I. I wasn't prepared for any of it, at all. Three weeks to move three years and three months of possessions three thousand and twice three hundred miles back 'home,' wherever that was supposed to be. Three weeks of idle, quiet calm concealing misplaced hope for a golden ticket that could have prolonged my stay. April afternoons preoccupied with the
calendar, counting down diminishing time left to share with closest friends. April nights of North Sea rain lashing the windowpanes with mahjong memories. April weekends of solitary walks, circling familiar places just to keep the city alive, somehow, should I ever forget one day that I was here, that I loved it all, that all of it was and is and will stay true.
Main. Van Monckhoven. Cherryhill. Osage. Street names I read on envelopes received (Plain and manila) record where, with age, Fleet footsteps trod on concrete pavement cleaved,
I ate well in Belgium. From mosselen met friet to stoofvlees, from dame blanches to pain au chocolat, I savored (and in some cases, cooked for myself) as many beloved dishes as I could, finding ways to map the country’s astonishing variety of cuisines onto my own tongue. Just as importantly, I learned to love eating not simply for eating’s sake, but also for the ample opportunities it gave me to share laughter, wisdom, and the occasional hare-brained schemes over long, languid meals with the best of company.
Still, if there was any one dish I missed—one that I never managed to bring across the Atlantic—it was pork bone soup.
NB: For the sequel to this (very early) piece, click here.
You’ve been here before. Lugging a full 27-inch suitcase and a bulging black duffel bag from the car up five short front steps, you enter the bright red door of the house your parents have lovingly curated for over a decade now, pushing the bags past the porch and into the foyer, a cool oasis from the unusual end-of-April 80-degree heat.
You’ve been here before. Your first impulse, after another seven-and-a-half flight from Brussels to Newark, after another slow march in line with all the other American citizens and green card holders through the immigration check, another half-hour wait for family (this time: your sister) to pick you up from Terminal B, another forty-minute drive barreling down the Turnpike to exit 9, is to take a shower.
You’ve been here before. Lying on your bed in the middle of a workday afternoon, you listen to the whoosh and vroom and honk of 30-mph traffic outside the window, watch the light glow and fade through the blinds, stare at the navy blue walls.
You’ve been here before, yes—but before you were here this time, you didn’t know how much you’d missed it.
Between Two Rivers 