Pity Party. Table for One.
or "Hey, how'd it go moving into your new place"

It's funny what the mind can do given a little time.

Early in the summer I found an apartment in Belgium that had it all. Groovy, cozy, spacious, a bit elegant and, importantly, in a little woods with a view of the lake. Anyone who has ever been to Belgium will know that this is not typical (~understatement~). Anyone who hasn't been to Belgium will have to take my word for it.

Since my love-at-first-sight decision to take this apartment (no small commitment as a standard lease here is 3 years), some months have passed and I've spent most of my summer in Canada. Yesterday was the big day -- all of my furniture/worldly posessions cleared customs in the port of Antwerp and arrived at my new apartment. This makes me happy. It's just that, not having seen this apartment all summer, my mind seems to have played around with my memory of it. Yesterday, I noted the following elements were out of sync between my memory of the place and the reality of it:

1. Could have sworn there was an oven in the kitchen. Nope. No oven.
2. Really could have sworn there were lights anywhere in the apartment. Hmmmm.. that's funny, lightswitches yes. Lights, no
3. Thought it was bigger. Much bigger. Why does this place now seem half the size of my old place?
4. Couldn't remember whether or not it had a fireplace... turns out it doesn't
5. Assumed that the drawers in the kitchen were real. Actually, they just look real and when you try to open them, you break your fingernails. Because they are not real and you are just pulling fake drawers. That don't open. Ever. No matter how hard you pull them.
6. Thought for sure there was at least one closet in the place. Anywhere. Nope-a-rino.
7. Remembered that it was really clean... but guess what??? Hey, you're getting good at this
8. Definitely did not remember the VLS (Very Large Spider) living in my front foyer (this now-former resident is again living in the lovely woodsy backyard where I expect it will live the rest of its natural life thinking "you know, when I first got thrown out here, I was thinking 'hey, what the fuck is this all about -- you can't do this to me bitch', but now that I'm living in the woodpile again I see that it's really the best thing that could have happened to me. That dump didn't even have lights anyway").

Last night as twilight was setting in, I rooted around in my tickle-trunk and found an electrical adaptor for the Belgian electrical sockets. I plugged in my lamp (a funky, heart shaped lamp from Ikea) and for about 15 minutes it cast a lovely, ambiant red light on my living room... the place looked tres cozy... then suddenly -- BANG! My lamp exploded.

Kids, let this be a lesson. Electricity is not a toy. The bag electricity comes in is not a toy. Nothing about electricity is funny. And especially not European electricity which is, uh, bigger and more ferocious than North American electricity. European electricity will bitchslap your silly little North American appliances. European electricity will make your imported re-naturalized euro-shit wish it had never been mass-produced. Honestly, I'm lucky I didn't burn my damned house down.

So last night, not wanting to spend the night in the dark/in flames. I drove back to my *other* apartment where the electricity doesn't try to kill you. I parked my car in the parking lot which, by some overnight miracle, by morning had turned into a Farmers Market. Immediately I thought 'oh look, my car has turned into a fruit and vegetable stand -- breakfast!!'. This fleeting optimistic thought was quickly replaced the realization that my car had been towed and I hadn't a clue to fucking where.

So, I spoke in Flemish-English (this is mostly me first talking in English while the Flemish person nods their head in near-complete incomprehension and then me nodding while the Flemish person answers a question I may or may not have asked) to the fruit market frau who seemed to have some experience with directing the English to the police station across the street. And that is how I found myself at 8:05 this morning in the police station in Kortenberg explaining to Lieut. Luc Somethingsmecksomething that my car had been towed.

Lieut. Luc, a tidy looking characature of a Belgian police officer, informed me that my car had, in fact, been towed. And so we began to play the particularly Belgian bloodsport of 'I will answer any question you precisely ask me without actually offering any new information'. After some rounds of this, I managed to learn where my car had been taken and was allowed to use the phone to call my boss to explain why I would not be able to facilitate the 9am global teleconference. It went something like this:

Me: Hello Johan. This is Colleen. I'm calling to tell you that I have run into an unexpected problem and won't be able to facilitate the 9am global teleconference.

Johan: Where are you?

Me: I'm at the police station but don't...

Johan: The call display says "Interrogation".

Me: Well yes. I'm in an interrogation room I suppose. I'm calling to tell you that ...

Johan: (beginning to question the intelligence of hiring the foreign) Ok, you are at the police station? In an interrogation room?

Me: Yes, well, my car has been towed away and I...

Johan: What is "towed"? (his first language is not english)

Me: (speaking very slowly and without contractions). Johan. I parked my car somewhere I should not have parked it. This morning it was gone. The police tell me it is now in a garage. I will be late for the meeting this morning.

Johan: You should be very careful where you park in Belgium.

Me: (trying not to freak out). Yes.. Yes I should. That is very good advice Johan.

Johan: (getting it) Sorry. That does not help you now I suppose.

Me: No. No it does not.

So, half an hour later I'm in a taxi, speeding toward the office, looking at the passing scenery and mostly thinking thoughts related to the futility of life and why I make choices that put me in situations that I can't understand and what is the point of working so hard when all that happens is I get older and more unhappy.

35Euros later, my taxi dropped me off at the office and I'm not in a great mood. I work in a large office building and, being a beer company, they play popular music in the front reception area. This is, I guess, to make visitors aware of how so oh-so-very hip we are. There is one dance song that, for reasons completely unknown to me, has always made me cry. This song is Alphaville's "Forever Young". I don't know why it makes me cry. I don't want it to make me cry. I just know that it does make me cry, and that I haven't heard it in 5 years. Until this morning. For anyone not familiar with it, the lyrics go something like:

So many adventures couldn't happen today.
So many songs we forgot to play.
So many dreams are swinging out of the blue.
We let them come true.

Forever young.
I want to be forever young.
Do you really want to live forever.
and ever...

etc...

I don't know what it is. Maybe it's the word "forever" so many times in succession, maybe it hits home with my desire to not want to miss a single thing and realizing that, in the trying I miss a lot. Futility of life shit. Regret. The crazy cab ride to nowhere. I don't know. Point is, it ... it was playing in the foyer and ringing in my ears all the way to my morning meeting.

And that was how my day started.

So now I'm at 'home'. My roommate isn't here and I'm not just wallowing in self-pity. I'm fermenting in it.

Yes waiter. Pity Party. Table for 1 please.