SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 3
Before leaving Dunkerque, we revisited the bar where we had breakfast the day before, again walking the charming streets and the impressive, historic beach. It was a real surprise how much we liked Dunkerque.
The hotel proprietor, who at first we thought so off putting, offered to drive us to the bus, and to our surprise and appreciation, he loaded our huge luggage into his car while we were out. His tone changed substantially from the day of our arrival; he was so kind. As he drove to the bus station, he told us about himself and showed me a photo of his family. He spent his entire life in Dunkerque and talked of how much he enjoyed the calm life it had given him.
VISIBLY INVISIBLE BORDERS
Though physical borders may be invisible, changes between countries can be obvious. As soon as we entered Belgium, the landscape, architecture and even the people and animals looked different than they did in France. The fields were dry, and neatly delineated. The farmhouses were plain, red-brick, with less fuss and fancifulness. Windows were smaller. Strange stubby trees with round tufts of leaves on top lined the road. Animals sparsely populated farms, as if prudence were in mind, as if there were a perfect number needed to keep farms functional. Excess seemed to vanish behind the hidden borderline, the decorative giving way to simplicity. Curves turned to angles, tall, narrow houses to squat homes. Roofs became pointier, balconies vanished, simple brick structures replaced artifice. The variety of colors disappeared.
Even odder to me was that the cows changed. Their bodies were squat, their legs short, their heads broad. It was true of some of the people, too. They were squarer, closer to the ground, more solid than the French.
As we passed through Ghent and Bruges, locals sauntered or slowly biked along the many canals, or lounging in verdant parks. When the bus picked up more passengers, I noticed many people’s broad, round faces, strong jawlines. But there was a diversity of looks as well, people who looked Middle Eastern and African.
I listened to a Hive podcast with Nick Bolton interviewing Scaramucci or the Mooch. Scaramucci talked about his book, his relationship with Trump and his 11-day tenure as Trump’s Director of Communications. Strange juxtapositions, I thought, to live in a time when eyes see one thing and the mind processes another.
Across the aisle sat a pale, English-speaking, solo backpacker. She wore rain pants and hiking boots with woolly socks. Earbuds connected her to her phone. Every now and then during the three hours, she wrote or drew in her notebook. At one point she looked over and smiled. I smiled back. As we neared Brussels, we exchanged a few words. Her loneliness was palpable.
ENTERING BRUSSELS
The complexity and buzz of a city built as we neared the Brussels bus station, passing rundown row houses, the faces and attire of immigrants. A river ran parallel to the road, a giant pile of scrap metal heaped on one side. Young men were hanging out against the basketball court fences of a city park.
The backpacker was first off the bus, her backpack soon covered in the same material as her rain pants were made of…even though the day was sunny. As she walked away carrying her heavy load, I thought how isolating backpacking must be.
FINDING IT HARD TO GET TO AIRBNB
Our Airbnb was across the street from the scrap metal plant, very near the bus station but not near enough to walk. Our Dunkerque hotel proprietor’s kindness seemed so distant as I asked cab drivers if they would take us to our Airbnb and was told they wouldn’t take us unless we paid 10 Euros. I approached a police officer to find out if this was allowed. It was, and he was sorry, in fact so sorry that he offered to drive us. I thanked him and called an Uber. The Uber cost 5 Euros.
The Airbnb apartment stairs were ridiculously narrow and steep; our place on the fifth floor. A young man on the street noticed us struggling, barely able to get the bags in the front door and ended up carrying them all the way up for us….just because.
FANTASTIC SYRIAN RESTAURANT
Once settled, we found a restaurant, Les Nuit de Chams, with great reviews that was just across the river and served Syrian food. The neighborhood on the other side of the river felt like a “little Syria”, and reminded me of places in Turkey. Men in metal chairs lounged on the sidewalks drinking tea, smoking and talking. Women and children were mostly out of sight, except a few who shopped.
We were the only non-Syrians in this very busy, simple restaurant. Long tables, covered in plastic, held plates of food for large, extended families. The waiter seated us in the back, outside the actual building in an area covered by a large canvas with a few, visible holes. It was quite chilly but no one else seemed to mind. Our dinner was amazingly yummy, flavorful, fresh and complex.
We felt unsafe walking home, whether it was true or not. But no other woman were visible on the streets.
