Fog in the valley, and the little train for the tourists
31 October, 2005
11 October, 2005
Work Permits and Hell
I've always liked the number 22, I suppose because I was born on the 22nd, so I thought it was a lucky number for me when I was little. And I always liked the phrase Catch 22.
Catch-22 is a novel by Joseph Heller, the point of which was to show how illogical modern warfare had become. The main character, Yossarian, is a bombardier who wants out of the war. Contradictions abound. Again and again, we see that want is supposed to be good is really bad, and what is sensible is really nonsence.
The fictional "catch", numbered as Catch 22 in U.S. Army Air Corps parlance in the novel, states that any bombardier who wishes to be excused from combat flight duty must submit an official medical diagnosis from his squadron's flight surgeon stating that he is unfit to fly because he is insane. However, according to Army regulations, any sane person does not want to fly combat missions because they are so dangerous, so by requesting permission not to fly on the grounds of insanity, the bombardier has just shown that he is in fact sane and therefore is fit to fly. (And on the other side, anyone who wanted to fly on combat missions implicitly showed that he was insane, but these flyers would never submitted requests to be excused from flying because they liked it.)
From http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Catch_22_(logic)
For most people and situations, that logic is too complex, and we tend to think along the lines you need A to get B and you need B to get A, meaning that one must come first, but you can't get one without the other.
Any government has these catches. It's not only the military. You can find these kinds of catches anywhere you find bureaurocracy.
I used to work for the U.S. Government, and I thought I understood red tape. I didn't like it, but I had learned to survive along side of it. It was like living with cudzu in the South, cudzu that will slowly take over every inch of sunshine and kill everything else around it. You see it strangling everything in it's path, so you make decisions about what you are willing to sacrifice, and what you will try to protect from it's slowly-moving path.
Universities are another good example. I remember when I was taking classes toward my PhD, I heard two professors talking in the stairwell. The one said to the other that having a PhD wasn't a mark of intelligence or creativity --- it only showed perseverance and the patience to get through red tape.
Everything in Luxembourg hinges on the work permit: bank accounts, housing, residency permits and visas, and so on. So how do you get a work permit in Luxembourg?
To get a work permit, you must first show that you have a job, i.e., a contract with a company in Luxembourg. That company must prove that there is no one in Europe who can do the job that they need done and no one as qualified as you, beyond any doubt. Simple enough. You have a job, you're good at what you do, and then you can have the work permit.
The European Commission knows me and knows my work. They can attest to the fact that there is no one in Europe who can do what I do. I can't work for the European Commission because I'm an American citizen. They have a contract for some work, but I can't bid on the contract with an American company. I can work on the contract with a European company. I find a European company who is bidding on the project and ask them to hire me. Voila! I have a job in Europe.
Now here's the Catch 22: That company in Luxembourg doesn't want to give you a contract unless you will actually be working for them, but then you aren't allowed to work for them because you don't have a work permit. And you can't get a work permit without the contract from a Luxembourg company. So you could wait in the States for the work permit to come through, but then you would no longer have the contract for the job in Europe because you weren't doing any work that needed to be done.
Just to further complicate things, without a work permit, you aren't qualified to be paid. Without any means of support, it is difficult to get a bank account or find housing. Without money and housing, it is difficult to continue to work for the company that hired you, though you need the contract with the company so that you can have the work permit, and eventually the money and the housing.
Now there are some solutions to the problems, for example, it is possible to be "forwarded" some money for expenses even though you aren't really allowed to be paid. But most landlords won't rent to you without proof that you are getting paid, and there is no proof. Though it is difficult to find formal housing, it is sometimes possible to find someone who will rent to you without a formal contract, even at a hotel if worse comes to worse.
To add to my own personal complications, I can't be on a contract with the European Commission while working for the U.S. government, so I had to quit my job. If I don't quit my job, then I would have to remove my name from the EC contract, and then I would lose my job in Europe. Without my good government job in the States, we no longer had health insurance, but while working in Europe without a work permit, we had no health insurance in Europe either.
Perhaps it would be possible to quit the job with the U.S. government and find temporary work in the States until the permit comes through, though there is some chance that the contracts could be canceled in Europe while waiting. Patience could be especially lacking for the contract with the EC if they were told that the work permit was already approved even though you don't have a work permit.
So how does the time line look for getting a work permit?
October – I apply for a job. They must interview other candidates to assure the government that I am the only qualified person.
January – the paperwork is filed for the work permit. I and the company in Luxembourg are assured that everything is in order and that the permit will be approved within three months.
25 February – my last day with the federal government job.
1 March – the contract with the EC begins. When they check on the status of my work permit, they are told that it's already been approved.
15 March – I come to Europe, living in someone's apartment until mid-May while she moves temporarily to take care of her father and his house.
9 April – someone calls to see why my work permit is "unofficially" approved but we don't have "official" word yet. We are told that the paperwork is sitting on someone’s desk because these things take six months, so I need to wait, even if they agree that the company has the right to hire me.
13 April – at the suggestion of my landlady, we ask for my number so that I have proof that I have applied for a work permit. I do have a number in the system, so now I have, essentially, a temporary work permit. (For example, if the bank wants to call and check on it, I can tell them my number, and they can check, and the lady can say, yes we have her file and she will have a work permit eventually.) This allows me to open a bank account in Luxembourg.
5 May – the work permit is officially approved. This means that I can be paid officially for the work I did in March and April also, but using the withholding rate for a single person because I still have no proof, officially, that I'm married with three kids.
3 June – my official work permit arrived in the mail. However, we notice that the birthday listed on the permit is off by a year, and the birthday is part of the official number. My boss had told them in January that it was wrong, and reminded them again in April when they gave me my temporary number. All other paperwork hinges on this piece of paper, and there is some doubt as to whether we should proceed when the number is wrong.
17 June – another work permit arrives with my correct birthday. But it's not a correction of the first, so I now have two work permits with two different numbers. I was in the system twice, with two different birthdays. (So it appears that instead of correcting my birthday early on in the process, they opened another file for me.)
6 July – I received a third work permit, this one dated 1 July. I had to send in the other two so I could get this one with the correct birthday. They seemed very angry with me that I had two work permits, but it certainly wasn't my fault.
Hooray! A work permit. Now life gets easier, we think. We were wrong.
The next step is to register in Kehlen and to get residency permits. Once we're registered in Kehlen, then they can take out withholding for someone who is married with three kids. Until then, my withholding is at the single rate.
And here lies the next Catch 22: You can’t have a residency permit without proof of means of support (i.e., a work permit unless you are retired) and a tax card from your county/parish, and you can't have a tax card without a work permit, rental contract on a house, marriage certificate, birth certificates for all the kids, and the residency permit. Also, the spouse and kids must be in the country, as seen by the passport stamps, but it's very difficult to afford to have the spouse and kids in Europe living on the salary with the withholding of a single person.
The time line for getting a residency permit and/or tax card:
7 July – The administrative office at my company has sent copies of our passports, along with letters, to the Luxembourg administration. To process the entire mess, the Luxembourg administration wanted a notarized copy of every page all five passports. I couldn't afford that. So I send them regular copies, and then I will go later to the office and plead my case, trying to sound as pitiful as possible, which should be simple.
8 July – My pastor suggests that I go as soon as possible to the offices in Luxembourg since I have already been in the country longer than allowed for a tourist. So I go to the offices and tell them that my priest sent me, and he said that they could help. That seems to make them more sympathetic to my case. I see one woman. She tells me that I am illegal and must go immediately to the Office for Foreigners. I walk over there. The guard at the door tells me they are open only in the mornings from 8:30 to 11:30. So much for immediately. I go back to the first office to wait in another line. It’s hot, with no AC, and the ticket machines are broken. Usually you could just take a ticket and wait in the waiting room, but not today. So we stand in line instead of sitting in the waiting room. When I finally talk to the person, she says that there is nothing they can do to help me.
12 July – I go back to the Office for Foreigners, taking my usual bus, and I arrive at the office at 8:50. They tell me I am too late. They can give me a ticket, but the ticket number will probably be for a time past 11:30. He said that some people will take a ticket and never be seen because they **will** close at 11:30 no matter what. This man could have explained this to me when I was there on the 8th. It was the same man. Today he says that if you want a ticket that will assure that you are seen that day, you have to come before 8:30.
