A Train From Brussels
Sarah Thomas
©
Copyright 2023 by Sarah Thomas
|
Photo by Anh Tuan at Pexels. |
My
time at the Van B. family home as the au pair was over. The children
were ready for bed and lined up to say goodbye. Their mother would
not be driving me the ten minutes to the bus stop. No, the
housekeeper Yvonne and her husband the groundskeeper, Izaak, they
would drive me. It hurt my eighteen-year-old feelings that Frau Van
B. would not drive me, but it really was more fitting for it to be
Izaak and Yvonne.
Yvonne
was the closest thing I had to a friend that fall. She was kind to me
and motherly, though she was still young about ten years older than
me. She was always ready with a smile and kind word. I suggested once
when we first met, that talking to her would help me learn the
language. She laughed and smiled her beautiful smile saying in German
that she wasn’t much better off than me. She and her husband
were Polish and had been living in Germany for several years. They
had an eleven-year-old daughter back in Poland that lived with
Yvonne’s parents. Yvonne was warm and open and happy to know
me, and she did get to know me in the three short months I was in
that household. I think for the purpose of my story, that is the
biggest difference between her and our lady employer. She chose to
know me. I am so grateful for the humanity she showed me.
Yvonne
and I bonded over coffee breaks, ironing laundry and babysitting. The
baby preferred her, naturally. I was a relative stranger. I miss her
company. She once invited me to go grocery shopping with her in the
evening, ‘just to get out’ she had said. I am still
fascinated by the efficiency of the German’s recycling system.
The store entrance had a receptacle where I watched her deposit her
glass recyclables and then a receipt was given for cash value to go
towards the groceries she would be buying. She insisted on buying me
a chocolate bar. We talked as she did her shopping and I remember
thinking she seemed tired, but she was still playful and cheerful.
Grocery shopping with Yvonne was the most fun I had for weeks.
Yvonne
had her daughter very young. The pregnancy had been outside of
marriage and they married quickly as was expected of them. She was
very matter of fact about all this, neither proud nor ashamed. He was
attractive like her. They were both in their late twenties or early
thirties, a young, fit, blonde couple. I would see the two of them
running on the farm roads in the mist of the early morning. He was
curt in his manners, and I found him a bit rude and stand-offish. I
didn’t really get to know him well. He was somewhat
intimidating. The way many men can be in my experience. In
retrospect, as a grown woman and a wife, the way he treated me was
exactly appropriate. Izaak was an all-around handy man on the
property.
Apparently,
the positions were good for them both. Yvonne went home every 6
months for a month or so of leave to be with her daughter and
parents. She told me she had been a professional of some kind in
Poland. There weren’t enough jobs or maybe it didn’t pay
enough. She was a nurse or teacher, my memory fails, but to do that
in Germany she would have to go to school again. She worried her
language skills were lacking for getting through school. I encouraged
her to try but she didn’t seem to want to. She was Catholic.
This was something we sort of had in common as I was raised Catholic
and went to Catholic schools.
At
the bus stop in Kiel, I said goodbye to Yvonne. I don’t
remember what was said but I hope I thanked her for her friendship
and her kindness. What I do remember is that Izaak was gentleman
enough to get out of the car and help with my suitcases. I imagine
Yvonne prodding him to do so as I turned my back, but who knows.
Yvonne hugged me tight and kissed my cheek. I was excited about the
adventure and the familiar faces I was going to see but I felt a
sadness in the goodbye, knowing it was unlikely we would ever see
each other again. I got on the bus in the dark. The sunset was at
four pm at that time of year. It was around seven or eight p.m. when
they dropped me for the bus. The ride would take eight hours through
the night and would take me all the way to the train station in
Brussels. There I would catch a train to Louvain la Neuve.
