India, Bring Spring to Brussels!

To describe my first days in Brussels with one color, I would choose gray. Gray not only in terms of gloomy weather, but also the rhythm of life. People get up in the morning, go to work, earn money, go out, go for dinner, party on weekends. Unless you are a newcomer who needs to get used to metro that runs in two levels or find your way in the city, life seems to be more or less predictable, stable and in some way comfortable. At least the slice you get to taste as not being fully integrated yet. It’s mid March. I have moved to Brussels to do a traineeship at the European Commission. If I look at my life exactly one year back, everything seems totally opposite. I was living in Hyderabad (India) with more sun, more adventures, more colors. People welcomed spring in the craziest way I have seen so far – splashing colors everywhere and at everyone. They call it Holi, Hindu festival of colors.

It’s Easter break in Brussels, but no signs of spring to arrive soon. Since I never plan my grocery shopping in advance, on the day of the second Easter I realize that all the supermarkets are closed, I have moved out from a temporary place in Jette to a permanent one in Etterbeek and find myself hungry for all: food, colors, spring, India. “Those small Arab shops should be open," my flatmate tells me. So with a hope to find them I get lost in the streets of Etterbeek. Etterbeek is one of the 19 municipalities of Brussels city. My Belgian friend told me that the 19 municipalities are like 19 faces of Brussels. Each has its identity. Jette, for example, is more traditional, Flamish concentrated municipality while Schaerbeek is where a lot of Turkish immigrants live. And what is Etterbeek like? The municipality that is located close to all the European institutions with the famous Schuman metro station as a landmark. I have no clue yet.

I am listening to Chammak Challo, the soundtrack composed for the Bollywood movie Ra One. Last year it was a hit in India! Chammak Challo on streets, in weddings, in clubs, loved by youngs and olds. As I am looking for shops, I imagine myself one year ago. Would I ever face such a situation? In India, food finds you wherever you live, wherever you go. Street vendors follow you on trains or buses, in the corners of streets, next to your house, at touristic spots. Indians truly care that you get your meal. “Had your breakfast? Had your lunch? Had your dinner?” They will ask you each time to make sure you are fine.

Here, it’s taken for granted. Maybe not for those Arabs who have opened their shops on a holiday (but that’s not a holiday for them, I assume). I enter one such shop. Small and compact. I am looking for bread, but can’t find it there. So, I buy noodles instead. Then I get out and walk further on until I notice another shop. It’s actually not that hard. As I look around the area, I realize those small shops are not that scarce. Now it's another Indian hit on my MP3 player. It’s Subha Hone Na De or commonly known as My Hero. It lifts me up. I enter a shop. Too lazy to take off my headset. I do enjoy the song, the powerful rhythm, the energy. And I see fresh French baguettes on a shelf. With no doubt I take one and present it to the salesman. For a slight politeness I take off one of my headset. He tells me 70 cents. As I start looking for coins in my wallet, he asks me:

“Are you from Poland?”

“No. From Latvia.” I don’t mind to answer. “And you?” I ask in return.

“I am from India.”

“What?”

I can't believe what he just said. I want to give him my MP3 player as if proving - see, I was just now thinking about India, listening to My Hero and Chammak Challo, remembering Holi and colors, but I say nothing of that as if I am tongue tied and suddenly don’t know where to begin.

“Wow!” I only exclaim. “You are from India! I was living in India last year!”

“Really? Where?”

“Hyderabad.”

“Oh, that's south. I am from north, Punjab. It’s close to the Golden Temple.” He tells me with a pride in his eyes.

“I loved India!” I go on. He smiles and keeps in speaking about Punjab. I feel like we both have found each other in the right time and at the right place. We both get nostalgic.

