Life is Beautiful: Summer 2012

Pages from my travel journal:

August 6, 2012

morning

and evening

we walk, leaving

footprints in the sand

i daydream

i stare at the horizon

i see your face

in the shift of clouds

* * *

Hotel stationery in the desk drawer. Taupe linen embossed in silver and blue. My fingers itch. I want to write a letter. An old-fashioned letter in the old-fashioned way. With real ink and real penmanship. With patience and mindfulness. What do I write in this letter? And who do I send it to?

It’s been so long since I composed a handwritten letter, folded it, placed it in an envelope, sealed it, pressed a stamp and a return address label onto it, and dropped it into a mailbox. The thought of writing a letter feels awkward… passé. The anticipation feels scrumptious. The dry touch of paper. The wet gloss of ink. The aldehyde smell of both together. The curvy ciphers of the alphabet. The simplicity of truth, written without fear of execution delivered by a single strike to the ‘delete’ key. Dark, bumbling ink spots scattered about, like purple stars in a white sky.

Human imperfection… it’s amazing!

August 7, 2012

I love islands. There is a certain magic about being on a body of land that is but a flicker of lava rooted into the ocean floor. There is also a beauty to being here and knowing I am completely anonymous. Nobody knows who I am. Nobody cares. From the random window, I’m just another speck on the shoreline. From the next beach bed over, I’m just another body sizzling in the sun. There are no needs… no demands… no expectations of me. There is only the lush fullness of life. And I am a diner at this banquet of plenty, indulging in the temptations that have spread themselves out before me, without the smallest hint of hesitation, yet knowing that if I could be this “without strings” all the time… for all eternity… if I had that choice to make… I would never make it.

* * *

This summer… like every summer… we’ve been talking about not going to the beach next year. We’ve been talking about Alaska… or Montréal. But we always change our minds when it comes down to it. We always end up saying, “Oh, but the beach… how do you compete with that?”

But … does it matter where we go?

I just love going to new places… and falling in love with them… and falling in love with the rediscovery of who we are. New place, same us… with a fresh twist!

August 8, 2012

A day at the spa: A watsu session. A nap in the sun. An algae wrap. A hushed and Spartan lunch of grains, greens, and coconut water. An eighty-minute full-body massage with hot stones and essential oils. A quick but hydrating shot of aloe vera. A peat bath. A warm cup of jasmine green tea. A carbonated bath. More coconut water. Another lazy nap in the sun. A visit to the hammam. A blast of eucalyptus. More aloe vera. A stop in the ultraviolet light room. A nod of the head. A final nap. A reverie.

This is heaven. I know.

August 9, 2012

I’ve never been a fan of Ernest Hemingway. Something about his writing style has always struck me as too sparse. Too clinical. Too distilled. But a couple of weeks ago, I was listening to an interview on NPR with Sean Hemingway, Ernest Hemingway’s grandson. I heard the interviewer say that she, too, had never been a Hemingway fan… until she recently gave A Farewell to Arms another shot. The wheels started spinning in my head, and I thought, Maybe I should try again. All the hype over decades… it’s got to be about something.

Sean Hemingway spoke about the release of a new edition of A Farewell to Arms, one that includes thirty-nine different endings his grandfather had written before choosing what was to become the definitive ending for his novel. I have always been intrigued by other writers’ rites and rituals of the craft. So I got online and ordered a copy of this new edition. I also ordered the Penguin translation of Fernando Pessoa’s The Book of Disquiet. I packed these two books and my journal into my carry-on.

And today, I have been reading Hemingway…

I had gone to no such place but to the smoke of cafés and nights when the room whirled and you needed to look at the wall to make it stop, nights in bed, drunk, when you knew that that was all there was, and the strange excitement of waking and not knowing who it was with you, and the world all unreal in the dark and so exciting that you must resume again unknowing and not caring in the night, sure that this was all and all and all and not caring.

… and observing the small granules of sand swept by the delicious breeze from the ocean and lodged neatly in the crease between two pages… and listening to the lazy sound of the surf… and feeling so very lazy myself.

I think I’ll close my eyes now.

