Brussels… So I got here yesterday after a flight to Charleroi, followed by an hour long bus ride, which was followed by a nightmarishly labyrinthine journey to the opposite platform of a tram, having to ask 4 or 5 people how to simply get across and all of them not being sure because of security-related changes, and finally being locked into a tiny exit kiosk which would not accept my ticket but wouldn’t tell me how to get out, until a refined looking older gentleman saw I was trapped and slid his pass in between the doors so I could scan it and leave. Yes, the London Underground has never seemed more magical to me than at that moment.
I emerged from the metro at the Bourse, and the first thing I saw was the huge memorial to the victims of the recent attacks. Cards, flowers, candles, pictures, lots of banners and posters, slogans and messages of unity, lots of love for Bruxelles ma belle, and a multitude of soldiers in combat uniforms, fully weaponized, with military trucks not too far away. I had a hard time articulating my thoughts but I felt extremely unsettled.
This morning I had a lovely breakfast at Cafe Paul (hot chocolate that actually tastes like chocolate) and then explored my neighborhood, near Rue Marche aux Poulets. Found a little cinema, and Brussels city tours (I’m taking a tour with them tomorrow), discovered a wonderful jewelry store that sells such unusual pieces I was immediately intrigued (thought the owner was the jewelry designer but actually they’re imported from Israel), looked at some lovely Belgian lace, and obviously photographed Grand Place profusely.
I was planning on going to a jazz club later tonight but the amazing Karin Zoeter called me back. Her dad, the late George Zoeter was the Honorary Consul General for Pakistan in Ghent, and my parents were great friends with hers back when we lived here in Belgium. Karin has taken over that position and like her dad, she accomplishes everything with immense intelligence and grace. She volunteered to pick me up and drive me to Nazareth, close to Ghent, in order to visit her mom at their lake, a place which is an integral part of my childhood.
Mrs Zoeter is now 81 and as warm and active and full of perfect manners as always. We had tea and Belgian chocolates on the deck, surrounded by bird songs, sunlit leaves cascading down weeping willows, and their jeweled reflection in the lake. Un petit paradis. Karin had to go to a town council meeting, so Mrs Zoeter and I went on a walk around the lake. I remember taking that walk as a child. The trees are much taller now, so much so that some had to be cut down. We walked by the cabana we used to go to over the summer in order to swim in the lake. We collected an egg from Mrs Zoeter’s chicken coop and passed by her jardin potager. Once home, she cooked me some Brussels sprouts and rice, along with lightly seasoned cod. We looked at her wedding pictures and talked about her wonderful husband of 52 years and how she still hasn’t quite recovered from his death 6 years ago. I remember him as a smart and gentle-spoken man, even-tempered and always smiling. After some chocolate mousse, Karin insisted on driving me back, once again, all the way to Brussels. Both her and her mom plan on attending the screening this Friday.
Yes, the world can be an incredibly dysfunctional place, but as I continue to travel across countries, histories, airports, borders, languages and politics, I am much more consistently moved by the kindness and beauty of the human heart.