14 July – I go back to the Ministry for Foreigners early. It was Hell on Earth. The purpose of the trip was to show them the five passports since I didn't have them notarized. And to ask if there was anything they could do for me so that I could get the tax card in Kehlen. She did look through the passports and mark that the copies were accurate on the copies. I also gave her copies of my marriage certificate, but we're still missing the birth certificates for the kids. There was nothing else she could do to help.
20 July – We all five received letters that we have been approved for our permis de séjour, mine of "type salarié" and the other four of "type membre de famille". I can't believe it's actually happened. The next step is to get medical certificates from a doctor in Luxembourg, and two passport-type photos, and then to go back to the "ministère des Affaires étrangères et de l'Immigration" (my favorite place). There is no way we can all get to a doctor in Lux before we leave, especially since many people have already started their holidays. We also don't have the money to pay for the medical certificates because it costs 30 euro each.
2 September – We have enough money for the medical certificates, and Darin and the kids go to the doctor in Kehlen.
5 September – I go to the doctor for my medical certificate, and then we apply for our permits in Kehlen. They seem shocked I have been in the country since March 15, but tell us it will be another 3 to 6 months before we have the permits in hand.
10 October – We receive letters that we have numbers in the system. But nothing about how much longer we have to wait, or when my next trip to the Ministry for Foreigners, a.k.a Hell on Earth, will be.
And why would I call it Hell on Earth, you say? Rev. Lyons spoke once in a sermon about how we could sometimes get a glimpse of heaven here on earth. I know for a fact that the same is true of hell. And Hell on Earth is the Ministry for Foreigners in downtown Luxembourg.
The Gates/Door of Hell
They are open from 8:30 to 11:30 if you want to apply for a long-term visa, but you must come early to get a ticket to be seen before 11:30. So the last time I went, the time I actually was allowed inside, was 14 July. I thought it was appropriate that it was Bastille Day, as we say in America.
I woke up early in the morning so I could get to the Ministry for Foreigners early. I got there at 7:48, and I found that I didn't have to wait in line for a ticket, so that was good. I was #141, and the guard told me to come back at 8:30. So I went and bought a Coke Light with Lemon. So far so good. Doesn't sound so bad, you say?
At 8:30, even a little bit before, you are allowed to go to the third floor. When you walk into the building from the street, it is noticeably hotter than the already 84 degrees F outside. When you walk up the three flights of stairs, you can feel it getting hotter again all the way up the stair well. Then you go through a door to the waiting room, and you feel the wave of heat as you open the door.
Inside the waiting room there are about 20 chairs around the edge of the room, and about 80 people. We all have tickets, but the machine that shows the numbers is broken, so every one is crowding around the doors and pushing, but it doesn't matter, because we still have to go by the numbers.
At first, you have no idea what door your number is for, or what number they are taking for any given door. I eventually learn that my ticket is for Door #1, and the first number for my door for that day is #130. When I figure out I have a little bit of time, I leave the room and go back outside. It's now almost 90 degrees F outside, but still much cooler than inside the waiting room. I was wearing a tank top and a shirt over, so I take off the shirt. I manage to compose myself enough to go back inside.
A woman who is sitting beside Door #1 has taken it upon herself to monitor the tickets and to let us know where they are in the count. At one point, someone argues with her that I shouldn't be next because I left the waiting room. She tells him it doesn't matter if I'm in the line or not because I'm still #141.
At 9:45 I get to have my turn. When you go through Door #1, there is a woman there behind the bulletproof glass, talking to you through a microphone. It's a little bit cooler because you can feel some cool air coming through the slot at the bottom of the glass where you pass through papers. She makes some copies of my papers, looks through our five passports, and she tells me she can't do anything for me (except take my papers), but she does give me a phone number to call.
By the time I leave, it's difficult to even get to the door of the waiting room so that I can leave. There are at least 100 people in a room 6 meters by 10 meters, most of them standing, and many of them pushing to get in a line that has no meaning. And it's probably more than 95 degrees in that room, and only getting warmer. The smell of bodies and perfume in the room is overwhelming and makes you feel ill.
That's now my picture of Hell --- squished into a tiny room, standing and pushing for a line that has no meaning, and the smell of body odor and many different kinds of really strong perfumes being sweated away in the heat.
I'm a person who believes in signs. It was just so cool how I really wanted to move to Europe, and I was really unhappy with my job, and I found a job in Europe that was perfect for me, and he wanted to hire me, and the salary worked out. But then you hit one of these administrative Catch-22's, and you feel like you will never get anything accomplished. I was starting to have doubts that all those signs I saw before were really signs. Maybe I wasn't supposed to be in Europe. I started thinking about giving up and going home. I started to feel that if Luxembourg really didn't want us here, then I didn't need Luxembourg. Except of course, that I have a job here, and I don't have a job in the U.S.
I like the movie Signs, maybe partly because I like Mel Gibson. In the movie, Mel plays a pastor who has lost his faith in God and has quit his job. When things start to get strange, his younger brother (played by Joquin Phoenix) asks him why he can't just be a little bit more positive about everything. Mel's character responds that there are two kinds of people in the world --- the first kind sees something happen and knows that it's a sign from God and that somehow everything will work out as part of some plan, and the second kind of person sees something happen and knows it's all coincidence. He tells his brother that everyone has to make a decision as to what kind of person they are.
When I first saw this movie, we were on an airplane from Frankfurt to the US back in November 2002. We had just bought a cukoo clock in Triberg, Germany, and I choose the clock based on a "sign" from God. The store had clocks that played four different songs, but only two per clock: "Edelweiss", "The Happy Wanderer", "The Mill in the Black Forest", and some other song I don't remember. The songs were paired so that "Edelweiss" and "Happy Wanderer" were always together, for the tourists. The other two songs were traditional Black Forest songs, and they were for the Germans. But I liked the "Happy Wanderer", it always makes me smile, and I didn't want "Edelweiss" in my German clock because it's an American song, written by Rogers and Hammerstein, whom I love, but it's not German (or even Austrian). Then we found a clock of carved wood with five birds (for the five of us), very traditional looking, and it played "Happy Wanderer" and "The Mill in the Black Forest." I told Darin it was a sign from God that this was our clock. So here we are, just a few hours later, watching this movie on the plane, and Darin says, "I know what kind of person you are," and he rolls his eyes.
I am that kind of person. The problem with being that kind of person is that sometimes things go really badly and it's hard to see the plan.
When we were back in the States in August, a former boss of mine, someone who knows me fairly well, and someone who knows about moving to other countries, told me he's never seen anyone have so much trouble with the red tape that we've had. He said he never expected someone with my skills to have so much trouble getting a work permit. Then he looked right at me and said, "But don't think, just because things aren't easy, that it's some kind of sign from God that you've made a mistake in moving to Europe." It was just so funny that he said that to me. I don't remember telling him about how much I look for signs, but he seemed to be able to read my mind.
But I was thinking about it more, and I realized that government bureaucracies are really the instruments of Satan. And I can say this in all earnestness, because I used to work for the U.S. Census Bureau, so I am well aware of the workings of the devil. So if the bureaucracies are working so hard to keep us down, then that's really is a sign that I need to stick it out and stay here. OK, so now you think I'm crazy, but think about it a little bit more, and you'll see that I'm right. "Onward, Christian soldiers, marching on to war . . . "
I need to keep that song in my head the next time I have to go to the Ministry for Foreigners.
Catch-22 is a novel by Joseph Heller, the point of which was to show how illogical modern warfare had become. The main character, Yossarian, is a bombardier who wants out of the war. Contradictions abound. Again and again, we see that want is supposed to be good is really bad, and what is sensible is really nonsence.
The fictional "catch", numbered as Catch 22 in U.S. Army Air Corps parlance in the novel, states that any bombardier who wishes to be excused from combat flight duty must submit an official medical diagnosis from his squadron's flight surgeon stating that he is unfit to fly because he is insane. However, according to Army regulations, any sane person does not want to fly combat missions because they are so dangerous, so by requesting permission not to fly on the grounds of insanity, the bombardier has just shown that he is in fact sane and therefore is fit to fly. (And on the other side, anyone who wanted to fly on combat missions implicitly showed that he was insane, but these flyers would never submitted requests to be excused from flying because they liked it.)
From http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Catch_22_(logic)
This is symbolized as C (being excused from flying) necessitates A (a request) and ~B (not being insane, without which there would be no request) and A also necessitates B (being insane, which must be the basis for the request).