I haven't paid him the 70 cents yet. Now after our nice chat it feels a bit awkward to hand him the one euro coin I have prepared. But I do it. And it's even more awkward to take the change - 30 cents. But I do it too. He is a vendor, I am a customer. Just like he lived in the North of India, I lived in South. We part with smiles and for some reason, I promise I will come to his shop more often…

I get out in the streets and suddenly notice something I didn’t pay attention to before. I see Indian ladies wearing winter jackets and under those dark, heavy jackets I notice colorful Indian kurtas hiding from the winter. Spring needs to come to see those kurtas at full length not only covering their ankles. I conclude. Where is Spring? Where is it? When will we finish this bad weather? My Italian colleague complains to me in the elevator as he looks at his umbrella scornfully. He is not the only one. The entire city is waiting for spring. It becomes one of the commonly discussed topics.

Some weeks later I am running to the bank in Etterbeek to solve a problem with my bank card. As I am doing it during my lunch break, I don't have much time. I hurriedly enter the bank. My cheeks red, my hair tousled, I am gasping for breath. I see a family being served before me. It’s a lady, her husband and their newly born baby. I look carefully at the young man and suddenly notice his outfit. He is wearing....what? Soft slippers, sweatpants and a worn-out jumper you would normally wear only at home. It could be his pajamas. How dare you go to a bank like this? Straight from your bed? I condemn him in my mind. But he smiles, looks at his wife as she handles the bank procedures, admires his newborn baby and doesn’t seem to worry about anything in this life.

Then I look out the window and see a few beams of sunshine.

Maybe he is right. Maybe Spring has arrived.

The Lianshui Dance

My First Impressions of a Chinese County

Ongoing clatter of children, always busy ping pong tables and basketball courts, random flowers being given to their foreign teachers, smiles, the melodious bell ring; my soft bed where you want to sleep longer and longer, a little dusty windowsill, my newly bought mug with green liquid inside (a unique design) and quite spacious and luxurious apartment with a Chinese painting on the wall, soft carpets, perfect bathroom. They say it’s 4 stars. Hunger for Facebook or Blogspot which are blocked here… desire to update my status... crowds flowing to dining hall, crowds sitting at classes, crowds, crowds, crowds. I have arrived in China. I have arrived in Lianshui, a very small county of 1 million people, a part of Huai’an city in South East China. I have arrived at school where I will be teaching English.

One might wonder what changes I am going through if compared to my previous teaching experience at a private school in India/Hyderabad. Quite a lot:

- from small school with modern facilities to a very large school with quite poor facilities;

- from around 500 students in total to thousands of students

- from around 10-12 students in each class to 40, 50, 60 and even 70 students in each class;

- from students whom you teach literature and writing as their first language is English to students who have almost ZERO level in English;

- from juniors and always unpredictable and interesting-to-observe teenagers to smiling primary kids’ faces.

In fact, my life here is all about school. I live at a school campus, I see students out of my window, I teach here at school, I eat at school cafeteria. I always skip breakfast though which is at 6 in the morning (too early), but get down for lunch at 11 am and dinner at 5 pm. Even when I go out of the campus, I would always meet students roaming in the streets... Just like me... Even when I go to the local supermarket, I would meet fellow teachers checking new products, thinking of what to buy and finally not deciding on anything because it seems there is nothing better to do in this county than to go to a supermarket, meet people and somehow contribute to the collaborative shopping.

What I like here are people: shy, timid, smiling, blushing, leading to confusions and misunderstandings...just like me? Maybe... And when I get out of my room in the campus - busy with students who play ping-pong, basketball, roam around or treat themselves with ice-cream, march in lines when necessary - I would always face endless „hello-s”, „hi-s”, shy smiles and great excitement and pride in their faces once I have smiled or wished back. And it’s not only about students. People everywhere seem so genuine, so curious to say random „hello”, to smile at me, to touch me. Everywhere: at the supermarket, in school’s canteen, on streets as I am passing by. They help me without knowing how, without understanding what I want. They would get me in the car and drive me back to my school not understanding clearly where it is, but sympathizing with the fact that I am lost. And they would seem so proud of having helped me that after the ride they would treat me with snacks. It seems I should want to get lost in the streets more often to ‘taste’ this Lianshui culture even more.

