Signs of Life

It's small things that signify you live somewhere.  Not just your name on the doorbell.  Things like going to your local (I can see if out the window) frituur on the way home from work, buying the largest cone of friets and then cradling it home across the tramtracks like a baby.  Well I didn't want to lose any.  Just to show you what a serious matter chips are here, there a Belgian frituur index 

Other things that say this is home:  waiting for bloody bloody ages this morning for a train.  It took me two hours to get to work.  I could have been anywhere in Europe in two hours.  And that's a mighty cold station.  We Bruxellois workers stood together like meerkats for warmth, with that patience that comes of having no option.

Another thing:  going to the bar to meet new friends and giggling childishly and repeatedly when they order a Bolleke.  Yes, it is pronounced like that.  The waitress must be fairly used to it as she kindly informed me "it isn't bollocks".  Which unfortunately made me giggle more.

But the thing that means you have finally moved in properly - you miss a parcel delivery.  Going to the parcel collection place is definitely a sign of being here.  If people are sending you stuff you must be.  To see one's name scribbled on a Wij hebben een zending voor U! notice means you are real.   

And on this particular evening, rather full of real chips.