Good Morning
Is it me or is it Brussels that changed?
It’s been sunny in Brussels for a while now. The rain is becoming a distant memory. On so many mornings, I’m hit by warm rays as I walk my dog to the park nearby. I pass the prostitutes wearing camel-toed leggings, holding little backpacks as they reach down to pet Fripouille. They’re a sweet crew of 40- to 65-year-old Asian women. I don’t know much more. We haven’t found a common language yet. Fripouille barks, angrily. I coax him along and wonder what’s in their childlike bags. I could probably guess if I imagined how they spent their days.
My coffee shop is a block behind them. Damn Good Cafe, it’s called. It’s a nice place. I order the same thing every day. And every day, they ask me what I’d like to have. It’s out of habit, I hope. Because I’m there nearly every day.
Fripouille licks pastry crumbs from the floor. He’s impatient to walk; so am I. I wander around the three-square-meter space, looking at my phone, then putting it away. The pretty barista calls out, “Flat white with oat milk,” and I’m outside again—juggling the leash, coffee, and my phone.
Just past another batch of prostitutes, the ones I don’t know at all, is a long arc made of twigs and dried leaves. I linger a bit. I’ve been listening to some nightingale recordings recently, and it sounds almost the same here. Not the song, but the intensity. A constant chirp, chirp, chirp that makes for a pleasurable, auditory treat.
Have a good day, they seem to sing.
I found a new park a few months ago. It has fewer trees and less grass than the one just across from my home. It’s sunny, though. And Fripouille doesn’t fight as much with the dogs here. I walk slowly—as slowly as he will allow—taking in the same late morning as I do every day.
I trip on a pebble. Coffee spills over my fingertips. It smells nice, so I don’t mind.
My phone rings; it’s a new friend I made in January. He’s introduced me to many new things here. Mostly musicians and music. He tells me he’s coming to Brussels again; can I stay in your home? I have room, so of course there’s room for him. We chat a bit. I sit down to focus on what he says. The bench is warm; even Fripouille stays put as we enjoy the sunny day in Brussels today.
Someone says hello to me. I don’t like his vibe. I should get up, I think. Then, I remember why. A lady once told me as I waited for an Uber in this neighborhood: if you stand here, someone will think you’re a prostitute. It bothered me. I thought she was commenting on my dress. I didn’t register what she meant.
Only later, walking through the neighborhood again, did I understand. The only difference between me and the women selling was that I walk, and they stand.
When I stop moving, I am one of them.
It’s late anyway. I want to make it to the gym in time. I go home and feed my dog. My dog. It’s still funny rolling off my lips. Often catches me by surprise. My therapist pointed it out to me during our last session. She said I used to always say the dog. I don’t mind him as much anymore. I like our walks on sunny days. I like the friends we’re slowly making in the streets.
The gym is a 30-minute walk away. I put on headphones and turn on some Hungarian jazz. My friend — the one who called about staying at my house — sent me something new to listen to. A bright violin mutes the sirens outside. As I leave my neighborhood, I’m swept into a rush. Businessmen, politicians, and important people I don’t recognize walking to and from work. Some are taking an early lunch break. I notice the street corners. There are no women standing around.
I get to the gym. It’s warm inside. The large foyer is covered in glass. Slowing down, I embrace the sensation of concentrated sunshine. I open my overstuffed, too-small backpack packed with my tools of work and workout clothes, and dig through three pairs of leggings to find my gym card. As I pull my headphones off, the receptionist looks at me and says, “Good morning, Yehudis.”
She even got the pronunciation right again.
and thanks for your edits/feedback/ideas on this!!