My
cousin would be waiting for me at the train station. She was going to
college abroad. She had been an exchange student in Belgium during
high school. She was fluent in French now and from my perspective
living this amazing European life. It was November and we planned to
spend Thanksgiving together. Her sister, my other cousin, would be
arriving a few days later and together we would cook a big
Thanksgiving meal, a first for our generation. We proudly served it
to a big group of Belgian college students, turkey and dressing,
pies, scalloped potatoes and more.
I
climbed on the bus in Kiel. I walked toward the back without looking
anyone in the eye, until I saw a clean cut young blonde girl about my
age. She welcomed me with a smile and offered the seat next to her.
She spoke some German but also English! I learned that she was from
Denmark. She was riding that very bus all the way to Paris. There she
planned to get a job as a waitress while she found acting roles. She
was pursuing big dreams of being an actress. She was gorgeous and so
hopeful. I remember thinking she was too perfect to be my friend.
It’s a stupid thought but I was eighteen. I wondered if
everyone in Denmark was pretty and lighthearted. I was glad to have
her as a riding companion and thankful she wouldn’t be getting
off before me and leave her place for some weirdo to fill. She
excitedly told me all this about her plans. She already had her bus
ticket to return home in a month for Christmas. With home only a bus
ride away from all the possibility of Paris, why not? I was pleased
for her and slightly envious. It was an uncomfortable emotion along
with the acute feeling of failure. Failure about the way my own
adventure was turning out. Still, it wasn’t over.
After
growing tired of talking, we sat in silence or read. Eventually my
new companion and I slipped in and out of sleep during the jostling
bus ride. The night passed slowly as the bus made its way south. As
we arrived in Brussels early the next morning I was awoken by chatter
and the sharp turns of the bus on the streets of Brussels. Another
passenger across the aisle was speaking to the Danish girl in English
and this was his stop too. I decided I should try keeping pace with
him when we got off the bus so I could ask him for directions inside
the station, in English. Brussels is a bilingual city. I spoke
neither Dutch nor French and I was growing anxious as the bus came to
a stop. I quickly exited the bus into the morning that was still
dark. I had grabbed my belongings under the seat and hurried after
this guy who I hadn’t passed two words with, not caring that I
was basically stalking him. He could translate for me, that was my
only concern. I followed the young stranger inside the train station
and up to the ticket station and asked him where I could buy a ticket
to Louvain le Neuve. It was obvious, really, once I got there. My
anxiety had been for nothing, what’s new. There aren’t
that many things to purchase at a train station. The building just
seemed so huge from the street, I was sure I’d never find my
way.
He
was standing in line at the same ticket counter. I got in line and
breathed deeply, relieved. I began to look around the expansive
station and watched people toting their rolling luggage. Suddenly, I
realized I had left my own luggage in the storage compartment on the
bus outside. Adrenaline coursed through my body. “Oh my gosh.”
I said under my breath. I immediately headed back out the way I had
come and then thought, well at least I know where to buy a ticket, as
though no one else in the entire train station spoke English. I
rolled my eyes at my own stupidity and prayed that the bus was still
there. Please, please God. I descended the stairs in the front of the
station and turned the corner where I remembered the bus had been
parked. How long had it been, I wondered? Five minutes? Fifteen? I
had no idea. Then I saw it. It was still there in the dark on the
curb in front of the station. A few people were standing near it.
“Hi” I said awkwardly approaching the driver, “I’m
sorry, I forgot my luggage. Can you help me?” A pained grin was
plastered on my young face. The bus driver chuckled with eyebrows
raised as he reopened the luggage compartment, and I pointed out my
three cases. I thanked him too many times before
heading back.
I
turned to the expansive stairs I had just descended with such ease
and was immediately overwhelmed by the amount of luggage I had, one
rolling suitcase, one small duffle and my violin case had been under
the bus, plus I had my purse and black and green Jansport backpack
that I had since sixth grade. As I reached the first short platform,
I saw a trash can. I was overcome with loathing for all this crap,
and I had to offload something. I got a few looks as I riffled
through the backpack. I dramatically threw the worn brown Vans into
the bin. The laces were tied together, and one shoe caught the edge
of the bin, and with the small duffle weighing down my arm, I
struggled just to shove the other one in. I clumsily made my way up
the concrete steps one by one. Once finally inside I stood in line
awkwardly moving my mountain of stuff every time the line moved. I
bit my lip and looked at the signs in French and Dutch and thought
back to my cousin’s instructions:
Take
the train to Louvain le Nueve. Be careful not to get confused with
Louvane, so and so took that one and it took them hours to finally
back track.
