Moving Day

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Maiden Voyage

By Amanda

When Alex and I got married, I decided not to change my name. It wasn't meant to be some sort of grand political statement, I just liked my name and wanted to keep it. What surprised me the most about my decision was other people's reactions to it. Responses ranged from "good girl!" (kind of ironic...) to "oh, how does your husband feel about that?" (he's fine with it, thank you very much). It seemed like everyone--friends, family, even coworkers--had an opinion.

For women of my post-feminism generation, the decision about whether or not to take your husband's last name is a sensitive one, maybe in part because of the extreme reactions we receive. About 50 percent of my married friends kept their last names and 50 percent changed their names, though it seems like everyone had some anxiety about the decision, worrying that they would either seem too feminist or too anti-feminist, depending on their political leanings. When I've asked friends about their decisions (more out curiosity than the desire to judge), I find that everyone has their elevator speech ready. Here are a few of my favorites:

• "I've always hated my last name, and I couldn't wait to ditch it. I would have kept my name if it was a name I could live with."
• "I hate my father, so I figure if I have to have a man's last name, it might as well be a man I like."
• "No one can spell my maiden name. I love having a last name that I don't have to repeat five times when making reservations."
• "I didn't want to change my name, but it was really important to my husband. He made such a big deal about it, I just gave in."

In Belgium, it's much easier. It's common for women to use their maiden names for legal purposes throughout their lives, even after marriage. Any children are given the father's last name, but the family is always known by a hyphenation of the two names. Simple, right? When we moved to Brussels I thought, finally, we had found a system we could easily fit into. The catch is, once people find out we are American, I find myself answering the familiar question.

Mangia!

Now that I'm feeling a little better, my friend Mae Liz took me out for a birthday lunch to celebrate my 31st year. We went to Dolce Amaro, an adorable little Italian restaurant in the hip Saint-Gilles neighborhood. It felt great to be out and about after such a long recovery, and we had so much fun catching up and celebrating over glasses of prosecco and delicious Italian cuisine. (The charming Italian waiters didn't hurt either.) Grazie, Mae!

Super Bowl sunday...without the big game

I consider Super Bowl sunday an American holiday, and it's one of my favorites. Even if you're not a sports fan, the food, the commercials, the halftime show and the inevitable "malfunctions" make it worth partaking. And, like other holidays, the ritual of getting together with friends and family is the best part.

I was a little disappointed when I realized that the big game would be airing at 12:30 a.m. our time, but very excited when an American couple we know invited us to a Super Bowl brunch. It was a lovely affair--lots of yummy brunch food and a dozen or so homesick Americans. They even had last year's Super Bowl game on the background in case anyone forgot why we were gathered together. I ended up finding out who won the game this morning, but still feel we continued the tradition here (minus the football, of course).

Oh, and in case you're wondering, the snow stuck! Here's what Super Bowl sunday looked like in Brussels:

Snow!

{The view from our balcony}

Maybe it's because I never had a white Christmas growing up in California, but I think snow is pretty much the greatest thing ever. One benefit of the freezing temperatures we've been experiencing (-10 degrees today!) is that the trees and buildings are now frosty white. It probably won't stick, but I'm enjoying the view from the warmth of our apartment.

My Airplane Day

By Harry

Three years ago today, my humans rescued me from a New York City bathroom and brought me to live with them in Washington. To be honest, the move south was a bit of a step down for me, intellectually and culturally speaking, but I was happy to finally get out of that bathroom and I guess they're good parents. I'm sure you're probably wondering how I ended up spending the first few months of my life in a bathroom, so maybe I should start from the beginning...

My five siblings and I were born on Halloween, a few weeks after my pregnant mother was rescued from the mean streets of the Bronx. The guy who rescued my cat mom had too many cats to take in another one (sounds like an animal hoarder to me...), so a nice couple offered to house her until she had her kittens and then find them all homes. However, the couple already had a very sick cat, and they were afraid that she would infect my cat mom, so she was kept in their guest bathroom to protect her. After we were born, we lived there too.

A few months after my two brothers (both orange, like me) and three sisters (all calico) were born, strangers started showing up at the apartment, barging into to our bathroom and insisting that we play with them. My brothers and sisters stupidly obliged, fawning over the intruders, licking their hands and rubbing against their legs. The whole thing was really quite degrading. I, being the most astute of the litter, chose to sit back and watch, refusing to partake. One by one, my brothers and sisters--and even my cat mom!--went home with these undesirables.

The day that I met my humans was a sad one for me: I was three months old and the last of my siblings had been adopted the day before, so I was alone for the first time, stir crazy and confused. My humans were in New York to celebrate my mom's birthday and were staying with my host family, which meant that we were all sharing a bathroom. We got to know each other slowly as they came in to shower and wash their faces. I decided they were OK, better than the other invaders, and I somewhat reluctantly agreed to move to D.C. to live with them.

My humans didn't realize that I would be accompanying them home when they made their travel arrangements, so our trip to D.C. was a bit stressful. For some stupid reason, animals aren't allowed on trains or buses, and my humans had purchased bus tickets. It probably would have made more sense to rent a car, but my mom can be a little cheap sometimes, so it was decided that I would be smuggled on the bus with them. To try and conceal me, they put a scarf over my cat carrier, which looks more like a duffel bag anyway, and told me to be quiet as we boarded the bus. I was really scared, but I tried to keep in my cries, at least until we were seated.

My mom was convinced that we would be caught, thrown off the bus and left to fend for ourselves on the New Jersey Turnpike, but we made it to D.C., where we lived happily until moving to Brussels. From time to time, I get news about my brothers and sisters and how they are doing with their families. I miss them, but I think things worked out well for me, even though my humans can be annoying. (Just look back at my formal list of complaints!)

Happy airplane (or, really, bus) day to me!