* * *

folded sun chairs lean

against whitewashed walls

scoping the foamy slope

of the receding shore

August 11, 2012

How crisp the ocean, this morning! How shockingly, brilliantly turquoise! And how crowded the beach! I close my eyes and, suddenly, I am a participant in every conversation, a member of this circle… and that one. I am an active sharer in each person’s universe. I can hear even the most distant chatter between two… or three… or five. I sense the pauses between words… the breaths held in upper chests… the tongues pressed between teeth for discretion… the giddy smiles filled with sunshine. I feel every exchange as though it were mine, though I recognize these connections are external. Still… when I shut my eyes, as if to separate myself from another’s world, it is almost like I have stepped right inside it.

I feel like an impostor, a voyeur.

I crave for my own reality.

I open my eyes.

Something shifts.

I cringe.

I curl inside myself

like a burning leaf.

I come to a realization:

It is when I am most

surrounded by people

that I am most alone.

* * *

i am at home

in water, inside

the liquid ether of

that primordial womb

August 12, 2012

I finished A Farewell to Arms early yesterday afternoon. The sun was bone white… almost invisible… as I read through the thirty-nine endings (actually, there were more than thirty-nine). While I will continue to maintain my “Not a Hemingway fan” status, I did find a few passages in the novel to be quite lovely. As for the thirty-nine endings, I was hoping to find one inspiring ending. Sadly, they were all so dreary… and abrupt. Rather than evoke emotionality in me for Henry’s loss, Hemingway’s style and voice evoked a sense of distance and detachment… and possibly even a bit of anger. Maybe that was his whole point, after all. Maybe Hemingway meant to evoke in his readers the feelings of emptiness Henry experienced when he lost Catherine. I’ll never know. The only thing I know for sure is this: Ernest Hemingway is not my cup of tea.

This morning, I started The Book of Disquiet. And something I read snared me inside its rawness:

To goldenly stagnate in the sun, like a murky pond surrounded by flowers. To possess, in the shade, that nobility of spirit that makes no demands on life. To be in the whirl of the worlds like dust of flowers, sailing through the afternoon air on an unknown wind and falling, in the torpor of dust, wherever it falls, lost among larger things. To be this with a sure understanding, neither happy nor sad, grateful to the sun for its brilliance and to the stars for their remoteness. To be no more, have no more, want no more… The music of the hungry beggar, the song of the blind man, the relic of the unknown wayfarer, the tracks in the desert of the camel without burden or destination…

Pessimism? Realism? Submission? Or… trustful acquiescence to the beauty of existence… and the cognizance of being alive? Whatever Pessoa’s truth, this is what resonated inside me as I read his words: Life is beautiful.

* * *

Reading.

A brief kiss.

A light sleep.

A flighty dream.

A rhapsody of images.

The cawing of seagulls.

A soft awakening.

which dress shall i wear for dinner tonight?

The insistent calling of the waves.

A stop at the water’s edge.

Four seashells.

eeny meeny miny moe.

More reading.

another dirty martini… with extra olives, please.

Another kiss.

The inebriating vibration of the universe.

aaaaaaaaaaaaaah…...........................

Can I just say, though? I’m missing my house today. There’s something solid and grounding about waking up in the middle of the night and knowing exactly how to stumble through the dark without bumping into things and hurting myself. I know

precisely where the footboard of our bed is from where my toes rest…

precisely where you place your leg after you turn over and shift closer to me…

precisely how my hand moves in the dark, seeking succor from unquenchable yearnings…

precisely the sensation

inside my lungs as

our house loosens

its armor in the dead

of night… and breathes.

August 14, 2012

waves pull at my bare feet

sand gushes between my toes

anchor and release

anchor and release

* * *

Some mornings, I like to read poetry while we enjoy a slow breakfast. There is something about the blend of bread and butter with words that is sublimely elemental.

This morning… sitting beside the pregnant swell of the ocean… I want to share breakfast only with you. I want for no stranger’s words to separate us… not even the most lyrical words and phrases.

I want only bread.

And butter.

And pulse.

And the benediction of salt on our lips as we kiss.

Sky, Sea, Sand... and Me

The following are entries from my journal while on vacation.

* * * * * * * * *

August 2, 2011

Here. I am Here. And I feel as though time has stopped still and I am trapped inside it. The sun slows down when it passes over me. The moon pauses and observes me. My heart skips no beats and misses no flashing moments of revelation. Everything is seen… perceived. Every instant is experienced in its nuanced profoundness. Here. I see things differently, obliquely. I see things as if from a hidden dimension. Here. I wait. I stay. I breathe.

Though. I realize. Here is not forever.

