Fairly brief note of this morning's encounter. Went early to the equivalent of the Town Hall to follow up letter received yesterday inviting me to take in the necessary photographs and medical insurance details in the quest for an ID card. In spite of arriving before 8.50, surprised to find a queue of other foreigners seeking the stamp of official approval. Not the foreigners, but the queue, was the surprise.
My first visit there had alerted me to the somewhat bureaucratic nature of the process; perhaps inevitable, given the current amount of attempted illegal entry to countries in the West. I presented my letter from England with S1 forms entitled Registering for Healthcare Cover, and the required recent passport photographs. The clerk pursed her lips, showed my photos to a colleague who looked dubious; they conferred and then I was told they weren't satisfactory.'But they look like me,' I protested. 'Who else would claim those bags under the eyes?' 'They aren't correct; we require a white background and this is a little blue or grey.' 'They are official passport photographs in England' I explained. She looked validated. 'Ah, taken in England. We need Belgian photographs, with a WHITE background,' and she gave me a list of approved photographers in Brugge.
'Also we require Belgian medical insurance.' I explained I had tried to join a Mutuelle a fortnight before but had been refused because the magic sheet with my new, prized ID number, was ONLY an application. It wouldn't do. And I needed forms E121 from England. The clerk this morning muttered that some Mutuelles were awkward and I must return and join because my application could not proceed unless I was a member of one. She suddenly softened and dashed out a short, no doubt, curt letter and stamped it impressively with two different seals. 'Give them that and you will be fine. And your S1 forms are fine. You do not need E121. And remember, you must return here, with everything in order by early May or ...' She didn't specify and I didn't ask; expulsion perhaps or begin the process again?
Over a strong coffee I looked at the list of photographers; only three in the centre and my first favourite because she was called Emily, was closed Wed, Thurs, Fri, Sat after noon and Sunday. The second did not reply and the third said, 'Come any time.' SO when this is written, I'm off to walk to Gentpoortstraat musing and not for the first time, that some things Bruggean are perhaps twenty years behind England. I'm thinking shops closing for lunch and for a day off in the week like a Thursday when the town is busy; having to go to a photographer for a passport photo to be taken; relatively reduced choice in supermarkets; estate agents that do not open on Saturdays because it's not worth it; on busy Saturdays, only two tills and help desks open in Telenet out of four, with a queue of up to perhaps ten people.Life is altogether gentler here, less frantic, and the less edgy commercial atmosphere is welcome, except, of course, when it doesn't suit me! Next time, when the clock permits, I must consider the ways and customs here which are so much better than in the UK. There are many!
Thursday, 12 March 2015
Sunday, 8 March 2015
Getting there.
Can it already be a month since I arrived here? What seems to have been ceaseless domestic and admin activity is, in fact, producing tangible results. The place is looking more like home; despite short disreputable electric wires holding bare bulbs suspended over the kitchen, dining area and long corridor, two bedrooms and a study have yer actual light fittings. Proud moments this week!
What other minor triumphs are to be reported? Found, by chance, a Sue Ryder shop in Katelijnestraat and eventually dropped off a few surplus clothes. I am in constant search for space in what is a large apartment with less wardrobe space than in earlier times and with, altogether, less storage, full stop. I reminded myself of that when I was in Massive, a lighting emporium staffed by two wonderfully warm and receptive women, Lieve and Saskia. I found two of the aforementioned fittings, each at a 50% discount to my unbridled delight, and then fell in love with a gorgeous black lamp [fashioned from volcanic rock] and shade. Again, the seductive label of a 50% discount which I resisted irritatingly, so that I had to repeat the long walk along the Langerei to buy the following day, even though I have a number of lamps! The first time I investigated Massive and the route there, I followed the canal, as directed, to Dampoort, where to my initial delight, the bridge was up and the road closed. Loved being able to have a ring-side view of the whole process of an immensely slow barge, almost as long as a football field, manoeuvre itself so carefully, millimetre by millimetre, into the lock. The sun was high, the wind cold and brisk, so that by the time three elongated barges had queued, finessed, bobbed gently in the swell and glided at the slowest walking pace through the gates, followed by an equally cautious large motor boat, I was cold and even colder when I saw the whole procedure had taken almost thirty minutes. I could see Massive across the canal and the wide main road, just opposite. Tantalising. Small wonder I bought; I was oleaginously grateful for the warmth, both of the store and the reception from the girls. Residents of Wye in Kent, will recognise the mindset necessary for this prolonged wait while one form of transport holds up an alternative. Years of training in Wye, waiting for trains to go through the level crossing, have prepared me for the possibly greater travails of Serious Waiting here.