The thing that fascinates me here (and I guess also elsewhere in China) is the very normal unity and harmony that you can observe in the evenings. People just come together in an open-air fields and dance, practice teiji or do other kind of exercise. It’s so normal just to follow the music rhythms and perform the same dance together in a perfect harmony turning it into such a normal habit as having lunch or dinner; so normal that they don’t even smile as they dance. I notice some seniors wearing serious, life-experienced faces with deep, thoughtful eyes. I look at their feet and they move with ease. They know the steps very well. Life has been a long dance for them.  

Some blocks further, there is a local teenage popstar performing on a stage. He illuminates the local area with sparkles of dance, joy and cheers. The young people still need to learn the steps to dance well. This is the charm of this tiny Chinese county. This is the charm of a life-long dance; The Lianshui dance.

Where is Rue de l’Aqueduc?

One girl's search for a street turns into a little adventure...

As I make my way out of Louise metro station, Brussels envelope me in a beautiful darkness. It’s a quarter past eight. The street lights illuminate the liveliness of a Friday night out. Couples are meeting for dinner. Young people are swarming the streets like ants. Many of them just like me are newcomers and don’t really know where to go. I have my map wide open, and there is only one question on my mind: how to get to the Rue de l’Aqueduc?

I need to go there because I am invited for a friend’s “Bye-bye party”. I feel I am already getting late, but instead of becoming anxious and nervously checking the time, I decide to leave it in the hands of Brussels, my new friend, whom I entitle to guide me. I decide to first get on Louise Avenue and then turn right on Charleroise street. From there, I should find my way.

“Excuse me, do you know where is Louise avenue?” I ask the two random girls I meet on a wide street.

“Yes, it’s this one… but I am not sure.. we are new here,” one of the girls answer to me. “Where do you need to go?” she asks me.

“Charleroise street,” I decide not to complicate the thing with Rue de l’Aqueduc yet.

“Oh,” she says. I see uncertainty in her eyes. “I am not sure. We are new here too,” she repeats once again. Her wish to help me seems stronger than her ability to say “no, I don’t know”.  

“But this is Louise Avenue, right?” I double-check.

“Yes, it should be,” she looks even less certain now. I thank the girls, we exchange naïve smiles, the ones that newcomers make as they don’t know the city yet, but don’t want to be impolite to another such newcomer. That’s it - “au revoir”, and they are gone. I am now certain, this is NOT Avenue Louise. But out of curiosity, I go further on, to find at least one street sign to confirm my doubts. And as I see I am already approaching Porte de Namur metro station, I am sure, this is a wrong way and I should be going back.

I think I am now on the avenue Louisa. But for some reason, I turn right where I see a street with many restaurants. People are tucked in warm and cosy places and are happily dining and chatting. There’s a Chinese restaurant on the right and the smell of Italian pizza reaches my nostrils on the left side. I look that direction and make a quick eye contact with a chef. It seems so natural now to enter his pizzeria.

“Excuse me, do you know where Charleroise street is?” I ask him and even show it on a map.

He starts explaining something in French and by his confident look I see, he knows the place. But it’s too loud to hear him, and I don’t speak French. He points a finger on my map with one hand and in the next moment he takes out a fresh pizza from the oven with the other hand. I laugh as he does it. He laughs too. Then he hands the pizza to the customer and opens the door so that we could go outside. We finally hear each other and he explicitly tells me where the place is. My French is almost zero level, but somehow it’s a language you can sometimes understand. And I do understand him – I have to go straight, then see plaza and turn right. He paints his explanations with his hands and I notice how concerned he is to make sure I got it. And I did. I smile. “Merci beaucoup,” I tell him and I am back on the track. He is back in pizzeria.

I have reached Charleroise street and from here Rue de l’Aqueduc should pop up as one of the side streets. I say to myself. But the side streets are becoming more obscure. There are less and less people outside. I feel I could have gone too far, but I am pretty sure I am on the right way. It’s maybe my confusing face that betrays me. And I hear an old man calling something on my right.

“Mademoiselle,” he says in French. I look at him puzzled and he swiftly changes to English.

