How to Win Friends and Influence People

When I would tell people I was moving to Belgium, they often advised me that it was difficult to make friends. Belgians, I was told authoritatively, were not interested in meeting people. They were aloof. They were reserved.

Indeed, many of the expat websites and books counselled against even attempting friendly “hellos” or smiles in the street. You would be coldly rebuffed. Belgians didn’t want to know about you.

In general I haven’t found this Belgian reserve nearly as thick as people made it out. It helps that I speak French. Certainly, people are appreciative when I whip out a bit of Québécois joual: “Est-ce que la rue est tout drette?” And even though I often get a smile, and a “you’re not from around here?” when they hear the accent, I don’t really care – at least I’m getting a smile, even if it is a bit patronizing.

It’s true that I’ve had less luck making contact with neighbours. Andrew suggests that it might be my overly-friendly “Hi, my name is Amy,” with which I’ve been greeting anyone who has the misfortune to get into our tiny elevator with me. The usual Belgian response to my overture has been a nervous smile and awkward silence for the ride.

I suspect the problem with making friends with neighbours is the glass fishbowl that we’ve found ourselves living in. It’s possible that the neighbours have caught sight of my less than straight posture as I’m sitting at my desk, or more likely, slumped on the couch, watching TV. They might be turned off by the amount of rotisserie chicken they’ve observed me eating, or not enjoyed watching me brush my teeth in the living room. It’s also true that, like that famous neighbour from “Friends,” I might be known as the “ugly naked girl” to our neighbours across the way because of a few poorly planned towel-less showers.

Still, although Belgians haven’t been actively unfriendly in the way I had been warned, they still aren’t the warmest people, at least in public. No eye contact is made walking down the street, if you bump into someone they don’t acknowledge the bump except to sneer slightly and forget about nodding “bonjour” to someone.

Which is why I was pleasantly surprised last week when I made the half hour trek up to campus. This commute involves walking ten minutes to the metro station and then transferring from the subway to the bus and walking again to school.

It was a beautiful, sunny day. I left our apartment and a man in the street smiled and nodded. I walked to the metro and two people met my eyes and grinned. Sitting in the train, the girl opposite me nodded hello. Getting on the bus to school a whole herd of my fellow students smiled. It was amazing; these people were friendlier than Maritimers!

I walked over to campus feeling pretty good about myself: I had cracked the Belgian reserve! The sheer force of my warm, effervescent personality had melted away the vaunted Belgian coldness. My charming smile and friendly demeanour had thawed their steely façade. I’d changed this dour, unsmiling Northern race through good old Canadian friendliness.

I reached the main university gates feeling fantastic: I was wonderful! I was loved! I was terrific! I glanced down: I was walking around with my fly undone, my underwear exposed to the world.

I think I prefer unsmiling Belgians.