But… the sun is being abducted by orange and purple and silver faeries. And I want to watch while they pull her into the sea and lay her down to sleep…

August 3, 2011

We went outside to be with Life. With earth and trees and birds. Several couples crossed our path as we cycled over bumpy patches of sun and shade. Every time we crossed another couple, we smiled and chimed, “Hello!” and then continued on our way. To nowhere. To anywhere. It didn’t matter where we were going. We were going, the rhythm of our blood pumping our life in all of its violent beauty inside our veins. The moisture of our exertion keeping our backs damp… keeping them craving the touch of the clean air… and reveling in its arrival.

But… what divinity! An outing with no destination… no agenda. What could be more divine than that? What could be more simple, more raw, more pure? And how with Life we were!

August 4, 2011

This morning. The sea moved with a primitive insistence. A jagged and necessary lovemaking with the sky and the sand. The waves rose and fell… rose and fell… again… and again… with their own insistence… wanting to steal their moment of elation.

What was today? It went by as if in a reverie. Everything fluid. Water. Sky. Sand. People. Me. Us. And my vision of it all.

My eyes saw as if underwater. As if interrupted by waves. And the waves were the pendulums of the sea and the sky. Pendulums that did not swing, but undulated. And we undulated with them. Undulated to their rhythm. That primitive, jagged rhythm of insistent lovemaking… everywhere.

Can one be overwhelmed by the exquisiteness that is Life?

I am overwhelmed.

August 6, 2011

I looked stunning in my royal blue evening gown! Diamond studs in my ears. Black hair decorated with a simple white flower. Can I say I looked stunning? Oh, hell! Why not? Women are so busy acting coy about their physical beauty these days. As if being beautiful is a mortal sin. Well, I did look stunning! And I wasn’t the only woman who looked stunning. We all did! How we sparkled beneath the lights of the casino… so nice to see! There are few more off-putting sights than that of a woman (or a man) going out for the evening dressed inappropriately.

I remember when J. [a former colleague] came to a school function in a pair of black flipflops. Sure, they matched her little black dress, but it was hard for me to keep my mouth shut. I remember telling her, “I can’t believe you’re wearing those!” And her telling me, “What’s wrong with them? They’ve even got little rhinestone thingies on them!” Oh, my! I thought. Thank you for doing us the favor of making sure you had little rhinestone thingies on your flipflops. You really shouldn’t have troubled yourself! Yes, I’d fantasized saying these things, but had instead kept quiet, not wanting to spoil the evening with my part-sarcastic, part-judgmental attitude. Truth be told, though, she looked like a middle school student volunteering for a charity carwash.

I mean, it takes the same amount of time to slip on some stylish pumps as it takes to slip on some dead-skin-infested flipflops. So put on your heels and walk like drums are hiding in your legs… violin strings are threaded through your veins… waiting… so deliciously… to be plucked… and left to SING!

* * *

i hear you stir in bed.

you are disturbed,

not by the sound of

my scratching on paper,

but by the mysterious and

unshakeable feeling of loneliness

that shadows your sleep.

you have always been gentle.

you have always held me

as if you are afraid of breaking me,

but, i am not so fragile,

i want to say.

yet, the sound of my inner voice

in my ears

fills me with melancholy.

and, as if you know…

in sleep, your sun-brushed lips

hunt the air for mine,

and you mumble, i love you,

so joyfully, so givingly,

expecting nothing in return.

August 7, 2011

A late start to the day, this morning. But then, last night, a late night.

I wanted to do… nothing. Yes. I wanted to do nothing, while feeling an inner compulsion to do something. After all, one can’t just while away one’s time doing nothing. Especially that precious vacation time… here one day, the next… gone!

But, why not? I’m always doing something or the other. Why not relax and let things flow where they want to flow? And since, this morning, nothing was of pressing importance, I decided to chill.

But, for me, chilling is something I must focus on doing. And by virtue of focusing on chilling… chilling is not exactly chilling anymore, is it?

CHILL. What a lovely word!

And… what a lovely ocean!

