I watched from the flat today as an old man in a tattered trilby and long coat lay flat on his back across a bench and started shouting at the sky.
Was he raging at himself? At life? At his God? I couldn't follow his tirade. The tourists just pretended he wasn't there, carried on strolling the wet cobbles, snapping the vast baroque frontage of the church behind him.
He lay there for full minutes, shouting, at the top of his voice, disturbed, gutteral, hoarse, his right arm raised, forefinger jabbing upwards into the mizzly air that had sucked all colour from the city. The bench must have been wet.
Then, as suddenly as he started, he stopped. His arm flopped down acoss his chest, and he lay there in silence.
Slowly he pulled himself up, swungs his legs to the floor and leaned forward, clasping his hands between his knees.
He walked tall when he got up; ignored the woman begging a few feet away from him - all big skirts, patched jacket, shawl and headscarf, with her paper cup. He paid a call at the pissoir at the side of the church then walked around the corner and disappeared from view.
And it was as if he was never there.
I think he was one of this city's lost souls. One of the wraiths who live and die on these streets as we go about our business.
On the way to the No 38 bus stop just near the flat and post office there is a kind of nook where a nail bar meets the back of the BNP Paribas bank.
Actually, to call it a nook suggests a prettiness it doesn't deserve. It's a concrete corner all ugly angles, stained pavements and bad smells.
In there, barely sheltered from the wet, saturated morning, was a man, abed, fast asleep. His dirty double duvet and once-pink cellular blanket were opened out to their fullest, his form all lumps and bumps beneath it, his head on a stained roll-mat, his nose and whiskers the only flesh visible between duvet and pulled-low woollen hat. Was his back on bare concrete?
His presence was a shock. Like some crude, Emin-type art installation. It was the blatantness of his pitch, the amount of space he'd taken. He must have know when he laid down that he would get in the way, and known as well that we'd all circumnavigate him. Almost step over him.
Everyone pretended he wasn't there.
The vagrancy here is so obvious, so unashamed, the begging so....polite. The women in church doorways with their paper cups pour blessings as you walk inside and as you exit; the man who gets on your tube carriage, spends several minutes politely explaining to you that he's hungry, homeless, jobless and will now sing to you on your journey.
And he does, he sings, and I don't know what courage or desperation it has taken for him to do this.
Then afterwards he walks down the carriage, holding his paper cup, and we all look down, away, those with the escape of headphones close their eyes to fake concentration on music or we gaze out of the dirty windows finding interest in the blackness of the tunnel. Anything rather than meet the desperation in his eye. We feel a mix of shame, anger, irritation that he has dared to intrude on our journey. We'd all just rather he went away. It's embarrassing.
On another day this happens, only it's worse. A mother and her two chldren. An eastern European family, I think. The mother's age impossible to tell, but she is young. The children impossible to ignore: beautiful, upright, unaware, unafraid. They got on at the far end of our relatively empty carriage and the mother spoke earnestly, proudly.
And then her little daughter started to sing loudly. A folk song, tuneful, painful, singing in that way children do when they are trying to impress, the words interspersed with quick gasps of breath.
The boy made his way through the carriage with paper cup. And the carriage silently cringed and convulsed as we sat, locked in, as the girl sang and the boy looked accusingly into our eyes and we, especially we mothers, smiled and shook our heads at the boy and felt useless and helpless, enraged that a mother should put her children up to this and horrified that she felt she should have no option but to do so. Or had someone else forced her into it?
The couple opposite, elderly, start a quiet argument after the man pops a couple of cents into the boy's cup. The woman chastises him. She thinks it will merely encourage them. He lifts his palms upwards from his knees and shrugs his shoulders in that universal 'what can you do?' gesture.
How do you choose? Who do you choose?
Do you look at the smiling, jolly man playing Boccherini on the violin near the European Parliament and think, 'Well, at least you're doing something, at least your earning it, making an effort!'....and then ignore the weary, bleary, dishevelled chap near the butcher's with his crutches, his long hair and his paper cup because he's just sitting there...?? Is he not trying hard enough?
