made friends, I learned German at school. Just after a school trip to Germany, where I decided I didn't like the language at all, and was very confused by the 'imbiss' sign that was shown on all snack stands, I was told we were moving. To Bonn, in Germany. I realised I would have to learn what imbiss meant. [another heart sticker on the map]

The biggest culture shock to hit me in Germany was swapping a strict girls' school with good exam results for a mixed international school with great parties. I had a seriously good time. After finishing school though, my German had not improved to a level that made me want to try out the German university system, so I went back 'home' to England, to university in Leeds.

I decided to study psychology and philosophy, based on my deep interest in people. The most interesting discovery I made about people though was probably the one that I did not have much in common with the English people I met. 'You're no London girl' someone once told me at a party. She was right.

After a masters in European Law, I looked for somewhere that would give me work experience and get me back into a more international environment. That place was Brussels. When I first arrived I did an internship with an NGO working on human rights, then moved to another in the European Commission. There I bumped into people from nearly every step of my life that far. I met girls from both primary and secondary schools in London; proper London girls. I ran into a guy from my school in Germany. I met people with different nationalities and accents, and I felt right at home.

I met one Polish guy in particular, and he led me to the next place I call home. Warsaw [another heart sticker on the map] The official Warsaw assignment was first one, and then two projects working with refugees. Here was work I could really get into - talking with people who had been forced to leave their homes and were trying to adapt to a new culture and language. We bought a flat in Warsaw, something that usually grounds people in one place. But not me. I left Poland and returned to Brussels exactly a year ago.

So for the second time, I find myself in this Belgian city. This time I am accompanied by a Polish fiance who, until this year, called one place home. I do meet plenty of people though who answer the simple question 'where is home' with a similarly, or more, complicated answer to mine. When people respond to my 'oh I don't have one home' with pity, I see they have not understood. Having no fixed home needn't be a disadvantage - to me, home is a feeling you can have anywhere.

Thank you.

hanging on

2008-11-23T22:38:00.017+01:00

When I think of the last six weeks, I see a Becca-shaped blur; running breathlessly from point to point, dragging a wheelie suitcase behind her, papers flying everywhere. There was Ljubljana, Paris, Vienna and then Strasbourg with endless meetings and an ever increasing task list, but we don't blog about work now, do we?

The wedding, now there's a thing. I finally gathered a group of giggling bridesmaids together in London and went off to a shop full of dresses with big rustling skirts and flowing veils. Walking out of the changing room in the first one was strange - like I was trying a costume for a new part to play. By the third though, I was hooked. Now, with another trying-on session behind me I've found at least 3 dresses I could happily get married in, but something tells me I haven't found IT yet. Look at me, bride in training. I'm quite getting into the whole thing.

My Pole has been wrestling with Belgian bureaucracy all this time. He found a job in six weeks, but to start work he needed a work permit and to get a work permit he needed a residence permit, and to get a residence permit he had to spend hours filling in forms, waiting for visits from the police and staring at the wall in the town hall waiting for appointments that never seem to move anything along. Such a threat to national security. I can completely see why they are trying to limit the numbers of dangerous Poles in Brussels. Christ. Anyway, a couple of extra forms were filled in by his new company and they hurried it along a bit. He'll start work on Wednesday (yay!) a few days short of one year since I started my Brussels job.

Somewhere along the way I turned 28, with an accompanying flurry of well wishing cards and facebook messages. I didn't really have a chance to take it in, but I think the few weeks will calm down a bit. OK, we have a weekend in Warsaw with a few weddingy things to sort out and another weekend looking at German Christmas markets with friends, but the end of the year is in sight, and sweet Jesus it looks good.

I've become a rubbish blogger. It was fine in Warsaw with my refugee projects and English language work, but since this 'proper job' of mine came along blogging has fizzled and poof! all gone. Here are some pretty pictures to distract you from that sad fact.

Brussels in October:
London in October:

Ljubljana in October:

Paris in October:

Vienna in November:

The Grand' Place on my birthday:

Strasbourg in November:

And finally... the journey from Bonn to Brussels last night:

Can you believe I told Marek it never snows this far West...?

where do we live again?

2008-09-28T14:36:00.005+02:00

As we stepped down from the bus, the guy behind pulled his son along ('chodz chodz!') and lifted him down to the pavement. We crossed the road, and joined the group of people walking towards the large church. A girl finished her phone call ('no dobra, pa pa') and slipped in ahead of us.

Inside, we pushed through the crowd at the back ('przepraszam') and walked down the central aisle. Marek crossed himself and we moved along a row to two empty places. The place was full, really full. A group of children at the front were singing, accompanied by a jolly nun with a guitar, and the place was buzzing - children crying, their parents whispering, buggies creaking as they were pushed closer to the front and adults murmuring prayers, getting their private business dealt with before the main show.

Soon, the singing stopped, the crowd settled down and the priest took the microphone, welcoming everyone in his booming voice, and encouraging everyone to join in with the familiar words.

If I'd been in any doubt about the number of Poles in Brussels before, I was certain now. The place is full of them. I looked around at the hundreds of people - old men with white hair and creased skin; young women with brash stripey highlights and strong makeup, tall fathers with children in their arms, on their shoulders, by their side; grandmothers with sensible shoes and vibrantly coloured hair... and it felt more like Warsaw than Warsaw did the last time I was there.

