I’ll start at the beginning. It was Easter time so just about everybody had a day off work. (Don’t you just love holidays?) Feeling like I should make an effort and attempt to get some exercise I put on a pair of strawberry red jogging pants and a t-shirt, and headed for what looked like some open fields in the distance. In reality I am not much of a jogger (practising this sport does jar one’s knees rather terribly after all – yes I know, any excuse is good) but more of a “quick walker” so off I went with my aquamarine coloured IPod at least looking the part even if I wasn’t quite succeeding at playing it.
In the distance I did find a field or two, but I also found a Catholic Church and by the way, ding-dong the bells they were a-chiming. I decided I could use a rest and as I had not been to a Church in a while, this was my chance. I’m not Catholic myself but I decided God probably wouldn’t mind and most probably neither would the Pope. I was going in! When I got inside it was freezing and there was nobody there except me. After a minute or two about half-a-dozen people were beamed up from their space ship. I figure this must have been what happened otherwise how could they suddenly have materialized from behind a stone pillar in the nave of the church? They all strode purposefully past me and one person who in the meantime had come and sat near me, joined them too. I thought to myself, ‘they must all be going to the front because a) there’s hardly anybody here and b) they probably have better heating up there.’ So what did I do? I joined them of course. We all trooped off in formation and installed ourselves behind the altar in wooden seats. I assumed that the priest would be carrying out a service facing the other way due to the limited number of the congregation.
As I looked around I couldn’t help but notice that everyone was dressed rather conservatively except me. Grey seemed to be the predominant colour and they all wore leather shoes so shiny, you could see your face in them when you looked down. I of course stood out like a sore thumb in my bright red jogging pants, t-shirt and trainers. Shortly afterwards a priest appeared and sat directly opposite us. ‘Oh,’ I thought, ‘so this is how they do it in a modern Catholic Church. Well good for them!’ Only the priest didn’t say a word. He did however look in my direction with a twinkle in his eye. I felt quite flattered. Priest or not he did not deserve the label ‘fossil’ and in a distinguished kind of ‘keep your hands off ‘cos I’m holy’ way, he was even quite attractive. The other people on either side of me had nodded at first but hadn’t actually acknowledged me further than that. So we sat, and we sat, and we went on sitting and I was just thinking, ‘oh come on. Get on with it will you?’ when I noticed a movement out of the corner of my eye. When I fastened my gaze onto the polar (yes it was that cold) part of the church I had previously been in, to my surprise I noticed five lowly church goers. It was then that it dawned on me. I WAS SITTING WITH THE CHOIR!
No wonder they hadn’t started. They were waiting for me to take my rightful place and it certainly wasn’t with them as a singer!
Now this happened in, wait for it………… Belgium. In case you didn’t know Belgium is renowned for its beer and chocolate. And you probably aren’t aware of this, but it is also the home of fries or chips as they are called in the UK. French fries, contrary to belief, did not originate in France, but in Belgium. Of course the Frenchies do live next door so you could hardly blame them for not only copying, but claiming this delightful speciality as something of their own making! In short, if you want to upset a Belgian, just say, “I’m so glad the French invented fries, don’t you just love them?” When you do this two things can happen. Either the Belgian will give you a disgusted look, walk away and you will never see him or her again, or you are likely not only to receive an education on the history of the (Belgian) fry as all good Belgians know it, but be expected to correct anyone else you might ever come across who dares to mistakenly believe that the French actually came up with this idea!
Back to the situation where just for a change, I dutifully messed up. Now if that had happened in the UK, someone would have leaned toward me with a smile and asked, “Are you in the choir love?” which of course would have given me a chance to tiptoe away gracefully. If it had happened in Germany they would probably not have been quite so diplomatic and may well have said something along the lines of, “Was tun Sie hier?” which roughly translated means, “what do you think you’re doing here woman?” I’m imagining an American might say something like, “well hi! I haven’t seen you here before. Do you come to choir practice often?” My point being, all these nationalities would have given me the chance to figure out I had messed up at the appropriate time whereas instead I ended up delaying the service by 10 minutes. You see, the minute I joined the real congregation, the service started and the choir began to sing vespers. (No I’m not going to tell you what vespers is. Google it if you’re curious!)
I’m pretty sure you are wondering the same thing I used to before I got to know the Belgians, which is ‘Why didn’t anybody say anything?’ Well I’ll tell you. I’ve been living here a while now, and I’ve come up with this theory. You will never meet a more diplomatic race than the Belgians! If your hair was on fire they would politely ask, “Can I get you a fire extinguisher?” before acting. Yet being diplomatic does have its advantages. For example supposing you painted the lousiest picture imaginable and asked a Belgian for his or her opinion, the most likely answer you would get is, “hmmm. Interesting.” Unlike some of us who are rather more direct and would probably say, “it’s terrible, but can I take it home just to keep the dog away from the fire?”
So sorry all you Belgians out there. I’m afraid I’ve let the cat out of the bag here. From today on the rest of the world knows that if a Belgian says, “interesting,” in English we can actually substitute that with, “it’s absolutely awful! Don’t give up the day job!”
So my final closing comment is, if you’re looking for a husband or wife who won’t tell you how terribly inadequate your efforts are when you practice your favourite hobby, marry a Belgian!
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