Symbolically, ((A => ~B) & (A => B)) => C or, more simply, (A => ~B & B) => C. In other words, if you do ask to be excused, this is a sign of sanity, and yet you can't be excused if sane. If you do not ask to be excused, you must be insane, but cannot be excused unless you ask.
For most people and situations, that logic is too complex, and we tend to think along the lines you need A to get B and you need B to get A, meaning that one must come first, but you can't get one without the other.
Any government has these catches. It's not only the military. You can find these kinds of catches anywhere you find bureaurocracy.
I used to work for the U.S. Government, and I thought I understood red tape. I didn't like it, but I had learned to survive along side of it. It was like living with cudzu in the South, cudzu that will slowly take over every inch of sunshine and kill everything else around it. You see it strangling everything in it's path, so you make decisions about what you are willing to sacrifice, and what you will try to protect from it's slowly-moving path.
Universities are another good example. I remember when I was taking classes toward my PhD, I heard two professors talking in the stairwell. The one said to the other that having a PhD wasn't a mark of intelligence or creativity --- it only showed perseverance and the patience to get through red tape.
Everything in Luxembourg hinges on the work permit: bank accounts, housing, residency permits and visas, and so on. So how do you get a work permit in Luxembourg?
To get a work permit, you must first show that you have a job, i.e., a contract with a company in Luxembourg. That company must prove that there is no one in Europe who can do the job that they need done and no one as qualified as you, beyond any doubt. Simple enough. You have a job, you're good at what you do, and then you can have the work permit.
The European Commission knows me and knows my work. They can attest to the fact that there is no one in Europe who can do what I do. I can't work for the European Commission because I'm an American citizen. They have a contract for some work, but I can't bid on the contract with an American company. I can work on the contract with a European company. I find a European company who is bidding on the project and ask them to hire me. Voila! I have a job in Europe.
Now here's the Catch 22: That company in Luxembourg doesn't want to give you a contract unless you will actually be working for them, but then you aren't allowed to work for them because you don't have a work permit. And you can't get a work permit without the contract from a Luxembourg company. So you could wait in the States for the work permit to come through, but then you would no longer have the contract for the job in Europe because you weren't doing any work that needed to be done.
Just to further complicate things, without a work permit, you aren't qualified to be paid. Without any means of support, it is difficult to get a bank account or find housing. Without money and housing, it is difficult to continue to work for the company that hired you, though you need the contract with the company so that you can have the work permit, and eventually the money and the housing.
Now there are some solutions to the problems, for example, it is possible to be "forwarded" some money for expenses even though you aren't really allowed to be paid. But most landlords won't rent to you without proof that you are getting paid, and there is no proof. Though it is difficult to find formal housing, it is sometimes possible to find someone who will rent to you without a formal contract, even at a hotel if worse comes to worse.
To add to my own personal complications, I can't be on a contract with the European Commission while working for the U.S. government, so I had to quit my job. If I don't quit my job, then I would have to remove my name from the EC contract, and then I would lose my job in Europe. Without my good government job in the States, we no longer had health insurance, but while working in Europe without a work permit, we had no health insurance in Europe either.
Perhaps it would be possible to quit the job with the U.S. government and find temporary work in the States until the permit comes through, though there is some chance that the contracts could be canceled in Europe while waiting. Patience could be especially lacking for the contract with the EC if they were told that the work permit was already approved even though you don't have a work permit.
So how does the time line look for getting a work permit?
October – I apply for a job. They must interview other candidates to assure the government that I am the only qualified person.
January – the paperwork is filed for the work permit. I and the company in Luxembourg are assured that everything is in order and that the permit will be approved within three months.
25 February – my last day with the federal government job.
1 March – the contract with the EC begins. When they check on the status of my work permit, they are told that it's already been approved.
15 March – I come to Europe, living in someone's apartment until mid-May while she moves temporarily to take care of her father and his house.
9 April – someone calls to see why my work permit is "unofficially" approved but we don't have "official" word yet. We are told that the paperwork is sitting on someone’s desk because these things take six months, so I need to wait, even if they agree that the company has the right to hire me.
13 April – at the suggestion of my landlady, we ask for my number so that I have proof that I have applied for a work permit. I do have a number in the system, so now I have, essentially, a temporary work permit. (For example, if the bank wants to call and check on it, I can tell them my number, and they can check, and the lady can say, yes we have her file and she will have a work permit eventually.) This allows me to open a bank account in Luxembourg.
5 May – the work permit is officially approved. This means that I can be paid officially for the work I did in March and April also, but using the withholding rate for a single person because I still have no proof, officially, that I'm married with three kids.
3 June – my official work permit arrived in the mail. However, we notice that the birthday listed on the permit is off by a year, and the birthday is part of the official number. My boss had told them in January that it was wrong, and reminded them again in April when they gave me my temporary number. All other paperwork hinges on this piece of paper, and there is some doubt as to whether we should proceed when the number is wrong.
17 June – another work permit arrives with my correct birthday. But it's not a correction of the first, so I now have two work permits with two different numbers. I was in the system twice, with two different birthdays. (So it appears that instead of correcting my birthday early on in the process, they opened another file for me.)
6 July – I received a third work permit, this one dated 1 July. I had to send in the other two so I could get this one with the correct birthday. They seemed very angry with me that I had two work permits, but it certainly wasn't my fault.
Hooray! A work permit. Now life gets easier, we think. We were wrong.
The next step is to register in Kehlen and to get residency permits. Once we're registered in Kehlen, then they can take out withholding for someone who is married with three kids. Until then, my withholding is at the single rate.
And here lies the next Catch 22: You can’t have a residency permit without proof of means of support (i.e., a work permit unless you are retired) and a tax card from your county/parish, and you can't have a tax card without a work permit, rental contract on a house, marriage certificate, birth certificates for all the kids, and the residency permit. Also, the spouse and kids must be in the country, as seen by the passport stamps, but it's very difficult to afford to have the spouse and kids in Europe living on the salary with the withholding of a single person.
The time line for getting a residency permit and/or tax card:
7 July – The administrative office at my company has sent copies of our passports, along with letters, to the Luxembourg administration. To process the entire mess, the Luxembourg administration wanted a notarized copy of every page all five passports. I couldn't afford that. So I send them regular copies, and then I will go later to the office and plead my case, trying to sound as pitiful as possible, which should be simple.
8 July – My pastor suggests that I go as soon as possible to the offices in Luxembourg since I have already been in the country longer than allowed for a tourist. So I go to the offices and tell them that my priest sent me, and he said that they could help. That seems to make them more sympathetic to my case. I see one woman. She tells me that I am illegal and must go immediately to the Office for Foreigners. I walk over there. The guard at the door tells me they are open only in the mornings from 8:30 to 11:30. So much for immediately. I go back to the first office to wait in another line. It’s hot, with no AC, and the ticket machines are broken. Usually you could just take a ticket and wait in the waiting room, but not today. So we stand in line instead of sitting in the waiting room. When I finally talk to the person, she says that there is nothing they can do to help me.
12 July – I go back to the Office for Foreigners, taking my usual bus, and I arrive at the office at 8:50. They tell me I am too late. They can give me a ticket, but the ticket number will probably be for a time past 11:30. He said that some people will take a ticket and never be seen because they **will** close at 11:30 no matter what. This man could have explained this to me when I was there on the 8th. It was the same man. Today he says that if you want a ticket that will assure that you are seen that day, you have to come before 8:30.
14 July – I go back to the Ministry for Foreigners early. It was Hell on Earth. The purpose of the trip was to show them the five passports since I didn't have them notarized. And to ask if there was anything they could do for me so that I could get the tax card in Kehlen. She did look through the passports and mark that the copies were accurate on the copies. I also gave her copies of my marriage certificate, but we're still missing the birth certificates for the kids. There was nothing else she could do to help.
20 July – We all five received letters that we have been approved for our permis de séjour, mine of "type salarié" and the other four of "type membre de famille". I can't believe it's actually happened. The next step is to get medical certificates from a doctor in Luxembourg, and two passport-type photos, and then to go back to the "ministère des Affaires étrangères et de l'Immigration" (my favorite place). There is no way we can all get to a doctor in Lux before we leave, especially since many people have already started their holidays. We also don't have the money to pay for the medical certificates because it costs 30 euro each.
2 September – We have enough money for the medical certificates, and Darin and the kids go to the doctor in Kehlen.
5 September – I go to the doctor for my medical certificate, and then we apply for our permits in Kehlen. They seem shocked I have been in the country since March 15, but tell us it will be another 3 to 6 months before we have the permits in hand.