August 9, 2011

there is a stillness in the air, tonight,

a silence borne on magical wings.

a solitary silence,

cut by the hollow sound of our breaths,

slow and meditated.

and we sit on the cool tile floor,

backs against the wall,

legs stretched out against the ripeness of the sky…

and the freshness of the sea

and the slant of eternity where they touch.

but

this place…

THIS one… right here…

as pure and as flickering and as quickening as it is

is not what matters.

it is not about the place

but about who is in the place…

and what is happening to them

at any given point in time…

and what is happening around them…

and what is happening

INSIDE them.

i catch myself nodding off,

though, certain nights,

my eyes can find no peace.

i see myself a child,

walking upon an emerald meadow,

twirling my long black locks between my fingers,

and running wild.

sunlight and clouds

twine through my hair like colorful ribbons.

invisible stars

swing between my shoulder blades.

and…

i am flying.

i am flying.

i am flying.

and nothing will bring me down.

August 10, 2011

We went parasailing, today!

Oh, buzz buzz buzz!!! The last time we went parasailing was… what?... when we were on our honeymoon? I can’t even find words to describe the elation and the liberation and the HIGH of it all! Flying through the blue sky, with the blue water below you… the deep blue deep blue deep deep shimmer of water! Everything in my eyes was blue… the most beautiful most shocking blue! I am still inside that universality.

August 11, 2011

dance with me?

you said,

and you smiled at me

that dimpled smile

i know so well.

and i said,

yes,

all nervously,

my heart strumming in my lips,

like i was a teenager all over again.

and we danced…

and we danced…

and we danced…

and others danced around us.

but only we were… together.

***

i have come to a point where i feel so… here.

so… present.

so… in the moment.

nothing else matters but now.

nothing that happened before.

nothing that will happen later.

all of those events are insignificant.

what matters is my discovery of myself… the different pieces of nevine… the OTHER pieces… seen as if glimpsed, by happenstance, inside a fragmented looking glass.

the day’s happenings fall around me with finesse and perfection.

the night’s events, too.

they fall… with grace.

and i dance inside their opacity.

and you dance with me.

we dance together… you and i… to scattered time.

we dance with no calculation, no precision.

we dance with such emancipation!

we are here… here.

ghosts. apparitions. we are.

dancing our way through the entrance to eden…

But.

Tomorrow. We depart. Tomorrow. We return to what we call Home. And, how I miss Home! Ridiculous, really, but… I miss my trees. Not my flowers. Not my plants. Not my herbs. But my big, independent trees. So mature and self-sufficient! I have always believed that trees have souls. My trees have souls and their souls are whispering to me, Come back! We miss you. Come back! As big and as independent as they are, they are craving my conversation… my stories. They are waiting for me to sit in their shade so we can talk. And we will! Just as soon as I get back to that lovely thing we call daily living. That lovely thing we accuse of being predictable and cumbersome and cliché, but when we take ourselves away from it, we are left craving it all over again!

I loved it here. I loved every moment I spent being alive and knowing it. I loved every particle of life that touched every iter of my being. But would I want to live here… forever and ever? I don’t think so… because… if I did… it would become daily living, too.

I’m coming home, Trees! Every sun- and sea-kissed fragment of me! Hurrah!!!

08082010

It is our fifth night here (actually, a new day is upon us), and the moon is hanging in the sky as if by an invisible string, but I can’t see the stars… maybe for the brightness of the moon. Still, there is enough glimmer in the sky to drape a rippling mirror over the water. And I am awake… eyes wide open… unable to sleep. Too many images inside my head. Too many beautiful people… earlier today… and earlier this evening at dinner. I think they are more beautiful than usual because they are tanned. We look more beautiful, more vibrant, more alive, when our skin has been kissed by the sun. We look… as though we have made love. No…we look as though we have had sex… lots of sex… and have been left glowing in the aftermath of our spent desire. Or do we have more sex when we are by the ocean or sea? It must be the fishy smell of the shore that implants thoughts of sex into the very front of our minds. Or maybe we feel more sexual because we are in an elemental, primitive setting… as glitzy as that setting might be.

I like that this place is quiet… adult-oriented. Not that I mind children. But sometimes, I need my peace. I just want to eat… and drink… and nap… and swim… and eat and drink and nap and swim… quietly. I do too much of everything else in life when I am not on vacation. And I live with somebody else’s kids when I am working… eight hours a day. I am entitled to do nothing at all when I’m on holidays. And so, this afternoon, I laid back in the wet sand and let the gentle water lap at my body… and the sand get stuck in my hair… while I listened to Pink Martini on my iPod… and finished reading Venus in Furs. And when I was done reading, I watched all the lovely people walking around on the beach… playing games in the water… sipping their brightly colored drinks. My husband and I also sipped our cocktails… and played in the water. And we did our “knot” plunge, where we wrap our arms and legs around one another and make a somersault in the water. We started that when we were on our honeymoon… and now… every time we go to the beach… we do it. I actually think it’s pretty cool we haven’t drowned, yet... because we've come close a couple of times... he he he. And then we came out of the water and chatted… and fell asleep… and woke up burned by the sun. But these are nice burns… every one of them welcome, as far as I am concerned. I can feel them pulsing right beneath the surface of my skin. And that’s an alive kind of feeling!