Wrote the above this sunny Sunday morning and this afternoon, went for a constitutional following the Langerei and then to the right, still following the wide canal, past the three lofty windmills perched atop their grassy mounds. It was just delightful; reminded me of the Italian passegiata with lots of people strolling, cycling, running and talking their way alongside the water beneath the mild sun. Stopped to queue for an icecream and enjoy the sight of families at ease and at play.Such a simple but rewarding way to sample Brugge always with the backdrop of the gabled architecture. When I looked at the map I could see I had followed an oval path of perfection!
The most amusing and unexpected event of the week was discovering that to learn Dutch, I needed to be processed by the Huis van het nederlands. Classes are not held there; it is just the Belgian Dutch version of the Academie Francaise; guardian, in this case, of the Dutch language. I turned up, after a two bus journey, to find entry to the building, challenging [no instructions on the keypad and what I considered inspired attempts to guess the correct numbers, proving inadequate, it took a phone call to resolve the problem] and the interview which eventually followed, unexpected. The absolutely charming Evgenia insisted on addressing me as if I were five years old; something perhaps lost in translation there. Then I discovered that a grown-up 11+ test, complete with practice paper, was to follow. "We need to assess your intelligence and aptitude" she said and, strangely, my confidence did not grow. I am comfortable with words but less so with symbols, patterns, shapes. Alas, no words were involved. Result is that I am suitable for a standard level class but, comfortingly, there IS a lower level should I fall below the required! Only then did I discover that the classes will take up four hours a day, four days a week. Yikes. Had envisaged a gentle couple of hours, twice a week max, but no such available. SO I am signed up to start in early May when life will change with my mental acuity or lack of, uncomfortably exposed. Everyone says that, even if one learns a little Dutch, understanding the Bruggean patois will be impossible. Apparently people in Damme, a few kilometres up the canal, cannot understand their cousins nearby. Have a suspicion that the Bruggeans are rather proud of that.
What other minor triumphs are to be reported? Found, by chance, a Sue Ryder shop in Katelijnestraat and eventually dropped off a few surplus clothes. I am in constant search for space in what is a large apartment with less wardrobe space than in earlier times and with, altogether, less storage, full stop. I reminded myself of that when I was in Massive, a lighting emporium staffed by two wonderfully warm and receptive women, Lieve and Saskia. I found two of the aforementioned fittings, each at a 50% discount to my unbridled delight, and then fell in love with a gorgeous black lamp [fashioned from volcanic rock] and shade. Again, the seductive label of a 50% discount which I resisted irritatingly, so that I had to repeat the long walk along the Langerei to buy the following day, even though I have a number of lamps! The first time I investigated Massive and the route there, I followed the canal, as directed, to Dampoort, where to my initial delight, the bridge was up and the road closed. Loved being able to have a ring-side view of the whole process of an immensely slow barge, almost as long as a football field, manoeuvre itself so carefully, millimetre by millimetre, into the lock. The sun was high, the wind cold and brisk, so that by the time three elongated barges had queued, finessed, bobbed gently in the swell and glided at the slowest walking pace through the gates, followed by an equally cautious large motor boat, I was cold and even colder when I saw the whole procedure had taken almost thirty minutes. I could see Massive across the canal and the wide main road, just opposite. Tantalising. Small wonder I bought; I was oleaginously grateful for the warmth, both of the store and the reception from the girls. Residents of Wye in Kent, will recognise the mindset necessary for this prolonged wait while one form of transport holds up an alternative. Years of training in Wye, waiting for trains to go through the level crossing, have prepared me for the possibly greater travails of Serious Waiting here.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)