What about the couple who stand outside the Delhaize supermarket on Anspach, as if they have been posted there on guard, watching you as you walk in, watching you as you walk out, watching as you guiltily hurry past, laden.
What about the men who lie pathetically in an almost comatose state surrounded by beer cans at the entrance to the Carrefour?
What about the pile of bodies huddled together for warmth, motionless, sleeping a few hundred yards from the great cruciform that is the European Commission.
Every city knows this shame. This misery.
And those rushing from here to there, those with work to get to, a job to do, another sight to see, an errand to run learn to side-step, to ignore, to watch the pavement.......learn the shame of turning the other cheek.
Links:
http://www.euronews.net/2012/02/03/brussels-homeless-battle-big-freeze/
http://www.servethecity.be/brussels/
Friday 24 February 2012
Wednesday 22 February 2012
Quartet, Pastels & Flats
Dear Thomas
It was an odd time for a recital, in my view
But clearly I was the only one to think so.
The Bozar (Palais Des Beaux-Arts) was thrumming with chatter as people sat for an 11am peformance of Haydn* and Debussy** by an 'up-and-coming' quartet, the Quatuor Modigliani - an impossibly young, impossibly talented, impossibly handsome foursome, who played exquisitely.
The audience had paid just €8 for the privilege. It was a mix of older types - the women all chignons, lippy and eyeshadow, the men jacketed but casual; smart teenagers (they get out of bed before mid-day here!??) and families: mums and dads with children, with their very young children.
This amazed me.
Who takes a toddler to a classical music concert? Who would dare? Certainly not me. Certainly not anyone I know! (I imagine Tom how you would have offered your own unique, loud, fulsome accompaniment...).
But note this, no-one batted an eyelid.
And note this too, these were miracle children. These were children who sat, watched, listened...in silence!
I watched one toddler sitting on her father's knee a few seats away. A full hour she sat, quietly, not taking her eyes off the musicians on the stage. Occasionally she looked about her, snuggled in a little, but her attention never wavered.
Another child, seated at the front, was similarly behaved. Only one much tinier tot, made gentle coos during the Debussy, and no-one minded. No crisp packets, no sweets, no fidgeting, no complaining.
I was reminded of a book published recently detailing the differences in the behaviour of children on the continent, especially the French (good) compared with the behaviour of those in the UK (bad).
Was I seeing the evidence? Not sure. But I wanted to ask the parents their secret, then bottle it and sell it, maybe.
Later we strolled along Rue Neuve. The shop windows full of pastels; pastels, cropped trousers and long, patterned, summery scarves.
Just walking into these overheated emporiums and seeing spring/summer collections transforms the spirit somehow, fast-forwards these last wintry weeks, catapults the casual browser into May, to June!
I run my fingers through oranges, pinks, lemons (none of these colours actually suit me by the way), grimace as I hold them against me in front of the mirror, but imagine that one day, ONE DAY, it might actually get warm enough to wear this sort of thing....
Oh to wear pretty things, instead of boots and jumpers, instead of this sweater, knitted on Mull to keep the Western Isles gales at bay, which has been worn so often since I got here that the sleeves now hang about three inches off my fingertips.
To think that some day soon we might all discard our hats and gloves and instead waft through the city bare-armed, basking....
A work colleague told me he imagined that once I got to Brussels I'd 'go all continental' and become 'that type of woman who wears scarves'.
I snorted at him, but he was right. He was! Though I don't imagine when he said it he was thinking of a long woollen job wrapped 10 times around the head to stop nose dropping off from frostbite.
We all looked the same during the recent 'grand froid': a population united in thermals. On the tube we were a gang of robbers on a bank job - only our face coverings were more cable-knit and bobble than balaclava.
Still, it is milder by the day and each morn the sun comes up a little earlier, rises that bit higher and stays that bit longer.
We have settled on a flat, at last! It is in a green part of the city near a park and the Ixelles 'ponds' which, when we visited last week, were a skating rink of swans, ducks and geese (canada, greylag and egyptian).
We had lost a good flat only the week before because we didn't understand the 'system' properly. This time we got lucky.