10 October – We receive letters that we have numbers in the system. But nothing about how much longer we have to wait, or when my next trip to the Ministry for Foreigners, a.k.a Hell on Earth, will be.
And why would I call it Hell on Earth, you say? Rev. Lyons spoke once in a sermon about how we could sometimes get a glimpse of heaven here on earth. I know for a fact that the same is true of hell. And Hell on Earth is the Ministry for Foreigners in downtown Luxembourg.
The Gates/Door of Hell
They are open from 8:30 to 11:30 if you want to apply for a long-term visa, but you must come early to get a ticket to be seen before 11:30. So the last time I went, the time I actually was allowed inside, was 14 July. I thought it was appropriate that it was Bastille Day, as we say in America.
I woke up early in the morning so I could get to the Ministry for Foreigners early. I got there at 7:48, and I found that I didn't have to wait in line for a ticket, so that was good. I was #141, and the guard told me to come back at 8:30. So I went and bought a Coke Light with Lemon. So far so good. Doesn't sound so bad, you say?
At 8:30, even a little bit before, you are allowed to go to the third floor. When you walk into the building from the street, it is noticeably hotter than the already 84 degrees F outside. When you walk up the three flights of stairs, you can feel it getting hotter again all the way up the stair well. Then you go through a door to the waiting room, and you feel the wave of heat as you open the door.
Inside the waiting room there are about 20 chairs around the edge of the room, and about 80 people. We all have tickets, but the machine that shows the numbers is broken, so every one is crowding around the doors and pushing, but it doesn't matter, because we still have to go by the numbers.
At first, you have no idea what door your number is for, or what number they are taking for any given door. I eventually learn that my ticket is for Door #1, and the first number for my door for that day is #130. When I figure out I have a little bit of time, I leave the room and go back outside. It's now almost 90 degrees F outside, but still much cooler than inside the waiting room. I was wearing a tank top and a shirt over, so I take off the shirt. I manage to compose myself enough to go back inside.
A woman who is sitting beside Door #1 has taken it upon herself to monitor the tickets and to let us know where they are in the count. At one point, someone argues with her that I shouldn't be next because I left the waiting room. She tells him it doesn't matter if I'm in the line or not because I'm still #141.
At 9:45 I get to have my turn. When you go through Door #1, there is a woman there behind the bulletproof glass, talking to you through a microphone. It's a little bit cooler because you can feel some cool air coming through the slot at the bottom of the glass where you pass through papers. She makes some copies of my papers, looks through our five passports, and she tells me she can't do anything for me (except take my papers), but she does give me a phone number to call.
By the time I leave, it's difficult to even get to the door of the waiting room so that I can leave. There are at least 100 people in a room 6 meters by 10 meters, most of them standing, and many of them pushing to get in a line that has no meaning. And it's probably more than 95 degrees in that room, and only getting warmer. The smell of bodies and perfume in the room is overwhelming and makes you feel ill.
That's now my picture of Hell --- squished into a tiny room, standing and pushing for a line that has no meaning, and the smell of body odor and many different kinds of really strong perfumes being sweated away in the heat.
I'm a person who believes in signs. It was just so cool how I really wanted to move to Europe, and I was really unhappy with my job, and I found a job in Europe that was perfect for me, and he wanted to hire me, and the salary worked out. But then you hit one of these administrative Catch-22's, and you feel like you will never get anything accomplished. I was starting to have doubts that all those signs I saw before were really signs. Maybe I wasn't supposed to be in Europe. I started thinking about giving up and going home. I started to feel that if Luxembourg really didn't want us here, then I didn't need Luxembourg. Except of course, that I have a job here, and I don't have a job in the U.S.
I like the movie Signs, maybe partly because I like Mel Gibson. In the movie, Mel plays a pastor who has lost his faith in God and has quit his job. When things start to get strange, his younger brother (played by Joquin Phoenix) asks him why he can't just be a little bit more positive about everything. Mel's character responds that there are two kinds of people in the world --- the first kind sees something happen and knows that it's a sign from God and that somehow everything will work out as part of some plan, and the second kind of person sees something happen and knows it's all coincidence. He tells his brother that everyone has to make a decision as to what kind of person they are.
When I first saw this movie, we were on an airplane from Frankfurt to the US back in November 2002. We had just bought a cukoo clock in Triberg, Germany, and I choose the clock based on a "sign" from God. The store had clocks that played four different songs, but only two per clock: "Edelweiss", "The Happy Wanderer", "The Mill in the Black Forest", and some other song I don't remember. The songs were paired so that "Edelweiss" and "Happy Wanderer" were always together, for the tourists. The other two songs were traditional Black Forest songs, and they were for the Germans. But I liked the "Happy Wanderer", it always makes me smile, and I didn't want "Edelweiss" in my German clock because it's an American song, written by Rogers and Hammerstein, whom I love, but it's not German (or even Austrian). Then we found a clock of carved wood with five birds (for the five of us), very traditional looking, and it played "Happy Wanderer" and "The Mill in the Black Forest." I told Darin it was a sign from God that this was our clock. So here we are, just a few hours later, watching this movie on the plane, and Darin says, "I know what kind of person you are," and he rolls his eyes.
I am that kind of person. The problem with being that kind of person is that sometimes things go really badly and it's hard to see the plan.
When we were back in the States in August, a former boss of mine, someone who knows me fairly well, and someone who knows about moving to other countries, told me he's never seen anyone have so much trouble with the red tape that we've had. He said he never expected someone with my skills to have so much trouble getting a work permit. Then he looked right at me and said, "But don't think, just because things aren't easy, that it's some kind of sign from God that you've made a mistake in moving to Europe." It was just so funny that he said that to me. I don't remember telling him about how much I look for signs, but he seemed to be able to read my mind.
But I was thinking about it more, and I realized that government bureaucracies are really the instruments of Satan. And I can say this in all earnestness, because I used to work for the U.S. Census Bureau, so I am well aware of the workings of the devil. So if the bureaucracies are working so hard to keep us down, then that's really is a sign that I need to stick it out and stay here. OK, so now you think I'm crazy, but think about it a little bit more, and you'll see that I'm right. "Onward, Christian soldiers, marching on to war . . . "
I need to keep that song in my head the next time I have to go to the Ministry for Foreigners.
29 September, 2005
Language Lessons
I always thought that I was fairly good with languages. After all, I've been telling people for years that I'm bilingual because I can speak American and East Tennesseean. I had been the unofficial translator for my family and friends for years.
For example, I think it was after my senior year in high school, there was a national convention for youth for the Christian and Missionary Alliance, and several people from my church went. Being from East Tennessee, we were part of the Southern District. Now most of the people from my church had relatives up North, so most of them spoke fairly descent Yankee. But there were some others in the Southern District who didn't, and they figured out they could come to me for help.
The conference was at Southern Illinois University, and it was hot that week. The arena where we had meetings had no air conditioning, so the temperatures in there were absolutely stifling. There was one night when they had to take people out because they were dropping from the heat. There was a boy from Pennsylvania who was describing one such scene to one of the girls from Chattanooga, Tennessee. She wanted to know where this was happening inside the arena and asked the question, "Where did you sit?" Unfortunately for her, "sit" spoken in East Tennessee sounds like "see it." So he thought she was saying, "Where did you see it?"
His answer, "Last night, at the meeting."
Her response, "I know. But where did you see-it?"
It went on and on. Finally, she noticed I was close, and told the boy that I could explain. She asked me her question. I said, "She wants to know where you were sitting last night in the meeting."
The boy answered, "Oh. That's what she said? Really?"
"Yes. 'Where did you sit?' was the question."
"Sit?"
"Yes. Sit."
"I had no idea."
"I know. I understand."
I didn't particularly choose to be bilingual. It was my parents' fault. They are both from Nebraska, where I was born, too. We moved to East Tennessee when I was 12 years old and my two brothers were 10 years old and about 10 months old. The first thing my parents did was to send me to Girl Scout camp — a brilliant idea. At first, the other girls made fun of my strange accent, but one of the counselors suggested they make it a camp project to teach me how to speak like the rest of them. By the end of the week, when my parents came to get me, my parents couldn't understand a word I said. I had learned that words like "fire" and "science" were only one syllable, and words like "hill" and "cat" were two syllables. And though my parents weren't crazy about my new way of talking, it did come in useful, like when the lady cutting my mom's hair asked if we were going out to the fair they have every year, and my mom thought she said "fire".
