An American Morning in Belgium

Waking up the next morning to the pleasant overcast, the mist pervading through the neighborhood as I looked out the back window. The chill of the floor comforting as the warmth of the house reminded me of the bed where I had been sleeping. I was the first up and took the time to study. The lights dim, I held my book close to catch each word as my still hazed mind found them floating in the air. Realizing the complexity of the endeavor, I placed my book on the table and sought to enjoy the baguettes placed nearby. As I picked up the most promising, I heard a gasp. As I turned, a maid nearby had wandered into the kitchen where I was standing. In a thick accent, she explained what she was up to and she swatted my hand away from the baguette. She must have seen my tired expression and began speaking in some form of English. All I understood was that the baguettes were for breakfast and I should wait in the other room until they are ready. Most of this was interpreted by a pattern of pointing and waving. I guess that I hadn't learned as much as I should have in learning the language.

As I stood pacing in the other room out of hunger, a shadowy figure approached out of the hallway most likely having heard our conversation. It was President Woodland, the man who for the next six months would dictate just about everything that I would do. He was curious in seeing me awake and wandering downstairs and asked if the others were awake. There were five of us which had come in the day before who, after today, I would hardly ever seen again. Within seconds of the question, we heard laughing from upstairs. I was directed to take a shower first as it would be awhile before things were ready and I would set the trend for the others.

Venturing once again up the stairs where I had slept the night before, the hallway still dark from the morning, and a faint breeze brushed by. Someone must have opened the window because of the heat. As I stepped into the bathroom, I was delighted to see a familiar, home shower. Not that it was similar to the one at my own, but because I had been showering in something resembling a locker room for the past two months.

As the heat of the shower hit my face, all I could think about was how different the next two years of my life would be, not being able to settle down in one place but living each day with the thought that I could be moved in a couple weeks. The steam filled the room as I opened the shower door, my suit hanging on a hook had been steamed nicely and I felt refreshed after all was done. As I walked out, there was another waiting to get in. It was nice to feel awake again.

As I went downstairs, breakfast was ready and the still silence which I had moments ago was shattered. The aroma of hot baguettes filled the air as hungry Americans consumed the Belgian food with a fervor not uncommon to starved prisoners. As I sat down on the dark wood chair near to the end of the table, stories of excitement were relayed back and forth. I can't remember if I ever heard the end of one of those stories.

The first bite of the Belgian baguette was crisp and the ham which was inside followed my teeth which now meant that I had an empty baguette. Since this was for the best, I glossed some jam over it and tried to overcome the morning. We had yet to find out where we were going, all I knew is that everyone was assuming that I would go to Belgium because somehow I had learned to speak Dutch with a Flemish accent, which was new to me. Anyway, I would have been delighted to go to Belgium because there were only a few places to go and it meant that I could work on my high school French.

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A little while later, after everyone had finished showering and the baguettes were gone, President Woodland gathered us into the living room. The living room was different in the light as the room filled with energy and people. I found my place on a chair where I could sit in my suit and not worry about have someone squeeze in next to me. The mist had cleared outside as the houses took their shape around the yard becoming clear to view. To me, it was almost like home.

As President Woodland began to speak, he talked about the work we were doing and how good it was to help others, but that it would be hard. He said many things to that effect, but we all knew what was coming, our assignments. He brought out letters for where we would be going that morning, he said that we should find our colleague and he'll tell us how we're supposed to get our money back for the trip. As each person in the group was opening their letter one by one, eyebrows raised and teeth were glaring with excitement. Den Haag and Heerlen were first, and then came mine. Casually, without hesitation, I opened the letter as if I had been expecting it. I mouthed the words quietly at first when I was prodded to say it out-loud; my frustration apparent as I looked for that moment of solitude. And there it was. I was going to Gent, Belgium. The minutes after that I could only think of where I was going to live and the experience I was going to have in Belgium with the food and the people. I had heard stories before of Gent, but now I was going to live them. 

As the others found out where they'd be, I thought to myself and prayed that I would do good. I finished promptly as they wanted us to gather for a photo. This would be our last moments in this house until our time was up. As we left the house, the brisk air swept softly across my face, the van prepared for our departure, and proceeded down the hill under the house was out of sight.