To call it a penthouse would be to make it sound grand and it isn't grand, so we'll call it what it is: a top-floor flat in a seven-storey building.
It is small, just 80sq m to call home but the lounge is flooded with light, the terrace faces south, I can see lots of trees and (a bonus!)two shreeky parakeets flew overhead as we looked at it. Four good reasons to sign on the dotted line.
It's far from posh, the spec isn't anywhere near as 'finished' as other places we've seen. But when you know it's the one, it's the one. It is also significantly under the meagre budget!
Now we wait for our British removal firm to liaise with their 'European arm' and hopefully, we'll be moving in towards the end of March.
I don't want to be in on moving day. The prospect of all our precious stuff being hauled seven floors on an external lift through an open window..!
I'm already day-dreaming about curtains, hangings, cushions...there's a shop I pass often on the busy Anspach road. It's called Maisons Du Monde. It's bit Dunelm meets The Pier and it's all cushions, curtains, glassware, lighting, chenile throws and those Buddah heads (miniature, life-size and gigantic, super Buddah!) and I wander round it, planning.
Meanwhile our little Chesterfield home is finally rented. At last. They seem good people. They have young children who visit every weekend and they want to teach them to play our piano.
I hope they love our little home.
Xxx
* Joseph Haydn: Streichquartett, op.76/1, Hob. III:75
** Claude Debussy: Quatuor a cordes, op.10
It was an odd time for a recital, in my view
But clearly I was the only one to think so.
The Bozar (Palais Des Beaux-Arts) was thrumming with chatter as people sat for an 11am peformance of Haydn* and Debussy** by an 'up-and-coming' quartet, the Quatuor Modigliani - an impossibly young, impossibly talented, impossibly handsome foursome, who played exquisitely.
The audience had paid just €8 for the privilege. It was a mix of older types - the women all chignons, lippy and eyeshadow, the men jacketed but casual; smart teenagers (they get out of bed before mid-day here!??) and families: mums and dads with children, with their very young children.
This amazed me.
Who takes a toddler to a classical music concert? Who would dare? Certainly not me. Certainly not anyone I know! (I imagine Tom how you would have offered your own unique, loud, fulsome accompaniment...).
But note this, no-one batted an eyelid.
And note this too, these were miracle children. These were children who sat, watched, listened...in silence!
I watched one toddler sitting on her father's knee a few seats away. A full hour she sat, quietly, not taking her eyes off the musicians on the stage. Occasionally she looked about her, snuggled in a little, but her attention never wavered.
Another child, seated at the front, was similarly behaved. Only one much tinier tot, made gentle coos during the Debussy, and no-one minded. No crisp packets, no sweets, no fidgeting, no complaining.
I was reminded of a book published recently detailing the differences in the behaviour of children on the continent, especially the French (good) compared with the behaviour of those in the UK (bad).
Was I seeing the evidence? Not sure. But I wanted to ask the parents their secret, then bottle it and sell it, maybe.
Later we strolled along Rue Neuve. The shop windows full of pastels; pastels, cropped trousers and long, patterned, summery scarves.
Just walking into these overheated emporiums and seeing spring/summer collections transforms the spirit somehow, fast-forwards these last wintry weeks, catapults the casual browser into May, to June!
I run my fingers through oranges, pinks, lemons (none of these colours actually suit me by the way), grimace as I hold them against me in front of the mirror, but imagine that one day, ONE DAY, it might actually get warm enough to wear this sort of thing....
Oh to wear pretty things, instead of boots and jumpers, instead of this sweater, knitted on Mull to keep the Western Isles gales at bay, which has been worn so often since I got here that the sleeves now hang about three inches off my fingertips.
To think that some day soon we might all discard our hats and gloves and instead waft through the city bare-armed, basking....
A work colleague told me he imagined that once I got to Brussels I'd 'go all continental' and become 'that type of woman who wears scarves'.
I snorted at him, but he was right. He was! Though I don't imagine when he said it he was thinking of a long woollen job wrapped 10 times around the head to stop nose dropping off from frostbite.