But when my littlest brother was three, he same out to the kitchen one morning and said, "Mama, I have a turrible hay-dake." Mom pointed her finger at me and said, "This is all your fault." From then on, I was forbidden to speak "East Tennessee" in the house.
So I lived my life switching between East Tennesseean and Nebraskan, and when I went to college in South Carolina, even learned a little bit of Charlestonian and Columbian, both very different accents than my East Tennessean. I spent my summers playing the piano at the Old Faithful Inn, and the Yankees around me were so surprised when I could recognize where the tourists were from by their Southern accent. It wasn't difficult at all for me. Any Southern accent I heard when I was in Wyoming was like music to my ears.
Then it happened. I decided I needed something new and different. I decided that for graduate school I should move up north. So I did. I moved to Iowa City, Iowa and started working towards a Masters degree. I had been born in Nebraska and been to visit my grandparents often, so I was sure I could handle the weather. I was confident I could speak the language. My parents are from the Nebraska, so I thought there couldn't be cultural differences. I had spent my summers in Wyoming surrounded by people from all over the country. I thought I could handle anything.
I was wrong on all points. Iowa is cold. And I was watching the weather maps, eastern Iowa wasn't even as cold as Nebraska, but it was still much, much colder than East Tennessee. And East Tennessee was colder than the four winters I had spent in South Carolina. I was already homesick, but that first ice storm made it so much worse.
And I couldn't speak the language. Nobody knew where the "soda machine" was, because in Iowa, soft drinks are "pop". If I had asked in East Tennesseean, and asked where the "soda pop machine" was, they might have understood. But in South Carolina, they would laugh at me for calling it that. When I would give an answer in class, the professors didn't understand. I remember Dr. Robertson in particular, "What was that? Was that five or nine? Maybe you should just hold up some fingers." Some of the other students were from China, and I didn't understand what they were saying, but the professors did. The same professors that didn't understand me.
And I didn't understand the customs. How could things be so different between the South and Iowa? I was completely blown away. Dr. Robertson hated that I called him "sir", but it was difficult for me to stop. He was probably my dad's age, but he said I made him feel old. I called all my professors at Furman "sir" or "ma'am", and some of them were not old enough to be my parents, but they didn't complain. It would have been disrespectful to not say "sir."
And all over town, I would try to make small talk with people just to be polite, like with the ladies working at the grocery store. Nope. No talking allowed it seemed.
After a few years there, I met and married an Iowan, and together we moved to Northern Virginia. He didn't like the crowds and the traffic, but I liked the people. There were people from all over the world living near DC, and plenty of Southerners who understood me. And the weather is warmer than in Iowa.
I love to travel, and spent some time when I was in high school as an exchange student in Germany. With my job in DC, I had a chance to travel quite a bit, and went to Tokyo and a couple of trips to Europe alone. My husband didn't want to go anywhere where English wasn't the official language. Then I was offered a free trip to London, and I convinced my husband that he and the kids should come along.
I had a terrible time in England understanding the accents. I kept asking Darin, "Was that English?" At one point on a tour of Dover Castle, the docent was handing out headsets for the tour and asked if anyone needed a language other than English. Darin asked her if she had American for his wife.
But it was a start. I next convinced Darin that he could come to Germany with me, and we included a side trip to Paris. We had a nice trip, and English isn't an official language in Germany or France.
But my husband's language skills were tested along the way. He took French in high school, and switched to Spanish in college because he thought it would be easier. While in a Metro station in Paris, he told the girls that "thank you" in French was "merci" and "please" was "por favor." Our oldest corrected him. "Dad, I don't think that was French."
Then it happened. Again. I decided I needed something new and different. After 13 years in Virginia, I see an advertisement for a job in Europe, and it seems like it was written just for me, and the requirement is that you need to be able to speak English. And what's really amazing is that my husband, who doesn't like foreign languages, is willing to move to Luxembourg. English is not an official language in Luxembourg, and it's the fourth language taught in the schools (after Luxembourgish, German, and French), so many people don't speak English.
But once again, I think that I can handle all the differences. Not with the confidence of moving to Iowa, but with a plan to learn about the language and the customs. French is a difficult language to learn, but I know a little bit of German, and many people can speak some English.
I first saw the job opening in September, and I started my French lessons in November. I bought a set of Pimsleur CDs for my husband and I to learn French. The idea is that they teach you conversational French that you will really need. So I thought it was a bit odd that among the early lessons in French I is how to say "no" to a really pushy guy who invites you for drinks or dinner. One of the funniest parts on the CD is that she corrects him, "Pas mademoiselle. Madame." (Not Miss. Mrs.) But it doesn't slow him down one bit.
But then it happened to me, after I had been in the country for less than a week. I was standing at the outside door to my apartment building, looking for my keys so I could unlock the door to the building. I hear a voice behind me. This is the conversation, which was in French unless otherwise indicated below:
The man (in his 50s, I would say): Excuse me, Madame, do you know where Louis Something-or-other lives?
me: No
him: He has a studio apartment.
me: No (My favorite word in French)
him: Do you understand?
me: yes, I understand, but I don't know ("I don't know" is my favorite French phrase).
him: You understand French?
me: a little bit, a very little bit
him: Do you know Louis Something-or-other?
me: I live here only six days.
him: Oh, where are you from?
me: USA.
him: New York?
me: No, Washington.
him: I have a brother who lives in New Jersey. He's lived there 12 years.
me: Oh.
him: (Something about going to visit or not going to visit his brother, or this brother not coming here. I didn't understand it, but it had to do with brother and going.)
me: Oh.
him: My name is Stephan. (He puts out his hand to shake my hand.)
me: Catherine
him: (a sentence with the word "boit" in it, "drink")
me: What?
him: (making the international sign language for drink) "Boit . . . (in English) drink" (then points to the corner, and switches back to French) Would you like something to drink, on the corner? (There is a pub there.)
me: No, thank you.
him: Later?
me: No, thank you. My husband waits for me. (A complete lie because my husband was still in the States, and I didn't even have a phone to call him.) Good-bye.
him: Good-bye.
It was almost like the CDs, except that he called me Madame from the start. It was so strange, like he had been studying the Pimsleur CDs for ways to pick up women. Which didn't work on the Pimsleur CDs either.
Later, Pastor Chris at the Anglican Church told Darin that he should start drinking wine if he's going to learn French. He says French is much easier to pronounce correctly if you are drunk. Darin said that was the first time a pastor had ever told him to get drunk. Welcome to Europe and the Anglican Church! (And German is easier if you're drinking beer, we were told.)
There was a time at the office when I avoided speaking French altogether. My coworkers where trying to help me improve my pronunciation, but there are some sounds I just can't say. I was talking to Darin about this at home one evening, and he just laughed. "There are words you don't say correctly in English. Why should it bother you if you can't say things correctly in French?" Good point. So I started speaking French in the office again.
French is hard, but I'm trying to come up with some creative ways to learn the language, besides, of course, turning down dates from strange men. In the evenings at home, I've been watching Pirates of the Caribbean over and over in French while I do needlework or work on the laptop. Darin just laughs at me. I really want to be able to say, "I'm disinclined to acquiesce to your request" in French. He says I should listen to my French lessons instead. Sometimes he is just no fun.
And our youngest child bought a travel-sized "Cluedo" in French at the church fair, and I try to make the girls play it using only French. It's quite interesting. Some of the things translate almost automatically, like Miss Scarlett is Mlle Rose. But some things are more difficult, like the word for "lead pipe" which is really the word for a billy club or nightstick. And in French, Mr. Green is Reverend Olive and Mrs. Peacock is Madame Pervenche (Periwinkle).
I know that sometimes Darin wants to avoid learning French altogether, but sometimes a little bit could come in handy. On the day of the Grand Duke's birthday party, there were some street closings due to the fireworks later. I think what the bus driver told us this morning was that he could take us to the station in the morning, but he couldn't pick us up there in the evening. What I didn't quite understand was where we could catch the bus in the evening, but I still managed to find my home way judging by where he was pointing when he talked about evening buses.
