One of the things I dislike most about living in a foreign country is that the little things become terribly, overwhelmingly difficult. Insignificant errands or tasks that you wouldn't think twice about at home become terrifying endeavors abroad. My strategy for getting things done involves a mixture of pep talks and self bribery. Last week, I told myself that if I could successfully obtain my vitamins from the pharmacist by speaking French, English, or the awkward mixture that I've become accustomed to, I could treat myself to a few choice items at H&M. (I'm very much enjoying my little sweater and hat reward.) Sometimes, I'm successful, and I leave the store feeling light and confident, like I will actually be able to make a go of it in Brussels. Other times, I leave feeling thoroughly defeated and convinced that life here will never get easier.
This morning, I needed to go to our commune (read: neighborhood administration office) to get a few stamps and signatures to process my work visa. The closest thing in the U.S. to a commune is probably the DMV, so imagine navigating your local DMV as a native Russian speaker, and you'll have some idea of what I was up against. Last week, I received an email from embassy HR informing me that my work visa paperwork was ready, but that I needed to go first to the commune before I could file the paperwork. Feeling terrified, I tried, as I often do here, to play the role of the sweet, but incompetent foreigner in a reply email, explaining that my French is not very good and could they please help me set up an appointment with someone at the commune who spoke English. No dice. I was told that folks at the commune did, in fact, speak English and that I would I need to put on my big girl pants and go alone. I put off the trip for a few days, knowing from tales of friends who had braved the communes with their fluent-in-French husbands that in all likelihood: 1) commune officials would not speak English, 2) the commune would be a mess of lines and red tape that I would have to struggle to decipher, and 3) something would, inevitably, go wrong.
The commune office looked just as I expected: a mix between a refugee camp and a scene from the movie Office Space. I found an employee and gave him my best "please take pity on me, I'm an idiot" smile and showed him my forms. He pointed me to a series of lines, and I walked past a group of irritated, bored folks in search of the right line. Then, a savior: A young woman wearing a cheery red sweater waved me over to her desk. I ran. "Do you speak English?" she asked. "Yes!" I said with a grateful grin, assured that this little angel would fix everything. But, it was not to be. According to my little friend, the embassy's directions were completely wrong, I needed to visit an additional government building for some stamps and signatures before she could help me, she was very sorry. Ugh. To be continued...
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