We all looked the same during the recent 'grand froid': a population united in thermals. On the tube we were a gang of robbers on a bank job - only our face coverings were more cable-knit and bobble than balaclava.
Still, it is milder by the day and each morn the sun comes up a little earlier, rises that bit higher and stays that bit longer.
We have settled on a flat, at last! It is in a green part of the city near a park and the Ixelles 'ponds' which, when we visited last week, were a skating rink of swans, ducks and geese (canada, greylag and egyptian).
We had lost a good flat only the week before because we didn't understand the 'system' properly. This time we got lucky.
To call it a penthouse would be to make it sound grand and it isn't grand, so we'll call it what it is: a top-floor flat in a seven-storey building.
It is small, just 80sq m to call home but the lounge is flooded with light, the terrace faces south, I can see lots of trees and (a bonus!)two shreeky parakeets flew overhead as we looked at it. Four good reasons to sign on the dotted line.
It's far from posh, the spec isn't anywhere near as 'finished' as other places we've seen. But when you know it's the one, it's the one. It is also significantly under the meagre budget!
Now we wait for our British removal firm to liaise with their 'European arm' and hopefully, we'll be moving in towards the end of March.
I don't want to be in on moving day. The prospect of all our precious stuff being hauled seven floors on an external lift through an open window..!
I'm already day-dreaming about curtains, hangings, cushions...there's a shop I pass often on the busy Anspach road. It's called Maisons Du Monde. It's bit Dunelm meets The Pier and it's all cushions, curtains, glassware, lighting, chenile throws and those Buddah heads (miniature, life-size and gigantic, super Buddah!) and I wander round it, planning.
Meanwhile our little Chesterfield home is finally rented. At last. They seem good people. They have young children who visit every weekend and they want to teach them to play our piano.
I hope they love our little home.
Xxx
* Joseph Haydn: Streichquartett, op.76/1, Hob. III:75
** Claude Debussy: Quatuor a cordes, op.10
Wednesday 15 February 2012
A Long-ish Walk
Dear Thomas,
It's not been as I imagined, so far.
To think, in my head it was all museums, French lessons, aimless but tranquil wanderings, peace, yoga, a blissful doing of nothing.
Not so. Well, not yet, anyhow.
I'm not settled, not by a long shot - incredibly restless actually.
I'm not sure why this is. I think part of me still feels like it's a holiday - living out of a suitcase (because there's nowhere else in this flat to put my pathetically small set of clothes!) and maybe subconsciously I'm still waiting, perhaps, for someone to tell me it's time to go home. A bit of new life jetlag? Could be.
I need my things with me. My stuff, the stuff that is me.
I need your things too (not all your things - just the bits and pieces that show you really did exist and I didn't invent you).
Also, frankly, this flat is neither suitable nor appropriate for long-term living. I adore the view - the setting really couldn't be more stunning - but it isn't a home. The kitchen doesn't really work, the bed doesn't fit in the bedroom; the bathroom, well, let's not go there, and the staircase? Woah - you take your life in your hands every time you descend those 50-odd precipitous spiral steps!
And so we are flat hunting in earnest....which isn't easy in a city you don't know at all.
You listen to word-of-mouth, you study the expat sites, but when all an estate agent puts in his advert is a picture of a washing maching, or a table with a vase on it and doesn't really give any other details at all, you really have no choice but to go and see for yourself. It is, therefore, incredibly time-consuming.
Still, there's no better way to get to know a city and find your way about.
Yesterday I walked 8km to view a place. I could have taken public transport - the way buses, trams and tubes link in with each other really is exceptional - but I argued with myself (I do that a lot) that walking would be a good way of getting a firm grip on the city. After all, it always bugs me about London that I never know where anything is in relation to anything else, because you travel like a mole, dropping down into an abyss in Kennington then snuffling back up again and 'Hey, It's Madame Tussauds!'
I passed the cathedral during bell-ringing practice, skirted the environs of the European Parliament and onwards and onwards, past the vast, intimidating European Commmission building and then into the beautiful Parc Du Cinquaintenaire.
The sudden change of pace, the vivid absence of street noise was delightful. Birdsong, at last.