And numbers. I'm a math person, so numbers should be easy. I hate French numbers. Sometimes in the morning when I buy croissants for breakfast, the total comes to 95 cents. Seventy in French is "soixante-dix" meaning sixty-ten. Eighty is "quatre-vingts" meaning 4 twenties (like four score), only pronounced "cat-va." Ninety is eighty-ten, and Ninety-five is four-score-fifteen ("cat-va-caz"). It takes me a while to process all of that early in the morning. And sometimes the women use the Belgium way to count, so that seventy is "septante" instead of "soixante-dix". Oh my.
But not all French is difficult. In the afternoons, when I want something other than a chocolate croissant, I sometimes stop by the Quick for a vanilla shake, and the large size -- grand milkshake de vanille.
But I can be quite confusing also. I very often have teenagers come up to me and ask me for money. They are clean and well dressed, in nice jeans and nice shoes, and I really believe they are near the station to try to get drugs. They tell me they need money to get home. But if they live in Luxembourg, they can ride the bus for free if they are students. They ask for money, usually first in German. I say NO. Then they try English. Still NO. Sometimes they try again in French. NO, NO, NO. They are somehow sure that I haven't understood. But I do understand. I asked one young man, in English, "Does your mother know you are down here trying to buy drugs?" He seemed really shocked, and started to speak to me in Luxembourgish. So now, to avoid the hassle, I have a new plan. When someone asks for money, especially someone I'm sure doesn't really need my money, I say, "Ich kanne no sé." That's almost-German at the start for "I can", and then "I don't know" in Spanish. It works. Their little brains start spinning, trying to figure out what language to try next on me, and I just walk away.
And I have always thought it was strange that they teach you, in French, to ask someone if they speak English: "Parlez-vous l'anglais?" And then we are supposed to reply either: "Oui. Je parle l'anglais." or "Non. Je ne parle pas l'anglais."
One night on my way home from work, a man walked up beside me on the bridge and asked, "Parlez-vous l'anglais?" I, of course, gave the correct answer, the one they don't teach in the French lessons: "Yes. I do." He introduced himself. His name was Ali. He said he had seen me on the bridge before, and he thinks that we'll see each other again because we seem to be going in the same direction on the bridge at the same time, and Luxembourg is a very small city. I asked him if he could tell by looking at me that I spoke English. He said, no, he heard me talking to myself one day when I was taking pictures on the bridge. So that was a little bit embarrassing. But thank goodness he didn't ask me for a drink or to dinner. He just gave me his business card (so I would remember his name, he said) and went on along his way.
And maybe I can't really speak English, but my American passes as English for most Europeans on the continent, and my new boss is French. However, most of the English-speakers I meet here are from England, and one of their favorite jokes is to ask, "Has your boss figured out yet that you don't speak English?"
In a way, my language problems should give me a common bond with the Luxembourgish. Luxembourgish comes from a peasant German dialect, but it's not German. I think speaking Luxembourgish to a German is a bit like speaking East Tennesseean, with some Gullah or Cajun thrown in for good measure, to a Brit. But the Luxembourgish will never know how much we have in common, because we don't speak a common language.
For example, I think it was after my senior year in high school, there was a national convention for youth for the Christian and Missionary Alliance, and several people from my church went. Being from East Tennessee, we were part of the Southern District. Now most of the people from my church had relatives up North, so most of them spoke fairly descent Yankee. But there were some others in the Southern District who didn't, and they figured out they could come to me for help.
The conference was at Southern Illinois University, and it was hot that week. The arena where we had meetings had no air conditioning, so the temperatures in there were absolutely stifling. There was one night when they had to take people out because they were dropping from the heat. There was a boy from Pennsylvania who was describing one such scene to one of the girls from Chattanooga, Tennessee. She wanted to know where this was happening inside the arena and asked the question, "Where did you sit?" Unfortunately for her, "sit" spoken in East Tennessee sounds like "see it." So he thought she was saying, "Where did you see it?"
His answer, "Last night, at the meeting."
Her response, "I know. But where did you see-it?"
It went on and on. Finally, she noticed I was close, and told the boy that I could explain. She asked me her question. I said, "She wants to know where you were sitting last night in the meeting."
The boy answered, "Oh. That's what she said? Really?"
"Yes. 'Where did you sit?' was the question."
"Sit?"
"Yes. Sit."
"I had no idea."
"I know. I understand."
I didn't particularly choose to be bilingual. It was my parents' fault. They are both from Nebraska, where I was born, too. We moved to East Tennessee when I was 12 years old and my two brothers were 10 years old and about 10 months old. The first thing my parents did was to send me to Girl Scout camp — a brilliant idea. At first, the other girls made fun of my strange accent, but one of the counselors suggested they make it a camp project to teach me how to speak like the rest of them. By the end of the week, when my parents came to get me, my parents couldn't understand a word I said. I had learned that words like "fire" and "science" were only one syllable, and words like "hill" and "cat" were two syllables. And though my parents weren't crazy about my new way of talking, it did come in useful, like when the lady cutting my mom's hair asked if we were going out to the fair they have every year, and my mom thought she said "fire".
But when my littlest brother was three, he same out to the kitchen one morning and said, "Mama, I have a turrible hay-dake." Mom pointed her finger at me and said, "This is all your fault." From then on, I was forbidden to speak "East Tennessee" in the house.
So I lived my life switching between East Tennesseean and Nebraskan, and when I went to college in South Carolina, even learned a little bit of Charlestonian and Columbian, both very different accents than my East Tennessean. I spent my summers playing the piano at the Old Faithful Inn, and the Yankees around me were so surprised when I could recognize where the tourists were from by their Southern accent. It wasn't difficult at all for me. Any Southern accent I heard when I was in Wyoming was like music to my ears.
Then it happened. I decided I needed something new and different. I decided that for graduate school I should move up north. So I did. I moved to Iowa City, Iowa and started working towards a Masters degree. I had been born in Nebraska and been to visit my grandparents often, so I was sure I could handle the weather. I was confident I could speak the language. My parents are from the Nebraska, so I thought there couldn't be cultural differences. I had spent my summers in Wyoming surrounded by people from all over the country. I thought I could handle anything.
I was wrong on all points. Iowa is cold. And I was watching the weather maps, eastern Iowa wasn't even as cold as Nebraska, but it was still much, much colder than East Tennessee. And East Tennessee was colder than the four winters I had spent in South Carolina. I was already homesick, but that first ice storm made it so much worse.
And I couldn't speak the language. Nobody knew where the "soda machine" was, because in Iowa, soft drinks are "pop". If I had asked in East Tennesseean, and asked where the "soda pop machine" was, they might have understood. But in South Carolina, they would laugh at me for calling it that. When I would give an answer in class, the professors didn't understand. I remember Dr. Robertson in particular, "What was that? Was that five or nine? Maybe you should just hold up some fingers." Some of the other students were from China, and I didn't understand what they were saying, but the professors did. The same professors that didn't understand me.
And I didn't understand the customs. How could things be so different between the South and Iowa? I was completely blown away. Dr. Robertson hated that I called him "sir", but it was difficult for me to stop. He was probably my dad's age, but he said I made him feel old. I called all my professors at Furman "sir" or "ma'am", and some of them were not old enough to be my parents, but they didn't complain. It would have been disrespectful to not say "sir."
And all over town, I would try to make small talk with people just to be polite, like with the ladies working at the grocery store. Nope. No talking allowed it seemed.
After a few years there, I met and married an Iowan, and together we moved to Northern Virginia. He didn't like the crowds and the traffic, but I liked the people. There were people from all over the world living near DC, and plenty of Southerners who understood me. And the weather is warmer than in Iowa.
I love to travel, and spent some time when I was in high school as an exchange student in Germany. With my job in DC, I had a chance to travel quite a bit, and went to Tokyo and a couple of trips to Europe alone. My husband didn't want to go anywhere where English wasn't the official language. Then I was offered a free trip to London, and I convinced my husband that he and the kids should come along.
I had a terrible time in England understanding the accents. I kept asking Darin, "Was that English?" At one point on a tour of Dover Castle, the docent was handing out headsets for the tour and asked if anyone needed a language other than English. Darin asked her if she had American for his wife.
But it was a start. I next convinced Darin that he could come to Germany with me, and we included a side trip to Paris. We had a nice trip, and English isn't an official language in Germany or France.
But my husband's language skills were tested along the way. He took French in high school, and switched to Spanish in college because he thought it would be easier. While in a Metro station in Paris, he told the girls that "thank you" in French was "merci" and "please" was "por favor." Our oldest corrected him. "Dad, I don't think that was French."
