12.20.11
This marks the second week of my life as a sausage.
Yesterday I saw a boy who often swims at the same time as I do at the pool in St. Gilles, and he knows about as much English as I do French, which as you can imagine makes for about 2% communication. The best I can do is “Moi et toi naget” which is “you and me swim.” I tried to tell him I was going to work, but when I told him “Je suis une saucisse” he looked at me puzzled. “Oui” I said, “Je suis une saucisse.” Still confusion. But it’s true, I am a sausage. A giant wiener, with a smile and a bow tie. It is probably the only giant sausage suit in all of Europe. And I wear it in the Christmas Market, in front of the British sausage chalet. In the European capital, with a diverse international population, where the only Americans are either students or working for international companies, I, an expat, a quintessentially female-artist-hipster-20-something, who by definition rejects everything about the situation that makes it so quintessentially my nation, and I, the vegetarian-who-also-eats-hot dogs, am a giant sausage, at 10 euro an hour. The irony, dear friends, is thick.
How did I score this coveted vocation? In a Brussels-related google search, of what specifically I cannot recall, I found a listing for a small British catering company, went to a well-designed website with a slick rainbow logo and noticed that the street of their address was the street of my address. And not just the same street, but a mere 2 minute walk away from my flat. CV in hand, I showed up to the house and instantly felt right in the very warm, very charming kitchen. Sorry, they did not need anyone at the moment but they could email me for large events, it was fine that I spoke no French, it was great that I was so close, but oh, wait! Would I be willing to wear a costume that none of the other employees were willing to wear and that half of them couldn’t fit into even if they were willing? 3 days and 30 paid hours later, I was at a staff birthday party.
Poked? Sometimes. Mistaken for a frite? Occasionally. Assumed to be male? Duh. In countless photographs with children, teens and adults alike? Yes. People laugh in spite of themselves. I hold a sign that says “taste me” in French and English, and when I get bored I dance. As my range of movement is awkwardly limited, I am clearly gaining movement research for future choreographies.
I also drink hot chocolate and baileys everyday.
As it turned out, Alex, the terribly sweet, hell-of-a-cook and jolly owner of La Britannique, absolutely needed someone else to work at the Christmas market. Consequently, most of my time is not in the costume but rather spent working in the Bourse chalet selling sausages, hot apple cider, lavendar shortbread, and of course, hot chocolate and baileys. If my pronunciation of French greetings is anything less than stellar, it certainly is not from lack of practice.
Yesterday I saw a boy who often swims at the same time as I do at the pool in St. Gilles, and he knows about as much English as I do French, which as you can imagine makes for about 2% communication. The best I can do is “Moi et toi naget” which is “you and me swim.” I tried to tell him I was going to work, but when I told him “Je suis une saucisse” he looked at me puzzled. “Oui” I said, “Je suis une saucisse.” Still confusion. But it’s true, I am a sausage. A giant wiener, with a smile and a bow tie. It is probably the only giant sausage suit in all of Europe. And I wear it in the Christmas Market, in front of the British sausage chalet. In the European capital, with a diverse international population, where the only Americans are either students or working for international companies, I, an expat, a quintessentially female-artist-hipster-20-something, who by definition rejects everything about the situation that makes it so quintessentially my nation, and I, the vegetarian-who-also-eats-hot dogs, am a giant sausage, at 10 euro an hour. The irony, dear friends, is thick.
How did I score this coveted vocation? In a Brussels-related google search, of what specifically I cannot recall, I found a listing for a small British catering company, went to a well-designed website with a slick rainbow logo and noticed that the street of their address was the street of my address. And not just the same street, but a mere 2 minute walk away from my flat. CV in hand, I showed up to the house and instantly felt right in the very warm, very charming kitchen. Sorry, they did not need anyone at the moment but they could email me for large events, it was fine that I spoke no French, it was great that I was so close, but oh, wait! Would I be willing to wear a costume that none of the other employees were willing to wear and that half of them couldn’t fit into even if they were willing? 3 days and 30 paid hours later, I was at a staff birthday party.
Poked? Sometimes. Mistaken for a frite? Occasionally. Assumed to be male? Duh. In countless photographs with children, teens and adults alike? Yes. People laugh in spite of themselves. I hold a sign that says “taste me” in French and English, and when I get bored I dance. As my range of movement is awkwardly limited, I am clearly gaining movement research for future choreographies.
I also drink hot chocolate and baileys everyday.
As it turned out, Alex, the terribly sweet, hell-of-a-cook and jolly owner of La Britannique, absolutely needed someone else to work at the Christmas market. Consequently, most of my time is not in the costume but rather spent working in the Bourse chalet selling sausages, hot apple cider, lavendar shortbread, and of course, hot chocolate and baileys. If my pronunciation of French greetings is anything less than stellar, it certainly is not from lack of practice.