Parakeets, emerald green with vibrant red beaks were shrieky, flashing among the bare branches, and gloriously unexpected; great tits, blue tits, a blackbird (hopping and listening, hopping and listening, still not ready to sing); crows wheeling, pigeon wings clapping, starlings doing that whistling thing they do.
I sat for a bit, just to listen, watch, and breath a little. The air is warmer now and having left the flat in multiple layers with hat, scarf and gloves, it was a chance to catch a cool breeze and, literally, chill, for a moment.
At the far end of the park, after passing underneath the huge triumphal arch and the sweeping u-shaped buildings of the museums is a lake with a fountain.
Unlike other water features which were shut down during the recent 'grand froid' this one was still in operation and, every few minutes or so, it shot forth a jet of water high into the air, smaller mini jets spewing at an angle all around it.
Ice had taken a hold at the base: great lumps and bumps of it, like a strange collapsing dessert. As the water streamed out there was a kind of subterranean clunking, clocking, blocking sound, as if big chuncks of ice were being knocked together by the force of the water.
Those of us watching - and listening - stood for longer than we might have, convinced, I think, that the whole thing was about to blow its top.
Back into the frenzy of Brussels city traffic and across countless roads and junctions, never knowing whether anything will stop when you pop your foot onto a zebra crossing. It's always a bit fraught when, no matter how hard you think, your brain still won't remember at the crucial moment which way to look for oncoming traffic.
The same pedestrian crossing system applies here, but whereas in the UK we have the 'beeps' of the little green man, over here the signposts emit an almost mechanical-sounding 'tinck tinck tinck tinck' when it's not safe to cross, turning to a frantic, tinny, 'tickertickertickerticker' when the traffic stops.
Woluwe St Pierre was the destination - a beautiful town/suburb. But it dawned pretty quickly during my route march as blisters started to form that this wouldn't be for us: simply too far away from the city centre.
Didn't I realise that when looking at the map??? Well yes, probably, but I wanted to explore and be sure.
After viewing the flat - beautiful inside but quite gloomy and, I'm sorry, me and the estate agent clearly have differing views on what constitutes a terrace (this was little more than a concrete windowsill) - I walked to the market square where the friterie was doing brisk business. Then, as the heavens opened, I dropped down into the Metro.
I think the people running the underground that day couldn't quite decide between hailing the singer Adele's success at the Grammy's or mourning Whitney Houston's tragic demise. So they opted for both: underground celebration and commiseration.
Each time the doors opened at the different stations between Stockel and St Catherine we were greeted by either 'Someone Like You' or 'I Will Always Love You' on a gush of warm air.
The former got a group of young teenage girls singing along to each other - English in a glorious French accent.
The latter quite got to me.
It's mawkish I know. But hearing it at this time of the year - when the 12th marks your death and the 16th your birth - well, we all put our own meaning on lyrics to suit the occasion, don't we Tomble?
xxxx
It's not been as I imagined, so far.
To think, in my head it was all museums, French lessons, aimless but tranquil wanderings, peace, yoga, a blissful doing of nothing.
Not so. Well, not yet, anyhow.
I'm not settled, not by a long shot - incredibly restless actually.
I'm not sure why this is. I think part of me still feels like it's a holiday - living out of a suitcase (because there's nowhere else in this flat to put my pathetically small set of clothes!) and maybe subconsciously I'm still waiting, perhaps, for someone to tell me it's time to go home. A bit of new life jetlag? Could be.
I need my things with me. My stuff, the stuff that is me.
I need your things too (not all your things - just the bits and pieces that show you really did exist and I didn't invent you).
Also, frankly, this flat is neither suitable nor appropriate for long-term living. I adore the view - the setting really couldn't be more stunning - but it isn't a home. The kitchen doesn't really work, the bed doesn't fit in the bedroom; the bathroom, well, let's not go there, and the staircase? Woah - you take your life in your hands every time you descend those 50-odd precipitous spiral steps!
And so we are flat hunting in earnest....which isn't easy in a city you don't know at all.