We discovered the Polish church by accident, last month when Marek's father and sister were in town. As we drove around looking for a parking space, the doors of the church had burst open, and crowds of people had streamed out. 'Must be Polish' I pronounced, as the others looked on sceptically. Don't all churches look like that on a Sunday? We went in, and found the sign with details about the services.

Six services on a Sunday. One in French, the rest in Polish. Enough said.

As someone who only ever went to church because of the music, it was refreshing to hear a nun singing her heart out, leading the congregation with her strumming. The priest spoke mainly about love and good things, which is always pleasant for a protestant who has been taught to think of Catholics as haunted by guilt and obsessed by hell. The place had a warm friendly vibe, and nobody batted an eyelid when I failed to cross myself, pray with the rest of them or sing along to the hymns.

We have a venue for the wedding, and a traditional Polish band. The major thing we still need to sort is the church. It's a shame this one is so far from Warsaw.

I'd just like to say...

2008-08-21T16:17:00.003+02:00

WOO HOO!

I've been on holiday for a full week, my shoulders are less hunched and my natural expression has returned to a relaxed half-smile rather than a serious face all scrunched up in concentration.

Warsaw is managing to be cloudy yet sunny and is full of free internet.

We're going to the seaside for the weekend, even though its going to rain and be cold enough to make bare arms and legs goose pimply.

Marek is in his last week at work, and from the middle of next week will be a resident of a certain Brussels flat, which may or may not have his name on the doorbell in readiness.

Life is good. When things are good you should recognise their goodness. Take this as recognition.

Oh Belgium

2008-08-18T10:30:00.006+02:00

Belgium is weird. Everyone knows that. There are the parties celebrating streets' birthdays, the carnivals with strangely dressed figures from myths, the giant omelettes...
Then there's this.

It's a carpet, made of begonias, on the Grand Place. I know. It only happens once every other year, and lasts just one weekend. It is an extravagent, labour intensive, and staggeringly impressive thing. But why? No idea.

You can queue to walk through the town hall, and up onto the balcony overlooking the carpet. From there you see the detail and impressive size. If you're lucky, you meet an old lady who was married in the town hall in 1939, comes to see the flower carpet each time and is celebrating her 90th birthday in South Africa in a couple of months. She will impress you even more than the flowers laid out over the cobbles, with her steady walking and straight forward chatter. You'll hope you are that fit when you're 60, let alone 90.

When you've taken hundreds of pictures of flowers laid out to look like a carpet, you'll suddenly have had enough, and when you look down at the people, you'll get carried away by the power of your zoom, and start taking sneaky shots of people eating frites and crepes rather than flowers.

Then the man with the security badge will ask you to leave in three languages, and you will go home, shaking your head at the mystery of it all.

My name is Becca and I am [gasp] a bridezilla

2008-08-05T20:11:00.003+02:00

We've been engaged under two months and a part of my brain has already fenced itself off, put up signs holding that space clear for all things wedding. It started with the mags. Now I was warned about wedding magazines, so I stood back, stopping myself from buying one with thoughts of 'it's so far off! There's no need to obsess!' for all of, oh I don't know, five minutes?

I was in Austria you see for work; thought it might be interesting to see what they include in their wedding magazines there. Then Poland, then Belgium, England... I now have too many to mention without blushing, from an impressive number of countries (not all of which I've been to in the last couple of months... Brussels has some very international newsagents).

To be honest the British mag is winning. The French one is ok and the one from the States is a mix of atrocious and surprisingly cute. The Austrian is the most disappointing, with barely a reaction to be had and the Polish ones are plain scary (yes, I've been given a couple of extra Polish ones,can't think why...)

I blame the magazines for my recent dreams. It is over a year away and we haven't even set a date, but I've already had several wedding nightmares.

They've mainly been set on the wedding day, apart from one where I was trying on absolutely disgusting pouffy dresses and everyone around was saying I had to have one like that. All the other dreams have been related to me forgetting something vitally important, and not realising until the very. last. minute. In one, I was wearing a foul flouncy dress (knee length, black and white, not very weddingy at all) and I suddenly realised I'd forgotten to wash my hair (not to mention getting someone to style it for me, or applying some kind of make-up). It is absolutely pathetic.

If I were to analyse the dreams, I think I'd decide they are based on me not living up to this classic bride fantasy - hair! makeup! pretty pretty things! but I'm not sure this pop-psychology will kill them. Perhaps when we do make the first big organisational arrangements (er, I'm thinking venue and date are kind of basic) this will slow down or even stop until the standard couple of months beforehand.

Or, I could just turn this blog into a wedding nightmare all of its own, where I take my (surprisingly persistant- what are you all doing here still?) readers through each flower choice and bridesmaid's hairband.

As if I'll have the energy for that.

Looking on the bright side, at least I'm not having nightmares about my husband to be. Either that means I have no doubts about that side of the wedding, the part that actually means something and will affect the rest of my life, oooorrr I'm a horrible superficial product of the hateful (I first typed that 'hatful', which it also is, in England anyway) wedding industry.

I'll have option 1 please. Shh.