Best things always happen on the way to somewhere

Left Brussels with the sense of finding a spot where I can recognize smart and witty people. Sometimes it is hard to be a linguist and be able to have a conversation without analysing the discourse or going around in words trying to create the most coloful one after the previous one. In such circles you stop feeling like a freak and simply enjoy the beauty of words per se.

I am thankful you asked me to take the bus to the station when I left.
There I sat in front of a couple, an elder man and a woman. Out of the nothing they started talking to me: The conversation was a mixture of French and Netherlands. They told me both their age. The woman was a Balonne and the man Flamish. I want to yield them my seat, but they share a double bank. She has that rosy healthy roundness and he is a thin and why not mention, as it is what I thought, in an excellent shape.
Their image sharing a bench transports me to how I wanted to see myself in about 40years.
They almost steal my thoughts while scanning them with tender eyes and what could be glasy eyes of emotion.
She asks him: and how old are you? I am 84, he is 82. Look at us.
They noticed they stole my heart on our casual encounter and will make sure I leave the impression with me wherever my next destination might be.

They share their secret for their longevity and great shape: not to smoke, eat little and work.
Although when he was in the war, he did smoke a lot, a lot, veel! 100 cigarettes a week at least. 100 sigaretten! But those were other times and now it is a bad thing to do.
He explains me stories of the war, says in German: the Germans told me: willst du essen, dann arbeiten! My smile is almost drool, I am kinda falling in love with the opa.
Now he doesn't smoke, or drink. It is bad. She replies: only wine, one glass a day.
And hits him with the elbow to remind him: parlez a la mademoiselle en français. He had spoken to me in Dutch so far, and the few words I reply, as far as I am concerned were somehow Dutch as well. Wherever she took I could be a Balonne, I won't spoil the fun.

So she talks to me in French, and I reply in my poor French. And he goes on in Dutch and I feel like the referee in a biligual chitty-chat tournament.

- A glass of wine is bon pour le sang. Zhat is nothing! C'est pas trop!
- And beer, he replies. If there is no wine, we drink beer. He mentions a brand I
should buy. Beer contains quinine. Quinine is good. (I wouldn't dare to put that
in doubt)

I look at both and want to know more, but I don't really know what to say. Nothing about me, please. Any reference to my life would now break their perfect balance and the beautiful triangle of casual bus-talk we had created. They don't ask me anything, they talk about themselves and the war. They notice I have hungry eyes to know more.
They are all laughs and sweetness, I want them to adopt me!

I forget I have my camera and that I find their image so sweet I would have loved to keep it somewhere else but my mind. I was just too amazed by them to think of taking pictures, they were too sweet to spoil it.

I am sitting on my way back and recording random conversations while snoozing and savouring the first bit of freedom I enjoyed in Brussels. I made the first step to what Yoyo calls my "masterplan" and it feels a bit closer.

I left the Brussels flat feeling closer to a future I want to make mine.
I try to delete the bits of sadness and mornings awaken in despair, although I somehow live with them, and they remind me to look ahead and learn from mistakes I made in the past.

I repeat and dream my masterplan and get anxious to have it all yesterday, but no big changes will come without a transition.
The hope is there. And it is the last thing you loose. It auto-feeds itself when you abandon and leaves you on standby to gain some room and lift you up again. It's hope and me hand by hand.