Ok
yes, got it, I thought. I’m taking the train to Louvain le
Nouve. I was finally able to buy my ticket. Now where to go? Oh yes
go back and ask that grumpy teller lady. OK. Yes. Upstairs again. Up
that giant staircase. This is going to be fun. I must have looked
pathetic because some kind-eyed stranger helped me up the enormous
staircase. I dug up one of my few French words and said “Merci.
Merci beaucoup.” I made it to the platform and waited. I was
surrounded by my piles of luggage and thankful to sit. Finally, the
train came. I called my cousin to tell her my train departure time
etc. so she could meet me at the station.
When
my train arrived, I got off with all my suitcases and looked around
for where to go. I called my cousin who said she was there and was
looking for me. I looked for signs to tell her which platform I was
on and figure out how to get out. Then she said, “Wait, Sarah
are you in Louvane or Louvain le Nueve?” “Ugh, I
remembered you said to be careful, I’m sure I asked for Louvain
le Neuve.” then in disbelief I read a sign and realized yes, I
was in Louvane. She sighed, “Oh. Okay, it’s going to take
you at least several hours to get here. I will come back when you’re
getting in. Let me know what time you are departing there.”
Well, I obviously wanted to cry at this point. I saw a man in a
railway uniform and asked him, eyes shining, how I could get from
here to Louvain le Nouve. After gesturing to the ground with index
finger and telling me that this was Louvane, he
finally
understood and directed me towards the ticket office.
When
I finally made it to my destination mid-morning, my cousin embraced
me on the platform. I felt the relief of knowing I could let someone
else navigate now. I realized why she had known right away that I
wasn’t here. It was much smaller. There wasn’t much to
the station in Louvain le Nueve, just a few platforms lined in brick
between the tracks. The sky was gray on my arrival day just as it was
during my entire three week stay in Belgium. It was cold but I felt
warm under my wool coat from lugging my suitcases. I was thankful to
now have my cousins help. There is simply no way to walk with that
much luggage and not feel awkward. Especially in Europe where you
sense that they already think we Americans are frivolous and
superficial. To be fair I did expect to be in Germany a whole year,
not a mere 3 months, but that’s another story.
She
took me and all my luggage to the flat. She told
me I would be
sleeping ‘somewhere’ there tonight. She shared the flat
with about four other University students. A mix of girls and guys.
There was her boyfriend, and his best friend, another friend, the
girl next to him who was quiet and rarely home, and there was another
girl who was never home for the three weeks. This was where we would
be hosting a real ‘American Thanksgiving Dinner.’ My
cousin made a pallet for she and I on the living room floor our heads
were sort of in the kitchen. We slept there that night. I later found
out this wasn’t even her apartment. After a few nights on the
kitchen floor, we moved ourselves and my excessive luggage to her
real apartment, which she shared with a whole other group of
strangers including two handsome Italians who made nice coffee. But
for now, I was here in my cousin’s boyfriend’s apartment,
and it was as good as home after my journey.
I
woke up to coffee and cereal. Most of the roommates had already gone
to class. She didn’t have class that morning and we would be
picking up her sister from the airport that evening. I had no idea
how long I was staying. No return ticket to anywhere and no clue if I
would even go home from there. I was just excited about the adventure
and being with my cousins after the lonely months in Germany.
Sarah
Thomas is a freelance writer from Texas. She and her husband are
raising their children on a small farm in coastal Texas. She spends
most days homeschooling her five children, growing veggies and
flowers, and creating with words or various other mediums.
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