I promised my baby brother (he's a tiny, tiny baby, always spitting up and laughing at the word "poop") that I would write a blog today, but I am so out of the writing rhythm that I might end up just posting several pictures showing how dirty our kitchen is right now. The pictures MIGHT be more interesting -- dirty kitchens are SO different in Europe.
I have lived in Europe for exactly one year: ONE YEAR! HEAR ME ROAR.
Sadly, I still roar in English.
When you are learning a language, there will be a period of approximately 100 years where you will be technically able to communicate, but will consistently sound just a little bit like a douche. Sometimes it's fun (or "funny", as all French/Dutch people say "fun" -- drives me crazy, "You should come tonight! It will be so funny!" Rude), but sometimes just awkward.
Take five minutes ago. I walked up to the counter of this café and ordered "un espresso." For those of you who do not speak French as fluently as I do, this means "an espresso." I know, crazy different. The beautiful European barista looked at me with the normal concentrated scowl all native speakers don when listening to foreigners -- not unkind in the slightest, just clearly requiring extra effort. He understood me. His scowl softened. "Un espresso? Pour ici ou apporter?" "Pour ici," I cleverly responded. For here. TOTALLY NOT to go. BOOYAH, BRICE. (this inner extreme and for some reason military-inspired dialogue regarding French is constant for me -- constant) I decided to be risqué and show my language belly button JUST a bit by changing my order. "Mmm, en fait, je vais prendre un DOUBLE espresso." He responded, "Bien sûr, alors vous voulez un espresso et un double espresso?" I then panicked, (he had used more than 4 words and had spoken to me like a normal person instead of a very young child) latching onto the words I recognised, "double espresso" -- YES, YES!! "Oui, oui... merci."
I then watched as he began to prepare an espresso AND a double espresso, exactly as he had confirmed with me. Fail. I thought about sitting down with the two drinks and acting like that's how I always do it -- maybe praying over one and throwing it over my shoulder -- but then I'd have to do it again tomorrow, and if I showed up with a client or Arnaud and they gave me my "usual" of one single and one double espresso, that would be hilarious and also ridiculous. So, I slowly covered my proverbial belly button and said, "Oh, er, seulement un double espresso, desoleé." Just a double espresso, sorry. He smiled and said in perfect English, "It's okay, so just the double espresso for here?"
France is much easier to learn French in (imagine that) -- Brussels is truly filled with people who speak 5, 6, 7 languages. The thought of having this many linguistic options makes me feel like I might wet my pants, and NOT in a good way, since wetting my pants is normally super fun ("funny"). Being surrounded by people who are quad-lingual means that nearly everyone can and will speak English with me as soon as they pick up my accent.
Everyone in Belgium thinks I am British. Even after speaking with me for a few hours people think I am British. WHAT IS GOING ON? The other night Arnaud and I were walking down a street in Brussels where every restaurant has a man standing in the entrance with the sole purpose of convincing you/physically dragging you inside to eat (a tourist trap that I find immensely fun -- it's like walking down a street where you can guarantee interactions with 900 people -- FUN), when a man looked me up and down and yelled, "LONG LIVE THE QUEEN." I made the sign of the cross out of confusion and as a quick replacement to giving him the finger. Hopefully he now thinks that's the normal British response. Probably not though, because I then yelled, "I AM NOT BRITISH," directly in his face.
I know that Arnaud is a good man for me because he observed the entire interaction between this man and me, his arm around my waist the whole time, as if it was a totally normal scenario... not a word.
The other night Arnaud brought home a gigantic box of chocolates from Leonidas - he had seen the company as a client that day, and they had gifted him a box filled to the brim with nearly sexual delicacies, most likely because they wanted to have sex with him - which I completely understand.
I do not like white chocolate, as a rule. This is why when Arnaud moaned with ecstasy when he bit into a certain chocolate, I was unimpressed. It was white. He insisted that I try, so I licked it with the most passive, bitchy, pointy tongue I could muster, and I kid you not, I have never in my life tasted anything as good as that little morsel of WHITE, BUTTERY GOODNESS.
Here's the deal: it tasted EXACTLY like butter inside, with a little bit of sugar of course. But mostly just butter. Pure butter. PURE BUTTER IN MY MOUTH. Was it real buttercream? Was it magic? Is there a god and is he made of butter?
Whatever it was, I am in love with it. I want it all over my body and inside a lasagna. I want to fill boxes with it and save them for my future children. I feel like I might need an intervention in a few weeks: it was that good. I plan to stop at Leonidas on the way home tonight and purchase a box filled with only butter magic cream candies.
What's for dinner? White chocolate filled with pure butter. The other, other white meat.
And that reminds me of my baby brother. Because he is white and sometimes eats butter.
Collin, you're welcome.
#changedyourlife
Also, I miss you more than words and love you endlessly.
Your sister,
Charis
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