It was pure luck that brought us here. We could’ve ended up vacationing in any of a number of other places … but here it was meant to be. My husband and I scribbled some names on slips of paper… the names of places we thought we might want to visit. We didn’t know how to pick… there were so many cool places to choose from after we had each made our list. And besides, everything else we do in life is so calculated… so prepared and measured. Why not just live off the cuff, for a few days? So the slips of paper were prepared, placed into a bowl, and I got to stick my hand inside and choose one. And when I was unfolding the paper, we were both staring at each other… because now, all of a sudden… it was about to matter. “Turks and Caicos,” I announced, and we both paused for a moment before we squealed like little kids… though what in the world we were squealing about, I don’t know. It’s not as if we knew what to expect. But really? It’s been a sliver of Eden, so far.

But… so many people alone, here. And it’s especially noticeable at dinner. They are always the most interesting to watch. We are so vulnerable when we are alone… so exposed… especially if we are away from familiar surroundings. We behave with a self-conscious awkwardness. Some people say they feel perfectly comfortable being alone in a social setting. That may be true… but I am skeptical, based on what I observe.

There was the elegant young lady in a blue dress that made her skin just twinkle. She read while she dined… and licked her lips after every sip of wine. I suppose she was using the book as a way to avoid making eye contact… or maybe she was engrossed in her reading. But at dinner? And then there was the man who looked at the water all night. There were so many gorgeous women he could’ve been looking at (or gorgeous men, if that’s his vibe), but his attention was focused on the sea. He only turned his eyes away from the water to look at his plate, and as soon as the food was ready on his fork, he turned his gaze right back to the water. It seemed he was fascinated by some distant memory playing out on the silver screen of the ocean.

And then there was another man… wearing the sparkling eyes of anticipation. It looked like he had been waiting a while… for someone. And, telling from his agitation, that someone was a lady. There was something intriguing about him… he twitched uncomfortably… he shuffled his knife and fork and napkin and empty stemware… he darted his eyes all over the terrace. And I couldn’t help wondering what he would have said to the lady he was waiting for (if there was, in fact, a lady) if he had gotten the chance. Or… what would he say… if he were to write a letter… without ever having to send it? And, supposing he had a fetish? What type of fetish would it be? A fetish for… hair (too ordinary)… nails (nah)… feet (cliché)… shoes (shoes… getting there, but not quite there yet)… teeth, blood (blech!), toes, knees, chins (yawn), eyes, lips (zzzzzzz), ears, tears. Tears! Can someone have a fetish for tears? Why not?

So, here is the supposed letter:

My Beloved… My Sunshine,

I am thirsty… and I dream of being with you. I dream while the shadows lengthen at dusk. And from behind my eyes I watch your eyes smile. You know how I dislike your obliviousness to my need of you. You know how I have wanted you for some time. You know how I have wanted for your eyes to stop smiling… and you know why.

You are in my gut like a wind that is trapped in a hurricane… violent and awkward. And I am insatiable with longing for you. But I will wait as long as necessary. I will be here when you decide you want me. I will bring you tea in bed. I will dress like a gypsy… a farmer… a slave. I will dress like a woman, if that will please you… and traipse like an impoverished whore. Whatever you want, my darling.

But then, Love, you know it is my fondest desire to make you cry. Cry, while I ravish your orange-blossomed skin with kisses and bites the likes of which you have never known. My dream is that you lie down on your back… a little lower… just like that. And cry for me. You know your tears captivate me… drive me mad. If you tilt your head to the side, your tears will flow effortlessly. And if you half-close your eyes, they will flow with more patience… the better to make me burn. Half-close your eyes, my love, and pretend to sleep. Let the rain come. Lie down before me and say, I am Goddess. And I will say, I am your servant… your serf… your slave. Please, don’t make me torture you. My heart does venerate… oh, how it does! But it is myopic and fickle.

