The Move

There was a bit of an adventure actually getting our stuff moved in. The Belgians are very keen on using elevator trucks to move people into apartments. These are big trucks that have an electronic lift on the outside, and the movers load boxes and furniture and things onto these lifts, and then carry the load up to a balcony or window and unload that way. It seems extremely cool and efficient and sensible... However, nothing is quite as efficient and sensible as you might think in Belgium...

Now, despite the fact that we have a perfectly usable elevator, the moving company was extremely keen to use their elevator truck, and who am I to argue? I wasn't going to be the one lugging in Andrew's hundreds and hundreds of books, reams of suits, piles of cds, my wicker giraffe and all of our other household goods (which, include, inexplicably, three entire and complete tea sets -- right down to the saucers and creamers. We've got enough china to serve tea the royal families of England, Belgium, Sweden and could even squeeze in the Grand Ducal Family of Luxemboug if Fergie and her daughters didn't bogart the scones)

So, the date for the move was set, and Thursday November 2 I was dutifully waiting at the apartment. At 8:30 I ventured on to our balcony and saw three burly men in matching green outfits milling about the sidewalk looking up at our apartment. Perfect. I yelled "Bonjour" down to them and asked if they were our movers.

They responded, but I didn't understand a word they were saying. I figured it was the combination of four floors, street noise and my not-so-great ear for Belgian French. Still, they were nodding, so I assumed they were my men.

It was cold, so I went back in, figuring I would hear when the elevator truck got going. 15 minutes later, not having heard anything, I ventured back outside. There were my three burly men. I waved. They shouted back. I smiled. The yelled something. It occurred to me that my French was really much much worse than I had thought, because I didn't understand a thing they were saying. It was like they were speaking another language. That's when the penny dropped: Flemish, they were speaking Flemish.

Okay, not a great start. I switched to English and asked what was happening. They pointed to the four cars parked in front of our building. Apparently those cars were flagrantly violating the "No Parking" signs that had been posted there by the city in order to create a space for the elevator and moving trucks. This is something I've noticed about this country -- traffic rules seem to more suggestion than imperative.

My movers asked if I knew the owners of the vehicles. No, I did not. I'd arrived at the building an hour previously, and while I'm puppy-like in my eagerness to make friends, even I don't work that quickly.

I asked what the next step was, fearing that the movers would take off, driving away with the moving van full of our beloved things -- My giraffe! Our cds! Our furniture! Andrew's tea sets!

But no, the police were coming to sort everything out. I had mixed emotion about this news. On the one hand, it was good because they'd tow the cars away, and allow my clothes, cds, furniture, tea sets etc to be moved in. On the other hand, having four cars towed from the front of my building was probably not the best way to make friends in the building.

Another half an hour later, I sidled up to the window and peeped out (I was keeping a lower profile now, because I didn't want the neighbours' whose cars were about to be towed associating the frizzy red-head with their parking headaches). The police had arrived and were dutifully noting down all of the cars' license numbers.

Good. Action was about to happen. I could see the tow truck hidden around the corner, waiting to pounce on the cars as soon as the cops got the plate numbers.

I waited, peering out of the window like skulking weirdo -- maybe not the best impression to leave my neighbours with, in retrospect. Using their superior policing skills, the police immediately spotted my inefficient peeping-tomming and shouted up at me, waving to get my attention. Sheepishly I ventured out to the balcony, looking left and right to make sure no neighbours saw me.

The cops called up, this time in French: Did I know the owners of these four cars? I felt like shouting back that yes, I did know them, but thought it would be fun to keep that information secret, delay my move by about two hours and anger all of my neighbours. This was the Canadian idea of a good time. I avoided sassing the cops, though and instead said "no."

Next, the cops got back in their car, turning on their sirens full blast. Oh no, they've been called away on an emergency, and this process is going to drag out for another hour. But no. While their sirens wailed, the car did not move. Weird. I waited. Nothing happened. The noise was ear-splitting. The sirens were louder than anything I'd ever heard coming from a cop car before. They must have cranked the sirens to the highest volume. I saw my three movers hurry back to the moving truck, hands over ears. Why weren't the cops going anywhere?

Then it occurred to me, instead of towing the cars, the cops were trying to lure the mis-parked people out of the building to move their car. The sirens were meant to alert the building (and indeed, the entire block) to the imminent towing, and give the owners of the cars a chance to move them.

Once again, I had mixed emotions about this turn of events. On one hand, I was appreciative that the police would go to such an effort to avoid towing people. How civilized. On the other hand, I was sick of waiting for the movers, and I wanted my wicker giraffe, damn it. On another hand (or maybe a foot?) the noise was mind-bendingly loud.

The sirens went on for 15 minutes. In that time, two people actually showed up to move their cars. I saw them looking up darkly at the third floor, and I ducked back behind the window.

Still not satisfied, the cops sounded their sirens for another TEN minutes. At last they gave up, signaling the tow truck to move the cars.

The mystery of the police's anti-towing behaviors was not solved by the tow truck's action, because after loading up the first car and driving off, the truck was back within five minutes. It must have literally dropped the towed car around the corner, which made the cops' dedication to avoiding towing all the more odd.

Still, after all of these adventures, the important thing is that our lovely Flemish movers brought all of our clothes, books, cds, furniture, tea sets and wicker giraffes safely up to our apartment. Now, as I gaze around at the mountains of boxes needing to be unpacked, the memory of the incessant blare of the police sirens is fading and I can only be thankful for the "efficiency" of the Belgian elevator lift.