You listen to word-of-mouth, you study the expat sites, but when all an estate agent puts in his advert is a picture of a washing maching, or a table with a vase on it and doesn't really give any other details at all, you really have no choice but to go and see for yourself. It is, therefore, incredibly time-consuming.
Still, there's no better way to get to know a city and find your way about.
Yesterday I walked 8km to view a place. I could have taken public transport - the way buses, trams and tubes link in with each other really is exceptional - but I argued with myself (I do that a lot) that walking would be a good way of getting a firm grip on the city. After all, it always bugs me about London that I never know where anything is in relation to anything else, because you travel like a mole, dropping down into an abyss in Kennington then snuffling back up again and 'Hey, It's Madame Tussauds!'
I passed the cathedral during bell-ringing practice, skirted the environs of the European Parliament and onwards and onwards, past the vast, intimidating European Commmission building and then into the beautiful Parc Du Cinquaintenaire.
The sudden change of pace, the vivid absence of street noise was delightful. Birdsong, at last.
Parakeets, emerald green with vibrant red beaks were shrieky, flashing among the bare branches, and gloriously unexpected; great tits, blue tits, a blackbird (hopping and listening, hopping and listening, still not ready to sing); crows wheeling, pigeon wings clapping, starlings doing that whistling thing they do.
I sat for a bit, just to listen, watch, and breath a little. The air is warmer now and having left the flat in multiple layers with hat, scarf and gloves, it was a chance to catch a cool breeze and, literally, chill, for a moment.
At the far end of the park, after passing underneath the huge triumphal arch and the sweeping u-shaped buildings of the museums is a lake with a fountain.
Unlike other water features which were shut down during the recent 'grand froid' this one was still in operation and, every few minutes or so, it shot forth a jet of water high into the air, smaller mini jets spewing at an angle all around it.
Ice had taken a hold at the base: great lumps and bumps of it, like a strange collapsing dessert. As the water streamed out there was a kind of subterranean clunking, clocking, blocking sound, as if big chuncks of ice were being knocked together by the force of the water.
Those of us watching - and listening - stood for longer than we might have, convinced, I think, that the whole thing was about to blow its top.
Back into the frenzy of Brussels city traffic and across countless roads and junctions, never knowing whether anything will stop when you pop your foot onto a zebra crossing. It's always a bit fraught when, no matter how hard you think, your brain still won't remember at the crucial moment which way to look for oncoming traffic.
The same pedestrian crossing system applies here, but whereas in the UK we have the 'beeps' of the little green man, over here the signposts emit an almost mechanical-sounding 'tinck tinck tinck tinck' when it's not safe to cross, turning to a frantic, tinny, 'tickertickertickerticker' when the traffic stops.
Woluwe St Pierre was the destination - a beautiful town/suburb. But it dawned pretty quickly during my route march as blisters started to form that this wouldn't be for us: simply too far away from the city centre.
Didn't I realise that when looking at the map??? Well yes, probably, but I wanted to explore and be sure.
After viewing the flat - beautiful inside but quite gloomy and, I'm sorry, me and the estate agent clearly have differing views on what constitutes a terrace (this was little more than a concrete windowsill) - I walked to the market square where the friterie was doing brisk business. Then, as the heavens opened, I dropped down into the Metro.
I think the people running the underground that day couldn't quite decide between hailing the singer Adele's success at the Grammy's or mourning Whitney Houston's tragic demise. So they opted for both: underground celebration and commiseration.
Each time the doors opened at the different stations between Stockel and St Catherine we were greeted by either 'Someone Like You' or 'I Will Always Love You' on a gush of warm air.
The former got a group of young teenage girls singing along to each other - English in a glorious French accent.
The latter quite got to me.
It's mawkish I know. But hearing it at this time of the year - when the 12th marks your death and the 16th your birth - well, we all put our own meaning on lyrics to suit the occasion, don't we Tomble?
xxxx
Thursday 2 February 2012
Today is Day 2...
Dear Thomas,
This is Day 2.
Day 2 is better than Day 1.
Day 1 was all soggy tissues, tangled blankets, feverish cold mixed with a sense of absolute loss I haven't felt in a long time.
