Merriam Webster defines jet lag as, a tired and unpleasant feeling that you sometimes get when you travel by airplane to a place that is far away. Doesn’t sound so bad, does it? Just a wee bit of un pleasantness that can be cured with a nice cup of tea. I am thinking whiskey may be required for the bout of particularly unpleasant jet lag I have been experiencing since arriving in Belgium.
I am not one to romanticize my earlier days of life, but I definitely do not recall having so much trouble adjusting to time differences in my earlier days of travel. They say (whoever they may be) that all you need to do once you arrive at your destination is to stay up until the local time for bed. Then, you sleep through the night and wake up the next day ready to go.
To the proverbial them, I say, Shove it! Jet lag is a bitch, and my body is not having it on this go around. For most of my waking hours (and I say waking with some facetiousness), I am exhausted to the point where I cannot even envision standing up. I think about going for a walk, doing yoga or Tai Chi, cleaning, unpacking, and organizing, but the thought of actually engaging in any of these activities feels so very enervating. My deepest desire is for the night to arrive so I can crawl under the covers, close my eyes, and bid adieu to my conscious thoughts. However, when the night rolls around, I lie in bed wide awake with the song Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps running through my head, a gift from my husband’s recent choice in songs to sing. It’s the strangest sensation.
Speaking of sensations, my insides are definitely rebelling as well. I remember when I was living in Africa. Together with the other students in my cohort, there was much discussion of bacteria, digestion, and the like. At one point in my time in Mali, nine days passed with nary a bowel movement. My experience in Belgium thus far has been nowhere near as uncomfortable, but I seem to be no less cranky for it.
My two cats seem to be adjusting just fine, save for a wee spot of vomit that my husband found and photographed prior to cleaning because it had been in the shape of a heart. What furry little dears they are, non?
So far in Belgium, I have spent a lot of time sitting on our futon and a little time walking around the area where my husband and I will be living for the next three years. It is quite quaint and lovely, particularly with the leaves changing color and gathering in piles along the edges of sidewalks and street corners.
Our apartment is sweet and has windows that let in warm threads of light. We have little furniture and a rug that is far too big for our living room (my husband bought it while still getting adjusted to measuring in metric).
My architectural surroundings are really interesting. Many narrow apartment buildings and houses lined up side by side as one long row house but with individual homes. Red roofs and brick walls. Crawling ivy and scruffy dogs. Old trees with protective circles of tiny wooden fence posts. I want to walk up and my place my palm on their ancient trunks, but I don’t know what will happen if I cross the fence threshold. Perhaps, I will be whisked away to fairy land? There is a feeling of the fay here. It is at once foreign and familiar. It is not quite like areas where I have traveled in France but perhaps more akin to London or parts of Germany. Maybe, it is unlike anywhere but here. I suppose I will find out soon enough.
For now, I will only imagine all that I will see and do during my time in Belgium, all whilst I sit in comfort on my Ikea futon, and I will dream of falling fast asleep with the setting of the sun.
L'Histoire de Nous 