Transition

I think this may be the only blog where The Hairy Bikers and Proust can validly, without even stretching a point, be mentioned in the same paragraph. More later.

We have been here for nearly two months now and have worked out how to use the blinds by remote control having first located said controls, used all the new appliances, even though the microwave instructions can only be found in Estonian, and we are waiting for the weed killer to take effect in the garden. Neighbours have waved and have returned our only confident use of Luxembourgish: “Moien” which, of course, means Good Morning or Good Day. 

In the meantime, I have neither stories of woe to tell nor thigh slapping humour relating to our move. It went astonishingly well and the removals men were very impressed at the high standard of our packing. As its quality knocked a couple of hours off the overall day, it meant we saved a few hundred euros, so my dry hands, cracked nails and slightly creaking joins were more than worth it. The removers used a cunning device of a height adjustable tail guard on their van in order to make it easy to extract items from our bedroom window in the chateau. They simply wheeled everything to the bedroom, shouted down to their mates who raised the tail guard as a  platform, and eased the boxes, sofas, plant pots and grandfather clock on to it. C’etait un morceau de gateau, I thought. It was a tight squeeze of about a centimetre either side for the van to reverse out of the chateau gates and attracted the close interest of M. le Chateau, our landlord. No damage done, thank heavens.  

Moving items in to the sleek new flat was always going to be difficult. It is a “duplex” on the second and third floors, with a tight return on the staircases. This is not unusual here in the Duchy and The Team came ready prepared with a hydraulic lift. Everything came in through our new bedroom window, was distributed around the house according to labelling, with a little confusion later about which was bedroom two or three. Dearly Beloved assembled the bed and we were asleep by 10:00. It was as easy as that.

Since then we have achieved many great things. We have registered with the commune (local council) without being asked for our family histories and evidential proof dating back to the time it was chipped onto a stone tablet. And, more importantly, I have a medical card for the excellent Luxembourg health system. We had put aside at least a morning to register me with social security, because of our experience in France and in Luxembourg back in 2010 when we first arrived. We had a sheaf of papers, documents, cards, inside leg measurements - all those essential details… Oh yes - we had them in triplicate. We arrived at about nine o’clock after a sleepless night, Kindles in hand with which to while away the hours, collected our number for our place in the queue and discovered we were third in line. Our number was called. The assistant tapped in our name, and found us already on the system at our new address. She scanned in our details, handed us each a sheet of paper and said that my card would be in the post in the next three weeks.

“Is that it?” said Dearly B, barely hiding his surprise. “Of course!” said the assistant with amused detachment. I nudged DB, thanked the assistant, and grabbing my dazed husband’s arm, we walked swiftly to the exit. “Don’t look back,” I said, “don’t say anything. Just leave before they change their minds.” In the car park, we nearly burst into tears in relief and took ourselves out for the day off we didn’t realise we were going to have.

Our first two weeks were tempered by the fact that we had to clean the old place to a standard that would not compromise the return of our somewhat hefty deposit. Armed with all the tools of the trade, mop, grout cleaner and a toothbrush we spent, over the two weeks of DB’s holiday, about three days scraping, sluicing and buffing so that the place gleamed. Messieurs le Chateau were delighted. They could barely take off their sunglasses because of the glare. We all shook hands, wishing each other well  as younger M le Chateau started measuring up for replacing the floor. We skipped out and kept our fingers crossed for the deposit’s return in a couple of month’s time…maybe three.

Did I mention Hairy Bikers and Proust? Well, here is how it happened, being merely the juxtaposition of two fairly low key events: the installation of UK satellite TV at the glossy new apartment and the booking of Lunch with the British Ladies Club at Lea Linster’s Michelin starred restaurant in the village only 2 kilometres down the road.

We had not had TV of much note throughout our stay at the Chateau. M le Chateau had assured us that we could get fantastic TV including BBC through the French national provider. We had only to get the Live box, and extensive entertainment and internet would be piped through. No, we could not have a satellite dish and why would we need it? To cut a long and administrative story short, the provision of high speed internet and cabling had not been extended to le Chateau. The package would be the same, of course, event though residents could not receive the bandwidth on offer nor the full range of media services. But we could make international telephone calls of up to three hours for nothing. So we took what we could and watched BBC World News in English and badly dubbed CSI from five years ago. Our internet speed took me back to the days when we used to have to dial a number to access it. 

So the introduction of real telly was very exciting. Dearly B was out for the evening and I watched every programme I could, including The Hairy Bikers Bake-ation (ouch). Coincidentally enough, it was the episode where they travelled through the Benelux countries promising a baking session with Luxembourg’s only female Michelin starred chef. I watched transfixed as the cameras filmed the hirsute pair travelling along the end of our road and into the restaurant where I would be eating the very next day. 

And the very next day, I was there too. No cameras, no bright lights and thankfully no bikers, but all us ladies enjoying the last of that early spring sunshine (do you remember it?) and eating roasted cauliflower soup and a carpaccio of salmon and beef. The lovely Lea joined us and pulled a chair up to our table. Her waiters quickly laid a space for her and she discussed Jamie Oliver, local food and McDonald’s ice cream. He view was that at least in McD’s you get exactly what you expect where as in many establishments the food is neither locally sourced nor prepared on site. A woman after my own heart. You may not have heard of her in the UK, but here, she is vey well known and is a celebrity particularly on German TV. Our meal ticket price included une coupe de Cremant and a glass of wine from Lea’s own vineyard, but typically of her generous attitude, the wine waiters were always at one’s elbow.

That Proustian moment?  Also included in the deal was a demonstration of Lea’s renowned crème brulee, in the very kitchens where the Hairy Bikers had been only the summer before. But just after the main course and to encourage us to move to the kitchens, trays of golden shell moulded madeleines came to us hot from the ovens, glistening and smelling of caramel and butter. The perfect cake, its wafer light crust crumbling on the lips, the airy sponge within fragrant with teasing notes of vanilla and lemon. Heaven! It's Luxembourg!

A di.