Let me get here beside you… all the closer to feast upon the salty wetness of your tears when they are delivered. I want to watch the silk of your gown slide like a caress over your tear-drenched shoulders and down the temple of your body… and fall with a whisper into the pool of tears on the ground. I want to draw ecstasy slowly from your throat… your feet… your eyes. I want to watch you go blind with your tears while you try to whisper, Can you feel inside me? as your back arches, and together we fall. I will do anything for you. And you may do with me as you please… so long as I can see those enchanted crystal rivers gush from your eyes. Make me an oath… a fragment of an oath… something to appease my pining. For, is this not love?

But it is getting late, my darling, and the darkness awakens my quiet wounds. Night has fallen, and I can no longer see the paper. I fear writing over the edges and on the table, where another’s eyes might discover my thoughts… to my mortal shame.

Until soon, then, my love. I will wait for you. And time will wait. The second hand will tick in place. The postman will deliver no mail. Come soon. And cry for me, that I may quench my thirsting spirit, that I may comfort my feverish brain! In my avaricious mind’s eye, I wrap my arms around you and press them together until we both are breathless. Perhaps you will shed a tear for me, there, from between your half-closed lips. Come to me. Look at me. And tell me this is not love.

Yours,

S.

* * * * *

I just turned that man into a tear fetishist (there’s got to be a name for that) and an obsessive mess. Supposing he’s perfectly normal? But then, supposing he isn’t? And what’s not normal about having a fetish? We all have them. But… seriously, he was miserable enough without my adding a fetish to the brew. And besides, my language was a bit… passé. I might as well have written "To die, to sleep no more." But, Venus in Furs is still haunting me. And it was all fun and games... the man will never know.

I'm sleepy... very sleepy. And a bit sad. We'll be leaving in a couple of days. How come the fun doesn't last forever?

August 8, 2010

@ 3:24 a.m.

Au revoir, Bruxelles

My husband breaks the news to me over the phone. Are you sitting down? I tell him to stop messing with me and just say what he has to say. We’re moving back to the States. I'm silent, trying to digest this information. There is no back to, as far as I’m concerned. I’ve never lived in the States. For me, I’m just moving to the States. He breaks the silence. I can’t believe it – after twenty years. He sounds like he’s upset, or maybe excited, or confused. Either way, he'll be in the Sandbox for another four weeks. And then, he will come home to Belgium. And six weeks later, we will leave. This time for good.

I make a deal with myself: I have ten weeks – ten weeks to enjoy Brussels, my favorite city in Belgium. And I will enjoy it like I’m dying tomorrow. I do this because I know. We make promises and resolutions and decisions, all of them determined and sincere and final. And then we break them. And this time, like all the times before, we will promise to return, for Christmas or New Year’s or his birthday or mine. But we won’t come back. So this time, I am serious. And maybe everyone sees it in my eyes. So the vendor at Friterie Michel smothers my cone of fries with extra Samouraï sauce, and the waiter at La Rose Blanche sprays an extra tall tower of crème chantilly over my cappuccino. When you’re getting ready to leave somewhere, all of a sudden, it’s the only place that matters in the world, and the only place you want to be.

It’s a sunny day in Brussels. On Avenue Louise, I enter my favorite perfume boutique. It’s a French perfume boutique, but it’s in Brussels and this is what matters, for now. I choose as a departing gift to myself Le Jasmin, and the store manager, a middle-aged lady with the body and face of a runway model, and who has been very nice to me these past three years, gives me a miniature flacon as a gift. For the plane ride, she says. We embrace. Perhaps we will see one another again, she says. Perhaps, I tell her. But I doubt it, I tell myself.

