Let Me Paint You a Picture
I step from the hushed early morning train car and am immediately swept into the eddying precursor to the tide of hustling commuters. We briskly trot upwards into Brussels Central Station and emerge briefly into the chill morning air, still cloaked in pre-dawn shades of blue before descending again into the tunnel connecting the train station to the metro line.
Here the floors are tacky and gritty, swirled with questionable brownish gray stains from those who traipse the tunnel nocturnally. The stale air reeks of aging urine and one lone man in a red jumpsuit and fluorescent vest is slowly taking a push broom to the refuse from the crevices where the ragged homeless have spent the night. Our trickle of pre-rush traffic seeps swiftly out into the metro station and my nose is assaulted by an overwhelming odor like soft pretzels coated in excess butter, hung under a heatlamp for far too long. The smell forcefully claws its way into my throat as I flee downwards to the metro platform.
Dull yellow light shine down on the brown or orange plastic molded seats in the metro car. My ears pick up smatterings of Dutch, French, German and several other languages that I can’t identify. My nose catches the smells of the living: an early morning coffee, fresh nicotine, a morning quicky haphazardly masked by overpowering perfume. Four spurts of speed take me to the heart of the European Quarter of the city and I ascend once more, this time under a periwinkle umbrella of oncoming daylight. A delicate rain, only slightly denser than mist, hangs in the air and it clings to my oversize woolen jacket like sparkling dew. I feel the crisp touch dampen my face, cooling me from the friction of the incessant crowd as I walk down the still sidewalks, kicking through large carpets of wet maple leaves.
After several blocks, I turn right, pull the keys from my pocket and open the blue painted door, entering the hallway and preparing myself for my day’s work.
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And what a vivid picture you paint…I can smell the smells and feel the mist…I can almost hear the jingle of the keys…WONDERFUL…..more, please!?
That tunnel between the metro and the train station is a strange world. At night there is often a mobile soup kitchen there. It reminds me of how lucky I am to have a bed to sleep in every night. Have you seen the guy who plays the double bass? He is amazing.
If feasible (if you work nearby the Cinquantennaire I guess that is not the case) I prefer not to take the metro and walk through Brussels….much less aggressive on your nose
Lovely piece of writing! I love it.
Girl, you can WRITE.