Then it happened. Again. I decided I needed something new and different. After 13 years in Virginia, I see an advertisement for a job in Europe, and it seems like it was written just for me, and the requirement is that you need to be able to speak English. And what's really amazing is that my husband, who doesn't like foreign languages, is willing to move to Luxembourg. English is not an official language in Luxembourg, and it's the fourth language taught in the schools (after Luxembourgish, German, and French), so many people don't speak English.
But once again, I think that I can handle all the differences. Not with the confidence of moving to Iowa, but with a plan to learn about the language and the customs. French is a difficult language to learn, but I know a little bit of German, and many people can speak some English.
I first saw the job opening in September, and I started my French lessons in November. I bought a set of Pimsleur CDs for my husband and I to learn French. The idea is that they teach you conversational French that you will really need. So I thought it was a bit odd that among the early lessons in French I is how to say "no" to a really pushy guy who invites you for drinks or dinner. One of the funniest parts on the CD is that she corrects him, "Pas mademoiselle. Madame." (Not Miss. Mrs.) But it doesn't slow him down one bit.
But then it happened to me, after I had been in the country for less than a week. I was standing at the outside door to my apartment building, looking for my keys so I could unlock the door to the building. I hear a voice behind me. This is the conversation, which was in French unless otherwise indicated below:
The man (in his 50s, I would say): Excuse me, Madame, do you know where Louis Something-or-other lives?
me: No
him: He has a studio apartment.
me: No (My favorite word in French)
him: Do you understand?
me: yes, I understand, but I don't know ("I don't know" is my favorite French phrase).
him: You understand French?
me: a little bit, a very little bit
him: Do you know Louis Something-or-other?
me: I live here only six days.
him: Oh, where are you from?
me: USA.
him: New York?
me: No, Washington.
him: I have a brother who lives in New Jersey. He's lived there 12 years.
me: Oh.
him: (Something about going to visit or not going to visit his brother, or this brother not coming here. I didn't understand it, but it had to do with brother and going.)
me: Oh.
him: My name is Stephan. (He puts out his hand to shake my hand.)
me: Catherine
him: (a sentence with the word "boit" in it, "drink")
me: What?
him: (making the international sign language for drink) "Boit . . . (in English) drink" (then points to the corner, and switches back to French) Would you like something to drink, on the corner? (There is a pub there.)
me: No, thank you.
him: Later?
me: No, thank you. My husband waits for me. (A complete lie because my husband was still in the States, and I didn't even have a phone to call him.) Good-bye.
him: Good-bye.
It was almost like the CDs, except that he called me Madame from the start. It was so strange, like he had been studying the Pimsleur CDs for ways to pick up women. Which didn't work on the Pimsleur CDs either.
Later, Pastor Chris at the Anglican Church told Darin that he should start drinking wine if he's going to learn French. He says French is much easier to pronounce correctly if you are drunk. Darin said that was the first time a pastor had ever told him to get drunk. Welcome to Europe and the Anglican Church! (And German is easier if you're drinking beer, we were told.)
There was a time at the office when I avoided speaking French altogether. My coworkers where trying to help me improve my pronunciation, but there are some sounds I just can't say. I was talking to Darin about this at home one evening, and he just laughed. "There are words you don't say correctly in English. Why should it bother you if you can't say things correctly in French?" Good point. So I started speaking French in the office again.
French is hard, but I'm trying to come up with some creative ways to learn the language, besides, of course, turning down dates from strange men. In the evenings at home, I've been watching Pirates of the Caribbean over and over in French while I do needlework or work on the laptop. Darin just laughs at me. I really want to be able to say, "I'm disinclined to acquiesce to your request" in French. He says I should listen to my French lessons instead. Sometimes he is just no fun.
And our youngest child bought a travel-sized "Cluedo" in French at the church fair, and I try to make the girls play it using only French. It's quite interesting. Some of the things translate almost automatically, like Miss Scarlett is Mlle Rose. But some things are more difficult, like the word for "lead pipe" which is really the word for a billy club or nightstick. And in French, Mr. Green is Reverend Olive and Mrs. Peacock is Madame Pervenche (Periwinkle).
I know that sometimes Darin wants to avoid learning French altogether, but sometimes a little bit could come in handy. On the day of the Grand Duke's birthday party, there were some street closings due to the fireworks later. I think what the bus driver told us this morning was that he could take us to the station in the morning, but he couldn't pick us up there in the evening. What I didn't quite understand was where we could catch the bus in the evening, but I still managed to find my home way judging by where he was pointing when he talked about evening buses.
And numbers. I'm a math person, so numbers should be easy. I hate French numbers. Sometimes in the morning when I buy croissants for breakfast, the total comes to 95 cents. Seventy in French is "soixante-dix" meaning sixty-ten. Eighty is "quatre-vingts" meaning 4 twenties (like four score), only pronounced "cat-va." Ninety is eighty-ten, and Ninety-five is four-score-fifteen ("cat-va-caz"). It takes me a while to process all of that early in the morning. And sometimes the women use the Belgium way to count, so that seventy is "septante" instead of "soixante-dix". Oh my.
But not all French is difficult. In the afternoons, when I want something other than a chocolate croissant, I sometimes stop by the Quick for a vanilla shake, and the large size -- grand milkshake de vanille.
But I can be quite confusing also. I very often have teenagers come up to me and ask me for money. They are clean and well dressed, in nice jeans and nice shoes, and I really believe they are near the station to try to get drugs. They tell me they need money to get home. But if they live in Luxembourg, they can ride the bus for free if they are students. They ask for money, usually first in German. I say NO. Then they try English. Still NO. Sometimes they try again in French. NO, NO, NO. They are somehow sure that I haven't understood. But I do understand. I asked one young man, in English, "Does your mother know you are down here trying to buy drugs?" He seemed really shocked, and started to speak to me in Luxembourgish. So now, to avoid the hassle, I have a new plan. When someone asks for money, especially someone I'm sure doesn't really need my money, I say, "Ich kanne no sé." That's almost-German at the start for "I can", and then "I don't know" in Spanish. It works. Their little brains start spinning, trying to figure out what language to try next on me, and I just walk away.
And I have always thought it was strange that they teach you, in French, to ask someone if they speak English: "Parlez-vous l'anglais?" And then we are supposed to reply either: "Oui. Je parle l'anglais." or "Non. Je ne parle pas l'anglais."
One night on my way home from work, a man walked up beside me on the bridge and asked, "Parlez-vous l'anglais?" I, of course, gave the correct answer, the one they don't teach in the French lessons: "Yes. I do." He introduced himself. His name was Ali. He said he had seen me on the bridge before, and he thinks that we'll see each other again because we seem to be going in the same direction on the bridge at the same time, and Luxembourg is a very small city. I asked him if he could tell by looking at me that I spoke English. He said, no, he heard me talking to myself one day when I was taking pictures on the bridge. So that was a little bit embarrassing. But thank goodness he didn't ask me for a drink or to dinner. He just gave me his business card (so I would remember his name, he said) and went on along his way.
And maybe I can't really speak English, but my American passes as English for most Europeans on the continent, and my new boss is French. However, most of the English-speakers I meet here are from England, and one of their favorite jokes is to ask, "Has your boss figured out yet that you don't speak English?"
In a way, my language problems should give me a common bond with the Luxembourgish. Luxembourgish comes from a peasant German dialect, but it's not German. I think speaking Luxembourgish to a German is a bit like speaking East Tennesseean, with some Gullah or Cajun thrown in for good measure, to a Brit. But the Luxembourgish will never know how much we have in common, because we don't speak a common language.
19 September, 2005
Good morning to ye!
Good morning to ye, on this fair holiday, Talk Like a Pirate Day!
The crew here in Luxembourg was to be celebratin' today, but Cap'n gave the orders for the plans to move to yesterday. Arg!
We boarded the fair ship Luxembourg Playground yesterday, and were havin' much fun about it, when our second mate (I bein' the first, o' course) found herself with a bloody foot. No, that not be only pirate talk, thar was a lot o' blood. (And this first mate don't do so well with blood, as some of ye may know.) But with some help from the local lubbers (and a first-aid kit), we got her bandaged up, and aft on her feet. And the second mate now be havin' a new pirate name --- Pegleg!
When we were back to home port, Pegleg soaked the foot in the tub, and then Cap'n pulled out a good-sized piece of the ship from inside her foot (fittin' o' the name Pegleg), and we bandaged her up again, and she be doin' right well this mornin'.
