Belgium

I haven’t slept; the bright sunlight feels like a heavy blanket against my chest. Along the freeway are big stretches of warped glass, or birds and fish on long cement walls, we drive across a bridge with sleek cables that stretch out like big wings, like sails. We pass clusters of trees that look strangely flat, trees full of nests. The black birds seem to leave ripples behind as they glide through the purpley skies. All around us is a bright rainbow of green; light spring green, deep damp green, green leaves aglow with sunlight. At a gas station we pick up festival-bound hitchhikers. They give us Swiss chocolate and a little weed. We sail through the border and say, oh. We stop and smoke a spliff in a little cluster of trees, and later wish each other happy lives and I doze off watching orange rooftops and clusters of cows pass by the window. It all looks so clean and wholesome. In Brugge we park and then follow the peaks of old medieval towers, the big ancient brick buildings, wandering around and snapping photos of the red doors, the green shutters, the geese and swans and ducks along the murky canals. We buy French fries and write Brugge a letter. We gawk at big chocolate Easter sculptures. We stop at an art gallery with slippery floors, We find a wall of beer. We find a huge red poodle sculpture; it looks diabolical. We stop for tea, and then back in the car we begin to drive whimsically, turning onto smaller roads and searching for some quiet place where we can park. A headache grows in my temple, and finally we find a little turn out in the countryside alongside a swampy field. We push down the back seats and lay down blankets and pillows, and smoke out the door as the sky turns dusty midnight purple. The sound of rain drops patters through my dreams.

When we wake up, outside the window is thick white-gray mist; skinny reeds bob through the milky morning. We hit the road. In Antwerpen we stop at a little café and have tea. A man comes in with a sweet lab dog, and she walks over and greets us quietly. We find a busy market where men are calling out the prices for their asparagus and selling olives from enormous silver bowls. The scent of feta cheese and oil lingers in the air. They sell salami and cheese, they sell dream catchers and posters, tulips and clothing. Vincent buys a little water pipe. We hit the road, and eventually recognize the warped glass along the highway. Back in Amsterdam, traffic is fussy—we wiggle our way into a little parking space and eat Chinese food before parting ways.