To Brussels and Back Again

Over the years, I’ve wondered how she might be doing, that Belgian pen pal of my youth and friend of my early adulthood, all the more so since March 22’s explosions at the Brussels airport and at that city’s Maalbeek metro station. At the time of this writing, more than 31 people have lost their lives and at least 270 others are injured.

To be specific, Meert Carmen is both Belgian and Flemish.

South of Brussels, there’s the French-speaking Wallonia; up north, you’ll find the Dutch-speaking Flanders. Her family lived 12 miles (20 kilometers) west-north-west of Brussels, in a village named Essene, in a municipality known as Affligem.

I don’t remember how many times I’ve written “Essene-Affligem” on letters addressed to Carmen.

I don’t remember when I started writing her, either.

All of my memories of youth include letters to, and correspondences from, Carmen. Guessing, I’ll predict early junior high, but it could have been late in my elementary school years. (Writing that first letter must have been some wonderful social studies teacher’s suggestion.)

Today, sitting in my factory’s cafeteria and eating an unsavory assembly-line lunch (I’m a technical writer by day and aspiring novelist by night), I’m remembering last night. A conversation I had with my son Seth about the Brussels bombings triggered me to unearth my United States Navy photos from an old trunk in the basement and to show him images of Carmen and of my time spent throughout Belgium, including Brussels.

While writing her, I never once thought that I would actually meet Carmen.

After all, I lived on a dead-end gravel road in rural Kentucky, and she was within minutes of the capital of Europe. And even when my letters to her had the return address of “7 Adamson Road, London, NW3,” my visiting her was not a conclusion, foregone or otherwise. After all, I was in England in the late 1980s to work, as part of my time as a cryptographer in the United States Navy. I was not a tourist.

And yet, there I ended up, caged in the backseat of a police cruiser, in Carmen’s driveway.

Best to back up a moment and fill in some blanks…

Somehow, I had enough off time “on the books” to escape the military for an entire month, backpacking from my flat in downtown London to a friend’s couch in Naples, Italy.

I can’t remember if I took a train or a bus to Dover, England, but I remember the hovercraft journey across the English Channel to the municipality of Ostend, on the Belgian coast. With my military sea bag over my shoulder, I boarded a train heading south. (All hail the all-powerful Eurail pass!) Within an hour and a half, I was in the heart of Brussels. And with the help of three years of high school French, I was able to transfer to a bus. Another hour and a half, I was on foot, on a small, two-lane blacktop road in Flanders.

I remember peeking into some sort of eatery, but no one reacted to my broken Bullitt County, Kentucky, French. So, with plenty of daylight left, I simply started walking down the road. Within moments, that police cruiser appeared. The driver encouraged me to speak in English, and I couldn’t tell if he believed my story about Carmen. But I pulled her latest letter to London out of my pocket and showed the officer the address. He opened the back door, I slipped in, and off he drove.

The policeman left me “tucked in” the back of the cruiser while he journeyed towards Carmen’s front door. I later learned that her brother (his name has slipped from my mind over the years) was the first on the porch. They both looked at me, and her brother laughed uncontrollably while shaking his head, “yes.”

I was released from custody, and after I mistook Carmen’s mom for Carmen, there was more laughter and the actual person appeared on the porch.

The plan was to “drop by” (as we would say in Kentucky) Carmen’s place for an overnight visit, then continue south. But that plan had not taken into account the generosity of spirit that dwells within the Flemish, the Belgian people.

For an entire week, Carmen’s family took me all around their country.

Sure, it is about the size of Maryland—give or take a few thousand square kilometers—but it’s still a country, and a darn good one at that! Bruges, Antwerp, Bastogne….of course, Brussels! And I’m pretty sure that they refused to allow me to pay for anything.

Sometimes, Carmen’s parents were on those trips. Most of the time, though, it was I, Carmen, her brother, and…well…Carmen’s boyfriend! He was never far away, and I don’t think he liked this American sailor sleeping in Carmen’s house for a week. Luckily, he didn’t speak English, and I sure didn’t volunteer to speak French to him.

Over the years, the span between our letters increased. My attention was consumed with military duty, followed by a return to college to study journalism, and drama on the home front—followed by a career, marriage, children, and middle age. And I assumed—accepted, really—that her life was also filled with education, marriage, and a family.

Looking back on my time near Brussels all these years later, I feel it’s time for all of us to be there for them. Wherever Carmen may be today, I hope she’s safe and well and knows that we are thinking of her, of all of them.