Apparently no one back at the Loyola mail system has gained a complete grasp on the idea of studying abroad. Either that or, unbeknownst to them, some sneaky Loyola official sent a whole slew of Loyola students to a different continent when they weren't paying attention. ("Oh, Belgium? That's just a suburb of Baltimore. Apparently it takes seven hours on a plane to get there. Bummer of a commute.") It's not that I don't appreciate knowing what the inter-campus number for Loyola's most recent health care plan is, it's just that I have some difficultly applying that knowledge while living in Europe. It also might prove rather difficult to go to the retreat in Maryland "designed to be convenient" when you're living on a different continent (but this is just speculation). The mail itself is not totally unappreciated-- heck, it's almost the only mail I get-- but one has to ponder the necessity of paying at least a dollar in postage for each envelope of useless information. Of course, all of this does apply to the same postal system whose directory lists 38 Belgium Program students as living in the same room (apparently Schapenstraat 80/2 is the room to live in this year).

When I do manage to somehow extricate myself out of good ol' 80/2 (allowing my 37 roommates enough room to perhaps twitch a pinkie in my newly vacated space) it becomes easy to understand how Loyola's postal system could confuse northern Belgium with Maryland. After all, the two places are so similar: monolingual Dutch, thirteenth-century architecture, cobblestone streets, next-door neighbor to France... it all just smacks of Baltimore. So I thought that I should therefore try to perhaps illuminate some of the differences between life in American and Belgium in order to prevent further confusion between the two.

First of all, they have an entirely different mentality toward dairy products in general. Where Americans appoint perhaps a small refrigerated corner as the dairy section (usually wedged between pre-made cookie dough and orange juice) Europeans devote an entire refrigeration unit to the splendour of cheese alone. I'm telling you, Americans have been left tragically behind in terms of diary appreciation, relying as we do upon neat little rectangles of butter and pre-wrapped squares of cheese. Belgians have dispensed with such geometric niceties and instead opt toward rustic slabs of butter and entire wads of cheese. Rest assured that we aren't completely out of the running in inventive uses of cow by-products, as Europeans have yet to discover our most treasured bastion of American dairy power: Velveeta. Until that day we can rest secure in our sense of milk-related knowledge.

Belgium has however discovered most of American television, which perhaps might lead to confusion about what country you are in when you are watching TV. Having frequently encountered this problem, we have safe-guarded ourselves from tragic country-confusion through a few simple guidelines:

1: If "The Flintstones" has Dutch subtitles, chances are that you are in northern Belgium.

2: If "ER" is dubbed in French, chances are that you are in southern Belgium (or heck, even France).

3: If "The Truman Show" is going to come out next week, chances are that you're in Europe.

Please do not hold these guidelines to be infallible, as we have come across tragically confusing shows that have permanently scarred our intellect. (Who can be expected to ever fully recover after watching an American infomercial dubbed in French and subtitled in Dutch? It's inhuman.)

If a dairy section proves to be unavailable and the TV is locked on MTV, do not panic-- there are still methods in which you can find out whether you are in Baltimore or Belgium. If you can find a nearby store, trying to buy something should help you pinpoint what continent you are on. If a Coke costs $.55, you are in America. If a Coke costs 25 francs and they correct your pronunciation when you are asking for one ("Coca?") you are in Belgium. If a Coke costs $1 and you have to wait in line five minutes to buy it, you are in the Garden Grocer.

Assuming that you are unable to find a store, you can always venture out into the street to determine in which country you are currently habitating. If the car bearing down on you mows you like a blade of grass and then proceeds to scream at your bloody remnants, my guess is that you're in America (or a tragic casualty of Italian traffic). If the car heading toward you actually stops and lets you cross the road unscathed, you're either in Belgium or on a crosswalk in America (and the latter of those two is still doubtful). If you walk out into the street and the bike flying at your body not only doesn't stop, but is being steered right at you by a maniacally grinning student ringing a bell, you are in Leuven.

If even traffic proves itself to be unavaible to you there still remains one last technique to determine what country you are in. Look out your window and find the location of the sun. If you can do so, you are not in Belgium.

I hope that all of this has helped in some small manner to clear up the understandable problem of differentiating Belgium from Baltimore and the rest of North America. Having finished writing this, I shall now return to my room and see if my roommates will change shifts so I can have my turn sleeping in the bed.