I'll teach ye some pirate talk I be learnin' here in Luxembourg, most in French ---
What be the best way to learn pirate in French, ye ask?
Thar be a "translator" on the TLAPD site, but I be thinkin' the translator is straight from the chumbucket. The best way t' learn pirate, other than bein' one, is t' watch movies. It be hard work, all the watchin', but I be feelin' fairly happy with me pirate talk today.
And on the theme of movies, here's my list o' French pirate, from Pirates des Caraïbes ---
On est des demons, des moutons noirs, des pommes pourries
(We're demons, the black sheep, the rotted apples)
Yo ho yo ho, la vie de pirate c'est pour moi!
(Yo ho yo ho, a pirate's life for me!)
And some of my favorite lines from Pirates des Caraïbes ---
Captain Barbosa: Je suis peu enclin a acquiescer a votre requete. C'est «non». (I'm disenclined to acquiese to your request. That means "no".)
Will: Vous avez triché. (You cheated.)
Captain Jack Sparrow: Pirate.
(In French, Pirate is pronounced like "P-rat".)
Thar be on the TLAPD site also links t' several pirate-name generators. When I stirs it all up, this is how it falls out for the crew, in order of appearance:
Cap'n Pete the Badly Burnt
Pirate Jezebel the Blue
First-mate Wilma the Honest, aka Pegleg
Admiral Abigail Nimble Bottom
Pirate Stinkin' Jane Horngold
But I still be likin' Mad Matilda, so maybe I'll be Mad Matilda the Blue. And I be the first-mate, no matter what anyone else be sayin'.
Also from the TLAPD web site, some German for ye:
to wish a pirate luck, "und immer eine steife Brise!" (and always a strong wind)
In French, it's "Toujours un vent fort!"
So Godspeed to ye, and always a strong wind!
Mad Matilda the Blue
The crew here in Luxembourg was to be celebratin' today, but Cap'n gave the orders for the plans to move to yesterday. Arg!
We boarded the fair ship Luxembourg Playground yesterday, and were havin' much fun about it, when our second mate (I bein' the first, o' course) found herself with a bloody foot. No, that not be only pirate talk, thar was a lot o' blood. (And this first mate don't do so well with blood, as some of ye may know.) But with some help from the local lubbers (and a first-aid kit), we got her bandaged up, and aft on her feet. And the second mate now be havin' a new pirate name --- Pegleg!
When we were back to home port, Pegleg soaked the foot in the tub, and then Cap'n pulled out a good-sized piece of the ship from inside her foot (fittin' o' the name Pegleg), and we bandaged her up again, and she be doin' right well this mornin'.
I'll teach ye some pirate talk I be learnin' here in Luxembourg, most in French ---
- "Bon sang!" means "good blood", and a good expression to use when we feel like cursin' a French pirate.
- "La pleine voile" means "the full sail", or going as fast as ye can.
- "Coffre de trésor" means "chest of treasure". Need I be sayin' more?
- "Le fond de la mer" means "bottom of the sea," a good place to be sendin' your enemies.
- "Copain" or "mon gar" (or "ma fille"), how to address your mates.
- "Monsieur!", how to address the Cap'n.
What be the best way to learn pirate in French, ye ask?
Thar be a "translator" on the TLAPD site, but I be thinkin' the translator is straight from the chumbucket. The best way t' learn pirate, other than bein' one, is t' watch movies. It be hard work, all the watchin', but I be feelin' fairly happy with me pirate talk today.
And on the theme of movies, here's my list o' French pirate, from Pirates des Caraïbes ---
- un homme a la mer (man overboard)
- vous êtes prévenus (be warned)
- Nous sommes d'humbles pirates. (We're only humble pirates.)
- Mes cales sont remplies de trésors. (The holds are full of treasure.)
- le butin (spoils, booty, swag)
- On les rattrape. (They're catching up.)
- Levez l'ancre! (Raise the ancor.)
- Laissé allez de l'ancre! Pesez l'ancre! (Let go the anchor! Weigh anchor!)
- Hissez les voiles! (Raise the sails, or set the sails.)
- Avec ce vent, on aura besoin de toutes les voiles. (With this wind, we'll need all the sails.)
- Les pirates maudits naviguent ces eaux. (Cursed pirates sail these waters.)
- Vent dans les voiles! (Wind in the sails!)
- Mains en haut! (Hands on deck!)
- Mais pourquoi n'y a-t-il plus de rhum? (But why is the rum gone?)
- Si vous gardez les yeux ouverts, vous verrez des voiles blanches a l'horizon. (Keep your eyes open, you'll see white sails on the horizon.)
- Il y a une fuite. (There is a leak.)
On est des demons, des moutons noirs, des pommes pourries
(We're demons, the black sheep, the rotted apples)
Yo ho yo ho, la vie de pirate c'est pour moi!
(Yo ho yo ho, a pirate's life for me!)
And some of my favorite lines from Pirates des Caraïbes ---
Captain Barbosa: Je suis peu enclin a acquiescer a votre requete. C'est «non». (I'm disenclined to acquiese to your request. That means "no".)
Will: Vous avez triché. (You cheated.)
Captain Jack Sparrow: Pirate.
(In French, Pirate is pronounced like "P-rat".)
Thar be on the TLAPD site also links t' several pirate-name generators. When I stirs it all up, this is how it falls out for the crew, in order of appearance:
Cap'n Pete the Badly Burnt
Pirate Jezebel the Blue
First-mate Wilma the Honest, aka Pegleg
Admiral Abigail Nimble Bottom
Pirate Stinkin' Jane Horngold
But I still be likin' Mad Matilda, so maybe I'll be Mad Matilda the Blue. And I be the first-mate, no matter what anyone else be sayin'.
Also from the TLAPD web site, some German for ye:
to wish a pirate luck, "und immer eine steife Brise!" (and always a strong wind)
In French, it's "Toujours un vent fort!"
So Godspeed to ye, and always a strong wind!
Mad Matilda the Blue
08 September, 2005
Introduction
Luxembourg is a real country. It's not part of Germany, at least not since the mid-1940's. It's not part of France, at least not since Napoleon. It's a very real, but very small country of it's own. It's a lovely little Northern European country, tucked between Germany, France and Belgium. There are parts of the European Commission headquartered here, and it is an important financial center. Therefore, the native Luxembourgers have a sense of importance, even though they live in a very small country. In area, Luxembourg is about the size of Rhode Island, the smallest of all the 50 states. The capital city, Luxembourg, has about 80,000 people. The population in the entire country is about 441,000 people. (For comparison purposes, Rhode Island's population in the 2000 Census was just over 1 million.)
The language here is Letzeburgesch (also called Luxembourgish or Luxembourgeois), which has it's roots in a low German dialect, but it's not German. French is the official language of the government, but it's the third language taught to the kids in school here, so not everyone speaks French. The people here are mostly Roman Catholic. There is a parliment and a Grand Duke, which makes Luxembourg a Grand Duchy and not a kingdom.
But this story isn't really about Luxembourg. It's about us: Catherine --- a 40-something, happily married mother of three who decides in a moment of temporary insanity, or maybe temporary clarity, or maybe a mid-life crisis, to leave my job with the U.S. government and work for a small private company in Luxembourg, taking my husband and kids along for the ride, and Darin --- the above-mentioned husband.
It's not a beautiful story, or inspirational, or romantic, but in our story you may find something useful if you are thinking about moving to Luxembourg, or changing jobs, or starting a mid-life crisis of your own.
The language here is Letzeburgesch (also called Luxembourgish or Luxembourgeois), which has it's roots in a low German dialect, but it's not German. French is the official language of the government, but it's the third language taught to the kids in school here, so not everyone speaks French. The people here are mostly Roman Catholic. There is a parliment and a Grand Duke, which makes Luxembourg a Grand Duchy and not a kingdom.
But this story isn't really about Luxembourg. It's about us: Catherine --- a 40-something, happily married mother of three who decides in a moment of temporary insanity, or maybe temporary clarity, or maybe a mid-life crisis, to leave my job with the U.S. government and work for a small private company in Luxembourg, taking my husband and kids along for the ride, and Darin --- the above-mentioned husband.
It's not a beautiful story, or inspirational, or romantic, but in our story you may find something useful if you are thinking about moving to Luxembourg, or changing jobs, or starting a mid-life crisis of your own.
31 August, 2005
31 July, 2005
30 June, 2005
30 May, 2005
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