Belgium
Near Dronkaard in the province of Vlaams-Brabant, Flanders, four business men in a Rover car swept through the border into Belgium. The Flanders Fields flashed by the autosnelweg to Ghent and the language of road signs was Flemish. But maybe there never was a road to Ghent though the night train could have sped into Li è ge south west of Aachen. Brussels, the Grand Place soot encrusted buildings with pale boned facades like well-drilled guillemots on a cliff, a chiaroscuro of filigreed stone seen through the November rain of an Émile Verhaeren poem from the shop of a celebrated chocolatier. For all the grandeur a small dark fondant is the heart’s desire. Such overpowering experience make it hard to plan an agenda for a day when I can watch green fig leaves trembling as the raindrops fall on them. Moules aux chicons at La Villette red and white checked tablecloths someone said Belgians were both apes and molluscs mussel shells like ...