“Are you looking for a street?” he asks me. I still have the map in my hands, so no wonder why the correct question.

“Yeah,” I answer. I like his tone. I like his initiative. I like the way he approached me. He is looking at me through a tiny window grille. I can only see his white shirt and bald head. I suddenly feel like in medieval times when these kind of old men were in charge of a restaurant or an inn or even a cell. I find it so antique and charming. This man. His voice. The way he is leaning towards me from that grille. The entire situation. I tell him what I am looking for.

“L’aqueduc, l’Aqueduc,” he repeats, “it sounds familiar, it should be near… just go straight and then ask people, but you should be on the right way, I am sure,” he affirms and wishes me a nice day. I thank him in French and wish the same. Then a sudden thought corrects me – it’s an evening, not a day… well, but I keep on walking, blessed by the kind man.

I have walked for a bit and now I feel I might have really gone too far. No sign of finding what I am looking for. I hardly see anyone on a street now. There’s an old lady waiting at the red light. I ask her, but she doesn’t know. Then I cross another street and see a young man walking fast and talking on his mobile phone. I clearly see he looks busy and this is not really the best time to disturb him. But for some reason I present myself and my problem right in his face.

He hangs up the phone immediately. “L’aqueduc..,” he quickly repeats and says something in French. Having noticed I am not getting him, he starts decorating his French with some words in English. He proposes to go to the video rental place on the corner to ask a man there, and in the next minute I am following him. He has clearly taken the lead. We take stairs to go down in the shop, he asks me again for the exact address and number. Then he asks the guy at video rental, but also that guy doesn’t know more than “having heard that street”. We get out of the video rental place and go along the street. My cavalier doesn’t even think of leaving me alone any more and I feel a strong determination in him to help me find a place. On the way he makes a phone call. He speaks partly French, partly Arabic and I assume he might be Moroccan or Tunisian. He mentions La Bourse metro station and I assume it’s the place where he has to meet someone. That also explains his hurry.

“You can leave if you need to go somewhere,” I don’t want him to be late for his meeting.

“No, no,” he insists, “no problem. You don’t speak French, here all French,” he answers. Now it’s him doing my job. He stops people as we walk and asks them for the street I am looking for. They give him directions, but it still seems not to be clear. We walk for a while in silence. The only sound is our shoes pacing the road. I have a quick thought of asking him about his origins (since I speak a little Arabic), but then I give up this idea as it might distract us from our task. Besides, I already know he has something planned and he shouldn’t be here helping me.

There are not many people in the area and it seems we tell our problem to everyone we meet. There’s a couple walking down to us and my cavalier abruptly stops them. He asks them for the Rue de l’Aqueduc in French. They don’t know. Suddenly there’s another charming gentleman coming out of a nearby restaurant. Now it’s the couple that notices them first.

“Monsieur, Rue de l’Aqueduc?” the lady calls to the gentleman. He doesn’t know, but he takes out his smart-phone and comes to us. He slowly enters the street name on the screen. Meanwhile there is an elder man passing by and the lady asks them too: “Rue de l’Aqueduc?” He starts explaining something in French. The guy with the smartphone stands next to me and has found a historical description of the street. The Moroccan/Tunisian (?) guy is on my other side. And in the middle of this bustle when everyone is so seriously looking for Rue de l’Aqueduc I suddenly feel like ascending from the ground, looking at the situation from the above, observing people discussing the street, trying to find it on the smart-phone, making so much efforts, showing concerned faces while I do nothing. I suddenly can’t help, but utter an innocent grin. Everyone has been involved in the quest as if I was looking for a Queen’s Parade on that enigmatic, sounds-familiar-but-nobody-knows-where-it-is street. Finally, the directions come out of somewhere (and I don’t even remember where), but I assume it was the collaborative effect that brought the answer. I thank the people who were involved; my cavalier seems to feel more relieved than myself (as if it had become the concern of both of us). We get on the next street and voilà – it’s Rue de l’Aqueduc! The Morrocon/Tunisian (?) guy makes sure I will find the right number of the street and we part to disappear in different directions.