Which is strange when you think of all the good things before me.
Change is tough. Some adapt to it easily - but for most of us, well, it takes a bit longer.
And I suppose leaving your job, moving house and saying goodbye to home, family and country all in such a short space of time was always going to knock an amount of stuffing out.
And so we'll write off Day 1. I don't care to dwell on it.
Now, today! Today I have held conversations in French with the concierge, Fawnzi (I know! Though the resemblance to the '70s TV star ends there!), I have whirled like a dervish with dusters, limescale remover and multi-surface cleaner and I have partaken of a simple lunch. Now that's progress!
I have heard footsteps on the stairs as neighbours have come and gone, but have not yet ventured out to say hello. Feeling, idiotically, a bit wraith-like, I have wandered from room to room, feeling not quite here. 'This is it', I keep telling myself, 'this really is it'...but part of me isn't listening. Part of me won't compute.
Outside, the sky over our cobbled square is that sharp, hard-frost blue and the sun makes long shadows on the impossibly-grand church making it stand out more sharply somehow, as if in high-definition.
There is a huge flock of pigeons wheeling across the sky. Round and Round, their shadows flashing across the buildings, round and round until they settle on a ledge, all in a line - a long line! - on the old hospital building across, to the left, from us. They are hassled by crows and fly off again en masse before settling as before.
Below, in the square, everyone is wrapped, bobble-hatted, booted and brisk.
Brussels beckons. And at some point I will find the 'courage' (spoken in French accent, of course) to venture out and do things like open a bank account, buy a phone and some light bulbs, order chocolate chaud, sit in the Grand Place and watch the world go by.
That all feels a bit beyond me at the moment for some reason. For now much smaller steps are required. I have mended the shower and, most importantly, have found out how to stream reassuring, comfortable, solid Radio 4.
I think they call it nesting Thomas.
All is calm at last. The fact that I'm writing to you, on Day 2, is testament to that.
Xxxx
This is Day 2.
Day 2 is better than Day 1.
Day 1 was all soggy tissues, tangled blankets, feverish cold mixed with a sense of absolute loss I haven't felt in a long time.
Which is strange when you think of all the good things before me.
Change is tough. Some adapt to it easily - but for most of us, well, it takes a bit longer.
And I suppose leaving your job, moving house and saying goodbye to home, family and country all in such a short space of time was always going to knock an amount of stuffing out.
And so we'll write off Day 1. I don't care to dwell on it.
Now, today! Today I have held conversations in French with the concierge, Fawnzi (I know! Though the resemblance to the '70s TV star ends there!), I have whirled like a dervish with dusters, limescale remover and multi-surface cleaner and I have partaken of a simple lunch. Now that's progress!
I have heard footsteps on the stairs as neighbours have come and gone, but have not yet ventured out to say hello. Feeling, idiotically, a bit wraith-like, I have wandered from room to room, feeling not quite here. 'This is it', I keep telling myself, 'this really is it'...but part of me isn't listening. Part of me won't compute.
Outside, the sky over our cobbled square is that sharp, hard-frost blue and the sun makes long shadows on the impossibly-grand church making it stand out more sharply somehow, as if in high-definition.
There is a huge flock of pigeons wheeling across the sky. Round and Round, their shadows flashing across the buildings, round and round until they settle on a ledge, all in a line - a long line! - on the old hospital building across, to the left, from us. They are hassled by crows and fly off again en masse before settling as before.
Below, in the square, everyone is wrapped, bobble-hatted, booted and brisk.
Brussels beckons. And at some point I will find the 'courage' (spoken in French accent, of course) to venture out and do things like open a bank account, buy a phone and some light bulbs, order chocolate chaud, sit in the Grand Place and watch the world go by.
That all feels a bit beyond me at the moment for some reason. For now much smaller steps are required. I have mended the shower and, most importantly, have found out how to stream reassuring, comfortable, solid Radio 4.
I think they call it nesting Thomas.
All is calm at last. The fact that I'm writing to you, on Day 2, is testament to that.
Xxxx
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