In the Gallerie du Roi, I go to a tapestry shop. I buy myself a shoulder bag with a floral motif and a monogrammed lace handkerchief. On my way out of the store, I see a small replica of the Manneken Pis with a corkscrew for a penis and take it for my husband; I know he will get a kick out of it. I exit the store and cross the Gallerie to Neuhaus, or Chocolate Decadence, as my husband calls it. A lovely young lady with dazzling blue eyes is manning one of the counters, and she summons me with a bright smile. And which chocolates would you like today, Madame? Some caprices, some Manons noirs, maybe some truffes? Or would you like to try the tentations? She indicates the various chocolates with her perfect mauve fingernails. Could I have six violettes, please? I ask her. Mais ouai, Madame. You like the flowers. Such delicate flavor! She offers me a ganache. I take it and thank her. The sky is clouding over, she says as she gently places my six violet chocolates in a sachet, seals it with a Neuhaus sticker, and hands it to me. This is Belgium, she continues, taking the twenty-euro note I offer her and walking to the cash register. Nothing changes in Belgium, she says. At least not with the weather. Nor with the government, for that matter, she adds with a sarcastic chuckle as she walks back to the counter with my change. I tell you, Madame. She looks into my eyes as if she is about to impart some very critical knowledge. We have been six months without a government in this country, she says, stabbing the counter gently with the side of her free hand. What kind of country survives without a government for six months? She's still hanging on to my change, holding it hostage until she is finished with what she has to say. I don’t think she is waiting for an actual response to her question, so I don’t offer one, though I feel like I've earned the right. I have been a resident of Belgium for three years, speak French like a native, and have passed for one on many occasions. Doesn’t that entitle me? Six months! she repeats, tossing up her hands and rolling her eyes around in disbelief. Think of it, Madame. C’est ridicule! She hands me my change. What we need is a man like Nicolas Sarkozy, she says, pointing her index finger with conviction. A man with balls, she says decisively, holding her hands out like she’s handling testicles. I have to ask myself why a woman who just saw me for the first time in her life less than five minutes ago would use the word balls with me, and I'm uncertain about how to respond to this unexpected and unusual show of informality. But my response hardly matters. She wants to play the pundit, and who am I to stop her? As she wipes the countertop with a damp towel, she apologizes for giving me an earful. Don’t worry about it, I tell her. It was my pleasure. At the door, I pause, taking a deep breath and closing my eyes, as if to seal this sharp, bitter, sweet, fruity, floral aroma inside my brain. Ça va, Madame? my pundit friend asks me. Everything is just fine, I say with a smile.

I have spent the last two years, nine months, and twelve days of my life being annoyed with the rain, with the inconvenience of having to carry an umbrella wherever I went. But now, the rain of Belgium is a precious treasure that I have only ten weeks to enjoy. I walk out of the chocolate shop, back down the Gallerie to its entrance, and into the torrent drumming like shards of shattered glass upon the Grand’Place. It is so true. Nothing has changed in Belgium. Not the centuries-old buildings whose sides have been rubbed by tens of thousands of appreciating hands. Not the cobblestone square that has been trampled by unwitting feet and carpeted with colorful tulips. Not the sky, which can go from baby blue to lead gray faster than you can say “Bang!” And not the Belgians themselves, who have been so kind and friendly to both my husband and me, though he is a service member in a military that is fighting a war they do not support.

Four weeks later, my husband returns. My joy is boundless. When I open the door for him and see him for the first time in five months, I realize that this is the happiest moment of my life. But my joy is tarnished by the knowledge that soon it will be time for both of us to go.

For six weeks, we visit our favorite outdoor cafés on the Place Ste. Catherine, eating moules frites by the tub and swallowing it all down with half-liters of Hoegaarden and Chimay. We bargain with the artists on the Grand’Place and buy two or three of their amateurish sketches, just to say we did it. We chat with the tourists and brag, We live here, our hearts dark because that is soon to change. And when the sky blackens with clouds, we don’t open our umbrellas, because we want the rain falling out of the sky of Brussels to baptize us.

On November 7, a shuttle waits in front of our hotel to take us to Zaventem Airport. In tow, I have with me a symbolic tribute to Belgium: a small ballotin of homemade chocolates, my tiny flacon of Le Jasmin, my tapestry shoulder bag with the floral motif, and my monogrammed lace handkerchief for the tears I know will come. It does not rain on the drive to the airport. Maybe some things do change, after all? Maybe just for today? On the plane I take the window seat, as usual. I settle into my chair, fasten my seat belt, secure my monogrammed lace handkerchief in my right hand, and lean my forehead against the window. The dark clouds roll in. I watch, waiting for the first drop of rain to spark on my window. And the rain begins to fall, so swiftly, so suddenly, so violently, I miss the first drop. It is raining in Brussels. It is always raining in Brussels. And it is always raining in Belgium. What had made me think it would be otherwise, today? Nothing changes in Belgium – at least not with the weather. Nor with the government, for that matter. Ten weeks later, the Belgians still don’t have a government. And the rain will not stop. Not even for my departure.