I’ve just landed in Luxembourg, and it’s been a bumpy entry.
Was it really less than one month ago that I was in Felixstowe, that seaside
town on the very edge of England, packing boxes, saying goodbye to loved ones?
If I could turn the clocks back just two weeks I’d tell myself this:
Bulbs. They aren’t the same here, and your removal men will
take yours from your lamps and standard lamps, leaving you stuck. Buy a supply.
Plug adapters. You know when Blockbuster closed down they
had a huge box for sale and you bought eight, thinking you’d done well? Think
again. Hairdryer, mobiles, laptops, EVERY lamp (even though they don’t have
bulbs!) Buy the whole box because you won’t be able to get any here for love
nor money.
Be prepared to go offline for a while. A long while. Think
of it as an Internet holiday.
Diet. Get that weight down because it sure as hell won’t go
down once you’re scoffing fresh pain and fromage. And drinking encore le vin.
Speaking of which, be ready to be told your French is bad
and please can you speak in English so you stop confusing people.
The good news? All of this is normal. So says my `Living in
Luxembourg` guidebook, which also helpfully pounts out that organised people who
are used to being in control will find the early months especially
disconcerting. Oui? Cest moi!
The kids, though, are fine. Ducks to water. Speaking of
water, and also speaking of those extra pounds, in the past two weeks I have
become a gym whore. I thought I might have found the perfect place, basically
because they offer a class that promissed a svelte figure tout suite, but sadly
the instructor hadn’t heard of women’s lib and spent the whole class referring
to double ds and derriers. Pa pour moi, sil vous plait.
My next attempt seemed to be going much better until I
ventured into the sauna area, to be confronted by naked men en masse. Very
Britishly, I fled in panic, not even doing the correct thing and checking my
bracelet over the switch to exit, but ducking under the barrier. My French was
simply not up to the lengthy explanations needed at the reception desk, so I
paid the extra suppliment for the 30 minutes (according to my bracelet) that
I’d spend in the sauna. As if I’d dare! I don’t even think it was a mixed
session.
And today, at a brave third attempt, I tried biking in the
water. Yes, aqua aerobics! Now, forgive me fellow Brits, but in the homeland
aqua exercise is for those who are expecting, or look as if they may be. Not
so, here in the Grand Duchy. These women were fit. They pounded those bikes
into the ground, and if there had been wheels involved they would have won
yellow shirts. But, more impressive to me, they wore the cutest outfits. Bows
and silver clasps and sparkly bits. The water shone with cubic zircona.
So, if you spot a Brit in a one-piece, it just might be me.
But in a few months, when I’m fully intergrated, I expect to be sparkling in
the water, or the water sparkling on me as I brave that sauna with no sense of
shame. Bon Chance!
