Lost in the Ardennes

by Madeleine Kando

I took a trip to Belgium this week with my very old mom. We spent hours inching our way through miles and miles of traffic jammed small, shiny Mercedez-Benzes, BMW's and Alfa Romeos. Everyone seems to drive expensive cars here. An occasional sign that says 'bad road surface' on stretches of impeccably smooth asphalt makes me wonder what kind of standard the Dutch attach to a 'bad road surface'. How would they call the potholed, frost-cracked highways back in good old Boston?

We finally left clean, organized Holland and made it to Belgium. At least I think we entered Belgium because there are no signs that tell you whether you have crossed the border. I knew we were no longer in Holland because of the road conditions. They started to look more like the familiar wrecks in the US.

You see, compared to America, those small Northern European countries are all very 'high-context' cultures. Their inhabitants expect foreigners to know things without it being spelled out. You are supposed to 'smell' in which country you are driving through. They don't believe in old fashioned signs that say 'Bienvenue a la Belgique'. Back in the good old dark ages you had to cross not one, but two borders: one to leave Holland, after which you were in no-man's land for a bit, until you reached the actual Belgian border where they thoroughly inspected your car for contraband.

That IS a problem around here because some of these Northern European countries are the size of peanuts and if you get distracted for a second by the gorgeous scenery, you end up in Germany, or Luxemburg.

Americans live in a low-context cutlure. They expect everyone else to be foreign, so they have the decency to spell out things for you. It doesn't matter that you have crossed the entire Atlantic Ocean to get there, as soon as you arrive, a sign says: 'Y-O-U  A-R-E  N-O-W   I-N  T-H-E  U-S'. Now that's polite.

So here I am, trying to stay in Belgium. But no luck. Something tells me I am in the wrong country. I see a lady that looks like a native and stop to ask for directions. In French, because that's what I spoke ten minutes ago in a café: 'Madame, dans quelle direction est Monschau?'

'Nein, nur Deutsch'. (no, only German). She goes to her car and brings back a map, the same map that I am holding in my hand. She shows me on the map where Monschau is. 'Well, duh, I know where Monschau is on the map too, Fraulein, I am nicht blind.'

'Danke schon' I say and drive off. Getting directions didn't work out but at least I know I am in Germany. After many involuntary detours we finally make it to this amazing place called Monschau. A village so old that I expect knights to come charging out of the old castle on the hill. The tiny cobblestoned streets are swarming with people of every imaginable nationality. On the village square, surrounded by old timber-framed German houses, we settle for a well-deserved drink. It's crowded. Tourists have gathered here to enjoy this gorgeous spring day. I hear Dutch, French, German, Italian and some languages that I don't understand (Russian? Romanian?). The waitress is dressed in a Mädel costume with her bussom pushed high with a black laced up ribbon. What is amazing is that she only speaks German. With all these nationalities drinking her coffee she has maintained her high-context culture to a tee. If you don't speak German you have to rely on sign language. So I gesticulate and try to make her understand that I want 'black' tea with lemon.

This place feels like the Tower of Babel. The waitress cannot communicate with her customers. The Belgians don't speak German, the Germans don't speak French and the notoriously high-context French don't WANT to speak anything but French, even if they can.

I am a bit nervous about the trip back home. We are only a few hundred kilometers away from Bergen, but I will have to find my way through three or maybe four countries, depending if I take a wrong turn into Luxemburg. Oh, look! A group of bikers with Dutch letterings on their shirts. I walk over and ask them if they have encountered a country called Belgium on their trip and if so, in which direction that would be, please. They point to a sign that says 'Malmedy'. So, off we go, hoping that in a few hours we will be driving on some unblemished road surface. That will be a clear sign that we are in Holland again.

It will be a relief to be back in Boston. At least I won't have the problem of finding myself in the wrong country, even if I drive for days in a straight line. I bet these nice 'low-context' Californians have signs posted that read: 'You are now about to drive into the Pacific Ocean'. leave comment here