Muesli

I walked around Brussels, looking for muesli, but no supermarket anywhere. I’d already given up when I spotted a tiny neighborhood grocery just a few doors from the AirBnB address I’m staying at. Inside, an older Indian-looking woman behind the counter. I browsed the shelves for a while. No muesli. Then I looked up. There, on the top shelf, about 10 feet from the floor: corn flakes, cruesli, and chocopops. A box of oatmeal caught my eye while my thoughts went back to the muesli I recently bought at Leclerc and which was more than a year past its expiration date. The woman sensed my hesitation and asked if she could help. I told her I was looking for muesli. Yes, she said, it’s over there, in the corner, next to the coffee filters. I looked but didn’t see muesli. There, she said, mousline! It was a package instant mashed potatoes. A slight misunderstanding. I said that I wanted the oatmeal, but that despite my 6'2'' there was no way I could reach it. The woman dove behind her counter and one second later re-emerged holding a full-size field hockey stick. She handed over the weapon to me, her potential robber. I was astonished, but touched by the gesture of trust. I lifted the stick and pulled the box of oats from the top shelf and caught it as it came flying down, almost smashing the jam jars in the act. I handed back the stick to the smiling lady, but kept the oats and let the expiration date hidden under the dust.

Au Laboureur

The bar at the end of the street I’m staying at in Brussels this week is called “Au laboureur.” That's French for “peasant” or “yokel.” Behind the glass windows I saw people behind foamy brown brews on bare tables. Locals, clearly. Unpretentious, pleasantly imperfect. Perfect, it seemed, for a tasty ale before sleeping. I walked in and ordered a Leffe blonde. It wasn’t crowded. One party looked like a group of volunteers having a project meeting. Another was just three friends chatting. Two or three men were standing at the bar. Another was outside, stacking chairs for the night. I found a table to the side of the room, close to a man and a woman with violin cases next to their table. I sat down on the bench that was fixed to the wall. After staring at the curiosities that decorated the walls for a while, I pulled out my book and tried to read. A young man came standing next to me. He looked down at my book, wandered away a bit, returned. He had a drink or two too many. He wasn’t looking at me but stared ahead and made strange faces. He murmured french words too soft for me to understand. I tried to ignore him, but then he touched my neck. He said something like “you’re eating your book, you.” And I thought I heard “dégage.” That means “get out of here,” I found out later. Like this, I couldn’t read. Aggression is often a deficit of love, so I laid down my book, took a good sip from my pint and said: please, have a seat. Bartender, please, poor my new friend a ‘pintje.’ He hesitated a moment, but then sat down. I said: Hi, my name’s Mark. What’s your name? He said he was Guillaume, so I said I would call him Bill then. I told him that I was from Grenoble and was visiting Brussels for business and that tonight I thought I’d better enjoy a nice beer than linger lonely in my apartment. I asked him how he was doing. Why is that any of your business?, he responded. I said that it wasn’t but that I liked to know. For a moment, he rocked on his chair uncomfortably. His eyes showed internal struggle. Then he calmed, sighed, looked me in the eye and said: I’m single, since yesterday, for god’s sake. She was formidable…Then we talked, about love, life and lumberjacks….

That's how it could have gone. In reality, after I laid down my book I finished my beer,  took my coat and left. If it happens again, though, I will have a strategy.