Manners: An International Language

With a blog post title like this, I feel confident in my ability to land a spot as a writer for Sesame Street.

Dear reader, as much as I hate to admit it, after my first few days in Belgium I was already forming negative opinions of most of the natives. In general, they seemed so disconnected from one another. I found myself constantly willing folks on the Metro to look at me so that I could exchange a warm smile. I was overwhelmed with nostalgic longing for the good old days of walking down the street in America, nodding "Hello" to passing strangers.

It just doesn't happen here. Not even the dogs would look at me. Not even the babies. Well, if the world wasn't avoiding eye-contact with me, they were casting suspicious or judgmental glares (I felt like I was in Invasion of the Body Snatchers... damn Commies... I mean...). Phew, what a perfect place to end a parenthetical thought. Smooooth.

Anyway, I don't know if:

A) I've begun to look less like a stupid tourist
B) I'm just becoming used to the lack of friendly exchange between strangers
C) I'm becoming a freaking optimist (ahh!)
D) Pleasant weather = pleasant people
E) All of the above...

... but whatever the reason, throughout the past week, I've encountered some lovely random acts of kindness which I believe are blog-worthy. So here's a post dedicated to the warm and fuzzy action/reaction which defines the art of manners. After extensive field research, I have deduced that this subtle yet powerful sentiment is remarkably similar across continents... sort of like the art of folding laundry...

So here goes...

The Art of Manners
(Disclaimer: Sorry, Mom-- exhibits A & B might disappoint you.)

Exhibit A: In a mad dash to catch my Metro to class, I unknowingly dropped my winter cap. What a would-be-woe! My potentially poor poor frozen ears! Fortunately, a gentleman hopped on the same cart just behind me, tapped on my shoulder, and held out my hat. Savior! His manners spared me one head cold and spread a wide smile across my face.

Exhibit B: Similar chain of events when my MP3 wiggled out of my supposedly secure coat pocket (now I know why the coat was on sale... faulty pouches, tsk tsk!). This happened outside of the library- I am extremely fond of library dwellers so perhaps this example is skewed based on location. Anyway, I noticed instantly that something was wrong when errr the music stopped playing. I spun around to find another student holding the teeny weeny uber expensive piece of equipment out in his hand, smiling, and saying, "iPod!" with a heavy Dutch accent.

Exhibit Q: This example may very well be skewed on the fact that I am a weak, physically deficient female (so they say). But heck, it's sweet and chivalrous nonetheless. Last Thursday, housemates and I all gathered for an afternoon grocery store excursion to purchase the fixings from some promising Nachos. They all had class afterwards so I was in charge of toting the neat-o wheeley travel grocery cart thing home. Bloody. Hell. It was heavy. "But Lauren," you rationalize, "it was on wheels. You really are weak, aren't you?" Am not! The sidewalks weren't a problem. It was the Metro stairs... those damn Metro stairs...

I got up them fine. Sort of. I almost peed when I realized how far down I needed to thump that darn cart. Enter stage right: student in my Art class. I think he's a VeCo student-- the fact that I don't even know whether or not he's a study abroad student illustrates the fact that I've never actually spoken to him. Didn't matter. He nodded at my cart, then swiftly picked it up and trotted down the stairs (strapping young lad) making sure to crack a joke in the mean time ("So, what, all this food will last about you a week?"). Successfully made my way onto the Metro car , not before tipping my hat to him and his kindness of course.

"Okay," I think, "now getting back up the stairs to the street shouldn't be too hard." It's quite funny how intimidating a flight of stairs can be when the prospect of tumbling down with a crap load of food is rather... likely. I thumped up one, two, three stairs at a laughable, slower-than-slug-pace before an older fellow standing behind me motioned with his hands and said French things. He picked up the lower half of the cart and helped me lug it up the flight in record time. I managed something like seven or eight "Merci beaucoup!"s and he replied with something that sounded like, "C'est mon plaisir, madmoizelle!" Just the word "madmoizelle" made me smile because I felt like a pretty pretty buttercup princess.

But kids! The moral of the story is that manners are internationally invaluable. I didn't know these people. They didn't know me. I didn't have to understand their language to understand that they wanted to be helpful. Hopefully they could comprehend my gratitude through several dumbstruck smiles and butchered French phrases.

In summation, be nice- or me and the members of the Belgian Random Act of Kindness Coalition (newly-founded by yours truly) will come and get you. And by "get you" I mean we'll be so polite and helpful you won't know what to do with yourself, except invite us over for tea and strumpets.

Most kindly (I like to use salutations as a free opportunity to be humorous/lame),
Lauren